Another day is another chance.
My first attention after getting up goes to my spiPhone. The poor thing still fails to connect to the satellite. I turn it off, take the chip card out, and replace it with the card of a disposable mobile phone from my arsenal. It works. I can connect to the Internet, I have access to my secret secure backup space in the cloud, and I can talk and text again. Solving my old problems caused new problems because now, I have a new number. Every message and phone call for my #5 spiPhone will hang out in the cloud until I install a replacement for the old chip card.
I'm not looking forward to reading all those messages and receiving all those phone calls. Tolerance and understanding aren't in the job description of #1, The Boss. He was clear with his orders. I disobeyed them. He'll be furious and order #4, The Agent, to go after me and Malik.
I assume he'll also contact his compies [=competitive colleagues, doing the same work, but for their own account]. From now on, the local chapters of the CIA and the KGB will search for me, but also the MSN, the Malta Security Network, consisting of three agents with code names Mercí, Suavez and Neighman. All those organizations have the technology to find any activated chip card in even the biggest haystack. And, of course, there's Khalid El Bullít, who obviously has access to the encrypted network of the LSD and is even capable of toasting chips from a distance. No. It's better to use the spare chip and ignore all the traffic to and from the LSD for a while.
The entire world is against me, but I'm not afraid.
Mark Twain said: "Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear, not absence of fear.", and he said: "Do the thing you fear most, and the death of fear is certain.", and also; "Basically, adverbs certainly and undoubtedly indicate quite possibly overwriting. Actually, my editor, actively and successfully, liberates my work, almost fully, very completely, often totally, from really unnecessary adverbs.", although I'm not sure if that last one survived the pre-print-process.
Yesterday, I was confused by all the events that so quickly followed each other, unsure about the best tactics to follow, but now, after a few hours of sleep, I'm determined. Fighting back is a much better option than running away, adapting to the situation, or ignoring the problems. «When you're in a desperate situation, you fight, without fear.», Sun Tzu advised in his book «The Art of War», already 2.500 years ago. In a fight, fear is a useless emotion. When your opponents know you're afraid, you'll never be safe again. They'll hunt you down, they make you obey, and they keep dictating new rules, tasks, and punishments because your fear is their strongest weapon to make you do what they want.
If anyone doubts that statement, watch TV: governments feed our fear with frequent crises, to convince voters they can't survive without their governments, and commercial companies feed our fear with advertisements, to convince consumers they can't survive with wrinkles and invisible stains in their underwear. When fear stops us from thinking and acting, Sun Tzu predicted we'll lose everything: taxes will climb, freedom will fall, and the abyss between rich winners and poor losers will grow wider.
The philosophy is clear: if you want to survive, you'll have to be good at what you do. If you want to be good at what you do, you'll have to be open to criticism, be willing to learn, and do everything you can to get better. It doesn't matter if you're a spy who's fighting for his life, a writer who wants to write the best-written story he's capable of, a mother who raises her children, or a salesperson who has to do her job in a world of competition: it's attitude. Hard work pays off in feeling good, about yourself and about what you've achieved. Fear is no option. Fear doesn't help you with anything. On the contrary. It paralyses you and leads you away from your goals. Fear is a useless emotion. The good thing about fear is: you can turn it off.
When you watch a zombie film at night (or CNN in the morning), your pulse goes up and your trousers drop down: you're afraid. You're so much into the film that it makes you believe those monsters are hiding in your closet, and those terrorists will get you as soon as you step out of your door. And then you think: «Hey… It's not real. It's only a film. People make money with this. They know I watch it because of the emotions it causes…», and then you turn off your TV and your fear at the same time.
Humans are the only animals that can control their emotions. Dogs and cats go crazy when they hear fireworks or thunder outside. They are simply not capable of turning off their fear because their intellectual capacities aren't sufficient to rationalise their feelings away. Only humans can do that. Only the intelligent part of humanity is smart enough to tell itself: "I'm in love with this person, but falling in love with a drug-addicted, violent kleptomaniac is probably not such a good idea, so I should perhaps reconsider my feelings and analyse my personality, to find out where this strange desire comes from." You can't turn off the sensation of being in love (and you don't want to turn it off either because it's a wonderful feeling), but you can control it before it drives you to start doing stupid things like saying: "Yes, I do."
If you're intelligent, you can train and get better at dominating your emotions. I learnt that lesson during my adventure in Brest, where my friend Doc taught an intelligent woman how she could dominate her feelings and get rid of her depression. I taught that lesson during my mission in Poland, where my friend Scarlett overcame her fear and created a better future, for herself and many others. So now, when I'm in this desperate situation of Me vs. The Rest of the World, my first action is to dominate my fear. That's attitude, hard work, and constant mental training, but it's the only way to get results. If that result is «I will survive», the choice is easy.
I'm not afraid.
I'm ready to fight.
It's attitude.
Ha! So you think you are safe, Khalid? Ha, ha, ha!
Malik is still fast asleep. I guess it's a writer's thing to work all night and sleep all day. When your partner asks: "Can you help me with this, please?" while you're floating in the pool, with a cigarette in one hand and a cocktail in the other, only a writer can get away with the answer: "Not now, dear. I'm working."
Writing is a luxury I can't afford. In the bathroom at the end of the corridor, I take a quick shower, and on my way back to the room, I pick up a cup of machine coffee. I have work to do.
When we entered here last night (it's better to say «this morning», it's only three hours ago), I checked the register at the entrance. Mariam El Bullít has room 23, the third room in the right wing. We have room 12, the second room in the left wing. It belonged to Mr Mikiel Vassali (89 years old) who doesn't need it anymore. According to the invitation on the bulletin board, he and Ms Mary Meilak (87) got married the day before yesterday, and they're on their honeymoon to Las Vegas until next weekend. The residence has the policy to encourage love and affection between its inhabitants, with the final idea that two people in love can share the same bed, which doesn't only improve the quality and quantity of life, but also makes space for people on the waiting list.
The rooms here are big enough to share. Malik sleeps in the bed and I sleep on the couch. That couch is also a comfortable place to sit while I'm working on my laptop. I search the Internet for Khalid El Bullít. No hits. Not even one. No website khalid-el-bullit.argh, nothing on Facebook, nothing on Maskbook, and no account on uglycriminalbastards.com either. No page on Wikipedia and nothing on WikiLeaks. He's #1 on the Time for Crime Magazine hit-list, but I can't find him in the FBI's Shot 100 (they're always behind; Lee Harvey Oswald is still at number three on their list). For being the world's worst criminal, Khalid desperately needs to hire someone to work on his marketing. The only two hits I get are the Al Khalid battle tank, probably the hottest item on Khalid's list of merchandise, and the meaning of the name Khalid: eternal, to last forever. It looks like we have a winner here…
I don't want to take the risk of entering the LSD database or sending a request to #2, The Nerd, for Khalid's social report. Not now, and not with this unidentified phone number.
Apart from the name of his mother in the phone book, I can't find any other relatives of Khalid El Bullít on Malta either. I'm running out of ideas.
To get inspiration, you can take a walk and look around, listen to music, or read a few pages in a good book. The book looks like the best choice: yesterday, I got a copy of «Precious Poetry» from my new best friend Malik.
A stressed nurse, her hands filled with trouble, peeks into our room, sees me sitting on the couch, with a book in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, and asks me: "Can you please help me with this?"
I answer: "Not now, dear. I'm working." Only a spy can get away with that.
Of course, I'm also a gentleman, so I let the coffee disappear quickly and help the poor nurse with the breakfast she's struggling with. She's surprised to see me: "I don't know what happened to you, Mister Vassali, but you look years younger now you're married. If I didn't know better, I'd give you no more than 70. You've even lost some weight."
"Getting married is a wonderful thing, dear. Me and my beloved wife, we're following a new scientific method to improve our health: the love diet. When you make love six times per day, you'll lose half a kilo each week, and you'll feel wonderful. 100% guaranteed. Are you interested?"
The nurse isn't convinced my method works for her too: "I'd love to make so much love, but I have too much work to screw around all day. But I have a pleasant alternative to that love diet of yours: if you want to lose weight, pay me 1.000 euros per month and do my work. Running around for so many long hours makes you lose a kilo each week, and the high price leaves you no money to buy anything to eat. 200% guaranteed. Are you interested?"
I admire people who work in hospitals and homes for the elderly; no matter the sadness around them, they are always in a sunny mood. This nurse deserves a reward, a little help from a gentleman during her heavy daily task of serving breakfast.
"I'm not Mr Vassali. He hired me to wake him up on time. Wait for a second, please.", I say. I lift the lever of the special hospital bed where Malik is snoring like a bride after a long wedding night, and turn the bed into a vertical position.
"Get up, Malik. Breakfast is being served. You have five minutes for SSS (Shit, Shave and Shower), five minutes to get dressed, and five minutes to make this breakfast disappear. Meanwhile, I'll help Miss Candy here to lose some weight."
Malik flounders around on the floor and tries to get his wits together: "Shave?"
"Yes. Shave. Your facial hair looks like the rats have been feasting on it. You'll need a new image too. The writer from the photo on the back cover of «Precious Poetry» has to disappear."
"But… I don't have the proper utensils. Regretfully, I left everything at home."
"Stop complaining and start looking for solutions, Malik. The simplest solution is usually the right one. In my backpack, you find a black box with a mirror, soap, aftershave, Band-Aid and Occam's Razor."
I leave Malik with his morning rituals and help Nurse Candy with her tasks. It will give me the perfect opportunity to check room 23 without being noticed. When I put on a long, white coat, cover my head with a swimming cap, and hide my face behind an operation mask, Nurse Candy raises an eyebrow.
"I just follow the safety instructions, Miss. We don't want to infect the residents with the workaholism virus you and I are suffering from. Workaholism is terrible for your health; you can easily work yourself to death.", I explain.
"I'm not suffering from workaholism. I'm suffering from budget cuts: they make my hands bleed, my back hurt, my feet swell, and my eyes weep. But apparently, the pain those budget cuts cause to the workers and the patients is just peanuts compared with the pain in the wallets of those who get paid to organize all this.", Nurse Candy comments.
I look at the plates that enter each room: a freshly baked croissant, a wholewheat bread roll with cheese, marmalade and three different kinds of sliced meat to choose from, a bowl of milk or yoghurt with cereal, five different fruits, to drink they get fresh orange juice and coffee or tea, and for dessert, a plastic cup with medicines and vitamin pills.
"This doesn't look like budget cuts. This looks like a five-star restaurant to me."
"The five-star restaurant is what we serve at lunchtime and during dinner. You should taste the pastry at tea time and coffee hour. Thanks to our sponsor, we don't lose anyone from malnutrition anymore.", Nurse Candy explains.
"A sponsor? Do these old-timers have to wear T-shirts with «Shit Admit – diaphanous diapers» in return?"
"No. We have an anonymous sponsor who takes care of the bill of the caterers and pays the pharmaceutical company that delivers the vitamins. If the all-knowing authorities see we receive donations in money, they'll cut our budgets even more. Our good sponsor supplies goods. Healthy food and vitamins are not ABS [Authorised Basic Service], so there's nothing to cut except for the cooked ham and the chorizo."
I'm surprised and curious: "How long is this anonymous sponsor doing this favour?"
Nurse Candy thinks for a while: "It started a few years ago, when Mrs El Bullít entered. She asked for a better bed and breakfast. The Managing Authoritarian Director explained to her that this home for the elderly depends on contributions from the state. Everybody gets the same water-and-bread diet and the same treatment. She said she would have a word with the one who makes the rules here on Malta. One week later, donations started coming in. First, we thought it was a miracle, but when miracles happen every day, we start to think differently about them. All this is a lot more work for the staff than serving an aspirin sandwich in a tepid cup of tea."
"That's why the sponsor sent me to help you, dear. You won't find me on any payroll, so nobody can cut the budgets of the current staff. As long as nobody finds, out I'm staying in one of the empty rooms here. You can keep a secret, can't you?"
"You can change nappies and wash old men with flatulence, can't you?"
I'm a spy. To save the world, I'll do everything. But…
"Flatulence? Sounds like a shitload of fun. How much fun can an average elderly male load? No, don't answer that. I don't really want to know. If you can keep a secret, I'll tell you I'm only halfway through my training. I've only just passed the «serving breakfast» course. The washing and bedding are for the upcoming semester. But if you don't like me and the help I give, I can always go home and ask if they'll send someone else…"
"Helping with breakfast is fine. I was just joking. The washing of old men is easy, by the way. First, you push their wheelchair into the bathroom. Then you put the fire hose on them, ice-cold water. They're fully dressed, of course; we don't want them to catch pneumonia, and we save on using the washing machine too. Then you hang them on the line in the garden to dry. They like to hang out together. Thanks to our warm Mediterranean climate, they'll be fine when we serve the coffee."
We've reached room 23. The door is locked from the inside and the «please, do not disturb» sign hangs on the doorknob. According to the strange strangling sounds, something awful is going on in Mariam's room, but we don't have time to think or investigate. Nurse Candy says: "Miss El Bullít is occupied with her morning rituals. We take her breakfast back to the kitchen and eat it ourselves. We have enough to do."
* * *
When I get back to room 12, Malik watches the news on the small TV set while he smokes a cigarette.
"What are you doing? Are you crazy?", I ask.
"Obviously, I'm watching the news. According to the Maltese Broadcasting Company, last night, the police avoided a major terrorist attack at the Triton Fountain and the Phoenix Hotel Malta. Thanks to their immediate action and their brave interception, there were no casualties, just some minor material damage. But it's only an insignificant item on the news. The front-page headlines inform the world about how last night's car bomb destroyed the shopping centre of Baghdad, we learn everything about the successful bombings in Syria by the combined US and EU air forces, they tell us about the firefight on a school in California between armed students and armed teachers, and give us details about the arrest of a man who has been shooting over a thousand bullets last night at innocent people on the street in front of his hotel room in Las Vegas. Publically, there's a lot of competition for Khalid El Bullít's number one position in Time for Crime Magazine."
"I didn't refer to the killing and shooting you enjoy during breakfast; that's just innocent entertainment. I'm talking about that cigarette. All the professionals in the world agree that we're influenced by what we see around us. Any child might watch you and get the wrong impression, perhaps even take your smoking as an example to follow. That's why advertisements for cigarettes aren't allowed anymore."
"Traditionally, I'm a smoker. I don't drink, I don't do drugs, I don't rape children, I don't whip women, but I do enjoy smoking a cigarette, after a meal or with my coffee. Is that problematically?"
"You smoke in a place where children visit their grandparents. Smoking cigarettes is worse for your health than smoking guns. I've found Khalid's mother, by the way. She's in room 23 and, according to the sounds I heard, she's either torturing an innocent tax inspector, or she's preparing a terrorist attack on a major city, probably Valletta. We need to hurry."
I take my Makarov and two spare clips from my suitcase.
"Do you take a gun when you're going to visit an elderly lady?"
I hide the pistol under my shirt in the small of my back: "Just precaution. We're dealing with the world's most dangerous terrorist here. Who taught him? If it wasn't the MBC breakfast news, it must have been his mother."
Room 23 is still locked when we get there, but opening it with a hairpin and the clip from my Swiss army knife is a piece of cake. With our backs against the wall, each on one side of the door, we feel the tension of the moment. The sounds on the other side have reached their climax. I draw the Makarov with my right hand, pointing up, for safety. With my left hand, I turn the doorknob, push the door open and listen…
I expect a booby trap and an explosion, but all I hear is a woman's voice: "Hey, Joe! Where are you going with that gun in your hand?"
She can look through walls.
But her eyesight is declining: she thinks I'm Joe.
"Hey, Joe! Where're you going?"
I'm going in.
I'm tough.
No mercy.
The room is empty, except for an old lady, sitting in her bed. I get closer and closer until the barrel of my pistol rests between her eyes: "Put your hands in the air."
Her hands are holding her blanket. She puts them in the air. The blanket drops. She's not armed. She shivers. She's cold. She's naked. It ain't cool.
"You're going to shoot an old lady?", she asks.
I hide the Makarov behind my back under my shirt and apologise: "I'm sorry, ma'am. I thought you were in mortal danger."
Mrs El Bullít isn't angry; she's just mad: "Mortal danger? This is a residence for old people. Everyone is in mortal danger here. Do you know how high the average life expectancy is when you get in here? The soldiers in World War One had a better chance. Give me a kiss…"
"Sorry?"
"Give me a kiss. And you too, handsome. Yes, I've seen you. Do you think I'm crazy? Come in and give me a kiss."
Malik enters the room and gives Mrs El Bullít a kiss on the cheek: "Good morning, ma'am. My name is Malik. Malik Khedira."
"Good morning, Malik, querida. Please, call me Mariam. And your young little friend is?"
I bend over to kiss her on the cheek too, but before I can say my name, she grabs me at the back of my head and plants her mouth on mine. Her sharp tongue goes deep throat and attacks my uvula from the back. I try to escape, but she's strong and I don't want to hurt an old and innocent lady, well, not so very innocent because with her other hand she went for my trousers, no, not aiming for the gun behind my zipper, but for the pistol behind my back, that she now coldly puts against my temple while she groans with pleasure: "Oh, you make me HOT! A MAKAROV! I haven't held a Russian pistol in AGES. That's a story I can tell my grandchild…"
I look into the barrel of my own pistol and think: «Poor kid. If that's the kind of fairy tale she has to grow up on, I fear for her future. At least, my grandfather read me Robert Ludlum, John le Carré, and Ian Fleming. Those were stories…»
Mariam doesn't tell stories; she gives orders: "You can come out of the closet now, Joe. I have the situation under control."
The closet opens and an old, black, naked man comes out. His huge gun points up, for safety, while he grabs his walking frame with both hands and runs for the door as fast as he can, while he mutters: "I got to go now, way down south, the Mexico way."
Mariam tries to stop him: "Hey, Joe! Where're you going with your gun in your hand? Aren't you in for a foursome? Well, a trio will be nice too. At my age, I should take my love life a little easier."
I look at Malik. I look at the door. I see that Malik sees I'm looking at the door. Mariam also sees what we're planning. She tells Joe, who's already halfway to the exit: "Lock the door behind you, Joe, and put the «do not disturb» sign on it. I don't want these two to go anywhere, and I don't want the rest of the world to know what's going on in the privacy of this room. Hey, Joe… And behave yourself, okay? I don't want to catch you messing around town with other women, do you hear?"
Joe doesn't hear.
Joe didn't have time to install his hearing aid.
BANG!
The bullet hits the post of the door, three inches from his head. Now, Joe is paying attention. His black face turns pale when he turns to see Mariam's instructions in sign language: come back for a kiss and close the door behind you. He sends a hand kiss and leaves us alone.
Mariam and the Makarov ask the questions: "What are you two doing here? Because it's clear you're not here to enlarge my sex life."
"We're looking for your son Khalid.", I say.
"Khalid is my masterpiece. He's a good man. What do you want from him? Are you cops? The only good cops are dead cops. Any last words?"
I guess Khalid is a good man because his mother threatened him with firearms as a primary child-raising technique. Mariam points to a place between my eyes, ready to pull the trigger and turn this spy novel into a short story with a dead end, unless I come up with something witty now…
I don't know what to say.
Malik does.
He's a writer.
Writing starts with having something to say.
"Juridically, I'm not on any law enforcement agency's payroll, ma'am. I'm not here to have sex with you either. I'm a poet. Sophistically, I have a more satisfying modus operandi: I'll read you some Precious Poetry. Once you've experienced the intense pleasure of poetry, touching your soul rhapsodically, you'll devaluate sexual rituals to a cheap second-hand pastime."
Mariam didn't expect such a remark. When it comes to poetry, she's still a virgin: "A soul? What's a soul?"
Malik smiles with satisfaction: "Speaking metaphorically, that's easy to explain. The best analogy to understand your soul is… Frankenstein."
"Frankenstein? Do you mean Eddie van Halen's guitar?"
"Obviously. Is there any other Frankenstein? Prodigiously, your soul has the shape of Eddie van Halen's Frankenstein, and you can find it at about the same place too, between your stomach and your guts, there where it hurts when a guitar plays the blues."
Mariam puts her free hand at the indicated spot: "There where it hurts when you've eaten red herring with strawberries and whipped cream…"
Malik continues: "Biologically, that's the place. Artificially, Eddie van Halen built his Frankenstein out of parts of several guitars. One day, Frankenstein broke, but he repaired it. That's our soul: sharp bits and hurt pieces, taped together. Irreplaceably, we only have one soul, so when it's full of scars and scratches, we'll have to fix it and go on. Only others can touch your soul, by playing its chords, sentimentally, with beautiful words. False notes make your soul bleed. People far away can't hurt you as much as friends can; when someone close to you plays the strings of your soul, it's always more intense."
Mariam nods enthusiastically: "It's true. Eddie van Halen knows how to play the strings of my soul. And when a guitar plays the blues… You make difficult things look so easy."
"Alphabetically, it's just a simple translation. I use the dictionary «Feelings-Words, Words-Feelings» that I keep in one of the chambers of my heart."
"If I want to look into someone's heart, I have to open it first… I usually do that with a steak knife."
"Verbally, there's a quicker key to open someone's heart: Precious Poetry… Writing poetry is easy. Writing action thrillers, that's hard."
"That's why it pays so well.", Mariam agrees. On her nightstand lays David Baldaccion's latest action thriller, «Memories of an Alzheimer Patient».
Malik moves his hand to the inside pocket of his jacket, asks: "May I?" and takes out a copy of his bundle «Precious Poetry». He sits down on one of the two chairs, invites me to take the other one, cleans his glasses with a soft red cloth from his pocket, opens the book, and starts reading:
"Intrinsically, this poem is about an ultimate desire that's out of reach… Notice how it refers to your senses of sight, sound, touch, smell and, above all, taste… It's called «A Piece of Cake».
MacArthur's Park was melting in the dark
All the sweet, green icing going down
Someone left a cake out in the rain
We don't think that we can take it
but it took so long to bake it
And we'll never have that recipe again…"
Malik drops a dramatic pause.
Mariam drops a dramatic tear: "That is so beautiful. You're such a charming man, Mr Malik. I might just keep you. I once baked such a cake for little Khalid… Green icing was his favourite. It reminded him of frogs and snot. He kissed the cake and hoped it would turn into a princess…"
Malik continues: "Ironically, this next poem is called «Satisfaction». It's about Brian Jones. After he wrote it, Satisfaction got a completely different meaning.
My papa was a Rolling Stone.
Wherever he laid his head was his home,
And when he died, all he left us was a loan…"
Malik's Precious Poetry touched the most sensible string of Mariam's Frankenstein. Her bedsheets are hardly big enough to wipe away her tears: "Oh, this is so true. We had such an intense relationship, that loan and I. It kept me awake every night. I hated every penny of it. I still feel the immense satisfaction when we finally paid off the last term, and the interest, and the fine for being late, and the commission to compensate the bank for leaving them without the proper income for the next decades… Once the money was in their vault, Khalid stole it back, of course. It gave «satisfaction» a completely different meaning…"
This is the moment of distraction we are waiting for. I signal Malik and we leave the room without making a sound. Even at the end of the corridor, we hear Mariam sobbing: "Oh, how sad, sad, sad."
"It's sad I had to leave my Makarov behind. It was a souvenir of a spectacular adventure with my friend Rostov in a hotel in Geneva.", I cry.
"It's sad I had to recite my Precious Poetry without letting her pay the royalties first.", Malik complains.
"You wrote poetry with literary ambitions, and now you're whining about royalties?"
Malik is insulted: "Do you know why Mariam cried so hard after hearing my words? Emotionally, because I put all those tears into the text when I wrote it. When someone puts letters on a sheet of paper, we call it «typing». We call it «writing» when someone translates emotions into words, so those words translate into emotions in the eyes of the reader."
"And the emotion you'll get back is the pleasure of the cheque? How many tears is it worth, Malik? How many tears did it cost you to write «Precious Poetry»?"
"Approximately, about ten thousand, two tears per word. But they were tears of joy. Chemically, there is a difference between sweet tears of joy and bitter tears of pain. Writing «Noxious Secrets» cost me one million salty tears of horror, one tear for each one of Khalid's innocent victims. Financially, I want compensation for all I suffered. Writers have to make a living too."
"Switch to journalism. Move to advertising. Those people get paid per word, guaranteed.", I say while I grab a copy of the Maltese Malaise, the leading scandal newspaper, from a little table in the hall, and wave it before Malik's face. I open the paper and look for the obituary section. It always cheers me up to read all those nice things people say about their loved ones.
That's strange…
I check the date of the paper. Yes, it's today's copy, Tuesday, the 6th of February, 2018. There's only one obituary and it fills a complete page with precious words of respect and love: «After a life that's filled of pain, someone shoots him through his brain. Just before his moment of glory, a bullit is the point that terminates his story. We say goodbye to our beloved friend. Tomorrow, his Precious Poetry will find his deadful end. Dear poet, you know it: I show it, I blow it. The funeral will be a seamans grave with a closed coffin. No flowers, please. They make me sneeze.»
Without a word, I show Malik the page. He's not impressed: "Promisingly, I guess there's an opening for an editor at the Maltese Malaise. Look at this: a life that WAS filled instead of IS; filled WITH pain and not OF pain; bullet is with an «e» and not with an «i»; the word «deadful» doesn't exist, it should have been «dreadful»; will find ITS dreadful end because it refers to a book and not to a person; and the grave of one seaman is a seaman's grave, with an apostrophe. Grammatically, that's seven major grammar errors in 73 words. Do they call themselves professional writers? Pathetically, they should be ashamed of themselves!"
"Who writes the word bullit with an i?"
Silence.
"Who will find his dreadful end tomorrow?"
A deeper silence.
"Who is the poet of Precious Poetry? Think, Malik!"
Not every silence sounds the same. This final silence is a lot darker than its predecessors.
Finally, Malik says something: "It's not an obituary."
"I'm glad you get it, Malik. Doesn't this bother you?"
"Rhetorically, it's a game of words, a cryptogram, a puzzle, a riddle, an enigma. Don't worry. I'm good with words. I can solve this. What can we win? Is there a closing date for the solution?"
I swear in despair, my hands in the air. The life of a spy, it just isn't fair.