I’ve sailed the heights of a parallel world, testing the sensations I felt in this dimension...
I’ve received the gift of being heard and I asked for help from those I considered better...
I walked for miles in the hope that my suffering might abate and leave room to feel alive... much more alive than any attempt to stay awake...
I brightened every single day with the power of pride... but whatever I found only made me realize I had to turn back...to where the beginning has your name: my love...
His heart leapt. The beauty of those words rekindled a sensation he hadn’t felt for a long time. It was as if he had put on a DVD and watched an old film. The memory cried out. He could almost hear it with his own ears, not just with his conscious mind; it seemed to want to tell the whole world about what had just been revealed. He was as certain of that as he was of the fact that in that precise moment his lungs were filled with the air that allowed him to think: it was one of his poems. He could hardly believe that Julia had done such a thing. She was the only person who knew about those words. No one else had read them and no one else had been allowed to see them. Unless, in an attempt to put her theory to the test and give him the surprise of his life, she had taken his book to a publisher who had smelled a good deal and appropriated the rights and therefore the property. He took out his mobile and rang his companion’s number; she should have woken up by now.
The voice on the other end was not the one he wanted to hear but a recorded message telling him that the person he was telephoning was currently unavailable or unable to take his call. He hung up with an annoyed flick of his wrist and told himself he would try again later. By then, the train was pulling into his station. He stepped off and walked quickly to the stairs. He tried phoning again, but the same voice repeated the same information as before. As he climbed the steps to ground level, an advertisement glued to the wall caught his eye: “Instructions for Living, limited edition available in the best book stores”. His heart advised him not to get himself into a state, but his brain reminded him that there was a book shop inside the subway. He hurried to the top of the stairs and looked around until he saw the store a short walk away. He made for the door, past a couple of tourists looking for maps of the city, entered and spoke to the shop assistant.
“I’d like a copy of “Instructions for Living”, please.”
“You too. I’m sorry but we sold out an hour after opening yesterday morning. There’s only one copy left and I’m keeping that for myself.”
“I’ll pay you double for it. Here’s seventy dollars.”
“Sorry man, but this is the last copy of a limited edition. No amount of money can buy it.”
“Five hundred dollars should be enough even for a limited edition!”
“Maybe I’ve not made myself totally clear. You can’t put a price on the effect that reading those words has. That book will go straight into my bookcase and will stay there till I croak. You can buy plenty of other books for five hundred dollars. Have a look around; I’ll give you a discount on anything you want to buy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other customers to serve.”
Norman glanced around gloomily, and then remembered that the biggest book store in the city was on the street where he worked. He hurried out and made his way towards the shop, following the directions on the flashing neon sign. It was about two hundred yards away and it took him a couple of minutes to get there. He approached the first assistant he saw, who was busy stacking newly arrived books on the shelves.
“Excuse me, but I’m looking for a book called “Instructions for ...”
“… Living. You’re the hundredth person I’ve had to give bad news to this morning. We’ve sold out, like, I guess, all the book stores in the city. And maybe the whole State for all I know. I’ve ordered more copies from the publishing house, but it’s a limited edition and it doesn’t look good for you and all the others who haven’t managed to buy it.”
“What have I got to do to buy this book? You see, it’s extremely important to me.”
“I don’t doubt it. That’s what everybody says. I think some of them would go without eating to get one. But the only way is to contact the publishing house directly. Maybe if they get a few hundred letters they’ll think about reprinting.”
“Which publishing house?”
“Well, originally it was called Soderberg, in Oslo, but I reckon it doesn’t exist any more. It was bought out by a bigger, more powerful house, O’Neal Publishers, owned by the millionaire who runs the largest corporation in the world.”
“Where can I find it?”
“Hang on, I’ll have a look.”
The man went over to his computer and typed in the name ‘O’Neal’ on his database. The state-of-the-art microprocessor came up with it in a fraction of a second.
“Here we are. The headquarters are in Shanghai, but there’s a branch in Hollywood. Not surprising considering. Couldn’t be any other way.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“Don’t you know what they say about Mr. O’Neal? Where have you been living? The millionaire with more dark sides than anyone on the planet? He’s been accused of as many homicides as he has millions. Thanks to these suspicious deaths, he managed to get his hands on some of the world’s best-sellers. When that didn’t work, he bought the publishing house that held the rights. At a bargain price of course, after getting rid of the majority shareholder.”
“So, he’s in prison?”
“Aw man, you must have been living without a television for too long. That individual is nothing less than a genius and he’s got so much power, he’s untouchable.”
“A genius? What makes him so special?”
“You’ve really never heard of him? You must be the only one on the face of the earth! Except for my dog... Ryan A. O’Neal, or Mister as he likes to be called, is the author of the book you’re looking for. The greatest blockbuster of all time.”
Anger suffused Norman’s face and he lost his temper.
“Bloody bastard!”
“I beg your pardon? How dare you, you prick!”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean you. I was thinking out loud. Please, give me the address.”
The man muttered a few insults, and sulkily handed him the card he had written the details on.
“Thank you. Be seeing you.”
“Don’t hold your breath, man!”
Norman left the shop and switched on his mobile. It was strange that there was no message from his answering service telling him his office was looking for him. He dialed Julia’s number again but it was the same reply as before. The church clock showed he was late for work. He was surprised to discover that he didn’t give a damn. He was busy wondering how the person he cared for most in his life could betray him like that. He spotted an internet café on the other side of the road and made straight for it. He decided that the office was a place to avoid that morning. He was a man with a mission. He sat at the bar, ordered a chocolate milk shake and asked if he could use a computer to access the web.
“There you go. You can use number two. The password is 229958. It’s three dollars an hour.”
Norman took out a ten dollar bill and laid it on the bar.
“Thanks. Keep the change.”
He went over to the computer, inserted the password and the most famous and powerful research engine in the world bade him welcome. He typed in the words he was looking for: “Instructions for Living – limited edition”. Numerous replies popped up and he scrolled quickly down until his eye was drawn to the one with the date of issue number 100. He clicked the mouse on the icon and the page opened. He began to read: ‘Shanghai, 22nd January 2009. The Ryan A. O’Neal Corporation, owners of the rights to the most popular bestseller on earth, announce that no more than five hundred thousand copies will be printed and distributed throughout the world. Its enormous success proves that the manuscript is by far the most extraordinary means of communication ever created in the history of manki
nd. One single person has been able to glean the emotions of the whole of humanity and transform them into a message of hope and love...’
Norman turned to co-related articles, and one in particular: ‘Seoul, 8th October 2004. A murder disrupted the launch of the book that has sold more copies than any other over the last year. The chairman of the Korean publishing house was found dead at his home. The Police have stated that it may have been a crime of passion, probably committed by the victim’s mistress. Allegations that the chairman had financial problems and was involved in illegal money laundering for the Mafia have not yet been confirmed’.
He clicked the mouse onto another article: ‘The largest publishing house in the world is bankrupt. Thanks to a political agreement, it will be taken over by the international, best-selling author, Mr. Ryan A. O’Neal’.
“Fucking bastard! You’ve stolen my glory and my money!”
His fury was outweighed by his desire to find more information. Norman searched for details of the company’s Hollywood office. The swiftness of the reply came as no surprise and as he got up and left the bar, he memorized the number on his mobile and called it.
“Mr. O’Neal Corporation, good morning,” replied a friendly female voice.
“Good morning. I’d like to speak to the President immediately!”
“Mr. O’Neal is out of the office at the moment. Who is speaking, please?”
“My name is Norman Lae. I insist on having his mobile number!”
“I’m afraid I can’t give you that information. If you leave your number and your reason for calling, I’ll put you through to a consultant who can give you all the information and help you need.”
“I don’t need any help! I only want to speak to the bastard who’s robbed me!”
“Please moderate your language, sir, this call is being monitored. If you carry on like this, I’ll be forced to notify the authorities.”
“I couldn’t give a shit about what you’ll be forced to do! Put me through to your boss right now!”
From the dial tone in his ear, it was clear that threats would not obtain the intimidating effect desired. He hung up in annoyance and cursed the woman, comparing her with someone who changes her colors at will. He noticed people watching him with raised eyebrows, but he ignored their curious stares. The phone rang; on the display he saw the word “withheld”, which meant the caller was either averse to being labeled with a nickname or unwilling to be recognized.
“Hello.”
“Café Impero, Ninth Street.”
“What? Who is that?”
“There are four people sitting at a table in front of the counter. One of them is called Daisy. Ask for her, she has something that belongs to you.”
The phone went dead. Norman stared at his mobile like a man begging for answers. All he received in return, with a look as bleak as his own, was the LED fading out. He thought it was probably a wrong number. He refocused on his mission: finding the man who had recycled his ideas and making him cough up, and he swore the bill would be stiff, very stiff. He set off towards the nearest Police Precinct, a few blocks from where he was, if he remembered correctly. He decided to leave the phone on; maybe Julia would call him back, or the chap who had doubtless called the wrong number. If his office rang, he wouldn’t answer; he would tell them later that a mugger had stolen his mobile and he had spent the day at the Precinct. The copy of his statement would prove his case, even if it wasn’t the real reason for his visit. The alibi would save his skin. He had always liked to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds.
As he walked along, he looked around him. The city was even more frenetic than usual that morning. Probably because Christmas was coming and the last-minute dash for presents had become a race against time. He no longer noticed that people attached less and less importance to the event itself. Society only cared about remembering to give a friend a gift so as to receive in exchange banal words that alluded to a family unity that had never really existed. Even he had fallen into the trap; when he chatted, he did it through laziness, not desire or interest. He could no longer be bothered to try saving those who didn’t want to be saved. He let everyone think he was like them, but deep down he felt completely different.
He wanted to run away and settle down some place where life had meaning. He did that with his poems. And now, even that had been taken away. It was too much! He turned the corner and his attention was caught by the writing on the wall beside the entrance to the Police Precinct. He could hardly believe his eyes. It was the same billboard he had seen earlier with the photograph of the book he was looking for. However, advertisements had casually been pasted on this one announcing the opening of a new venue which, according to the blurb, was worth visiting: ‘Café Impero, where life has meaning and meaning has its home...’
Disbelief made him reel for a second. How could that be? He looked round wildly, searching for an answer that was not there. He stopped to reflect, but his head pounded with the thought that fortuitous events couldn’t be aware of his thinking process. It took him a minute. He allowed anxiety to follow its instinct and instinct to speak to curiosity. There was no need for him to take note of the address, because he knew that the venue was on a street on the other side of the main road. He set off like a man gripped by the thrill of learning he is about to knock on the door to knowledge.
The neon sign guided him to the entrance. He walked through the foyer; the grandeur and the music dimmed memories of traffic and pettiness. The light transported the senses far from reality. Everything in the place seemed motionless; its sole aim was to make people forget everything. The smell evoked uncharted oases of peace. Although it was early morning, the café was packed with people. Norman glanced around and was immediately struck by the familiarity of the surroundings; he knew it was strange, but he felt at home there, more than anywhere he had ever been, more, even, than the apartment where he had lived for years. He saw strangers everywhere. The bartender stared at him for a moment that seemed an eternity, almost as if he wanted to hug him, like someone who hadn’t seen a dear friend for a long time. As he moved towards the counter, he noticed that there was only one table with four people sitting at it. His indecision gave no sign of abating. He pretended to be thirsty and ordered a gin and tonic with ice. The bartender swiftly served him, as if he had known what he wanted.
“They’re expecting you, friend, looking forward to meeting you.”
“What? But who are you? What is this place?”
“It’s the place you’ve been looking for since for ever.”
“It was you on the phone, right?”
He felt a hand rest on his shoulder. Norman whipped round.
“Hello, Norman. Follow me. We have a lot to talk about.”
The man turned away without waiting for an answer. Norman tried to catch the friendly eye of the barman, but he had vanished. There were only two barmaids busy serving customers who were impatient to start drinking.
Once again, his instinct made the decision for him. He stared after the man who had greeted him as he moved further away, leaving behind him an unbelievable whiff of curiosity. Norman walked towards the table he had spotted earlier. Three women and a man were gazing intently at him. He remembered the telephone conversation. “Four people sitting at a table”. He stopped, gave his instinct another minute, and then decided for both of them.
Chapter 3
The light in the room emphasized the shadows of fear. Jonathan stared into space, feeling the sharp edge of the mystery he carried inside him, so dark at times, too profound at others. He wished he could tackle it once and for all, because he needed to find out whether he was capable of filling the void. He wanted more than anything to die, but he lacked the courage to put an end to his woes. He was a coward, he knew that only too well. And, as with all cowards, he ran away from everything he came into contact with every day, whether it was something to safeguard or something to forget. The last time he had felt anything at all was for the cat
that had kept him company until the previous summer; but as only time can do, it had taken the cat away, along with the warm days of August and the last emotion that his grieving heart could wring out. Depression was pulling him towards an alien place, far from the vision of the world that he had learned to observe. Every so often, he thought back, feeling shame for every decision he hadn’t dared make, cursing himself for not living his life, until fate had stolen it and deprived him of the only person he had ever really loved.
His glance fell on the photograph on the chest of drawers in the entrance hall. He didn’t recognise the man he used to be, the one he had left behind so long ago. Beside him was the face of an angel who had stopped him from sliding into the pit so many times he was hard put to remember how many, but who had toppled over the edge, trying in vain to fight and win. Time had taken her away as well, too young to enter the world of the dead, but too depressed for her brain to be able to save her. Jonathan had done all he could to help her, but he knew it was a question of “you can’t help those who don’t want to help themselves”. He had tried his best, naturally, but he had never been able to rid himself of guilt. He had taken her to the best doctors in the world, but none had been able to cure what they considered the most insidious strain of cancer. A disease that manifests itself without warning, that encourages fear in order to subjugate the soul, forcing it to look into the darkness without ever being able to see the light again; that leads down a rocky road with no return; that sieves reason until it becomes unrecognizable, until all you want to do is end it.
The Devil's Fate Page 2