Paris, about 10 years ago
When you are young you have the weird sensation of absolute. I had it and I got it and I tried to write it. Of course, I fell. First time I heard about my book was already published in an old magazine, I can’t remember its name. Same title, same idea, was it possible I read the book and for any strange reason, I copied it? I had forgotten it but, in these times, my research began.
There were many book stores in Paris; you could find books in every language everywhere. There were many readers in the city; you could find them beyond the lovers and the condensed breathe of the one thousand years city. There were so many books to read for just one life. Paris dreams with all of these stories and wakes up with the essence of them. When I came back to Paris, I had forgotten her… but in silent I was still looking for her.
Paris is the opposite to New York… citizens might be there living for centuries with their same faces and their same dialogues. Everybody looks old and young at the same time, with the experiences of the old man and the sweet smile of the young lady. Paris, the city I tried to forget, smiled me again and opened its large and motherly arms.
Was she still there? I found the solution to the riddle in the most famous book store: S. & C. Since I left writing, I haven’t ever been in a book store.
‘I’m looking for a book,’ she began. ‘It’s not probably you can find a copy but I…’ the counter boy didn’t expect for her to finish the answer.
‘Title and publisher, please.’ And she said the title of my novel. She was a middle age woman, blonde hair… a woman interested in literature. The boy looked into the database and found the data. ‘Flu Project. 1965, by Martin Cid. This book is now…”
‘Excuse me,’ I interrupted, ‘but you must have an error. The author is wrong.’ Both woman and boy looked at me thinking ‘who the hell are you?’ but I preferred to keep my name hidden. ‘I know the author of the book and I can swear there’s an error.’ The boy looked again at me and pointed with his finger to the computer.
‘No mistake… sir?’ He pronounced ‘sir’ in a sarcastic way and the woman didn’t appear disappointed with him, then I decided to go out.
What happened with my book? I knew the novel was a complete failure for me and for the publisher, my father’s old friend, but…
That night, I had a strange dream. I was in a lonely place called Manhattan but it was not Manhattan. I was with her but she was not she and I was I but I was not I.