Madrid. August . 21.30 p.m.
Stifling heating everything, asphalt burning over the tourists with fans. You could recognize them with a slight sight: two blonde men with English eyes, English faces and English manners. Yes, they were English outside the bar drinking coffee and talking.
‘Where can we find the guinea pig?’ One of them asked, the most elegant one (I just say ‘the most elegant one’ because he was wearing a shirt, not because he was prepared for going to the Opera House).
‘We will need someone like a public person, not a famous one… we need someone who will be able to communicate the information and interested to media.’
‘One freak?’ both laughed.
‘We won’t be wrong if we got one! We will need credibility too.’
‘What do you think about a doctor?’
‘Oh, a doctor! It would be brilliant!’
Germany. 1st September. 11.30
One special letter got his attention. Maybe it was the simply signature on the envelope, maybe that almost negligible essence which enveloped the room. He thought immediately: no doubt, it was a woman letter. For one slight moment, he imagined her: maybe she was an old mate from the University, maybe an old girlfriend… Dr Mirror opened the letter, took the glasses and comfortably sat down in his favorite chair, the olive one.
‘Let’s see.’ he said out loud. He read the letter carefully, slowly, paying all his attention. At the end, he couldn’t get a clear image of the woman. ‘Once and for all, I need a girlfriend!’ The letter talked about a boring medicine project, nothing special to emphasize. The only interesting point was the promise of meeting with the girl in two weeks, during the girl’s trip to Germany. ‘We keep in contact,’ the letter laconic finished. ‘How they will meet?’ he thought. ‘I cannot meet with a girl if I cannot recognize her! At least, I would need a photo!’
As you can imagine, Dr Mirror hadn’t have female company for years. He wore wasted shirts and jackets, beard and a general sloppy appearance which talked about what he needed: a female hand.
He left the letter on the table and he prepared to get out. That day would be especially boring, teaching new stupid young doctors about his last blood researches. When he left the University, he used to dream imagining his new medical life in Africa, saving lives, taking contact with people… how different from studying and receiving prizes! Every time he published one article in a prestigious medicine magazine, his colleagues congratulates him again and again.
‘Brilliant!’ they used to say. ‘John, you did it again!’ Blah, blah, blah… Praises and praises and smoke. Before he went, he drank a little glass of whiskey, the ideal and necessary element to put up with one more boring bloody day.
At least, today he would think with that mysterious girl of the letter.