There is a mysterious but real person, with a real computer,
sitting in a real room, somewhere in Paris or
Nice or Bordeaux
or somewhere, reading my blog. It felt odd, profound even, and a picture
started to coalesce, something along the lines of The Age of Reason. The bedroom in the apartment, the diffidence,
the aged mother… (Maybe I should have thought Therese Raquin, and the ghost of the murdered husband in the forbidden
bed.)
It’s all about national stereotypes, you see. The Russian is
a man from Moscow.
The Ukrainian is a woman with Slavic features and blonde hair. The Latvian
looks Scandinavian, even though she wouldn’t like to be told as much. As for
the Californian… A Madame with a Salon? A gay hairdresser? A gumshoe from
Sunset Strip? Ah, but now I’m going into other sorts of stereotype, and maybe I
shouldn’t.
The Germans and New Yorkers are no mystery. They’re friends
who talk to me.
* * *
The blood blister on my hand has reached that irritating
stage where the edges are starting to come loose. You want to pick at it, but
you know you mustn’t. Not yet. Patience, my boy; your reward will come in days,
rather than weeks.
* * *
The wind is whistling and the rain is spattering my office
window. Two scotches down, a couple more to go. Bryan Ferry is singing Avalon.
It’s 2am.
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