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The room, when first observed, is deceptively simple, almost austere. To the right, against the wall, is a desk from fifty years ago, serviceable enough but hardly remarkable. A swivel chair of similar vintage creeps under it, some nondescript papers (half-written letters and reports?), a reading lamp, a dated computer and a tangle of wires, groping under the desk, round out the ensemble. Past the desk, towards the window, still against the wall, is a tall, iron-grey bookcase, crammed with books, journals and photocopied articles randomly stacked on one another. A considerable number of fairly dusty manilla folders, piled neither neatly nor logically, climb almost to the ceiling.
Now you reach the window. This is perhaps the room’s best feature, it is large, kept very clean and gives a good, expansive view of the street below, where there are plane trees, a busy footpath and, beyond, the roadway, currently noisy with cars. On the weekend this white-collar, service-oriented section of the city is almost deserted, the view from the window is unobstructed, inviting.
But not today. Today is business as usual.
Looking from the door – as the two men have been doing up to now – the left side of the room begins to take shape. Against the wall this time is not a desk, but a small round table on which are placed a note pad, pen and a box of tissues. Hanging on the wall above this table is a travel poster, Vanuatu! Paradise! it declares, the message augmented by the image of glittering sand, elegant palms, rolling waves and some faint footprints, wandering into the distance. Placed around this small table are two very comfortable chairs, both dark blue in colour, one with cushions carefully arranged, the other with cushions on the floor beside it.
