“Mary,” Chapter 3, by V. Nabokov

It’s possible that many of you know that my favourite writer is Vladimir Nabokov. This post is dedicated to him, or to be more precise, it’s due to him. This is an excerpt of the third chapter of his novel “Mary,” the first one he ever wrote. I find it to be one of the most luxurious and sublime passages in literature (Shakespeare and Joyce included). Enjoy .

“And in those streets, now as wide as shiny black seas, at that late hour when the last beer-hall has closed, and a native of Russia, abandoning sleep, hatless and coatless under an old mackintosh, walks in a clairvoyant trance; at that late hour down those wide streets passed worlds utterly alien to each other: no longer a reveler, a woman, or simply a passer-by, but each one a wholly isolated world, each a totality of marvels and evil. Five hackney droshkies stood on the avenue alongside the huge drumlike shape of a street pissoir: five sleepy warm, gray worlds in coachman’s livery; and five other worlds on aching hooves, asleep and dreaming of nothing but oats streaming out of a sack with a soft crackly sound.

It is at moments like this that everything grows fabulous, unfathomably profound, when life seems terrifying and death even worse. And then, as one swiftly strides through the night-time city, looking at the lights through one’s tears and searching in them for a glorious, dazzling recollection of past happiness – a woman’s face, resurgent after many years of humdrum oblivion – all of a sudden, in one’s mad progress, one is politely stopped by a foot passenger and asked how to get to such and such a street; asked in an ordinary voice, but a voice which one will never hear again.”

Modern Cities

“Hey, did you see that building over at Miramont?” Ed said.

Ed and Mark had been in town just for a brief meeting and before heading back to Capital city they’d decided to have a quick lunch.

“The one that looks like a giant banana?” Mark said, reading a newspaper and eating a sandwich.

“Yea.”

“What about it?” Mark mumbled, munching on his sandwich.

“Well, don’t you think it’s kinda weird?”

“Nah,” Mark said loosely. “It’s like that thing we saw over by the bridge that lets you cross the river with lianas. They like that sort of stuff over here.”

“Or the park that had banana peels scattered all over…” Ed said confusedly. “What is this, monkey-land!?”

“Well… yea,” Mark said. He showed Ed the newspaper, pointing at the headline, “See… ‘Monkey City tops world economy!’”

“Ah, that explains a lot,” Ed said rather relieved. “I kept wondering why there’d been so many monkeys at that meeting.”

Prologue – Virtual Book Project

“This is the most ambitious project that I have yet pursued: to try to evoke, through loose paragraphs, seemingly absurd and incoherent scenes, and ‘outside’ scenarios, a narrative, a story, a group of characters…”

This is the opening passage of a letter that I found on the mail-pile by the entrance door of my house, a cold January morning. I remember reading that letter that same morning. It was badly written, too long and too dense, unorganized, and filled with orthographic mistakes and sentences that never had a verb. It had coffee stains all over and the paper was crumpled, as if he had thrown it into the garbage and then recovered it a week later. Still, in each of its five long pages, I could sense an immense lucidity and a subtle humility and confidence.

“And what would be the purpose of such a book? I asked myself one night. I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling, and at that moment I imagined that there was no ceiling and I was looking straight at heaven, at an idea that surpassed any other that I had yet had –or at least that’s what I thought at the time […] I realized that for most people, reading a book is an passive exercise. They accept whatever the author gives them: characters, scenarios, problems: the blueprints, the stonecutters, the tools and materials to build a house, a city or whatever-it-was. And so it came to mind… what if we only gave the readers a vague trajectory, a vector;  we could give them the chance of using their own materials –their own life experiences, memories, characters, funny dialogues…; to allow them to change the design of a city, or the direction of a street. […] this is a book that makes the reader the main character, for he is the architect of the book’s world. […] I will allow them to transcend that Everlasting Convention, and let them reject the idea that for things to go right, they must end right…”

The letter was a collection of loose ideas and questions that at some point or another he answered in the most unorthodox fashion. The letter itself simulated what it was to talk to him in person; flying over themes and concepts like moths around a lamppost.

After I got that letter I wondered whether I should respond. It took me three days to decide against it, but I didn’t ignore it.

A couple of months later, I bumped into him in New York, and we had lunch. We did not talk about the letter or its contents during the meal, even though I wanted to. Instead we discussed many other things: a couple of Russian novels and a Japanese film that we’d both loved. We talked about anecdotes, about the old times. We remembered how it was back in college, and back in High-School (“Remember when we submerged the school’s mascot into the swap by the…”). And he asked me something that I will never forget: Tell me, Robert, can you hear the shape of a drum? Can you touch the texture of time? I cannot remember what I said at that time despite my greatest efforts.

After that, we went on to discuss other things, family, kids, money; real life problems. He was about to get married at that time, to a gorgeous Spanish girl, though he finally didn’t.

Two hours flew by, and had to catch a plane and we said goodbye. However, just before we parted, I asked him about his latest project. He looked at me, smiled a smile that it is until now that I finally understand it, and said, I’ll send it to you.

Two years after that meeting, I received a package from him. It was a big, heavy box that contained a manuscript of 413 pages. Attached to it there was a letter. In it he asked me whether I would be so kind to write a prologue or a brief introduction for the book. I opened the package immediately and found a rough version of the book you now hold in your hands. I read it in three weeks; three weeks filled with laughs, sobs, and absurd interpretations. Those were some of the best weeks of my life. I remembered people I had forgotten, went back in my mind to countries, cities, old college campuses that I’d forgotten. If time is space, I traveled hundreds of miles back and forth. However, the moment I finished reading the book and recalled that letter he’d attached and what I had to do now, I began to feel a pressing anxiety: I couldn’t come up with anything that would serve as an introduction. Every attempt I made irrevocably dissected and destroyed the book itself. At night I would wake up and write an idea on a piece of paper, only to feel shame and embarrassment the next morning. However, a month later I discovered that, maybe unconsciously, or just secretly, he had already given me a taste of a prologue: I realized that the crumpled letter I got, two years ago, that snowy morning, would serve as the best prologue that anyone could’ve written.

Here is the letter:

[…]

“Try to remember, Robert. Try to remember when you were walking, or driving back, I don’t quite remember, from the house of that old girlfriend you had in High-School. I assure you it is one of your strongest memories; it triggers thousands of different emotions and fires away hundreds of other thoughts. What if a passage in a book had that power, what if a passage in a book were that memory? What if I could make you blend that memory with a different scenario… blend it with, say, Mexico City or a small English town?”

[…]

“You must love it, you must build a connection. That is the only thing that matters, a connection where opinions don’t really matter. The norm is not social impact or any of the other stupid things writers often write about. The norm is art, it is the Sublime and the Beautiful, that which has the power to destroy us; that which has the power to make us feel anew.”

[…]

“However, one would have to accept that maybe this attempt might become a failed experiment, a unrewarded leap of faith, a senseless answer to literature’s senseless nature, a misunderstanding of the world […] Best wishes […]” Thus finished the letter.

Robert ‘Can’t-Remember-His-Nickname’ Jones

Bristol, 2010.



Undulations in the Dark – Beginning (New)

Hey… this is the very beginning of Undulations in the Dark… I just wrote it a few days ago so it may be a little bit rough around the edges… anyway, here it is:

The streets around the building smelled of sulfide; rotten eggs with a hint of gunpowder. It was an old storage house: red bricks all around except for a steel double-door, a large garage entrance and two large windows from which no light came out. It was raining and it was late. The street lamp-posts had been turned off and the only light that came upon the streets was the moon’s pallid glow and the intermittent flashes of lighting. Running through the pressing darkness, Detective Cloud and his squadron of police officers got closer to the building.

“Don’t shoot to kill, we need him alive,” Cloud whisper into the microphone of his vest. He leaned against the steel doors and waited; the shotgun ready in his hands. Moments later, Jack joined him, holding a steel battering-ram.

“Roberts, Vimes?” Cloud said under his breath.

“We’re ready,” said Sergeant Alice Roberts, lying on the rooftop of the building across the street, aiming with a sniper rifle at the doors. Sergeant Ned Vimes was crouched at her side, scanning the building through night vision binoculars. In neighboring buildings, four other sniper teams were also ready.

A couple of meters behind Cloud, Lieutenant Sam Russell stood along ten other officers. Cloud looked at him and made a gesture with his head. Sam nodded and got closer to the door

“Alright, gas them,” Cloud said, and three tear-gas capsules crashed through the windows into the building.

Cloud waited a few seconds, then adjusted his mask and said to Jack, “Ok, let’s do this. Go.”

Jack looked at Cloud and nodded. He lifted the ram and thrust it against the steel doors. The doors busted open and Cloud went straight in, shotgun ready, followed by Sam and the rest of the squadron.

Their weapon’s flashlights pierced through the smoke and darkness of the room.

Cloud had expected the full gang to be there. He’d worked on this case for months, trying to get his hands on Vincent Makoun, the invisible head of the terrorist mafia that had haunted the upper side Ananke City for years, and now he’d finally gotten what he’d been waiting for: evidence. And he knew that Makoun was aware of this, and he was not going to go down without a fight. Cloud expected no less than ten men, trying to pack as many weapons and drug as they could before leaving town. He expected them to be ready, with firearms and gas masks.

But the storage building seemed to be empty.

Cloud frowned and kept moving. Suddenly he felt a round object hit his right leg. Quickly he brought the shotgun’s light to his feet and saw it. A detached human head lay at his feet.

“What the fuck…” whispered Jack. “What happened here?”

“Flare, now!” Cloud said.

A thick red glare lit the room.

The place was a mess. Scattered through the storage floors were dismembered bodies and pools of blood. Handguns, knives and twisted steel artifacts, which could only be thought as torturing devices, also crowded the ground and the foul odor of rotten eggs thickened the air.

“Detective, this are…” Jack began, walking carefully through the bodies. “Were… his men. What the fuck happened, here?”

“Death happened,” said a voice coming from the right far side corner of the room.

Quickly, five flashlights illuminated a man, seated on a small wooden chair, wearing a gas mask, holding a big butcher knife.

“Drop the knife!” Cloud yelled, walking slowly towards him.

“It’s too late, Detective,” the man said, the voice coarse and somehow casual. “I killed ‘em all.”

Cloud got closer to the man and soon recognized him: Vincent Makoun.

Jack lit another flare and tossed it next to Makoun; this time a green glare illuminated the figure in front of them. He was bald and had a thick black beard coming out from under the gas mask. He wore a butcher’s coat and white pants, all drenched in blood. There were heaps of dead bodies all around him. The knife dangled in his hands and his eyes were lost in it.

“You see, I had a party,” Makoun said, his eyes still on the knife. “And I killed ‘em all.”

“He’s got a bomb,” Cloud said into his vest, pointing his flashlight at Makoun’s dynamite-bounded ankles. “I need a bomb squad in here immediately.”

“Drop the knife, Makoun,” Cloud went on. “It’s over.”

Makoun remained silent. He played with his knife, tossing it upwards, a few inches up in the air, sometimes catching it back by the handle, others by the blade, cutting himself. Blood dripped from both hands.

“Drop it!” Cloud said.

Makoun tossed the knife higher this time but did not catch it. The knife fell through his hands and stuck into one of the bodies.

“What the fuck did you do?” Cloud said.

“I told you, Detective, I had a little party.” Makoun’s eyes remained on the knife for a few seconds. Then he lifted his head, mechanically, as if it were brought up by an invisible puppeteer string, and stared at Cloud.

“Officers, get as many bodies as you can out of here, fast,” Cloud said, his eyes still fixed on Makoun. “Don’t do this Makoun.”

“Don’t worry, Detective,” Makoun said, smiling. “This was… is not for you.”

Cloud saw this and felt the sting of anger growing inside of him. He’d been so close, so damn close, he thought, just so that insanity could claim him before he did.

“You’re beyond salvation, Makoun,” Cloud said briskly, a sudden desperation in his voice. “Why did you do it?”

“Oh Detective, I was hoping you would know that by now. I’ve heard so many stories about you, so many amazing stories,” Makoun said shakily, bringing his hands to his eyes and staring at them thoughtfully. “I’m kind of disappointed, and worried.”

“Jack, how many have you got?” Cloud yelled out. “We don’t have much time.”

“Just a few Detective, most are not… erm… complete,” Jack said.

“Why are you worried?” Cloud asked.

He knew he’d not much time. He couldn’t get what he wanted from him, not now. He’d come to know him, through the sleepless nights and blurring, violent dreams. He knew everything there was to know about him, he knew his mushy eyebrows and crazed green eyes. He’d learnt his life, Oxford, Harvard before arriving at Ananke. He knew he’d killed forty-four men to get to where he’s now. And now he saw him like that, covered in blood and small bits of flesh and bone, with his feet on a heap of bodies, he felt sorry for him. Cloud knew Makoun was in hell; he was just a tourist with a gun, coming in and out of rotten subterranean holes, visiting once in a while shameless suspects or broken victims. Makoun lived there. He’d made hell and now lived in it, and now it had finally caught up with him. And Cloud had come to understand him, as a man torn apart by the hell he’d brought upon himself. Now, his helpless figure and despairing eyes were a sight that disturbed him incredibly, but at the same time he felt the tripping desire to pull the trigger, at of pity and at of anger; anger that insanity had claimed him before him.

“I’m worried for you and for your city,” Makoun said. He then lowered his sight and added, barely whispering, “Our city…”

“What have you done, Makoun?” Cloud asked.

“It’s not me you should be worried about, Detective,” Makoun said, tears began to stream down his eyes. “You should be worried about everyone else,” he added, pronouncing the word “everyone” as if it were a proper name.

“Do you realize how crazy you are, Makoun? You don’t have to do this,” Cloud said, tightening his grip on the shotgun. But he did not believe his words, he knew, deep inside him that this was over. He saw it in his eyes, those eyes shining red, completely gone; there was nothing he could offer him that would make him forfeit the bomb.

“Detective, I’m not a butcher, I’m not a Yid, nor yet a foreign skipper,” Makoun said, smiling without emotion, as if he were reciting other man’s words. “But I’m your own light-hearted friend, yours truly…” His voice died before he’d finished.

The red flare flickered and slowly began to fade.

“Are there any more bombs, Makoun?” Cloud said.

“Just this one, Detective.”

More patrols were arriving. Cloud saw the front lights of the police cars through the windows, shedding white light onto the floors, revealing for a second the true horror of the scene; revealing the true horror behind Makoun’s blooded face.

“It appears it’s time to say goodbye, Detective.”

The bomb squad entered the storage house and stopped at the sight of Cloud and Makoun, face to face. Makoun looked at them, and then went back to Cloud. He smiled, lifted his butcher coat and revealed a timer. It was already down to thirty seconds.

“You should thank me, Detective,” Makoun said. “I killed them all.”

“Everybody out! Now!” Cloud yelled. Jack, Sam and the bomb squad left the room, but Cloud remained still. “Why did you do it?” He said, lowering his shotgun, just as the red flare died out, leaving only the green bright light shining against their faces.

“I’ve no time to tell you how I came to be a killer,” Makoun said, tears in his eyes. “But you should know, as time will show, that I’m a society’s pillar…” Makoun paused for a moment looking straight at Cloud’s eyes “… Detective.”

Cloud looked at Makoun for one last time, and then sprinted out of the building. He came out running, then got behind an armored truck and waited.

The building exploded.

Theatre Night 6 (Final part)

(From last post: Dianne nodded her head in approval. Dave whispered the word “Sissy.”)

The clapping lasted a couple of minutes. The audience applauded with more enthusiasm for the main characters and less energetically for the minor roles. The performers bowed for some time –which seemed to last an hour for John–, until the crowd finally began to scurry off towards the exits. Yet, long after the clapping had ended, John kept smashing his hands frenetically, totally out of control. Next to him, Dave stood silent, so marveled by such an expression of genuine desperation that he didn’t even try to hide away his grin and simply stared at John, whose lost gaze still remained on the empty seat where, moments ago, Emily had been seated.

“John? John… John!” Dianne yelled out, shaking him by the arm. “We have to go.”

“What? Ah, yes. Let’s go,” John said, coming out of his trance, surprised to see that Emily was no longer seated in front of him.

“You were gone for a while. Are you sure you’re alright?” Dave asked, still smiling.

“Yeah, I’m…” John began, looking back at Emily’s empty seat.

Dave and Dianne stared at him, waiting for the completion of the sentence. Then, after a few seconds, they looked at each other and shrugged.

“Yes? You are… what?” Dianne asked finally.

“What? Ah, fine,” he said laughing. “I’m fine, let’s go,” he added half confident, half still stupid.

The three of them walked out of the balcony and into the bar. They scurried along an empty hallway and reached the main lobby. John amazingly was almost fully recuperated from the psychological blow he’d gone through. He had successfully bottled up the negative thoughts deep inside him, and looked as if nothing had happened.

“Hey! Let’s search for Julianne, she must be somewhere around here,” he said, almost jovially, to the surprise of the other two.

“Of course! Julianne, where could she be?” Dave replied eagerly.

The two of them turned around, stood on their toes, and began searching for Julianne. At which point Dianne rolled her eyes, opened her purse, took out her makeup kit, and slowly started powdering her nose.

After a while, John yelled out, “There she is!” and pointed at a distant reddish figure.

“Where? I don’t see her…” Dave said anxiously. “Where?”

“Over there, next to that column, behind the gnomish man.”

“Where? Ah, I see her!” Dave said, and began walking towards her. However, after a couple of steps, he stopped, mumbled something and lowered his head. He then quickly turned, went back and faced John.

“You idiot! That’s not Julianne! That girl must be like fifteen years old!” Dave cried out.

“What?” John and Dianne snapped at the same time.

“That’s not Julianne… Oh, God!” Dave raised his hands in despair.

“You’re crazy,” John said and walked towards the fifteen-year old girl. Then, almost immediately, he came back and said, “Yep, That’s not Julianne all right,” smiling loosely.

Dianne laughed, tilted her head backwards, and grabbed John’s arm. Dave was furious. He moved his head from side to side, clenched his teeth and clutched his fists together, swearing.

“Well, shall we go now?” John said sighing.

“Yeah, whatever… let’s get out of here,” Dave answered angrily.

The three of them started walking towards the exit. John and Dianne smiled while Dave continued to grumble. Suddenly Dianne halted and pulled John by the arm.

“Wait! Where’s Claire?!”

Theatre Night 5

(From last post: And now, a quarter of an hour later, they still ran through the stairs and corridors, lost and confused about where they were coming from and where they were heading, partly because of their serious lack of intelligence but mainly because of the extremely complicated directions the people from the wrong balconies kept giving them.)

Dave, who had also been knocked down, but had suffered much slighter mishaps, looked at John as he came back and awkwardly sat on his seat once again.

“Are you alright?” Dave asked; a faint smile stuck its head out of the corners of his mouth.

The musicians had gone back to their pit and were now ready to re-commence.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” said John, not meaning it.

“Okay. That’s good, all good then…” Dave said hesitantly. Then, with a full sarcastic smile painted on his face, he added, “On the bright side… Second base with Emily eh… Score!”

Luckily for Dave –and for everyone else for that matter–, the roaring sound of the orchestra’s drums suppressed the sound of John’s amazing visually-evocative insults.

Promptly the actors reappeared and the play restarted. The handsome prince resurfaced along with the evil villain and the gorgeous maiden. However, John, in his still mystified, post-concussion state of mind, ignored them all, and fixed his eyes at the back of Emily’s head.

At first, John was unable to produce any kind of thought whatsoever, still dense-minded from the shock. But, as the play began to regain its momentum, so did his brain and little by little he started having erratic thoughts and remembered bits and pieces of what had just happened. Vaguely he recalled the daunting image of Emily’s red face coming at him, the constant blows at his ribs and kidneys, and the disgusting smell of too much berry perfume that had wedged itself into his clothes. His blood began to boil gradually inside him, and dark, terrible ideas flashed in his mind. That bitch, how dare she!? He thought, humiliated… undignified… laughed at, I should throw her off the… slam her head into the wooden… drown her face in her own…

If it had been brighter, Dave and Dianne would have been able to see in John a countenance beyond salvation: his cheeks painted with the crimson rage of revenge, his eyes stung by the fire of sin, lost deep inside mouth-twisting reveries of violence and spite. Luckily for him, nobody noticed how he slaughtered Emily again and again, tearing her to pieces, blood everywhere, laughing uncontrollably. Nobody noticed how she pleaded him for forgiveness; begged him to spare her life; implored him for compassion. Nobody noticed that he plainly whispered, “No.”

Soon, John’s state became unbearable. His rage had been spurred by the play’s intense musical climax, produced by the death of the handsome man in the arms of his beloved one. He had to do something to Emily, he had to hit her or injure her in some way. Otherwise he would go mad. A beast had awoken in him; it rummaged his guts and pleaded him to set it free. Its animal drive darkened everything except Emily’s roundish, hippopotamean figure. Still, John tried to control it; he tried desperately to restrain the wolverine. But… it was too much. He eventually failed and the bubble burst.

John slowly began to raise his hand. He positioned himself in his seat and prepared the upcoming blow. He salivated, made a groaning animal sound and imagined for a second –or what John felt was a second–, what it would be like after it was all over: freed and purified. But, just as he was about to cathartically let all the beastly anger explode in one swift stroke, the lights were suddenly turned on and everyone rose to their feet.

John found himself on his feet too; his tight open hand inches away from slapping the back of Emily’s head. But most noticeably he found himself fully aware that the protective blanket of darkness was gone, and that he was being severely looked at by Dianne and Dave; one with a shocked, heated look on her face, the other in a despairing state of anticipation. After a moment of doubt, not having really any other choice, John gave up and clumsily exchanged the blow for an insipid clap. Dianne nodded her head in approval. Dave whispered the word “Sissy.”

Theatre Night 4

(From last post: Then, at the same slow pace, she turned back and made herself comfortable in her seat.)

For a minute or two, John and Dave remained silent, both extremely uncomfortable and tense. Dave kept his eyes fixed on Julianne, while John’s sight bounced from his brother’s dazed face to Dianne’s enraged look, passed through Julianne’s red figure, and finally settled on the back of Emily’s enormous head. Claire, after noticing that Dave was ignoring her purposefully, had gently started sobbing, but nobody noticed. Nobody cared.

“Alright, now this is fucked up. How could you not have told me?!” exalted Dave, trying ineffectively to keep his voice down.

“I told you I didn’t know!”

This time Emily didn’t shush them or yelled at them. Instead she sprung out of her seat like an alligator and lounged her powerful body towards John. He tried to dodge her, but it was impossible. Emily tackled him right in the stomach and thrust him out of his seat. The two tangled bodies went to the floor with a succinct thud and rolled backwards. Due to her elephantine body, she also hit Dianne who was shoved sideways like a light billiard ball and consequently pushed away a feeble old couple.

After the initial blow, Emily punched John repeatedly on the chest, head and wherever she could find, yelling maniacally “Shut up! Shut up!” And the people in the lower seats under the balconies, hearing Emily’s battle cry, were instantly distracted from the play and rapidly looked up where the fumbling couple fought. Likewise the orchestra and the actors stopped the scene right away and looked up. It was said later on that the first actor that spotted the fight had yelled, “Wait! Stop everything! A big man is beating some poor lady!”

After some time, Emily’s husband and other valiant spectators divided her from John. (And it was after some considerable time, since many of the people around the scuffled duo had been so keen to continue watching the fight that they’d allowed it to continue as much as it’d been safe to do so.) She was incredibly infuriated; her face was red as a strawberry and a pulsing, crossed-shaped vein stuck out of her forehead. John, in contrast, was neither agitated nor angry; he had straightened himself up extremely fast and had an expressionless look on his face, absolutely stunned by Emily’s violent impulse.

Once Emily was fully separated from John’s beaten body, Dianne took him –holding him tight around the waist, leading him by the arm– to the right far side of the balcony. He walked by her side involuntarily; his eyes wide open and his face pallid as a bright lemon. They stood near the railing of the balcony and she accommodated his tie and re-tucked his shirt. Then, taking her gloves off, she combed his hair and caressed his face with her warm hands.

“Are you alright?” Dianne asked.

There was no response.

“John, listen to me. Are. You. All. Right?” She repeated the question slowly, chasing John’s dispersed gaze with her eyes.

“What?” John replied in a drowsy, ethereal voice.

“I said, are you alright? John. Hey! John! Are you alright?!” Dianne said, replacing the nurturing tone of the question with a much more aggressive one.

“Yeah… I mean… what? Did she…” John’s voice went silent, his gaze became once again lost somewhere on the carpeted floor.

“Yes. Emily, she attacked you…” Dianne said, half worried, half smiling, trying to control a giggle that had just started to revolve inside her head.

“Right, Emily. Got to keep it quiet…”

“What? What the hell are you talking about?” Dianne began. “She banged your head quite hard eh… didn’t she?”

“What? Yeah. My head, it hurts quite a…” John started. And a couple of seconds later he added, “Lot”.

“Well, you took quite a hit, but you seem to be getting your colour back on your face and I guess you’ll be alright,” Dianne said, kissing him on the cheek. “Now, let’s get back to our seats so they can continue with the play, shall we?” she finished, slapping John’s face gently, and walked back to her seat.

While Dianne had been taking care of John, Emily had been comforted by her husband and an unknown brave young woman. However, their consolation –if one could call a consoling effort talking while being subject of severe collateral swearing–, had looked as if they had been attempting to put off a forest fire with a small fan. Though she’d lost that flaming look and her vein had gone altogether, she still breathed heavily. Still, they had managed to fix her dress, her hair, and had gently settled her back on her seat. At the same time, Emily had dispersed the alarmed neighboring audience with the frightening snaps, “I said, I’m alright,” and “Do not touch me, mister!”

Dianne and John went back to their seats, looking down, trying to avoid Emily’s stare, and waited for the play to carry on. For some mysterious reason no one suggested them to change places; some didn’t dare to think about it, fearful of Emily’s satanic temper, but most didn’t say a thing due to a subconscious desire to please their morbid curiosity.

The actors, and most of the play’s production, maintenance and directing staff, whom, by the way, had sprinted out of their back-stage seats to see the fight, looked puzzled and undecided about how to proceed. On one hand, they had the well-known fact that if they chose to suspend the play, they’d have to refund the money to all those people who’d not lost their minds and had attacked their neighbors, which would result in the inevitable loss of that night’s utilities. On the other, they could continue with the play well aware that the whole momentum had been lost and that they risked a complete catastrophe that could jeopardize their well-earned reputation. Obviously, and after barely a minute or two of careful consideration, they chose to continue with the play, keep the money, and re-do the whole scene.

Surprisingly, nobody from the theatre security had arrested either Emily or John, and, what was most shocking of all, no one in the entire audience had noticed this. The theatre staff, however, had actually sent their security people to apprehend the pair minutes after Emily attacked John. But none of the big, tight-shirted men had known how to get to that specific balcony, and so they’d found themselves again and again stumbling in the wrong balcony, the wrong stairs or the wrong floor. And now, a quarter of an hour later, they still ran through the stairs and corridors, lost and confused about where they were coming from and where they were heading, partly because of their serious lack of intelligence but mainly because of the extremely complicated directions the people from the wrong balconies kept giving them.

Crime Story 2

“I left your man resting outside, hope you don’t mind, Jack,” the man said.

“No… not at all, Roy” Jack said, annoyed.

“Oh, and the men you sent in earlier… I don’t know why, but they suddenly decided to get naked and tie themselves to a tree… craziest thing in the world,” the man said. He was smiling and radiated cheerfulness. “And a couple of fellows that were up on the trees, playing with some toys, also fell down… you should check that out, too.”

Jack lowered the driver’s tinted window. The driver looked back and Jack made a gesture with his head. He nodded and stepped outside.

“Oh, hello Lucy…” Roy said, extending his hand. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah,” Lucy said, and shook his hand. “They woke you up too, eh?”

“Worst, I was having breakfast…” Roy said, shaking his head. “But doesn’t matter, good to see you again.”

“Yeah… you too,” Lucy said, still half asleep.

“So… what’s this about?” Roy said, still smiling. “And who’s this?” He looked at Mr. Russell.

“This is Mr. Russell,” Jack said. “We need to talk, Roy.”

“Yeah? Okay… what about?” Roy said, and quickly added, “Oh is this about Sebastian?”

Jack turned and looked at Mr. Russell who looked back. They both grinned.

“Yeah… Sebastian.”

“You up for this?” Roy said, facing Lucy.

“Hell no, I’m just here ‘cause I didn’t spot the snipers.”

“Is that right?” Roy said and laughed.

“Shut up… I was sleeping.”

The driver returned to the limo and the car began to move forward once again.

“So, where are you boys taking us?” Roy said.

“New York Headquarters,” Mr. Russell said.

“Listen Mr. Jackass– I mean, Russell,” Lucy said, her eyes on Russell. “Just drop it, turn around and let me go back to sleep,”

Mr. Russell did not say anything and simply smiled; however, his gaze rested on Lucy.

Lucy’s expression began to change subtly. First it transformed into humorous frustration. Then she clenched her jaw and her eyes froze, her face stung by the crimson hue of deep annoyance.

“You know mister, I’d wipe that smile off, if I were you,” Roy said.

“Don’t worry, Roy, I won’t do anything stupid…” Lucy said, made a pause and then added, “Yet.”

“The briefing is in New York at 9 am, if you want you can–“ Jack began.

“Jack, I think you better tell us right now what’s going on,” Roy said

“Mr. Stevens, we’ll–“

“Please call me Roy, Mr. Russell.”

“Okay… Roy, I think we better wait for New York.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Russell, I wasn’t talking to you,” Roy said, still in the same jovial voice.

Mr. Russell, for the first time, was taken aback.

“Well, Roy… This is my operation and I think that–“

“Mr. Russell,” Roy interrupted. “Please shut the fuck up.” Roy looked at Russell and then back at Jack. “Jack… either you explain to us what’s the deal right now, or we’re out.”

Jack looked distressed. He knew Roy too well, and what he was capable of doing. Roy was different from Lucy: she still cared. Jack knew he would not be able to stall as he’d done with half-asleep Lucy. He looked at Russell who nevertheless shook his head, then turned back to Roy and gave up.

“Sebastian appeared on the grid yesterday,” Jack began, Mr. Russell sighed in resignation. “He made a mistake; we think he’s hiding in New York. We have a chance now, a couple of years we didn’t have the information we have now. This time we can get this guy. We need your help.”

There was a moment of silence. Roy glanced at Russell and then to Lucy, expecting Jack to continue, but he remained silent.

“That’s it?” Roy said.

“We have detailed intel about where he might be hiding,” Russell said. “This is a once in a million chance. We have to take it.”

“Right… Well, good luck with that, gentlemen, but, and I think I’m not alone in this” –Roy turned to Lucy: she nodded– “I think we’ll pass.” Roy then turned to Lucy.

“Roy, please reconsider your–“

“Say Lucy,” Roy interrupted, ignoring Jack. “You want to grab some breakfast, I know a great place around here.”

“Yeah… I might as well forget about having a good night sleep.”

“No disrespect Roy, miss Lucy… But you can’t leave,” Mr. Russell said.

Lucy and Roy both looked at Mr. Russell attentively. Then they turned to Jack who looked uncertain.

“Really, Jack? This guy?” Lucy said.

Jack said nothing.

“So, where’re you dropping us off?” Roy said looking at Jack. “If you could lower the glass so we could tell the driver…”

Jack remained still for a moment. Roy and Lucy’s stares were fixed on him. Soon after, he lowered the glass.

“Driver… Mason Street with Dixon,” Roy said.

“Is that alright, Mr. Powers?” The driver asked.

Jack sighed and glanced at Lucy who still had her eyes on him. “Yes Andrew, it’s alright.”

Mr. Russell remained silent.

“You were always a crazy mother-fucker Jack, and it’s cool… it suits you, gives you that edge your face lacks, but if you ever pull that sniper shit again, you’ll be dead,” Lucy said.

“Come on Lucy, the man is probably just under a lot of pressure, give him a break,” Roy said.

“I don’t give a shit,” Lucy said tiredly. “And this other guy, I mean, what the fuck, Jack?”

“Well, that I got to say… Mr. Russell seems to be indeed a very idiotic person, Jack,” Roy said and looked straight at Russell.

“You’ll regret this,” Russell suddenly said.

Lucy immediately pulled out her gun and pointed it at Russell. “You fucking wake me up, put snipers on me, tell me all these stupid things about Sebastian and then you threaten me? I might be asleep but I’m not stupid.”

“The man’s stupid…” Roy said, but his voice was void of any real emotion. “But sure he’s just that, not really worth it, if you ask me…”

“Fuck that,” Lucy said emphatically. “I will cap your skinny ass and throw it out the window.”

“We’re here sir,” the Driver interrupted, everybody had forgotten the glass was still down.

“Thank you Andrew,” Jack said dubitatively, looking straight at Lucy’s gun

The car slowed down and parked.

“Come on, Lucy,” Roy said, opening the door. “We both know you’re not going to shoot the man.”

Lucy smirked and pulled the gun away from Russell’s face. “You sure know the business Roy, let’s go.”

Roy stepped out the car. Lucy put back the gun into her trousers and followed him. They walked towards a restaurant that had, next to a giant figure of a lumberjack, in bright red neon, the words “JOHNNY’S DINER.”

Mr. Russell slowly recovered from the shock of having a gun pointed at his face. “You didn’t tell me this was going to go down like this,” he said, in shock. “I never signed up for this.”

“Calm down Steve. It’s Steve, right?” Jack said and moved to where Roy had been seated. He watched the pair walk towards the restaurant for a moment, then he closed the door. “I’m sorry about this, but we really needed your help. Those guys would’ve recognized any of our senior officers.”

“I understand Mr. Powers, but it’s just that I’ve never had a gun pointed at me,” Steve said.

“I know Steve, don’t worry. You’ll get used to this, in time…” Jack said. “You did really well. You have balls, kid,” Jack peered at the driver’s rearview mirror, met his gaze and with his head signaled him to move. The driver nodded and the car sped off. “You can take off your make up.”

Steve began to wipe off his face with a handkerchief. His facial traits began to change radically. Suddenly his wrinkles by his eyes and forehead were gone, the size of his nose was diminished and even the eyes became the eyes of someone younger.

“Sir, if you don’t mind my asking…” Steve began, after he’d finished whipping his face. “Do you think Lucy would’ve really shot me?”

Jack gazed at him and remained silent. Then he looked away and poured himself a whisky.

Roy and Lucy entered the restaurant. They stood at the entrance and scanned the tables. Soon they spotted a lonely, thin man, seated at a corner, devouring a tall stack of pancakes. Lucy laughed mildly and they walked towards him.

“Hello darling,” Lucy whispered to the man’s ear. “You missed us?”

The man turned around rapidly. He had pancake in his fork, golden syrup dripping.

“Jesus Christ!” the man yelled. “Lucy, Roy… what are you doing here? I thought we were going to meet at eight.”

“A tiny change of plans,” Lucy said, making a gesture with her right hand, as if she were holding a bullet with his thumb and index finger. “Mind if we join you?”

“No, not at all, take a seat” the man said, putting the piece of pancake in his mouth. “What happened?”

Lucy and Roy sat; Roy to the man’s left, Lucy to his right.

“The Feds…” Roy said. “They say this time they’ll get Sebastian.”

“Are those pancakes any good?” Lucy said.

“They’re…. excellent…” the man said, still chewing. “But, Roy… tell me… who was it?”

“Jack,” Roy said.

“I think I’ll order some, I’m kinda hungry,” Lucy said, searching for the waitress. “You want some, Roy?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Powers eh…” the man said. “That could be a problem. He’s smarter than you think.”

“I seriously doubt it. You should’ve seen this bloke that was with him,” Lucy said, half giggling. “A certain Mr. Russell.”

“What?” the thin man said, bits of pancake flying through the air. “Russell… I don’t know that name, you sure that was his name?”

“Yeah… quite certain,” Lucy said.

“Lucy is right, he really didn’t seem to be an intelligent person,” Roy said.

The man chewed more slowly than before. His stare was lost somewhere on the table. “No… no, I don’t think so Roy. This might be a problem.”

Lucy laughed, “You didn’t see this guy… he was stupider than a chicken… These boys are clueless,” she said and finally caught the waitress’ gaze and called her over. “They wanted us to help them. And they meant business, they even had snipers on my flat, same for Roy. They seem desperate–“

“What can I get you?” said a fat waitress with too much make up on.

“Two tall stacks… And juice. You want juice Roy?” –Roy nodded– “Yeah, two large orange juices.”

“Alright,” the woman said, scribbling the order on a piece of paper. “You alright?” she said to the thin man.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Okay, I’ll be right over.”

“Roy, what did Mr. Russell looked like?” The man said once the waitress was gone.

“Kind of a tall fellow, black suit, black tie… Seemed quite old, kind of bald… Had hair like yellow fire,” Roy said.

“Mmmh, interesting…” the man said, putting down his knife and fork and whipping his mouth.

“Really, I think you’re giving this too much thought, right Roy?” Lucy said, turning to Roy.

“Yes, I think so too.”

The man had his stare lost again on the table, but soon he unlocked it and appeared to be more relaxed. “Yeah… you’re probably right.”

“Exactly, those mother-fuckers don’t know shit.”

“Yeah… maybe you’re right Lucy…” the man said. “Still… it’d be good to check it out.”

Lucy and Roy looked at each other.

“You really think so?”

“Yes, I do,” the man said dryly.

“Alright… if you say so, we’ll give it a go,” Lucy said.

“We can’t be too careful with these matters,” the man said, taking a sip from his coffee.

The waitress reappeared with two plates of pancakes and placed them in front of Lucy and Roy. “I’ll be right back with your juice.”

“You know…” Lucy began, chewing on pancake. “They did say… one… thing… that was kind of interesting.”

The man looked at her and waited.

“They said… this time…”

“Swallow, please,” the man interrupted her.

Lucy swallowed.

“They said this time they had more information than they had last year,” Lucy said. “But don’t worry, they’ll come for us again, you should see the kind of field men they got. It’s embarrassing.”

“Yeah… I think you two should play ball with them for a while,” the man said.

Roy silently ate his pancakes.

“But, do you know what they’re talking about? This new info I mean…” Lucy said, and went back to her pancakes.

“I have a feeling,” the man said and stared at the both of them. “Still, I want to be certain. I want to know exactly what is this new information they say they got about me.”

“Here’s your juice.”

Crime Story 1 (No name yet)

(After the “Treasure Hunt” fiasco… Here’s a new attempt at a sort of screenplay)

By the time the front-lights of the car pierced the darkness of Lucy’s bedroom, she’d already picked up her gun.

The white lights came in slanting through the venetian blinds; they shined against the ceiling and shed light across the room. Seconds later, they were gone. Lucy climbed down her bed and walked out of the bedroom into the hallway. She scratched her head with the gun, crouched on ground, and waited behind the door. She yawned.

Lucy took out the clip from her weapon and checked that it was loaded. It was. She put it back in and pulled back the slide. Two foot-shaped shadows appeared on the lighted strip under the door. Then, two solid knocks echoed through the corridor. Lucy didn’t answer and simply waited. The two small shadows remained fixed, and soon she heard the sound of a key entering the knob. Look at that, she thought, they’ve gotten smarter.

The door opened and a dark-suited man entered the hallway. He walked slowly into the corridor and the door closed behind him.

“He’s waiting downstairs,” the man said, feeling Lucy’s gun against his back. “He just wants to talk.”

“I really don’t want to talk,” Lucy said, and yawned. “…to anyone at fucking four in the morning.”

“There’s a situation, Det. Powers wants you.”

Lucy smirked and lowered her gun.

“Jack eh…” she said. “I’m guessing you’re not the only one here with him, right?

“No, m’am,” the man said, a drop of sweat running down his cheek.

“That’s what I thought…” Lucy said, and walked back into the bedroom.

The man sighed in relief. He’d heard stories about Lucy, and none of them ended with a yawn and an unused clip.

Lucy changed her clothes in the darkness of her bedroom, with the door still open. The dark-suited man remained standing where she’d left him, occasionally peering into the darkness, not able to see naked Lucy putting on jeans and a leather jacket.

“Okay, let’s go talk to Jack,” she said and walked out of her apartment. After a moment, the man inside reacted and followed her. “Close the door, will ya?” she added.

“Woa woa… I’m not getting into any car,” she said as she saw the black limousine parked in front of her building.

“Please enter the car,” the man said, walking past her and opening the door of the limo.

“I’m not doing shit until you tell me what’s going–“

“Get in the car, Lucy,” interrupted a voice from inside the limo.

Lucy sighed and peered inside the car. Then she looked at the dark-suited man.

“I’m out of here,” she said, and turned around. However, just as she was turning, she noticed two blinking red lights on her chest. She smirked and whispered to herself, I’ll be damned.

Lucy remained still for a moment. She scratched her neck and looked around the block. Soon she spotted the snipers. There were five of them. Two on rooftop of her building, one on top of a parked van, , and two on top of neighbouring trees. She lowered her head and shook it. Then she hit her forehead with the palm of her hand and whispered to herself, “Stupid, stupid, stupid…” After a moment, she raised her head once again and massaged her face with her hands. Well… if you wanna get crazy, Lucy thought, let’s get crazy.

She turned around and approached the car. But, just as she was stepping into the limo, the dark-suited man put his hand on her shoulder and said, “Your gun, miss.”

“If you don’t get your hands off my jacket,” Lucy said fiercely. “I’ll shoot you to death right now. You got three seconds.”

“One.”

“Two.”

The man still kept his hand on Lucy’s shoulder. However, he did so, not because he didn’t fear Lucy, but because he was so afraid that his body had unconsciously shut down his motion capacity and his arm had remained locked in that position. His sweating had become more intense.

“Thr–“

“It’s alright Mark, let her in,” interrupted the voice from inside the car.

The man finally was able to remove his hand. Lucy cast a smiling peer at him, re-arranged the collar of her jacket and entered the car.

It was a small limousine. Two dark leathered couches faced each other, perpendicular to the sides of the car. On one side, against the right side of the car, was a small bar. At the other side, there was a wooden cupboard with champagne glasses on top and whisky cups inside. Next to the cupboard there was a small lamp that radiated dim orange light. The windows were tinted and the walls of the car had all wooden ornaments.

“Hello Lucy,” said a bearded man seated in front of her. “It’s been a long time.”

Lucy felt the car speed forward and turn around the corner of her street onto the highway.

“Not long enough, Jack” Lucy said, massaging her eyes with her fingers. “So you brought your snipers with you, eh? What happened, man? Don’t you trust me anymore?” She was smiling.

“Of course I do,” Jack said dryly. “It’s just that I wasn’t so sure you’d accept my invitation.”

“Oh Jack,” Lucy said, and chucked. “Of course I would’ve not. You’re an asshole…”

Jack said nothing and remained straight faced.

“Well, at least can I have a drink?” Lucy said. “It’s kinda early but, what the hell.”

“Sure,” Jack said, and served her a whisky. “Ice?”

“No.”

Lucy watched Jack serve the whisky slowly into the crystal glass. She followed his eyes as he poured the liquid. The light from the lampposts in the street illuminated his face at two-second intervals.

“Here you go,” he said, handing her the glass.

“Thanks.” Lucy drank from the glass and gazed at the golden liquid. Then she looked back at Jack.

“This is good stuff, Jack… didn’t know you had taste,” she said and took another sip. “But anyway, what the fuck do you want? And who’s this?”

Lucy turned to the man seated next to Det. Powers. He was tall and old; wore a black suit and a black tie that contrasted the white shirt underneath. He had blue eyes and hair like yellow fire. He too had a whisky in his hands.

“This is Mr. Russell,” Jack said.

Lucy looked straight at Russell and then back at Jack, expecting him to say another thing, but he remained silent.

“Right…” Lucy said and paused for a moment. “Whatever.”

“So, how you’ve been?” Jack said.

“I was dreaming of some electric sheep, the weirdest thing…” Lucy said, tiredly. “But now that you mention it, the last time we saw each other I was about to be put in an incinerator…”

“I know you must be somehow aggravated about what happened in the desert but you must understand, we had bad intelligence; we didn’t know where you’d been taken.”

“Well, ain’t that a kick in the head,” Lucy said ironically. “You guys are shit. You know it, I know it, Mr. Sweat up front knows it… And you call me in at four in the morning, force me into a car, and expect me to help you out. ‘Cause that’s why you called me in, right? I mean, you’d not wake me up in, after four months of not talking to me, just to have a drink… Whatever you want, whoever you’re looking for, you can put it straight up your–“

“You done?” Jack interrupted, staring straight at Lucy.

“Not really… But doesn’t matter, I’m outta here, drop me off.”

“We won’t be doing that just yet.”

“Just yet? I’m this close to blow your brains, Jack…” Lucy said, calmly. “That brand new one you still carry around.”

“Lucy… Mr Russell here has something he wants to talk to you about.”

“Give it up, man,” Lucy said, exasperated. “There’s nothing you fuckers can say that’s gonna make me work with you.”

“Come on Lucy… just listen.”

“We have a business proposition we’d like to discuss with you,” Mr. Russell suddenly said.

“Really? That’s great. Hey… why don’t you shove it up your–“

“Lucy… come on,” Jack interrupted. “Hear what we’ve got to say.”

“Why should I?”

“Because we can get Sebastian,” Jack said ominously.

There was a moment of silence and neither of them spoke for a moment, in the background the smooth rolling of the limousine on the concrete highway.

“Is that right?” Lucy said.

“It is,” Jack said.

“Well… I don’t give a shit!” Lucy yelled out.

“You really are not a morning person, are you?” Mr. Russell said, and smiled.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Lucy said, leaning forward, her eyes on Russell.

“Give it a rest Lucy, we know you want Sebastian as much as we do.”

“Not this much, I don’t,” she said, still staring at Mr. Russell.

“I heard you almost got him two years go,” Mr. Russell began. “Out off the shoulder of Norio, but he got away.”

“I had him, pretty boy. If these assholes hadn’t got in my way, I would’ve gotten the son of a bitch.”

Mr. Russell smiled and looked at Jack.

“I told you,” Jack said, and turned towards Lucy. “We can nail the bastard this time; of course you’ll get an incredulous amount of money.”

“Well, I don’t really care about… –wait, why are we slowing down?” Lucy interrupted herself as the car slowed down and came to a full stop.

“We’re picking up someone else,” Jack said.

“You really are a bastard, Jack,” Lucy said, reclining on her back. “Is it not enough with waking me up?”

“You should be glad we’re doing this, we’re calling him to help you.”

“What?! I haven’t agreed to anything…” Lucy said, but suddenly the door of the limo opened.

Lucy heard the dark-suited man yell up. Then she heard another voice, coarse and calm. The agent’s voice sounded brisk and rushed, while the other remained serene, as if it were the voice of a old country singer. Suddenly the talking stopped and she heard a bumping thud, as if someone had dropped a bag of sand on the ground. Seconds later, a man entered the limo, sat next to Lucy and closed the door.

Theatre Night 3

(From last post: Just as they all sat down on their seats, the preliminary darkness rejoined the stage and the music began its ascension from the musician’s pit.)

John hated these plays, no matter how attractive the actresses were or how marvelous the musicians performed, he always got bored. Dianne, on the other hand, loved them. And she didn’t just loved them like people normally love, say, a good pie, or a long game of curling, she actually felt a chocolaty sensation in the stomach every time someone mentioned, pointed at, or even implied something about the theatre. And since Dianne accompanied him to his mind-numbing auto exhibits, John was compelled to go with her, almost three times a month, to see some horrid play at some crowded theatre.

The first few times, John had genuinely tried to enjoy them, focusing on the plot or on the music and production values, or, as a last resource, on the bulky qualities actresses possess that are prized by the superficial man. However, this mechanism turned out to entertain him less than hearing golf on the radio. And so it’d happened that one night, during a particularly dull play, he’d gotten so bored that he’d decided to get severely souced, just to see if that sharpened his appreciation of the whole thing. Disappointingly, it had not.

The “Boom-box” incident –as Dianne had baptized it–, had been the most shameful of all the things that she’d had to endure since they got married, even though there had been plenty of other serious contestants. (Most notably amongst them were the “Chicken Roaster” episode the day Claire got divorced, and the memorable “Challenge pissing” surprise party he’d thrown for Emily’s youngest son.)

But, just before he had lost all hope, John had discovered that staring at people –just staring at any poor fellow that came across his sight–, and inventing their lives, their personalities and finding suitable adjectives for their faces and bodies, provided for him an unmatched source of entertainment.

‘Ha! Look at that dumb looking guy,’ John thought, looking at a dumb looking guy. ‘So bald, so fat, so perfectly pear shaped… accompanied by that, that… incredible-looking girl! How did he do it?  Well… I guess there’s a certain quiet dignity in him. But then again, the man looks like a bloody pigeon. Only one explanation then… money, for sure, she is just too good looking…’

The play had entered its third act. The evil duke had kidnapped the maiden and through an unfortunate accident, the handsome prince had, apparently, died.

‘…Oh, feeble, little man; perennial denizen of culture, voyeur of beauty, admirer of poor, ignorant, wild, hopeful, hopeless maidens,’ John thought, staring at another man. ‘What a night awaits you, oh solitary gnome, soon to be eating a cold pie in a lonely diner, finishing off at home with a cold shower.’

There was a synchronized gasp from the audience and a blasting sound of drums and cymbals the moment the heroic young man stood up and stabbed a henchman in the chest.

‘… Alas! The gem of the crowd: ambassador of beauty, descendant of Aphrodite, yearning of all men, jealousy of all women. A long-haired angel amidst a ghoulish crowd… Absorbed in the fiction, surely escorted by some poor bastard she would soon reject for a…’ John stopped in mid-thought and shook his head. Squinting with his eyes, he stared at a distant female figure, not believing what he saw. It was her alright, but why didn’t she tell him that she was coming to the play?

“Hey Dave, look,” John whispered to Dave, nudging him on the ribs. “It’s Julianne!”

“What? Where?” Dave answered, straightening himself.

“Down there, third row from the top, sixth from left to right,” John said, pointing at the red-dressed figure that sat among the crowd at stage level.

“Where…? Ah, that one? You sure?”

“Positive, that red dress, the hair… hundred percent sure it’s her.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me she was going to be here!?” Dave said, almost yelling.

Everybody around them turned and stared at them irately. John and Dave ignored them.

“I didn’t know! I can’t believe she didn’t tell me…” John whispered. “Well, actually she was wearing a gala dress in a sandwich place, I guess it was kind of obvious eh…” he added, giggling ironically.

“You think…?! Now, what am I going to do? I surely can’t go and talk to her as long as I have this by my side,” Dave said, pointing with his head at Claire.

John shrugged.

Emily, very slowly, sighed, turned back and faced them. With her mouth, looking strangely calm, she mouthed the words Next time, its go time. (Or at least that’s what they thought she mouthed). Then, at the same slow pace, she turned back and made herself comfortable in her seat.