–13–

It’s been ten days since we last saw each other — long enough for me to calm down and come to the conclusion that I owe you an apology. Can you forgive me?

You see, I was fantasising about seducing you with my book. After all, that’s what books are really for — to seduce. But you, it seems, were not seduced. You wanted to read meanings into it that … Come on, say it. Why do you think I emulated my characters? In other words, that the book anticipates my patricide? You think ‘anticipates’ is too strong a term? Then use another. ‘Is connected to’, perhaps.

The Brothers Karamazov is the story of a patricide. So what? The fact that I mention it doesn’t mean I intended to kill my father; it’s just that it deals with some of my philosophical and religious concerns — because it debates the existence of God … Coincidence? Yes. Can you allow me the right to coincidences, or is that asking too much?

How curious … Did I tell you this at the beginning of our conversation? That after killing my father as one breathes, I leaned the piece of wood against the back of the couch, as if it were a ritualistic object? I’d forgotten that detail. It’s true … for Hemistich and Farfarello, Augusto’s death also had something ritualistic about it. Yes, Antonym would have turned out like them. Do you know what else? Contrary to what I first thought, I now believe that you were seduced by my book — even more than I’d hoped. I bet you haven’t thought about anything else this whole time. I, at least, have only thought about you.

I apologise again. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Don’t get me wrong — it’s just that you’ve become my only connection with … I don’t know what. I was going to say ‘the outside world’, but that’s not true. You don’t bring in anything from the outside. Our only topic is me, my history, what I did. But, in a way, you are the outside world — a piece of it. You’re another voice, at least. I haven’t heard another voice for days, not even my own. It’s my isolation. I don’t have anyone else — just you. And I’ll lose you when our conversation is over. You’ll never come back, I know … Don’t make a promise you can’t keep. I hate it when people feel sorry for me. I’m a murderer, a parricide. I don’t deserve pity, nor do I want it.

Reading the book — your reading of the book, that is — has unsettled me. You read it with so much interest. I’m no longer sure if I’m happy it’s not finished. Your vivid interest — I could tell from the way you read it — planted a seed of doubt in my mind. And I don’t need this uncertainty, do you hear, because not even a parricide deserves to be tortured like this … What uncertainty? That maybe I had no other option. No, I can’t think about it. I need to breathe a little, I need to breathe … The dizziness, oh dear, the dizziness is back …