That's how started and almost ended my entire interview. Let's rewind. The tuk-tuk dropped us in front of 25c Barnes Place, next door to the Iraqi Embassy. And on this particular morning I could swear it would've been easier for me to get an interview with the Iraqi ambassador than with Mr. Clarke but I quickly shook that thought out of my sleepless head. The night before was a ball of nerve wrecking anticipation spiked with the local Arrack, which the Sri Lankans distill from coconut juice to an inflammable golden spirit reminiscent of Scotch and Rum with a hint of Tequila.

Soren Kierkegard talks of three stages in the individual's development. The Aesthetic, which begins and ends in despair but which is full of pure indulgence, absolute free choice and no commitment. We all go through that stage and some of us, like Cosmo Kramer, never actually leave it. Then there's the Ethical stage, which is marked by a loss of individuality in favor of the universal rules of society and a commitment to making the right global choice regardless of the individual's desires-to which the working family man is a living epitome. The final stage is the Religious, which is marked by a paradox that states that the individual rises above himself and above society's rules and goes through life in leaps of faith-quite unlike going to church every Sunday or keeping kosher on Shabat. Our journey has compelled us to become religious. We HAVE to believe that we are doing the right thing. We had to believe that Clarke will talk to us or he simply wouldn't have. Believe that the old recluse would emerge from his shell one last time. On the surface everything was saying no. But just beneath the waves an entire cosmos was saying maybe. Sri Lanka's old name is Serendib, and serendipity played a big part in our pilgrimage. The day before the interview, in the middle of the worst looking and smelling place in Colombo's market district, we ran into Ajid, a Muslim clerk in the old Sri Lankan municipality. Ajid had a poetic take on life, which was summed up in "eating, sleeping, and fucking" but, sure enough, he told us that while jogging a few nights earlier he saw Clarke in his red Mercedes admiring the sunset on the Galle beachfront.

So we climbed again into the side office and met with Nalaka, Clarke's personal secretary. His courtesy didn't hide the fact that he was amazed that we got this far without going through the formal channels of rejection. I recounted the story so far and impressed on him the notion that we came out of respect, passion and genuine concern but he maintained that since he didn't know us and since the UK agent didn't know of us, then logically we didn't exist and therefore had to disappear and come back when we have proper clearance. I couldn't blame him but I wanted to. I couldn't understand why a man like Clarke wasn't documented around the clock in the hope that, perchance, he will have an enlightening piece of wisdom to share with the world. Quite frankly, I wasn't ready to accept the simple fact that perhaps Clarke felt that he was done with the world. I wasn't ready to give up on him.

In the midst of all the excitement we realized that we had no formal credentials on us. No business cards, no bios, no show reel, no references on demand or recommendations upon request. Nothing. We were aliens. Worse, we were suspected terrorists. On the secretary's insistence Peddy went back to the hotel to get our passports leaving me to slowly stew in the cozy one hundred five degrees office under the secretary's fiery gaze. I felt that at any moment he would turn to me and call the whole thing off. Peddy, in the meantime, didn't exactly have it easy. The tuk-tuk that drove him to the hotel ran out of gas half way there. Then the room door wouldn't open. Then the room safe wouldn't open. Finally, on the way back, a train pulled into the station but unlike a normal train it protruded into the road so no one could go through until it finished unloading and loading its passengers. A stupid train stood between Clarke and us and as time was running I knew Clarke's alertness was fading away toward his afternoon nap. I should have listened to the Tao.

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As if that wasn't bad enough, Hector Ekanayake came up while I was waiting. I couldn't tell if he remembered me from the day before but he seemed tense and almost angry as he stormed past me into the wing that housed Clarke. He came out five minutes later announcing that Clarke didn't really like to be filmed and that I could only ask him 4 questions! That's it. No do-overs. No second takes. No "10 minutes today, 10 minutes tomorrow". Nada mas. I couldn't believe that I came this far from so far to be faced with such an ultimatum. I was angry and hurt and selfish. And now I'm speculating, but how can it be that the people who wanted nothing but the best for Arthur would completely miss my intentions and refuse to co-operate until I got cleared by an agent, half way across the globe, who's never met me? Clarke didn't send a man to the moon by going with the grain. Why shouldn't I do the same? Granted, Clarke did send out a clear directive to refuse all media offers. But why then did he agree to see us? If the answer is always a positive no then why did his secretary let us in? And then why only 4 questions? But insane as it was it was the best offer I got so far. I grabbed it. Peddy arrived shortly after and as our passports smiled for the photocopy machine we went to set up in the study. Mr. Clarke was wheeled in and 15 minutes later we got ourselves an interview and a snapshot.

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