Day VII. Somewhere in Manhattan
‘Tomorrow the flu might end,’ she says. ‘When we designed the flu, it was prepared to be incubated during just a couple of days, but the experiment went wrong and we lost all of the patients. Remember the book? I know, we had to contract a better novelist to do the work but we had no time. In the book, people left big cities to go to lonely places to escape to the flu. Do you want to see it, John? Do you want to see your creation?’
I am confused with Lorraine’s words. I remember one book I read when I was dreaming the life of another person.
‘Where’s Jack?’ I suddenly ask. ‘I remember it. It’s a Labrador.. the dog… it was here the first day.’
Paris, about 15 years before
Alex left the meeting soon because she wasn’t there. No, he didn’t used to be lucky with opposite sex, but she was different… and engaged! When he arrived in Paris, he looked for something similar to a literary group and he found them. In those times, we were not in the 20th’s, Paris wasn’t the center of the literary life, but he has also tried the literary life in NY and it was boring. He had to experiment, the secret feeling to be transported to another time… maybe Paris was the answer, maybe not. He studied Laws but future lawyers were not the kind of people he wanted to find in Paris. Alex used to frequent taverns looking for an interesting conversation… and finally he got it.
They used to meet every day, enough reason to try to join the group… but, of course, there was not the only reason. The tacit leader of the group was a nice French guy called François who could speak about every possible topic on the Earth. He could laugh and joke and… he had the loveliest girl in the world: Lorraine.
Lorraine used to be silent, smiling near her boyfriend, smoking a long cigarette. She was blonde like the Sun, with the deepest brown eyes he had ever seen. She was a Russian Literature student at the University. In tens of meetings, Alex didn’t talk her. In tens of meetings, she smiled him tens of times.
The night he was just about to begin his novel, he had a dream. Lorraine was in front of it, directing the events and controlling every movement. She transformed from one woman to another… always the same blonde hair, always her deepest eyes scrutinizing every change in the dreamer. She was the Lady of the Lake or the White Goodness… but she was always her and not her, changing her role to her whims. The dream was nearly to finish. She turned back, lighted her cigarette and told him:
‘I can play all roles for you, Alex.’
Suddenly, he woke up and the idea clearly appeared in his mind: she might play all roles in his novel.
**Fake Game, serial novel by Martin Cid http://www.martincid.com