VI. THE SEARCH

VI. THE SEARCH

N. returned to the Department furious. “You put a file on my computer.” The clerk looked bored. “We do not create files. We receive them.” “From whom?” “From whoever begins to notice.” N. placed File 47-B on the desk. “I want this closed.” “Then continue.” “I found the old address.” “Addresses are what buildings remember after people leave.” “I found someone who knew the family.” “Acquaintance is not continuance.” N. struck the desk with his palm. “What counts as an answer?” The clerk’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. “You will know because it will disappoint you.”

The file now contained a new page: one telephone number, disconnected; one son, Daniel Haddad; one possible place of employment from 2005. N. followed the trail through old business registries and archived notices. Daniel had owned a repair shop on the northern edge of the city. The shop still existed under another name. The new owner remembered him. “He sold the place ten years ago.” “Do you know where he went?” “Somewhere near the coast.” “Do you have a number?” The owner frowned. “You police?” “No.” “Debt collector?” “No.” “Family?” N. almost said yes. Instead he answered, “I saw his father once.” The owner waited for the rest of the explanation. There was none.

At home N. searched the coastal towns one by one. He found a Daniel Haddad in a public notice concerning a neighborhood association. There was an email address. N. wrote a message, deleted it, wrote another. Dear Mr. Haddad, I am trying to determine whether your father is alive. He deleted that immediately. Dear Mr. Haddad, I came across an old family video and believe your father appears in it. That sounded like blackmail. Finally he wrote: I found a recording from 2003 that may belong to your family. I am trying to identify an elderly gentleman in a grey coat. If this message reaches the correct person, I would be grateful for confirmation of his name. He pressed Send. The moment after sending was worse than the uncertainty before it. A question kept privately can remain metaphysical. A question sent to another human being becomes an intrusion.

No answer came that day. Or the next. N. checked his inbox so often that the act became detached from expectation. Each refresh was a small ritual by which he proved time was still moving. On the fourth day Elias visited. “You look terrible.” “I may have found the family.” Elias sat down slowly. “You are still doing this.” “I need one answer.” “No. You need the feeling you imagine the answer will give you.” “What is the difference?” “An answer ends a question. A feeling invents another one.” N. looked away. Elias noticed File 47-B on the table. “What is that?” “Nothing.” “You have started calling your nothing by file numbers.”

The reply arrived at 2:17 a.m. Yes, that is my family. The man in the grey coat is my father, Gabriel. Who are you and where did you get this video? N. sat motionless. The name was confirmed. The man had crossed the first border from image into identity. N. typed: Thank you. I am sorry for the strange question, but may I ask— He stopped. The cursor blinked after the dash like a small mechanical conscience. May I ask if your father is still alive? He sent it. The answer did not come that night. N. watched the old man lift his glass again and again. For the first time he felt ashamed before the image, as though Gabriel could see what had been done to him: reduced from a life to a yes-or-no question.