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S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author ’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your](permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your) support of the author’s rights.  \nFOR MOTHER,  \nFOR CLAUDE  \nI.  \nThe absurd does not liberate; it binds.  \n—ALBERT CAMUS  \nChapter 1.  \nBoy with a Skull  \ni.  \nWHILE I WAS STILL in Amsterdam, I dreamed about my mother for the first time in years. I’d been shut up in my hotel for more than a week, afraid to telephone anybody or go out; and my heart scrambled and floundered at even the most innocent noises: elevator bell, rattle of the minibar cart, even church clocks tolling the hour, de Westertoren, Krijtberg, a dark edge to the clangor, an inwrought fairy-tale sense of doom. By day I sat on the foot of the bed straining to puzzle out the Dutch-language news on television (which was hopeless, since I knew not a word of Dutch) and when I gave up, I sat by the window staring out at the canal with my camel’s-hair coat thrown over my clothes—for I’d left New York in a hurry and the things I’d brought weren’t warm enough, even indoors.  \nOutside, all was activity and cheer. It was Christmas, lights twinkling on the canal bridges at night; red-cheeked dames en heren, scarves flying in the icy wind, clattered down the cobblestones with Christmas trees lashed to the backs oftheir bicycles. In the afternoons, an amateur band played Christmas carols that hung tinny and fragile in the winter air.  \nChaotic room-service trays; too many cigarettes; lukewarm vodka from duty free. During those restless, shut-up days, I got to know every inch of the room as a prisoner comes to know his cell. It was my first time in Amsterdam; I’d seen almost nothing of the city and yet the room itself, in its bleak, drafty, sunscrubbed beauty, gave a keen sense ofNorthern Europe, a model of the Netherlands in miniature: whitewash and Protestant probity, co-mingled with deep-dyed luxury brought in merchant ships from the East. I spent an unreasonable amount of time scrutinizing a tiny pair of giltframed oils hanging over the bureau, one of peasants skating on an ice-pond by a church, the other a sailboat flouncing on a choppy winter sea: decorative copies, nothing special, though I studied them as if they held,","cbCaiq0VAAVx3JtU","https://ap.wps.com/l/cbCaiq0VAAVx3JtU","pdf",3519246,802,"English","# Chapter 1. Boy with a Skull\n## While I Was Still in Amsterdam","[{\"question\":\"What emotional conflict drives the protagonist in Chapter 1?\",\"answer\":\"He is confined in a hotel, anxious about calling or going out, while memories of his mother resurface intensely. The smallest sounds trigger a sense of doom.\"},{\"question\":\"How does the chapter contrast the hotel interior with Amsterdam outside?\",\"answer\":\"Inside, the protagonist feels trapped and strained, studying the room like a prisoner. 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