Greetings… I recognise him straightaway, even before he spoke. This time it was not the pretty woman, but a handsome man, the latin, middle-aged type, careful haircut, immaculate shirt, evidently educated and well dressed. His French was impeccable.
He smile when he heard my name. I was determined to play along, for a little while. I replied that “looking for me” was not difficult: after all, I am a public figure. He asked if he could sit. “Be my guest” I said.
He’d overdone the aftershave: it’s always so, some details he cannot control, and the image is never all that convincing. We know he’s a fraud. For a few minutes we were silent, watching the crowds of late Summer, an endless flow of tourists and idle residents.
“You know,” he said, “I very much liked your last book.” “Which one,” I asked: “I have just published two!”
He did not blush, but I could sense his discomfort. “No worries,” I continued, “It’s a great concern for me, though, that you even find the time to read, you have been so busy lately…”
He looked at me , puzzled. “Yes, I said, killing children, bombing cities, raping girls, poisoning our atmosphere… How do you find time for anything else?”
But he had already left. Satan is a coward.