surrounded the water basin, then looked up and saw him clearly for the first time. His eyes were normal size, his height similar to mine, and his walk and gestures were like those of any other gentleman. He had a kind and reassuring expression.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. Just a bit dizzy.”
The stranger sat down next to me. He wore a dark, exquisitely tailored three-piece suit with a small silver brooch on his lapel, an angel with outspread wings that I readily recognized. It occurred to me that the presence of an impeccably dressed gentleman here on the roof terrace was rather unusual. As if he could read my thoughts, the stranger smiled at me.
“I hope I didn’t alarm you,” he ventured. “I suppose you weren’t expecting to meet anyone up here.”
I looked at him in confusion and saw my face reflected in his black pupils as they dilated like an ink stain on paper.
“May I ask what brings you here?”
“The same thing as you: great expectations.”
“Andreas Corelli,” I mumbled.
His face lit up.
“What a great pleasure it is to meet you in person at last, my friend.”
He spoke with a light accent that I was unable to identify. My instinct told me to get up and leave as fast as possible, before the stranger could utter another word, but there was something in his voice, in his eyes, that transmitted calm and trust. I decided not to ask myself how he could have known he would find me there, when even I had not known where I was. He held out his hand and I shook it. His smile seemed to promise redemption.
“I suppose I should thank you for all the kindness you have shown me over the years, Señor Corelli. I’m afraid I’m indebted to you.”
“Not at all. I’m the one who is indebted to you, my friend, and I should excuse myself for approaching you in this way, at so inconvenient a place and time, but I confess that I’ve been wanting to speak to you for a while and have never found the opportunity.”
“Go ahead then. What can I do for you?” I asked.
“I want you to work for me.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I want you to write for me.”
“Of course. I’d forgotten you’re a publisher.”
The stranger laughed. He had a sweet laugh, the laugh of a child who has never misbehaved.
“The best of them all. The publisher you have been waiting for all your life. The publisher who will make you immortal.”
The stranger offered me one of his business cards, which was identical to the one I still had, the one I was holding when I awoke from my dream of Chloé.
A NDREAS C ORELLI
Éditeur
Éditions de la Lumière
Boulevard St.-Germain, 69. Paris
“I’m flattered, Señor Corelli, but I’m afraid it’s not possible for me to accept your invitation. I have a contract with—”
“Barrido & Escobillas. I know. Riffraff with whom, without wishing to offend you, you should have no dealings whatsoever.”
“It’s an opinion shared by others.”
“Señorita Sagnier, perhaps?”
“You know her?”
“I’ve heard of her. She seems to be the sort of woman whose respect and admiration one would give anything to win, don’t you agree? Doesn’t she encourage you to abandon those parasites and be true to yourself?”
“It’s not that simple. I have an exclusive contract that ties me to them for six more years.”
“I know, but that needn’t worry you. My lawyers are studying the matter and I can assure you there are a number of ways in which legal ties can be rendered null and void, should you wish to accept my proposal.”
“And your proposal is?”
Corelli gave me a mischievous smile, like a schoolboy sharing a secret.
“That you devote a year exclusively to working on a book I would commission, a book whose subject matter you and I would discuss when we signed the contract and for which I would pay you, in advance, the sum of one hundred thousand francs.”
I looked at him in astonishment.
“If that sum does not seem adequate I’m open to
“Thank you,” I said.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. Just a bit dizzy.”
The stranger sat down next to me. He wore a dark, exquisitely tailored three-piece suit with a small silver brooch on his lapel, an angel with outspread wings that I readily recognized. It occurred to me that the presence of an impeccably dressed gentleman here on the roof terrace was rather unusual. As if he could read my thoughts, the stranger smiled at me.
“I hope I didn’t alarm you,” he ventured. “I suppose you weren’t expecting to meet anyone up here.”
I looked at him in confusion and saw my face reflected in his black pupils as they dilated like an ink stain on paper.
“May I ask what brings you here?”
“The same thing as you: great expectations.”
“Andreas Corelli,” I mumbled.
His face lit up.
“What a great pleasure it is to meet you in person at last, my friend.”
He spoke with a light accent that I was unable to identify. My instinct told me to get up and leave as fast as possible, before the stranger could utter another word, but there was something in his voice, in his eyes, that transmitted calm and trust. I decided not to ask myself how he could have known he would find me there, when even I had not known where I was. He held out his hand and I shook it. His smile seemed to promise redemption.
“I suppose I should thank you for all the kindness you have shown me over the years, Señor Corelli. I’m afraid I’m indebted to you.”
“Not at all. I’m the one who is indebted to you, my friend, and I should excuse myself for approaching you in this way, at so inconvenient a place and time, but I confess that I’ve been wanting to speak to you for a while and have never found the opportunity.”
“Go ahead then. What can I do for you?” I asked.
“I want you to work for me.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I want you to write for me.”
“Of course. I’d forgotten you’re a publisher.”
The stranger laughed. He had a sweet laugh, the laugh of a child who has never misbehaved.
“The best of them all. The publisher you have been waiting for all your life. The publisher who will make you immortal.”
The stranger offered me one of his business cards, which was identical to the one I still had, the one I was holding when I awoke from my dream of Chloé.
A NDREAS C ORELLI
Éditeur
Éditions de la Lumière
Boulevard St.-Germain, 69. Paris
“I’m flattered, Señor Corelli, but I’m afraid it’s not possible for me to accept your invitation. I have a contract with—”
“Barrido & Escobillas. I know. Riffraff with whom, without wishing to offend you, you should have no dealings whatsoever.”
“It’s an opinion shared by others.”
“Señorita Sagnier, perhaps?”
“You know her?”
“I’ve heard of her. She seems to be the sort of woman whose respect and admiration one would give anything to win, don’t you agree? Doesn’t she encourage you to abandon those parasites and be true to yourself?”
“It’s not that simple. I have an exclusive contract that ties me to them for six more years.”
“I know, but that needn’t worry you. My lawyers are studying the matter and I can assure you there are a number of ways in which legal ties can be rendered null and void, should you wish to accept my proposal.”
“And your proposal is?”
Corelli gave me a mischievous smile, like a schoolboy sharing a secret.
“That you devote a year exclusively to working on a book I would commission, a book whose subject matter you and I would discuss when we signed the contract and for which I would pay you, in advance, the sum of one hundred thousand francs.”
I looked at him in astonishment.
“If that sum does not seem adequate I’m open to
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