The detective novel by Guillaume Musso “The Girl from Brooklyn” does not give an opportunity to distract from reading, it is so fascinating. The writer is able to create something intriguing from the most ordinary situation, and then make a sharp turn of the plot, and then the book will already capture all attention irrevocably. In addition to the intricate plot in the book, there is something that hurts the senses. For example, this book initially prompts reflection that before you commit an act, you need to carefully consider everything. Sometimes we are too impulsive and do not even give others the opportunity to clarify everything, we are not trying to understand them.
A young couple is about to get married in the near future. Rafael is sure that Anna is “the same”. He loves her with all his heart and wants to spend her whole life with her. Only he has questions about the girl’s past. Anna does not say anything about how she lived before, does not mention her relatives, she has no friends. Even in modern times, when everyone communicates on the Internet, Anna does not have a single account on social networks.
Rafael wants them to be really close to each other and not to keep any secrets. After all, husband and wife should understand and accept each other, trust. The man once again asks if Anna has any secrets. Under the influence of a romantic mood, the girl decides to show him a photo. What it depicts is just awful. And Anna says she did it. Unable to accept this, Rafael succumbs to emotions and leaves in a hurry. However, on the way, he gradually cools down and decides to return to give her the opportunity to explain everything. That's just my beloved is gone. Raphael will need to find Anna and find out her secret, which she has been hiding for so long.
The work belongs to the genre Contemporary foreign literature. It was published in 2016 by Eksmo Publishing House. On our website you can download the book "Girl from Brooklyn" in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format or read online. The book has a rating of 3.38 out of 5. Here you can also read the reviews of readers already familiar with the book and find out their opinions before reading. In our partner’s online store you can buy and read a paper book.
Paper girl Guillaume Musso
(No ratings yet)
Title: Paper Girl
About the Paper Girl Book by Guillaume Musso
The book “Paper Girl” is an amazing symphony of feelings, seasoned with exquisite mysticism. Guillaume Musso linked together a real and fictional world, and Love became the bridge thrown between them - the very feeling that can erase any boundaries and push to incredible things. To read this work will be interesting to all lovers of dramatic and adventure stories in one bottle.
The main character of the book is the successful writer Tom Boyd. He had everything - fame, recognition, money, a beloved girl, but suddenly he loses all this. Tom breaks up with Aurora, becomes bankrupt, falls into a deep depression, and on this basis he begins a creative crisis - the so-called “blank slate syndrome”, when he cannot write a single line. He regularly drinks, takes tranquilizers and does not see the meaning of life. And it is not known who the protagonist would have turned into if not for the appearance of a mysterious guest in his house ...
Billy Donelly, a stranger who came to Tom, claims that she left the pages of his novel to cure him of depression, charging him with creative inspiration. Who is this weird girl? Crazy fan or cheater who wants to get access to his house? Or maybe this person is just a hallucination of his inflamed imagination? Trying to understand these issues, Tom is surprised to notice that he is really visiting the muse. In addition, Billy’s life is in danger, and only the one who created her image can save her - having completed the “Trilogy of Angels”. Tom goes with a girl on a trip to another country, and there each of the main characters is waiting for their discoveries, which change their priorities. What secrets does the charming “book heroine” hold that even Tom does not know? How will a new acquaintance affect the life of a young writer?
Guillaume Musso described a bewitching story where everyday things appear in some kind of magical light. Love here appears not as a heady feeling, exciting in its pool, but as a kind of glimpse, an attempt to connect the fantastic and real worlds. The main and secondary characters are described very realistically - a string of human destinies, a motley kaleidoscope of feelings, passions, smells and sounds, playing with bright and vibrant colors, flashes before the reader. Starting to read the book, you immediately drown in this plot pattern and pass through everything that happens on the pages of the novel.
Unusual and interesting manner of writing the work “Paper Girl”. Guillaume Musso begins each chapter with wise sayings reflecting the philosophical palette of the work. The storyline is built very skillfully: the intrigue from the paper girl keeps up to the last page, and the unexpected twists and difficulties that arise in the way of the main characters make the reading fascinating and fleeting.
Russian language Year of publication: 2017 Pages: 269 A Brief Description of The Girl from Brooklyn:
Pages: 269 A Brief Description of The Girl from Brooklyn:
The plot of this detective story is characterized by very high dynamics and a bewitching writing style that the reader will remember forever. Young Rafoel met a beautiful and pretty Anna, a girl who became his bright dream. Their relationship fluttered rapidly, soon a marriage was to happen. On the eve of the wedding, in just a few weeks, the young man decided to find out the past of his newly-made bride, before they met. The girl decided that there would be no secrets between them, she showed him only one shot. While Raphael was discouraged, the girl disappeared. Recovering, he makes a rash decision to find Anna. However, for this he will have to solve the mystery from various complicated cases and events that happened to his beloved many years ago.
All books are available in a trial fragment and are absolutely free. The electronic library contains all the latest innovations of our time, and will not disappoint you with its diversity.
Read the book "Girl from Brooklyn" online for free without registering on our blog Enjoybooks If you are not indifferent to the book, then leave your review on the site or share with loved ones.
Guillaume Musso
Brooklyn Girl
Dedicated to Ingrid and Nathan
Where did she disappear? ..
Antibes
A long weekend on the Cote d'Azur a few weeks before the wedding. We lived them as a blissful intro, pleasing intimacy warmed by the August sun.
The evening began with a wonderful walk through the fort of the old town: a glass of merlot on the cafe terrace, spaghetti with clams under the ancient stone arches of the time of Michelangelo. We talked about your work, about my and our wedding. We were going to celebrate it in the narrowest circle: two witness friends and my little son Theo, to clap our hands.
On the way back, I was driving a rented car, driving slowly so you could enjoy the view of the coast. I remember these moments: the light of green eyes, fluttering hair, a short skirt, a leather vest open wide on a bright yellow T-shirt with the inscription “Power to the People [English].”]. At the turns, switching speed, I looked at your golden legs, we smiled at each other, you sang the old hit of Aretha Franklin.
It was so warm, so glorious ... I remembered these moments: sparks in my eyes, smile, hair flying in the wind, thin fingers beating the rhythm on the panel ...
We rented a house in Pearl Catchers, a beautiful place with a dozen villas overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. And when they climbed the avenue, breathing in the resinous smell of pines, your eyes were wide open - everything was so beautiful around.
I remembered these moments: the last time we were happy.
* * *
The chirping of cicadas. Soothing sound of the surf. Light breeze that softens the moist heat of the evening.
On the terrace, clinging to the rocky slope, you lit scented candles and a spiral against mosquitoes, I put the disk of Charlie Hayden. As in Fitzgerald’s novel, I stood at the bar and began to prepare a cocktail for us. Your favorite: Long Island Ice Tea, lots, lots of ice and a slice of lime.
I rarely saw you so joyful.
We could have a wonderful evening. We had to spend a wonderful evening. But one thought haunted me. For the time being I kept her under control. But she did not let me go. The same thing persistently asserted: "You know, Anna, we should not have secrets from each other."
Why the desire to know the truth overpowered me that evening? Due to the proximity of the wedding? Due to the fact that we too quickly decided on this step? For fear of crossing the threshold?
I think that all together played a role - and also my personal story, when I was betrayed by people whom, as it seemed to me, I knew well.
I handed you a glass and sat opposite.
I mean it, Anna, I don’t want to live in a lie.
Wow! And me too. But living without lies does not mean not having secrets.
So you admit: you have secrets.
Who doesn’t have them, Raphael? Secrets are wonderful. They are border pillars, a piece of our personality, a piece of our life; they give mystery.
But I have no secrets from you.
And what from this?
You are upset, angry. And me too. Where did our joy, fun go? And we were so good at the beginning of the evening ...
The conversation could end there, but I continued, laying out new arguments. I could not stop, I had to get an answer to the question that tormented me:
Why do you leave the answer as soon as I ask you about the past?
Because the past has passed. This is an axiom. And you can’t change him.
I did not like the answer.
The past defines the present, and you know it perfectly. What the hell are you hiding from me ?!
Nothing that could threaten us. Believe me. Believe me us with you!
Stop getting rid of common phrases!
I hit the table with my fist, and you startled. How many different feelings a wave ran through your beautiful face - and sorrow, and fear too ...
I was angry because I really wanted to calm down. We were familiar for only six months, and from our first meeting I fell in love with you all. And most of all - mystery, restraint, silence and your independent disposition ... But the boomerang has returned. Now your mystery and restraint oppressed and tormented me.
Why do you really want to ruin everything? you asked with indescribable fatigue in your voice.
You know what I survived. I was already mistaken. And now I have no right to make a mistake.
I felt that I was hurting you, but I believed: I love you so much that I can listen to everything - and understand everything. I wanted to console you, to share with you the heavy burden of the past, if you entrust me with it.
I would shut up, stop talking, but I did not stop. I did not spare you. I felt that you were about to say something to me. And I sent arrow after arrow, I was exhausting you so that you ceased to defend yourself.
I want only the truth, Anna!
Truth! Truth! You only know that you confirm the word "truth"; Are you sure you can stand it ?!
Now you attacked, and I involuntarily doubted. I did not recognize you. Mascara flowed in your eyes and a fire burned in your eyes, which I had never seen.
Do you want to know if I have secrets, Raphael? The answer is yes! Do you want to know why I do not want to open them? Because, having learned, you will not just stop loving me, you will hate me!
Not true, I will understand everything.
At that moment I did not doubt myself. I was sure that I would accept whatever you told me.
No, Raphael, these are all words. Words from your novels, and life is completely different.
Something moved. The gateway opened in the dam. And you - I felt this very clearly - you wanted to know what I am. You also decided to find out what I am. And will you love me further. After. Is always. And do I really love you. Or the pomegranate you made will break our connection.
You rummaged in your bag and took out a tablet. I dialed the password, opened the gallery and slowly began to leaf through the photos, looking for the one you need. And then, looking into my face, she quietly uttered a few words and held out the tablet. I saw the secret that I so sought from you.
And I did it, ”you repeated.
I blinked in horror, not wanting to see the screen; nausea came up to my throat, and I turned away. Goosebumps ran through my body, my hands trembled, blood beat in my temples. I was ready for anything. It seemed to me that I experienced everything that is possible. But oh such I never thought.
I got up and felt that my legs were cottony. My head was spinning when I stepped, but I packed up and left the living room with a firm step.
My bag with things was still lying in the hallway. Without looking at you, I took her and left the house.
* * *
Dullness. Goose pimples. Tinny taste in the mouth. There are ice drops on his forehead.
I slammed the door of the car and moved into the night. Automatically. Anger and bitterness seized the throat. There is a confusion in my head. Horror seen in the photo. I do not understand anything. I know only one thing: my life is over.
I drove a few kilometers and noticed on the top of the cliff the stern silhouette of Fort Carré. Powerful fortress. Last watchman before going to sea.
No. I could not leave like that. I already repented that I just picked up and left. I was shocked. I lost my temper, but I could not leave without hearing your explanations. I pressed the brake and turned straight across the highway, almost knocking a motorcyclist racing along the oncoming lane.
I had to support you, to help get rid of the nightmare. I had to be what I imagined: understanding your pain, able to share it and help overcome it. I rushed back at full speed: Boulevard du Cap, Ond Beach, Port Olivett, Grion Tower, and then a narrow country road leading to private houses.
Anna! I called, entering the hallway.
There’s nobody in the living room. Glass fragments on the floor. The bookcase with baubles fell on the coffee table and shattered the glass to smithereens. And on top of the whatnot is a bunch of keys that I gave Anna a few weeks ago.
The large window behind the curtains was wide open. I parted the curtains beating in the wind and went out onto the terrace. And again he called you, screaming into the void. I dialed your number on the mobile phone, but did not receive a response.
Holding my head in my hands, I was on my knees. Where are you? What happened in the half hour before I was gone? Which Pandora's chest I discovered by touching your past?
I closed my eyes and the pictures of our life ran with you. Six months of happiness, which is now gone forever. The future, wife, our child - there is nothing more, there is emptiness ahead.
How did I repent ...
Why say you love if you cannot protect? ..
Dedicated to Ingrid and Nathan
LA FILLE DE BROOKLYN
Copyright © XO? Ditions, 2016. All rights reserved.
© Kozhevnikova E., translation into Russian, 2017
© Sharikova G., translation into Russian, 2017
© Edition in Russian, design. E Publishing House LLC, 2017
Where did she go?
Antibes
A long weekend on the Cote d'Azur a few weeks before the wedding. We lived them as a blissful intro, pleasing intimacy warmed by the August sun.
The evening began with a wonderful walk through the fort of the old town: a glass of merlot on the cafe terrace, spaghetti with clams under the ancient stone arches of the time of Michelangelo. We talked about your work, about my and our wedding. We were going to celebrate it in the narrowest circle: two witness friends and my little son Theo, to clap our hands.
On the way back, I was driving a rented car, driving slowly so you could enjoy the view of the coast. I remember these moments: the light of green eyes, fluttering hair, a short skirt, a leather vest open wide on a bright yellow T-shirt with the inscription “Power to the People 1
"Power to the people" ( english).
". At the turns, switching speed, I looked at your golden legs, we smiled at each other, you sang the old hit of Aretha Franklin.
It was so warm, so glorious ... I remembered these moments: sparks in my eyes, smile, hair flying in the wind, thin fingers beating the rhythm on the panel ...
We rented a house in Pearl Catchers, a beautiful place with a dozen villas overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. And when they climbed the avenue, breathing in the resinous smell of pines, your eyes were wide open - everything was so beautiful around.
I remembered these moments: the last time we were happy.
* * *
The chirping of cicadas. Soothing sound of the surf. Light breeze that softens the moist heat of the evening.
On the terrace, clinging to the rocky slope, you lit scented candles and a spiral against mosquitoes, I put the disk of Charlie Hayden. As in Fitzgerald’s novel, I stood at the bar and began to prepare a cocktail for us. Your favorite: Long Island Ice Tea, lots, lots of ice and a slice of lime.
I rarely saw you so joyful.
We could have a wonderful evening. We had to spend a wonderful evening. But one thought haunted me. For the time being I kept her under control. But she did not let me go. The same thing persistently asserted: "You know, Anna, we should not have secrets from each other."
Why the desire to know the truth overpowered me that evening? Due to the proximity of the wedding? Due to the fact that we too quickly decided on this step? For fear of crossing the threshold?
I think that all together played a role - and also my personal story, when I was betrayed by people whom, as it seemed to me, I knew well.
I handed you a glass and sat opposite.
“I mean it, Anna, I don't want to live in a lie.”
- Wow! And me too.
But living without lies does not mean not having secrets.
“So you admit: you have secrets.”
“Who doesn't have them, Raphael?” Secrets are wonderful. They are border pillars, a piece of our personality, a piece of our life; they give mystery.
“But I have no secrets from you.”
- And what from this?
You are upset, angry. And me too. Where did our joy, fun go? And we were so good at the beginning of the evening ...
The conversation could end there, but I continued, laying out new arguments. I could not stop, I had to get an answer to the question that tormented me:
“Why do you leave the answer as soon as I ask you about the past?”
- Because the past has passed. This is an axiom. And you can’t change him.
I did not like the answer.
“The past defines the present, and you know it perfectly.” What the hell are you hiding from me ?!
“Nothing that could threaten us.” Believe me. Believe me us with you!
- Stop getting rid of common phrases!
I hit the table with my fist, and you startled. How many different feelings a wave ran through your beautiful face - and sorrow, and fear too ...
I was angry because I really wanted to calm down. We were familiar for only six months, and from our first meeting I fell in love with you all. And most of all - mystery, restraint, silence and your independent disposition ... But the boomerang has returned. Now your mystery and restraint oppressed and tormented me.
“Why do you really want to ruin everything?” You asked with indescribable fatigue in your voice.
“You know what I survived.” I was already mistaken. And now I have no right to make a mistake.
I felt that I was hurting you, but I believed: I love you so much that I can listen to everything - and understand everything. I wanted to console you, to share with you the heavy burden of the past, if you entrust me with it.
I would shut up, stop talking, but I did not stop. I did not spare you. I felt that you were about to say something to me. And I sent arrow after arrow, I was exhausting you so that you ceased to defend yourself.
“I only want the truth, Anna!”
- Truth! Truth! You only know that you confirm the word "truth"; Are you sure you can stand it ?!
Now you attacked, and I involuntarily doubted. I did not recognize you. Mascara flowed in your eyes and a fire burned in your eyes, which I had never seen.
“Do you want to know if I have secrets, Raphael?” The answer is yes! Do you want to know why I do not want to open them? Because, having learned, you will not just stop loving me, you will hate me!
- Not true, I will understand everything.
At that moment I did not doubt myself. I was sure that I would accept whatever you told me.
“No, Raphael, these are all words.” Words from your novels, and life is completely different.
Something moved. The gateway opened in the dam. And you - I felt this very clearly - you wanted to know what I am. You also decided to find out what I am. And will you love me further. After. Is always. And do I really love you. Or the pomegranate you made will break our connection.
You rummaged in your bag and took out a tablet. I dialed the password, opened the gallery and slowly began to leaf through the photos, looking for the one you need. And then, looking into my face, she quietly uttered a few words and held out the tablet. I saw the secret that I so sought from you.
“And I did it,” you repeated.
I blinked in horror, not wanting to see the screen; nausea came up to my throat, and I turned away. Goosebumps ran through my body, my hands trembled, blood beat in my temples. I was ready for anything. It seemed to me that I experienced everything that is possible. But oh such I never thought.
I got up and felt that my legs were cottony. My head was spinning when I stepped, but I packed up and left the living room with a firm step.
My bag with things was still lying in the hallway. Without looking at you, I took her and left the house.
* * *
Dullness. Goose pimples. Tinny taste in the mouth. There are ice drops on his forehead.
I slammed the door of the car and moved into the night. Automatically. Anger and bitterness seized the throat. There is a confusion in my head. Horror seen in the photo. I do not understand anything. I know only one thing: my life is over.
I drove a few kilometers and noticed on the top of the cliff the stern silhouette of Fort Carré. Powerful fortress. Last watchman before going to sea.
No. I could not leave like that. I already repented that I just picked up and left. I was shocked. I lost my temper, but I could not leave without hearing your explanations. I pressed the brake and turned straight across the highway, almost knocking a motorcyclist racing along the oncoming lane.
I had to support you, to help get rid of the nightmare. I had to be what I imagined: understanding your pain, able to share it and help overcome it. I rushed back at full speed: Boulevard du Cap, Ond Beach, Port Olivett, Grion Tower, and then a narrow country road leading to private houses.
- Anna! I called, entering the hallway.
There’s nobody in the living room. Glass fragments on the floor. The bookcase with baubles fell on the coffee table and shattered the glass to smithereens. And on top of the whatnot is a bunch of keys that I gave Anna a few weeks ago.
The large window behind the curtains was wide open. I parted the curtains beating in the wind and went out onto the terrace. And again he called you, screaming into the void. I dialed your number on the mobile phone, but did not receive a response.
Holding my head in my hands, I was on my knees. Where are you? What happened in the half hour before I was gone? Which Pandora's chest I discovered by touching your past?
I closed my eyes and the pictures of our life ran with you. Six months of happiness, which is now gone forever. The future, wife, our child - there is nothing more, there is emptiness ahead.
How did I repent ...
Why say you love if you cannot protect? ..
The first day
The art of hiding
1
Paper man
If I don’t have a book in my hands, if I don’t think about the one I’ll write, I am ready to howl with longing. Life can be endured only if you hide from it.
Gustave Flaubert
1
- My wife sleeps with you every night; good that I'm not jealous.
The driver, terribly pleased with the joke, winked at me in the mirror. Then he slowed down and turned on the turn signal, about to turn onto the highway leading from Orly Airport.
- She's gambling. However, I also read several of your books, ”he spoke again, stroking his mustache. - No doubt, it’s exciting, but it's hard for me. Murders, violence ... I will say with all my respect to you that you have an unhealthy view of things. If there were as many horrors around us as you have in your novels, we would not be good enough.
I stared at the phone screen and pretended not to hear anything. Only discussions about literature and the perfection of the world were missing me this morning.
Eight ten. The first plane I immediately returned to Paris. I called Anna and got on an answering machine. I left her a dozen messages, apologizing, asking for forgiveness, begging me to call back, because I'm in alarm.
I did not know what to do. We have never quarreled.
I didn’t sleep that night. What dream? I was looking for Anna. He began with the post of protection of the territory. The guard told me that during my absence a lot of cars arrived, including a car from VTC 2
VTC - company "Tourist car with a driver."
- The driver said that Madame Anna Becker, the guest of the Volna villa, called him. I contacted Madame on the interphone, and she confirmed the call.
- Why are you sure that it was a car from VTC? I asked.
- On the windshield he, as expected, had a company logo.
“Could you tell me where he took her?”
“How do I know?”
The driver took Anna to the airport. In any case, as I understood it, when a few hours later I went to the Air France website. I asked what was there with our tickets — I bought the tickets — and found out that the passenger Anna Becker had changed her return ticket for the last Nice – Paris flight that day. The plane was supposed to fly at 21.20, and departed only at 23.45. There were two reasons: tardiness, which is always a lot at the end of the holidays, and a computer breakdown, due to which all the company's planes were delayed for an hour.
The situation cleared up a bit. In anger, Anna herself broke the table and hastened to fly to Paris. At least she was safe and sound.
A taxi turned off a wide freeway with tunnels and signs, and we drove into the city. Port d’Orleans already had a heavy traffic flow. We barely crawled in the black oily exhaust from trucks and buses, pushing the bumper against someone else's bumper. I raised the glass: nitric oxide is a dangerous carcinogen. Cars were buzzing around and drivers were cursing. PARIS…
I decided to start with Anna’s apartment and asked the driver to take me first to Montrouge. Last month, Anna and I lived together, but she retained an apartment - two rooms in a modern house on Aristide-Briand Street. Anna loved her house, her things still remained there. I hoped that, angry and offended, she went to her room.
We made a long detour, got to the Vash Noir U-turn and drove on.
“We have arrived, Mr. Writer,” the driver announced, stopping in front of a new but completely ugly house.
The driver, a tight, squat, bald-headed uncle with a wary look and thin lips, had a voice like Raoul Volfoni from “Uncle Gangsters” 3
“Uncle Gangsters” - crime film comedy by J. Lautner (1963).
“Could you wait for me?”
- The counter is spinning. No problem.
I got out of the car and, noticing a boy with a satchel coming out of the entrance, I hurried there to get in before the door closed. The elevator, as usual, did not work. I went up to the twelfth floor in one breath, but before knocking, I stood, bending over and putting my hands on my knees to catch my breath. And when he knocked, no one answered me. I listened - silence.
Anna left the keys to my apartment. And if you didn’t sleep at home, then where?
I began to call in a row to all the apartments on the site. One neighbor opened, but didn’t help me. I did not see anything, I did not hear anything - the usual rule of high-rise buildings.
In complete frustration, I went downstairs and gave Raul Wolfoni his address on Montparnasse.
“And when was your last novel, Mr. Barthelemy?”
“Three years ago,” I answered with a sigh.
“And the next one ready?”
I nodded and said:
“But it will not come soon.”
- The wife is upset.
I did not want to talk, and I asked to make the radio louder: it would be nice to listen to the news.
The radio station is the most popular. Nine o'clock in the morning, news of the hour. Today is the first of September, Thursday. Twelve million schoolchildren began their studies, Francois Oland was pleased with the growing successes in the economy, a new striker in the football team Paris-Saint-Germain. In the United States, the Republican Party is choosing a candidate for future presidential elections ...
“But tell me,” the restless taxi driver continued to mutter, “did you want to sit back or did you have white page syndrome?”
“Everything is much more complicated,” I answered, looking out the window.
2
To tell the truth, I didn’t write a single line in three years because my life bothered me.
I do not have any locks, and the fantasy also works. From the age of six, I have been inventing all kinds of stories, from adolescence I only know what I am writing to give a way to gushing imagination. My fantasies are my salvation, a free ticket for a plane that takes away from boring reality. Years passed, and I only dealt with my stories. In a notebook or in a notebook, I wrote to myself and wrote, wrote everywhere and everywhere: on a park bench, at a table in a cafe, standing in the subway. If you didn’t write, then I thought about my characters, how they suffer, whom they love. Nothing else interested me. Gray reality didn't matter to me. Away from everyday life, I wandered through an imaginary world, its only creator and demiurge.
Since 2003, when my novel was first published, I wrote a book a year. Mostly detective stories and thrillers. In an interview, he always claimed that I was sitting at the table every day, with the exception of Christmas and my birthday. I borrowed the answer from Stephen King. And just like him, he was lying. I worked and December 25th also, and did not see any reason to mess around on the highly solemn day of his own birth.
What is a sin to hide? I rarely managed to find something more interesting than my heroes.
I adored my “work”, I lived like a fish in water, in an atmosphere of mysteries, murders and violence. Just like children - remember the cannibal from "Puss in Boots", the wolf from "Little Red Riding Hood", the criminal parents from "Boy with a Toe", the villain named Bluebeard - adults love to play horror stories. They need scary tales to cope with their own fears.
The readers' fondness for detective stories allowed me to live a fabulous ten years, becoming one of the few authors living off their pen. And, sitting in the morning at the desk, I felt happy, I knew that readers from all over the world were waiting for my new novel.
But a woman broke the magic circle of creativity and success three years ago. During a promotional trip to London, my literary agent introduced me to Natalie Curtis, an Englishwoman, a biologist by profession, a talented young woman in both science and business. At this time, she was promoting a medical project for the distribution of “smart” contact lenses that diagnosed eye diseases that arose due to a lack of glucose in the lacrimal fluid.
Natalie worked eighteen hours a day. With discouraging ease, she combined work with computer programs, clinical trials and business plans, crossing time zones with reports for financial partners.
We lived and acted in completely different worlds. I am a paper man, she is a man of numbers and numbers. I made a living from fictional stories, it is using microprocessors thinner than an infant hair. I was one of those who teach Greek at the Lyceum, loves Aragon's verses, and writes love letters with an ink pen. She belonged to the ultra-modern world of electronics and felt at home in the icy hulks of airports.
Even now, looking into the past, I cannot understand what pushed us towards each other. Why suddenly in this period of our life did we believe in the future of incompatible couples?
“We like to be not ourselves,” Albert Cohen wrote. Maybe that’s why we sometimes fall in love with our exact opposite. We hope for addition, transformation, metamorphosis. We expect that, having become closer to the antipode, we will become more complete, richer, wider. On paper, this works well, in life - in rare cases.
The illusion of love would dissipate very soon, but Natalie became pregnant. The prospect of creating a family reinforced the mirage. In any case, with me. I left France and settled in London. Natalie then rented an apartment in the Belgravia region, and I was with her all the time during her pregnancy.
“Which of your novels do you like best?” During the promotions, the journalists certainly asked me this question. Over the years, I learned to answer streamlined and got off with an on-duty phrase: “It's hard to say, because books are the same children, you understand me.”
Books are not children. I sat in the room when my son was born. The midwife handed me Theo's tiny little body, I picked it up and realized right away what a terrible fake my phrase was in numerous interviews.
Books are not children.
Books are a special subject, akin to a magic wand. Pass to another world. Escape. Books can be a medicine and help cope with everyday troubles. According to Paul Oster, books are "the only place in the world where two strangers can get close." But they are not children.
Nothing beats a child.
3
To my great amazement, Natalie returned to work ten days after giving birth. Overtime hours and business trips did not allow her to fully live the first weeks - beautiful and terrible - of our son’s life. However, it seems that the baby did not particularly inspire her. And then one evening, undressing in the dressing room, which served as a continuation of our bedroom, she informed me in a dull voice:
- We accepted Google’s offer. They will have a controlling stake in our company.
It took me more than a minute to be able to say:
- Are you serious?
Natalie removed her shoes with an absent look, rubbed her worn ankle and finished me off:
- Really. Since Monday, I have been working with my group in California.
I looked at her with square eyes. She flew twelve hours on a plane, but jetlag4
Jetlag is a phenomenon of a mismatch between a person’s rhythm and the usual daily rhythm caused by night work, daylight saving, or a quick change of time zones when flying on an airplane.
I had it.
- Natalie! You cannot make such decisions alone. We need to discuss everything. Need…
She sank wearily to the edge of the bed.
“I understand that I cannot ask you to come with me ...”
I finally rolled off the coils.
- But I forced to go with you! I have not forgotten that we have a three-week baby!
- Do not scream! I'm even worse than you, Raphael. But I can’t do it ...
- That does not work?
Natalie cried.
“To be a good mother to Theo ...”
I tried to convince her, to console her, but she wept and repeated the only terrible phrase, which was probably true: “I was not created for of this I feel so bad".
I asked how she specifically imagines our life in the near future. Natalie looked imploringly at me and pulled out a card from her sleeve that she held ready.
- If you want to raise Theo myself in Paris, I do not mind. And to be honest, I think that would be the best way out for us.
I nodded silently, stunned by the happiness that shone on her face. My son’s mother’s face ... Natalie swallowed a sleeping pill and stretched out on the bed. There was lead silence in the bedroom.
A day later, I returned to France, in my apartment on Montparnasse. I could find a nanny, but did not look for her. I firmly decided that I myself would watch how my son grows and grows up. And he was mortally afraid of losing him.
For several months in a row it was worth ringing the phone, as I began to think that the lawyer was calling: they say that his client changed her mind and demands the exclusive right to Theo. But thank God, I did not wait for this nightmare call. Almost two years passed without a single message about Natalie. Time flew by. Previously, the work was set by the rhythm, now - nipples, bottles, diapers, walking in the park, bathtubs with a temperature of 37 degrees and endless washes. There were still insomnia, anxiety at the slightest cold, fear that I could not cope. But I would never trade my new experience for anything. Evidence of this is five thousand photographs on my phone. From the first months of my life, my son pulled me into an extraordinary adventure: I became both an actor and a director at the same time.
