Prologue

In my big apartment in London the room I like best is the library. When I feel like isolating myself from the outside world, I go there. It has big windows with heavy curtains, which are drawn almost all the time, because I prefer it so. Upon my entering invisible lamps start glowing, pouring mild light that is very like the one coming from the setting sun on a limpid summer evening at the seaside, I seat myself in one of the big armchairs in the shape of a huge hand and stay cosily wrapped up in the soft palm around and under my body. The armchair is smart, it can sense my mood, and when it sees it fit, it turns on the swinging regime, the hand starts tenderly rocking me, like a mother her child, then it slowly reclines so I can fall asleep, with dreams, perhaps, coming down on me from the shelves full of books, but I never recall any after waking up, maybe thanks to the armchair that protects so my sleep.

But there are moments when I go there to read. I have got lots of books, which I never read, because I hadn't chosen the books. They stand there behind the glass and look at me with a mute reproach, I feel it and then I take a book, any book, and start leafing through it, just to calm the remorse.

Sometimes I take the ladder in order to reach a book from the highest shelf, not far from the ceiling, where the books are big and stern with a dark hard cover and golden letters, I don't know why I want to take out one from its high oblivion, perhaps I'm moved by a sort of pity for it, undeservedly (or deservedly) left and forgotten on its unattainable height or in a dark corner, covered with dust and cobwebs (metaforically speaking).

Today I took off such a book and it was so surprised by my unexpected touch that it slipped out of my hand and as I tried to grasp it in the air, it tried first to spread its two halves like a bird its wings in order to take flight, but it dropped down like a duck shot dead. Before landing with a thud on the floor it let out a quadrangular piece of paper. With a short whispering curse I sighed and before starting my way down I took a look around. I was proud of my rich library that had its own lodging, as I was proud of my rich house where I lived a quiet life on my handsome income as a member of managing board of an important corporation, a life as empty and senseless as had been full and meaningful the way to it. I carefully got down the creaking ladder and picked up the wrecked book. It was heavily bruised, its crumpled pages made angry triangles. I held the book open and put it on the table, smoothed its pages to comfort it, I didn't even look at its title, closed it with the front cover down and left it there because now my attention was drawn by the small white rectangle on the floor. Why was I sure it was a photo? Yet I was sure of it. The photo was shamefully hiding its face turning its white back to me. I bent down and tried to pick it up with a wide pinch. It arched its back and leapt like a frog, aptly avoiding my fingers, but in doing so it turned over.I squatted and sharpened my eyes. The photo had three faces on it.

I saw that picture for the second time in my life. The first time had been some thirty years before.

I took the picture, stood up without tearing my eyes from it and after a few seconds slumped into the armchair near the table.

Amazing.

It all happened a lifetime ago and yet seems like yesterday.

A faint incredulous smile curved my lips. I sat looking at the picture in my hand for a minute, then I leaned back and closed my eyes.