Flying to Frankfurt. Alex and he.
‘Where’s your suitcase?’ He asked…. and Alex couldn’t remember even if he had prepared his baggage. ‘Don’t worry, it’s one of the firsts effects of the flu. You would look disoriented in the next hours… you probably lose your point of view and maybe you will ask yourself where or when are you. I cannot help you then, you might discover it.’
‘Where is Lorraine?’ Alex asked.
‘She is with you in the hotel room. Don’t you remember?’
They might be over the Atlantic Ocean. Alex opened the window and looked through it.
‘Just clouds, my friend.’ He said. ‘It’s important to have a simple and efficient baggage. You must know all your movements and you might think in all your friends. Is it enough? We can never know, Alex. Sometimes, a baggage is similar to a book: you see its front cover and its pages… you can ever know something about its author but… for some reason the book is, little by little, flying out your hands and becoming something different that you expect.’
‘Is she with my suitcase?’
He smiled and looked through the window.
‘She is taking care of you, Alex. Don’t worry. Your blood is safe now.’
Wilson was an obscure character in the book. He tried to manipulate and to play with the reader in a strange game. In fact, I was surprised when I found him in flight even after Ihad read the book. The words were written before and these words, with no change, will be rewritten in the future. How could it happen? How will it happen?
‘It’s happening now, doctor.’ She said.
‘What about the flight?’
‘It was good, thanks.’
‘Did you enjoy the company?’
‘She is a funny girl, doesn’t she?’
Alex liked Old Michael and his unnecessary kind of talking.
‘In all these years, we spent most of our time talking about cigars, not about literature. Maybe, a book is the only art you need to enjoy alone to have a complete experience. Did you ever note that when you talk about a book you use to kill it? You can share your experiences, but these experiences changed every time we talk about them. When you finish the sentences, the book has changed, hasn’t it? It’s a strange kind of metamorphosis. That’s why criticism lost the battle: you cannot earn your live talking about living words trying to convert them into dead words. When someone reads a book, words take life for a moment and time can be a second or even a complete life, like a suitcase plenty of feelings and stories that suddenly disappears.’
‘Where is my suitcase, Wilson?’
‘It’s at the hotel, Alex.’ Old Michael asked.
‘You didn’t get any suitcase.’ Wilson asked.