NY. About 9 years before Day I
‘Have you read it?’
He did, but he kept in silence. What could he say? He preferred classic stories, not a strange novel where you cannot find the way of reading. It was raining and he hated the rain. Both were smoking cigarettes, both were nervous, both sill kept silent.
‘I know, Michael. It’s a strange work…’ Alex continued. ‘I tried to do something different, something doesn’t enforce the hard literary rules.’
Old Michael thought different, but he didn’t want to hurt his feelings. In the novel, characters weren’t clear and the plot was between complicated and bizarre. It was not the novel the country was waiting… in addition to this, the language was very old, with questionable expressions… no registry changes… who would like to read this type of book?
‘Have you tried to publish it in Europe?’ Old Michael said. ‘Maybe it would be easy in the old continent, my friend. Your work sounds like avant-garde, like a book written in the 20’s. You know, Paris and characters that change their essences in every chapter… It’s not an American book. In Europe everything is different; you can choose other ways and other types of art…’
Old Michael sounded paternalistic, fake and insidious. Alex looked around the bar and its clients and he felt his solitude. Years later, he would remember this scene.
He couldn’t know why.
J.F.K. Airport. Flight to Frankfurt. On board
Why he said ‘yes’? He might have learnt the most important lesson of life before he had gone: negation.
‘Please, don’t be nervous, doctor Mirror.’ She said quietly. ‘We know who are you and we know everything about you.’ Sentences always sounded to him like the shame of guilty. He wished he haven’t read the book. Have you ever feel the handicap to change your own words. He used to lie, that was his work… but he was ashamed with this so beautiful blonde girl. Who was she? She smiled to him. ‘It’s a work designed for you, John. May I call you John, doctor?’ In that moment, he would like to say the truth. Sometimes to be quiet is the same as a lie. Would she like liars? She probably didn’t, she probably did. ‘We will be together for, at least, seven hours. It will be nice to know each other, won’t it?’ Lies, lies and lies. I’m a little tired… I’m a little ashamed… I’m a great liar, my sweet girl.
‘My name is Lorraine.’ she began. ‘Someone talked about you and I appreciate Michael. He was who recommended you for this work.’
‘Michael? Are you talking about Old Michael?’ He tried to say… but he kept on silent.
‘The book seller, yes. He talked about you years ago, John.’ She insisted on calling me John. She insisted on calling me liar.
What was I doing there? Who the hell was that girl? She smiled again and again and my guilty went from my heart to my stomach. Who was I?
‘Do you want a drink, Alex?’
Alex, Alex, Alex. She knew it.
**Fake Game, serial novel by Martin Cid http://yareah.com/?cat=293