My story began one hot summer in Tennessee. Nobody smokes now… but I am not here either I was not there. My time is the first half of the 19th century. Why not? I am writing the book, he is whispering me now and forever.
One year ago or maybe two –remember, drunkards never remember anything- I began to write one book about Propaganda, comparing the old Nazi methods with the modern systems of publicity… political marketing… or any name you want to use. It supposed the end of my Spanish career as a writer and I began to write in English.
I used to Read Faulkner’s stories. I loved short ones, but novels were fantastic, even I call the farm of one of my books Absalom honoring Faulkner. The book was A Century of Ashes and it was my second novel. The editor asked me for a second one based on the same characters… How could I write a new novel with characters I cannot remember?
The darkness is coming.
Faulkner’s worlds… Absalom and the Stupens. I was born in a little city called Oviedo but I have spent my life in Madrid. Madrid is… hot or cold… it doesn’t matter. Madrid is Madrid. I was in Tennesse when I was writing A Century of Ashes. It’s not translated into English. What a pity but I have a contract. I hate contracts but I have to do many things that I don’t want to do.
My story was about three brothers, three bad brothers and I took three Roman Emperors to define their roles. There’s a story about evil and women, can we separate them? It’s late in the morning and it’s hot in Madrid. I look at the window like my character, Stanislaus Fiodorovich. Why that surname? It’s taken of Dostoievsky… I am trying to be… I don’t know the cause but I cannot finish the sentences. It’s the same as in Spanish. Thinking is slow and fast at the same time, like a long inside monologue that comes from outside, like Faulker whispering inside my ears. But he’s not my master. Maybe I prefer French Hugo or Zola… nah… Faulker has something like blood burning in the reader veins. Shut up, now, Bill! You used to smoke my favorite tobacco, Balkan Sobraine, in my favorite pipe, the great Dunhill. Why you copied me? You are older and I cannot listen to your words for more, I cannot watch your forgotten heroes for a longtime ago.
They published my novel and we have a great opening party… tobacco and friends and whiskey. Why not? Why haven’t we to pay tributes to the books which inspired me? Isabel helped me to correct the book… many mistakes. I’m just a junkyard, my friend.
‘How can she be son of its own son?’ She asked.
When I was writing the book, I could just think of the rhythm of the sentences that slowly and deeply flowing out my faulknerian head. Does that word exist? One day, I dreamt the nightmare in a farm with three brothers. I can’t remember their names but I can feel now they existed and will exist in my mind.
‘Try it, stupid writer. Try it once more!’
‘Shut up, Nobel Prize! Don’t you have a bottle now? I’ve listened that there are many in L.A. How about being a screenwriter? Did you love it? Come on, little moustache! Did you hear that handsome lacking people? You, Nobel Prize, did you ever think of yourself as a mediocre? Have you ever seen their fake smiling argues?’
Now, silence is flowing in my veins, running outside me and invading the room with the essence of the smoking burning healther.
They are mine, Nobel Prize. I will tell you the story of three brothers inside your dream. I will tell you the story of Absalom. I will tell you the story of A Century of Ashes.’
Translation: In a similar place… they lived… a family with a plantation of snuff… The Fiodorovich… This is their story.