Vestavia Hills. Christian Perego

dial Tricia Thompson's number, even though he was already holding his mobile phone. He realized that it would be a phone call made solely to occupy those minutes, which he was letting go by like the first piss of the morning and, weighing on him like the bags of the food shopping, he never wanted to do.

      He put the phone back in his pocket.

      "Of course, I'm just wasting time like a drunkard on the sidewalks," thought Robert with a particular hatred towards himself. Now stop.

      He had cooled his mind enough. He had had enough of wandering. He needed some more coffee; yes, that was for sure. Maybe a cigarette, and then, back home, once he turned on the computer, he would surely find some inspiration. Perhaps that idea he had the other day to continue the chapter ... Or maybe he could have double-checked something he had just written: there was always some detail to refine. And, how much he liked to move a comma or change an adjective! He felt like a real creative genius.

      At that moment, he was passing by a literary cafe's window, those newly designed cafes that combine the consumption of drinks with a library and reading areas.

      He had the desire and the need for a coffee, and he was always eager to take a look at the latest publications.

      So why not go in?

      Robert greeted the girl at the counter politely and gave her more attention than he ever used to. He ordered his coffee, which was served to him in an instant, and then went to the display shelf.

      It was all stuff of the big publishing houses, the titles that are picked up by readers on huge pyramids where many copies are displayed. The effect is very similar to that of tons of sweets in a candy store at Christmas: if one enters it, even if he does not intend to buy anything, he is overwhelmed by that mountain of stuff, and he cannot leave the shop without having in your pocket at least a small piece. Well, the mechanism for the great titles of mass literature was identical: they managed to place the title they wanted by confronting the poor reader with an avalanche of books put under his nose.

      Maybe, someday this would happen to one of his books, thought Robert.

      Since he already knew what was displayed in plain sight, he glanced at the table not far from the shelves. There seemed to be good edition books but with less famous titles and less glamorous authors.

      It was only for the time of a coffee. That time wasted lingering on something that Robert Red wasn't interested in doing.

      He ran his eyes over the books on the coffee table.

      He took one, but did nothing but turn it on the back cover, without even reading what was in it.

      He moved another book with his finger, quickly reading the author and title.

      Of the third book, instead, he limited himself to observing the drawing on the front.

      Finally, he grabbed the last book, the one on the edge of the table, slightly apart from all the others.

      And his mind registered something.

      It was something undefined, impossible to be rationalized. But perfectly perceptible.

      Perhaps Robert's mind was unable to make a precise hypothesis as to what had triggered him to gaze at that book.

      It remained an indistinct perception.

      He noticed a detail that he would indeed rethink later.

      What Robert felt was a kind of deeper contact than what his fingers would feel against the glossy layer of coated paper.

      It was as if Robert "felt" that book as if the pages vibrated as if his gesture hadn't just been holding a book. It happened as when we touch a part of our body, massaging it, trying to perceive it from the outside, to give it importance.

      It was a sensation that could not rationalize, but something physical, easy to feel.

      Perhaps it had been the cover image, evidently skillfully chosen by the editor, sober yet almost magnetic.

      Perhaps it had been the author's name, absolutely unknown in the scene of recent publications, at least for Robert.

      Perhaps still, it was the title, which is the most captivating thing about a book: in that case, a dry, direct, easy to remember the title.

      All of these things together could justify the attention Robert paid to observe that book, even if he only did it for a few seconds.

      And what was the feeling that had gone through his body? What had his mind noted?

      Robert, unable to give himself an answer, and not even want to look for one, shook himself off.

      He went to the counter, paid for the coffee, and warmly greeted the waitress.

      Then he headed home.

      Instinctively, as soon as he was on the street, he pulled the phone out of his pocket and looked up Tricia Thompson's number in the phone book.

      If he stopped to think about it, he would have realized he didn't know why intended to do it.

      But before his brain could process that thought, the phone was already ringing.

      One ring, two rings; on the third started the usual persuasive recorded voice surrounded by music that invited you not to hang up.

      A few moments later, the secretary answered: "Mug & Ball, good morning, how can I help you?"

      "Ah ... yes, good morning. This is Robert Red, I wanted to speak to Miss Tricia, Tricia Thompson. "

      "What is this regarding, sir?"

      "Here, you see, she is editing my book, so ..."

      Before Robert could say anything plausible, or implausible, the secretary went on: "Yes, sure, I understand. I see if I she is available. Would you kindly repeat your name? "

      Robert did so and waited. At least he had gained a few moments to think about a reason why he had called and what he could say to the woman once she answered.

      At least a couple of minutes passed. Then the voice on the other side of the line returned to replace the music: "I'm sorry, Mister ... Red, Miss Thompson is busy right now. If you can be kind enough to try again later ..."

      Robert said something vaguely condescending, mumbling a little and, then ended the call. Better that way, it was just an intuitive gesture dictated by who knows what.

      He would not have felt so relaxed about it if he had known that, at the publishing house, Tricia Thompson, was busy reading some drafts written so badly that she was racking her brains. So at the message that a certain Robert Red was looking for her, to talk about his book, she simply said she had never heard of him and, and not to break her balls.

      Robert returned to his studio flat with a sense of inexplicable euphoria. If walking had that effect, he could consider doing it more often.

      He sat at the kitchen table, after roughly having cleared it. He turned on the notebook, waited for the operating system to load, already foretasting the sound of his fingers on the keys.

      He felt ready to write quite a few pages. The ideas would come to him; he was sure of it.

      The literary café and the thought of one of his books showing off on shelves like them. The strange sensation he felt in there, which he could only interpret it as a kind of warning sign. The music of the Mug & Ball. The air of the city that had woken up.

      Everything helped to give him the fibrillation he felt at the time.

      The operating system had loaded; the background of his desktop, a Caribbean beach God knows where which winked at him like a beautiful girl just to make fun of him, was staring back at him with the usual monotony.

      The pages written already were in files that Robert, for convenience, had not included in any particular folder and, therefore, dotted the sea and, the palm trees of the Caribbean with white documents.

      He opened the most recent one.

      ... illusory as