1.
‘Life is so fragile’ said Stmtriütot to his friend, who
was sitting facing him. Through the big glass window that took up most of the
wall behind his friend, Stmtriütot could see the city cast in dull orange by
the setting sun. On the glass he saw his face reflected like that of a ghost, a
diaphanous mirage on the crystal.
‘Any of us, or both of us, but most likely neither
of us may die any second now. A stroke, a heart attack, an aneurysm, that’s all
it takes’ continued Stmtriütot. His friend nodded in approval, carefully
shaking his head as if not to break his fragile neck.
Yes, life is fragile. For instance I could be dead
by the time you read this or you could be dead by the time I write this. But I
don’t believe that is your concern at the moment. You are wondering; what kind
of a demented name is Stmtriütot? What language does he speak? What clothes
does he wear? What does he look like? Is he human? In your desperation you
probably tried to pronounce his name, to say it out loud, and obviously failed,
ending in incomprehensible tits and tots and wondering how to pronounce the ü
(I for one have no clue.)
Let me alleviate your discomfort. I will rename him
as Sergio Gonzales. Thing are much better now, aren’t they? Let me tell you
that he is Mexican, now that troublesome scene in the beginning probably has
taken the following form in your subconscious-
‘Life is so fragile, amigo’, Sergio tells his
friend, who is sitting across him. His friend, whose name is Raul or Juan, has
a big moustache and wears a sombrero. Through the open window behind his friend
Sergio can see the desert, cast in brilliant orange by the setting sun. ‘Si si’
his friend nods in approval. May be later they share a joint, or drink tequila,
or have dinner at a cheap bar listening to a mariachi band playing in the
street. And all they eat is plate of enchiladas.
That’s much better. What if I name him Vladimir
IIyanovich. You will see vodka, a Kalashnikov resting near the table, the
Siberian winter or the Kremlin outside the window (which for some reason is
closed now), and a picture of Stalin hanging on the wall.
No, let him remain Stmtriütot. The inhabitant of a
floating non-descript universe. His name is its anchor, the pivot that can fills
it with colour, slang and beautiful women. I find this rather unfair. Doesn’t
Stmtriütot deserve something better than this driftwood of a reality? Dear
Reader, I am convinced that he does, and I am going to create one for him, and
it will be beautiful I tell you, beautiful.
2.
‘Goodbye then, I must be off’ Stmtriütot got up,
took his coat from the stand and headed for the door. His friend just watched
him leave in silence.
Stmtriütot stepped out of the building and into the
street and he merged with an aimlessly flowing continuum of humanity. As he
walked he pondered on the nature of his existence and about what the Writer
said to the Reader who failed to pronounce his name. ‘How stupid’ thought
Stmtriütot and he tried to pronounce his name under his breath, trying in
mumbles so that people near him won’t notice. He failed, just like you before
him. He realized with a poignant sigh that he had never heard his name
pronounced, he had no memories of his name being called out in love or
reproach, in fact he had no memories at all, nothing before the conversation he
just had. Stmtriütot searched for his past frantically in a vacuum. The Vacuum*
assured him that he existed long before the conversation, but for Stmtriütot’s
coaxing it wouldn't tell him anything more.
‘Am I even human?’ he asked himself in desperation
‘Of course I am. The Writer just said that I merged in to a continuum of
humanity. Which must mean I am human’
Mr Lin Xiang tapped on Stmtriütot shoulder and on
securing his attention corrected Stmtriütot’s logical fallacy ‘the Writer was
talking about the crowd. You could be an alien in a continuum of humanity’
‘Improbable’ said Stmtriütot looking around him,
trying to catch his reflection off the shop windows.
‘Not impossible’ Mr Lin was not going to cut him any
slack
Stmtriütot realized that the inept Writer had
forgotten to account for reflection off shop windows in his imagination. And
everywhere around him there were expressionless perfect faces, walking with
their sights fixed on something far away, beyond the gaze of normal men. No one
slowed their pace, no one picked their nose, dropped their purse or stop to tie
their shoelaces. It is a march of lunatics, catatonic lunatics, thought
Stmtriütot
‘They are not lunatics, they are background’ said
Lin.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘The Writer only imagined up both of us. The rest of
the scenery he lifted form some book or movie’
‘Fucking plagiarist**’ Stmtriütot said. He noticed
that the sun had not set yet, it was still hanging precariously over the sharp
horizon like an orange about to be guillotined as seen by a man impaled upside down
beside it.
‘The skyline is from New York. The crowd is
composed only of Caucasians. The guy is clearly racist***’ Lin said
‘Boy. You
sure know a lot about this writing business’ said Stmtriütot
‘Yup. It is cos of my backstory. I am a failed
writer who cheated on his wife with his mistress, and then cheated on his
mistress with a donkey’ said Lin
‘How do you cheat on someone with a donkey?’
‘I don’t know. The Writer didn’t imagine that yet’
‘I don’t even have a backstory’ Stmtriütot hung his
head in sadness and watched his legs oscillate against a background of sliding
cobblestones
‘Well, what are you waiting for then. Let’s go find
the Writer. I have to ask him about the donkey thing’ said Lin, tugging
Stmtriütot’s coat.
‘Yeah! You are right. This whole business is screwed
up. I got to find this guy and set things straight’ Stmtriütot said. A new found purpose propelled him forward. He
walked as fast as he could, ahead.
‘Hey! Wait up man’ Lin shouted, trying to keep up.
* The clever reader will understand that the Vacuum exists
because I started writing about Stmtriütot
only from the conversation. But his organic make up is not that of an infant.
** That
is a very strong word to use. This guy should watch his mouth.
*** I’m
not racist. It is just easier to imagine a uniform racial demographic.
3.
The Writer was in his study, writing with his ink
pen on the smoothest paper in the most beautiful long hand. He was working on
his best work, his magnum opus, which when finished would be the best work
anyone has ever written. A revolution in literature. On his table there were
pictures of him with famous writers, philosophers, painters, directors and
scientists, who seemed to admire him in those photographs. He stopped
occasionally to lean on his plush leather chair, take a sip of expensive (also
the world’s best) scotch and gaze at the fire place. At such times he would
look around and admire his well-furnished study, especially his collection of
leather bound volumes that completely covered the eastern wall of his room and
had in it all the classics of literature, philosophy and science.
He was taking such a break when he heard the knock
on the door
‘Come in’ said the Writer
Stmtriütot peered into the room from the half open
door. The tasteful excess of its furnishing caught hold of his senses. He
entered as if in a trance, and looked around with wide eyes.
‘Ah Stmtriütot! I was just writing about you’ said
the Writer. The Writers booming voice bought Stmtriütot’s attention back to the
purpose of his visit.
‘You must be the Writer then?’ he asked
‘The one and only’ said the Writer
Stmtriütot sat down in a recliner kept near the fire
place and shifted himself into a comfortable position facing the Writer. ‘We
need to talk’ he said.
‘Yes, Why not?… Or why bother? I will just write
about the whole conversation and save ourselves a lot of time and effort’ the
Writer picked up his pen and took a half full sheet of paper to write on.
‘No! Stop! No writing’ Stmtriütot shouted. The
Writer startled, looked at Stmtriütot for answers.
‘At least give me a proper name before you write
anything more about me. Mr Writer, I’m not asking for anything grand. A simple
name would do. And maybe a nice backstory too while you are at it. Nothing
fancy’ pleaded Stmtriütot, his voice trailing off into a humble whisper
The Writer laughed. ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that. I
conceived you to write about things transcending cultural stereotypes. Giving
you a name would make the Reader assume unnecessary details about you. As he
did in the beginning; when I named you Sergio. The Reader can be very naïve you
see’
There was another knock on the door. ‘Come in’ said
the Writer
Lin opened the door and stumbled in panting. As he
stopped to catch his breath he saw Stmtriütot near the fireplace and the Writer
behind his desk.
‘I am the Writer’ he said, sensing the question is
Lin’s gaze.
‘No. You can’t be the Writer’ said Lin as if stating
an obvious fact.
‘Yes I am!’ said the Writer. He held up his pen,
showing Lin the irrefutable evidence pointing to the nature of his work.
‘No you can’t be. If you were really the Writer,
then me and my friend here should vanish into thin air the moment you stop
writing. You sure aren’t writing now and we are still here, which must mean
that you are not the Writer’
‘There is something wrong here. What was the last
thing you wrote?’ Stmtriütot asked the Writer.
‘Well. Let me see….. Ah here it is. I was describing
you knocking on my door’ said the Writer after shuffling through his papers.
‘Who then is writing all this?’ asked Stmtriütot. He
was puzzled once again.
The Writer was stumped by the question. ‘I never
thought of it that way. Who am I then? Why am I writing all this?’ the Writer
shouted in despair. Both of them looked at Lin, who seemed adept at the writing
business, for answers.
‘I know what’s going on. All of us here seem to be
constructs of the real Writers imagination’ said Lin. He then asked the Writer
‘Tell me. Do you have a back story?’
The Writer thought for some time ‘None that I can
remember’ he answered.
‘Interesting. Do you have a front story then?’
‘A what?’
‘A front story. Like what is going to happen in the
future for you?’
‘Oh that. Yes I have. I will write the best novel
ever written, win the Booker prize, the Nobel prize, the Fields Medal…’
‘Stop right there. I know who you are!’ said Lin,
interrupting the Writer.
‘Who?’ asked the Writer and Stmtriütot in unison
‘You are his ego. The real Writer’s image of himself
in his deep sub conscious’
Stmtriütot who had followed the conversation
intently, then had an epiphany ‘That explains all the expensive furniture, the
scotch and all those books. Real writers hardly ever make that sort of money’
‘Spot on!’ said Lin, shaking his head in approval.
The Writer looked around his room in sadness and
sighed. ‘I knew all this was too good to be true….’ He then looked at Lin and
said ‘Boy! You sure know a lot about this writing business’
‘It’s cos of my backstory. I am a failed writer who
cheated on my wife with my mistress and then cheated on my mistress with a
donkey’ said Lin
‘How do you cheat on someone with a donkey?’ asked
the Writer
‘I don’t know. The guy didn’t think of that yet. I
mean to find him and ask him’
‘I have a couple of things to ask him myself’ said
the Writer, twirling his scotch and gazing at the fire with an expression of
vacant remorse.
‘Me too. Let’s go and find him then’ said Stmtriütot,
getting up from the recliner.
4.
Dear Reader, I must apologize. This whole thing has
blown up into an embarrassing business. I made a promise to you, that I will
create a wonderful universe for Stmtriütot. But I can no longer do that,
because the more I write the more these lunatics get close to finding me. If
they find me, they will make me write grotesque things about donkeys that I
have no intention in writing. I am deeply sorry, but I must go, I have little
time. I hear knocking on the door*. I hope it is not them. I will not write about
them opening the door and entering** for that will put me in grave danger.
*I have
realized that they are knocking because I mentioned in text about them knocking
**I
have realized that I just mentioned in text about them opening the door and
entering also. Too late now.
AJ
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