Paris. About ten years before Day I
Page to page, that book was a cruel copy of mine. Every character was in my mind and, at the same time, outside of it. The main character, after suffering a strange kind of virus, became into a new character going with his own shadow acting like a hunter.
‘Do you feel it, Alex? It’s the death coming.’ Alex read lines and lines of this book in a terrace near Notre Dame. It was about 6p.m and it was near raining. One couple was walking in a classic French romance.
‘We just need the music, my friends.’ Alex said to them.
‘No, there’s no music when you can see the death, Alex.’ The book continued. ‘There’s a story about a nice couple of lovers, Alex… but true stories are never as nice as book stories. He was in love with her… Did she love him too? No, my friend… he was not sure and she wasn’t either.’
‘Do you love me?’ The lover asked her in the dirty streets of Paris.
‘Of course I do.’ She answered…
‘But she didn’t in fact, Alex… Did she want his money? No, she didn’t. Did she want his embrace and his feelings and his heart? No, she didn’t but, in the deepest zone of her heart, she wanted to be with him… and finally she decided to tempt him with a fake secret.’ She wasn’t pregnant? Was she lying? ‘She began to vomit in the mornings and her body began to change too. Do you remember, Alex? After that, you plunged into your book, that strange book that you wouldn’t be able to finish.’
Paris was in calm, into his overcast sky of centuries and memories.
‘The telephone rang again and again and you know she was at the other side of the line. Do you have now anything to tell her? Do you have now anything to tell her before dying?’
He would like to have been better with her… but he couldn’t. There wasn’t his child… in fact, there wasn’t any child.
‘… but there was a child, Alex… your child.’ Lorraine’s echo said. ‘It wasn’t Francois’ child… it was yours.’
**Fake Game, serial novel by Martin Cid. First Chapter http://yareah.com/?p=1846