by Martin Cid
Paris, about 15 years before
There were University times. Paris was the best of cities to do something similar to study, a plenty city full of pubs, bars, conversations and people, lots of people talking about everything: arts, politics, philosophy… even literature (we know those French are a little crazy).
Alex O’Brian left the class and walked down the Latin neighborhood. He was studying for lawyer, in fact the only way to deceive his father and to be in Paris, at least enough time to finish his novel, the real and surrealistic ‘objective’ of his life. Alex was the first of three children born to continue the family business. Of course, Alex’s father, Gregory, didn’t trust in any of the three to continue with his successfully shoe factory in the United States, but he also knew the duty of all good father: he must try to forget in every moment the genetic laws and, going on this way, you can even try to forgive them, even to understand them, even to love them but never to trust them.
Alex lived with two German guys he never liked but he was in his lovely Paris and, overall, he had enough time to finish his work. When he had no work, he used to do something incredible for some of us, overall if you are an artist: to study and to pass the exams. His father Gregory was moderately happy with his marks, what means no questions about his literary interests or doubtful romances in Paris. Sometimes, when Gregory was in good mood and trying to play the father’s role, he tried to talk with his affected son.
‘You really like women, Alex?’ Gregory asked seriously, trying to understand an incomprehensible boy.
In fact, there are things that a good Irish man won’t ever understand.
He was in a lonely tavern in the old Paris. Someone said someday that the Irish James Joyce used to drink Absinthe there… well, all of them liked the place and nobody doubt about it but, as well French people, all of the group knew the cruelest truth: even Joyce wouldn’t spend more for a minute in such a filthy, stinking… there was the proud cheapest tavern in all Paris.
‘Hey, Alex. How are you?’
‘I have it, mates,’ Alex sounded convinced talking not only with his mouth, talking even with his blue open eyes. ‘Do you remember the idea? Yes, a character changing his role to became something better, something stronger…’
‘Yes, Alex,’ one of his mustached fellows said. ‘But even you said that the idea was stupid, even if you are the owner of it.’
‘No,’ Alex answered. ‘I am taking about a novel that contains a novel that contains a game. I am still working on it, but I am near it, near the Idea.’
‘That’s not literature, Alex.’ The man who talked now was the leader of the group, a special kind of ‘I’ve read all that you won’t ever be able to read in your whole life’. If you need a summary: an absolutely illustrated stupid man. ‘One character can…’ Well, I will save the reader the rest of his stale and narcissistic lecture but, there are miracles in this world, this man become in one of the more famous critics in the world. ‘At the end, I predict for you and for your novel the most tumultuous failure.’ Yes, in this world, even the critics can hit sometimes.
Once at home, the young man crossed out the old words with a fast draw and wrote the tittle:
A Novel by
Serial novel: Fake Game, by Martin Cid http://www.martincid.com