Chelsea can't believe her imPhone: "50 million friends! I can't believe it. Wonderful. Incredible. Amazing. Awesome! Oh, Arse, I want a photo of this, but I can't take a selfie with my own mobile phone in the picture. Can you take a photo of me, holding my phone with my Facebook page with 50 million friends? Please? I want this so much. All my friends will be green with envy if I send them this photo. When I publish a photo of myself with 50 million friends, everybody will love me, and know I'm successful, and the whole world will like me, and it's really really really my only chance to get 500 million friends, and I want that so much… Please?"
She has 50 million friends and not one of them is around to take her photo? Taking a selfie is like kissing a mirror, Chelsea. Your only friend is the city you live in, with its shops full of expensive clothes and its exclusive restaurants. Your two most reliable partners, the ones you spend almost all your time with, are your phone and your game computer. Now you're successful, all you can think of is making your friends green with envy. I pity you, Chelsea. You love companies and brands, you love machines with software that shows you numbers, but you don't know how to love people. Today was your best-day-ever. How will your life be tomorrow?
I take a deep breath. At least today, you have a partner and a friend. If you like it so much, I'll do you this small favour of taking a photo of you. The question, in which lies the hope of all those victims in the Middle East, is: will you return my favour? It's hopeless. You're so full of yourself, there's no space left to think about others. This Plan B was a stupid idea. Today's best-day-ever will only feed your desire to have a better best-day-ever tomorrow. Your envy will never allow you to be satisfied with what you have. You will never be happy. Nobody can change that. You do that to yourself.
I get my spiPhone from my pocket and select the camera. We couldn't have picked a better spot for a photo, on top of the old bridge that connects the neighbourhood of Triana with the antique city centre of Sevilla. The background shows stars and city lights, and the high lampposts illuminate the biggest star of all with a touch of gold from above. I take three close-ups of Chelsea's smiling face next to her phone with her record Facebook page, one more with the phone on the other side, one more with her finger pointing at the 50 million, one more like the first three I made…
"I want one from a little distance, not only with my face but also with the bridge."
I go three steps back and look at the screen. I can't take the photo yet. Someone is walking in front of the lens, a beggar, asking Chelsea in Spanish for a few coins. Chelsea doesn't understand Spanish, but she does understand what the man wants: "I don't have any coins, old man, and if I had them, I wouldn't give them to you. Go find a job, like everybody else. And now go out of the way because we're doing something important here."
She sweeps the old man out of the way and takes her happy position again, with her phone next to her face. She doesn't look at what she did, but I see the big picture, which includes a stumbling old man who can't hold his balance after the fierce push he got from Chelsea instead of the coins he asked for. He tumbles against the waist-high wall of the side of the bridge and topples over it. With a cry, he disappears into the river below. With one step, I'm next to Chelsea, looking down, where I see an arm waving goodbye. I tear off my jacket, kick out my shoes, drop my phone, and jump.
The water is not moving fast, but the current is strong, and the water is cold enough to take my breath. I fight back to the surface and towards the old tramp, who must be terrified of water; he hasn't taken a bath in a decade. I'm close behind him, grab his coat, and struggle to keep his head above the surface. He doesn't object. He doesn't move at all. I drag him in front of me, get his head between my two hands, his body floating above my chest. We have to get out of here. I struggle against the stream, kicking my way towards the closest bank, but I can't use my hands, and the soaked, heavy clothes of my poor burden drag us down. I can't give up. I can't let go. I can't hold on. I can't breathe. The river is too wide. The flow is too strong. There's nobody around to help me. If I keep holding the old man, we'll both drown. But what's the use of jumping in to save him, if I let go when the going gets tough? I need to try harder, that's all. Saving the world is easy. Saving another human being from drowning is a lot more difficult. But there is hope. The river makes a curve to the right. We come closer to the left bank. The current pushes us slightly towards the shore. That's all we need. My legs protest, but it's our only chance, so I give everything I have left. We're making progress. The current loses its speed. Finally, I feel the sand under my feet, crawl out of the river, and drag the old man onto the shore. When I can't see him breathing, I lay the tramp down on the small strip of grass and let the water flow from his mouth and lungs. I grab his feet and hold him upside down. After a full minute of artificial breathing, he coughs up more water, opens his eyes, slaps me in the face, and says: "You dirty bastard. Are you trying to kiss me?" He stumbles up, like nothing happened, and walks back towards his home under the bridge.
Just «thank you» would have been enough. I take my socks, shirt and trousers off, wring the water out, and put them on again. When I get back on the bridge, I see several people looking at me, taking photos. Chelsea is not amused. Neither am I: "Let's go back to the car. I'll take you back to the hotel in Marbella."
"And my photo? You didn't take the photo of me on the bridge. You've only taken close-ups…"
She hands me my spiPhone.
"You've just lost the sympathy of the last one who likes you enough to take photos of you. The rest of your life, you're condemned to shoot selfies, like all those other losers who don't have real friends.", I think, but I don't say that, of course. "I'm wet and I want to go home. I need dry clothes."
"You'll have to take my photo first. I'm not going anywhere until you've taken my photo."
I turn around and walk away. Behind me, Chelsea clenches her fists and shouts: "I ORDER you to take that photo!"
"You can order what you like. I'm going to the car and back to Marbella."
I walk on. The water, dripping from my clothes, makes an easy-to-follow trail. After a minute, Chelsea's angry pace catches up with me: "I'll tell everything to my father."
"I'm sure he'll love to hear it. He's always interested in your stories. Don't forget to mention that part where you throw the old man into the water. Your father will be thrilled to hear how you almost killed a man."
Chelsea mutters: "I didn't kill anybody."
I don't say anything until we reach the car. I walk to the driver's side and get in. Chelsea stands next to the door, waiting for me to open it for her. I start the engine and say aloud: "If you don't get in, I'll leave you here."
Angrily, she opens the door and steps into the car. I hardly wait until she sits. The car is already moving before she's had a chance to close the door. I take the main road and move swiftly through the traffic, leaving this city as quickly as possible.
When we're on the Autovia, I maintain a high speed until most of the traffic has gone and then I drive the Ferrari for what it's made: a little over 280 km/h where possible, a little slower on traces with curves or other traffic. I don't want to waste more time than necessary with this girl.
"Are we going to stop somewhere for dinner or what?", Chelsea complains.
"I'm taking you to the hotel. There, you can order what you want."
"I want to have dinner, and I want it now. I'm hungry. Stop at a restaurant. I don't want to eat at the hotel."
"I don't care what you want. I've done the entire day what you want. All I get in return is more orders from you, more shouting, and not even one «thank you» or respect. You almost killed a man, but you're only worried about not having enough photos of yourself."
"You don't know nothing. You don't know nothing about me."
"Oh no? I've studied you for ten full days, 15 hours per day. I've read all your posts from the last year on social media, everything you tell the world about yourself. Do you know the top three of your most popular two-word combinations? «I have», «I am» and «I want». The most surprising texts are those that start with «I want», especially when you tell the world about your plans when you're the President of the United States:
» I want a law that forbids teachers to give homework to students.
» I want a law that forbids fathers to tell their children how late they have to get home at the weekends.
» I want everybody to understand that students work very hard, so they deserve a monthly salary for their effort, and when I'm elected the first female president of the U.S.A., I want a law to make that possible.
» You want everything, and you want it all for yourself. Don't I know you? You never talk about anyone else but yourself. You want the universe to kiss your feet and admire you. What have you done to deserve such admiration?"
"I've done many things."
"You've done nothing. Nothing at all. You're born as the daughter of an important man. People treat you with respect because of your father, but your own behaviour doesn't deserve any respect at all. You're selfish. You don't respect anybody, not even your father, who you treat with an indifference I never believed was possible. And you want people to like you and follow you on social media for that behaviour?"
"I have 50 million followers on Facebook. People love me. You're just telling lies to make me feel bad. You're supposed to make me feel good, to give me a great day. You're telling me nothing but lies…"
"Lies? Me? Okay. I'll tell you the truth. My boss ordered my colleague, The Diplomat, to make an appointant… an impointment… I mean… an important appointment, with your father. Your father can influence the American government. Do you remember those people in the comedor where we ate? Half of them were fugitives from the Middle East. They lost their houses because someone dropped bombs on them. They've lost their parents, their grandparents and their children. When they had no place to go, the Spanish government offered to help them, with free food and a simple house. You've seen how those people live. They have nothing but the rags on their bodies, but still, they are grateful. Where they came from, there's nothing but war and destruction. The person who ordered those bombings, the war, and all that destruction was… your father. My colleague, The Diplomat, tries for months, for years, to talk to your father, to tell him that violence will not be solved by more violence. No war will end when you keep dropping more bombs. Your father refused to talk to him; he was on his vacation and wanted to spend some quality time with his daughter, who he loves very much. The Diplomat made him an offer: «In return for a chat about peace, we give your daughter the best day of her life.» Your father agreed. The job to give you your best-day-ever was for me. I'm not a babysitter. I'm a spy. It's my mission to give you a great day. If you return to the hotel as happy as possible, your mood might influence your father's thoughts about The Diplomat's ideas.
» Do you think I don't know you? I know everything about you. I've studied your file for ten full days of 15 hours each. You don't want to get up early. You don't want to go to the zoo or the cinema or the swimming pool like other kids your age. All you want is to stay out late, smoke, get drunk, and be chased by boys. There was one other desire I found out about: you want to have friends. Not real friends, but friends on Facebook, people you don't know and who don't know you, but who are important to you because they clicked a like-button. You only had 50 friends on Facebook this morning. I suspect you motivated every one of them personally, holding a knife to their throat."
Chelsea is not just angry now, she's also deeply insulted. She is convinced that I don't know her at all, that I underestimated her: "You don't know me. I would never threaten anyone with a knife. I took my father's bodyguard with me and told them he would shoot if they didn't like me on Facebook. But I'm sure they would have done it also if I hadn't had said that…"
"Yeah, right, duh, whatever. I made a plan: if we could make you more popular, you would do everything for us. We used your envy and made it our strongest weapon. Wouldn't you feel great when your friends envy you when they see the pictures of you on the catwalk in a diamond dress? Wouldn't you love it to let them envy you when they find out you were on stage, singing and dancing with Abraham Mateo? How nice would it be to send them photos of yourself on the bonnet of a 52-million-dollar Ferrari? We would make you popular like never before, and you wouldn't even think about any of those extreme, negative feelings of envy that your selfish behaviour causes to the ones you call «your friends». The LSD didn't care. We were not interested in you at all. All we wanted was to make your father happy because we made you happy. We made your dream come true: now you have 50 million friends, not real people who know and love you, but just a number of crash-test dummies who clicked a button. Would 50 million friends on your Facebook be enough to make your father change his mind and stop the bombing? At least we could try."
"Well? I have those 50 million friends. You can't deny the truth about that."
"What did you do to get those 50 million friends? Did you impress them by doing amazing things? Not at all. We uploaded a manipulated hole-in-one: your ball hit the window of the clubhouse. Belén's photos of you will never be published in any magazine. Your career on the catwalk lasted three steps; you rock-and-rolled the rest of the distance and disappeared in a fight. Abraham Mateo was part of our team; after we left, he returned on stage, apologised to his fans, and did the «Señorita» song again because he didn't want his concert to end like this. Mister Banderas has already thrown away today's recordings. Tax money from Luxembourg citizens will pay for the disaster of shooting the commercial. That is the truth."
I don't mention Chelsea's appearance in Tu Cara Me Suena; it broke this year's audience record on national TV. I don't want to spoil the truth with arguments that prove the opposite. I continue: "Those 50 million are your friends because they believed your lies; they don't «like» you because of your qualities, but because you lied to them. You have achieved nothing. You lied to make yourself feel better."
"A small lie for goodwill now and then doesn't matter…"
I've had it. I park the car, kill the engine and tell Chelsea: "A small lie doesn't matter? Well, duh, whatever, right, yeah. If a small lie doesn't matter, then I invite you to step out of the car, go inside that bar over there, ask them if you can use their computer for five seconds, and look at your own Facebook page."
One minute later Chelsea is back: "50 friends! And not even one of my videos is there. How is that possible? Is the Internet in this country so slow that they update websites only once a week?"
She steps into the car again. I start and drive on.
"It's not the Internet that's slow; it's your understanding of the truth and the lie that takes so long. You refuse to see the truth when it's not convenient for you. The truth is: we never uploaded anything to your Facebook. It would have been useless; nobody is interested in you, or me, or anybody else but themselves. We've just manipulated your phone. Do you remember the first thing we did after we got the Ferrari? I took your photo with your imPhone. When you did your make-up and your hair, I installed a back-door program, so #2, The Nerd, could control your phone, just like Facebook controls your life. Those 50 million friends you have? They only exist on your imPhone. How could you ever be so naive as to believe the entire world would look at you, two minutes after uploading a video… Nobody on the Internet ever saw anything of what you did today, not the real recordings, and not the manipulated ones. The only one who saw it was you. And you not only believed the lies; they made you feel wonderful. And that's the truth!"
Chelsea is furious: "You are a monster! I will tell my father everything."
"And what will your father do, Chelsea? Will he drop a bomb on my house? He doesn't even know where I live. Will he bomb my country? Why would he do that? Because I hurt the feelings of his daughter? I'll show him the video I've made of you on that bridge, the one on which you push an old man into the water, a man who would have died if I hadn't jumped in after him. And I will add that piece of the video that I shot when I returned to the scene, wet as a cat, when you insulted me for not listening to you, telling me that doing what you tell me is more important than saving a man's life. He will be delighted. I'm sure he will do everything he can to get a copy of that video and place it on his Facebook. He will get at least 50 million views in the first week. And if your father doesn't want that video, I can think of someone else who will. What's her name? She's the daughter of the President of the U.S.A. She can use some extra friends on Facebook, having only 3.800, as my information is correct. Oh, everybody will be so jealous she got that video. Everyone will be green with envy. Everyone will ask himself «why her and not me». But perhaps all those others don't do what it takes to become the absolute Number One. And when that bridge video has had its time of exposure, we'll be happy to send your friend Sandra-Dee a video of some girl on a catwalk, or one that shoots a golf ball into the cr-OUTCH of the mayor of Marbella while all the others try to be serious and not to laugh about her, and…"
"That's mean."
"That's you, Chelsea. You do things like that, to make yourself more popular. When someone else does the same things, you shouldn't complain. You've started it. And why? Because your envy is the strongest part of your character. Tell me again that I don't know you. The truth is that you don't know me, not at all. You know nothing of me because you're not interested in other people. And I don't care what you think about me. I have a father and a mother who love me. They would like to see me more often, but fifty-one weeks per year, I'm on a mission to save the world. My important work doesn't allow me to spend much time with the ones I love. I don't even visit my parents during my one week of holiday because my enemies might hurt them to hurt me.
» I understand why your mother started drinking. I understand why your father wants one week per year of vacation, to spend with his daughter, who he loves so much. Too bad. His daughter doesn't come out of bed until 02:00 PM, and then she does nothing else but paint her face and buy clothes, until the moment she goes out, to smoke, get drunk, and be chased by boys, because she needs that to feel good about herself. You tell me I know nothing about you. I hope you believe that lie yourself because I don't. I know you very well, and I prefer not knowing you. You prefer the lie because you can't handle the truth. You say I turn you off. I do. I turn you off like a radio that makes a very annoying sound, and I don't want to hear anything more from you. That's the truth."
"I HATE YOU!"
Without taking my eyes off the road, I shrug: "I don't hate you. I don't even blame you for who you are, or for how you behave. You're a child. Your environment made you and the media raised you. Nobody else had such a childhood as you, but you're seventeen years old now, one step from being an adult. If you don't grow up fast, there's only one person in the world who will have to pay for it, and that person is you. Your mother already gave up on you. You don't have any real friends. All you have is your father, and you're doing everything you can to disappoint him. Do you have illusions about getting a boyfriend? A family? About having children of your own? Those illusions are like the plans you have when you're a President: you only think about yourself. How long will it take the perfect boyfriend to find out what I discovered in less than a day? Do you think anybody will love you because you order him to do so? You are never satisfied, Chelsea, and you have no idea what it takes to get even the smallest thing done.
» Those people in the comedor are there because nobody cares. That man on the bridge is a beggar because there is no work, because politicians like your father don't create jobs but make laws that make it easier to fire people, and they drop bombs on the heads of anyone who doesn't do what they tell them. Do you want a salary for students? Who has to pay for that? In your country, parents already pay $20.000 per year for the education of each child. How about a plan to make education cheaper, so more children can afford to go to school? You just think about yourself."
The steam comes out of my ears. I need to calm down. But it doesn't matter anymore. It has all been for nothing, all this work, ten days of preparation, a complete day of spending Luxembourg tax money in an attempt to save people in the Middle East from American aggression… Why does the Luxembourg Prime Minister order us to mediate, anyway? It would be so much easier to let all the others fight, walk away from it, and be happy with what we have. Why do we try to change others? Why do we want others to do what we tell them? What's our motivation? We're just stupid.
"You were right about one thing, Chelsea: I'm stupid. I'm not just stupid, I'm even too stupid to make a stupid plan work out well…"
I'm stupid. Humanity is stupid. We're selfish. We try to manipulate others, so they'll do what's best for us. Commercial companies do that; they want our money. Facebook does that; they want our interest, so they can sell our interests to commercial companies who want our money. Political parties do that; they don't care about what's good for their country, all they care about is to become important, so they can tell others to do what's good for those who are most important.
Why don't we use all that energy to motivate others to do what's best for all of us? That's what #3, The Diplomat, tries to do. And I'm ruining it. All I had to do was keep my mouth shut. The lie was perfect. Chelsea believed everything. She was thrilled with her 50 million friends. She would have told her daddy about it, and her daddy would change his opinion about the LSD and our ideas…
No. That's not how it would go. People don't change when you use the carrot and the stick. They just adapt, but as soon as you turn your back, they go on with what they did before. Chelsea would be happy, but she would not give any credits to me or the LSD. Mister Johnsson would be happy that his daughter had such a nice day, but he would never go against his conviction that bombing the Middle East is good for his country. It was a stupid plan… People don't change…
If that's true… Why does Facebook manage to change our interest from real friends to virtual ones? Why do the media make us believe that being rich is the same as being happy? Why do we feel better with 50 million on our Facebook account or our bank account or our death list?
We want to be successful, the Number One, the leader of the tribe, the monkey on top of the rock of Gibraltar. Despite everything we have, we are never satisfied. We worship Envy and we only want more and more and more. No carrot and no stick can make us change our minds. We act out of our strongest desires, our basic animal instincts of greed, wrath, pride, sloth, lust, gluttony, and envy.
I'm losing it. Rostov! That's already the second time today. This work is not good for my health. I take a deep breath, and another one, and ten more. Forget about the anger. Let go of all those negative emotions. Get back into my desired state of well-being. Be calm, tolerant, patient… Breathe in… Breathe out… Keep that foot on the gas on the floor… Maintain that breathtaking speed… The sooner we're home, the sooner all this will be over…
What did I learn? Why did I read all those books? I'm a professional. Some punk kid can't change me into someone I don't want to be. I'm not a powerless victim of my worst animal instincts; my brain makes my decisions. I want Reason to be in control instead of Facebook.
What do I want?
I want to grow as a person, which I achieve by improving my skills, my knowledge and my character.
I want to connect with other people, which I achieve by communicating with them, by sharing emotions and experiences, by being their mentor and by learning from them.
I want to contribute to something bigger than myself, which I achieve by saving the world.
I want good health, both physically and mentally, which I achieve by eating healthy and by exercising, by keeping the balance between my feelings and my intelligence, by enjoying the present moment and all the good experiences that come with it.
Four goals. And today, I destroyed everything. It wasn't Chelsea who ruined my mission; I did that all by myself, by making the wrong choices, by using the carrot and the stick instead of connecting with her. It doesn't make me feel good. I can't remember another day when I was as stressed as I am now. I'm the worst spy in history. It's probably best to return to Luxembourg and ask my parents if I can help in their butcher shop.
Giving Chelsea what she wanted was stupid: it only resulted in her, wanting more. I should have thought up a plan to let her work hard for the desired result. Nobody ever motivated her to work hard. Her father worked hard. Did she follow his good example? Her father gave her everything, but he never gave her what she needed most: attention.
Suddenly, a bright light shines into my eyes: it's a car, coming from the other side, honking like horny to wake me up and make me move to my side of the road again. Attention. I should pay attention. Chelsea doesn't want 50 million friends; she wants attention. She only wants one person to be her friend: her father…
Mister Johnsson is an important man. His example was exactly what Chelsea followed: she wants to show her father, with hard proof in hard numbers, she can also be important; she wanted to show him that she can have 50 million friends, hoping to get his attention when she shows him how important she can be.
She didn't understand.
And I didn't understand it either.
She didn't have to tell him how important she is.
She already IS his most important thing in the world.
She doesn't have to tell him.
All she had to do was listen to him.
All I had to do was listen to her.
I didn't have to motivate her. She's already motivated. She wants the love of her father. If I'm honest and look at what she did today, she's prepared to cheat, kill, and destroy the world to get that love. She followed the example her world gave her.
I should not criticise her; criticism only makes her feel inferior. I'm not her father, her teacher, or her superior officer. But I refuse to be her slave, either. I'm not going to throw myself in the dust between her feet again, saying I'm sorry. I'm not sorry. She's awful. She deserves to feel bad. It's the consequence of her own behaviour, her own choices, her own…
She's a child.
All she ever did was follow the examples of the world around her.
I should not wield the stick to punish her for that.
I should not try to manipulate her.
I should tell the truth.
And let her draw her own conclusions.
…
We enter the streets of Marbella. I slow down. I keep my eyes on the road, leaving it in the middle if I talk to myself or to Chelsea, but I make sure she hears me.
"My mission was to make you feel good, to give you the best-day-ever. The idea was to make you happy, so you would make your father happy, and your father would stop the bombing, which would make millions of poor people in the Middle East happy. Things don't work that way. I was wrong. It was a stupid plan and I'm even too stupid to make a stupid plan work. I've ruined my mission and I've made you feel bad.
» I'm not going to tell you I'm sorry. There's no regret, and no hard feelings. I've done what I thought was best, and I've failed. But I'm proud I tried. So many people did nothing. I have failed, but I didn't do anything to feel sorry about. Thanks to you, I've learnt something important today: there's still a lot for me to learn. My failure motivates me to work harder; next time I will do better.
» It wasn't my intention to ruin my mission or to make you feel bad. It was my desire to tell the truth. If the truth makes you feel bad, that's not my mistake."
Chelsea doesn't say a word. She looks straight ahead, angry as Napoleon after Waterloo. I don't care. I want to tell the truth.
"You said I don't know you. All I know is: you are a child. You act like a child. You don't want to be the Number One on Facebook; you want your father to love you. But your father only pays attention to important people, so you decided to become important too, the Number One, without doubt, the numbers show it, you have 50 million friends: your father can finally be proud of you…
» Your father was already proud of you. You are his most important thing in the world. He does everything you ask, he gives you everything you want, just to show how much he loves you. The problem is: you are «Tell» and he is «Show, Don't Tell». If he would just tell you that he loves you, and if you would show him that you care, you would both understand each other and give each other what you both need most. If you could only speak «Show AND Tell» together… But nobody has ever taught you.
» That's not your fault, nor is it your father's. That's the truth."
The truth is that we've reached the entrance of hotel La Estrella de Marbella, just as the clock strikes twelve. The Princess has to run and lose her shoe, so I can chase her and our story will have a happy ending. This is not a fairy tale. This is real life. Real life doesn't end with a kiss and a wedding. Real life ends with our funeral.
I get out of the car and open the door on Chelsea's side, to let her out. She doesn't say a word. No «thank you», no «I hate you», not even «duh». When she enters the lobby of the hotel, I whisper a «good night» and drive the Ferrari back to the dealer.
It's already past midnight, but the salesman is still at his post. He smells his commission: "That was quite a test ride, Sir. I guess this means positive news for both of us."
"The car is rather unstable when you take a curve at over 270 km/hr, and Chelsea thought there wasn't enough space in the boot for her shopping bags, so we decided to look further. But thank you for the experience. You can be sure I'll recommend this car to my associates in Darfur; they don't do a lot of shopping and never go faster than jogging speed."
I walk back to my hotel. It's a two-hour walk, but I need the time to think. When you bang your head against a stone wall and the wall refuses to crack, is it fair to blame your head for not being strong enough? Is it fair to put the fate of the world into the hands of one single person? Is our future a result of the decisions of a few leaders? Or do we all have a responsibility for our share in the process? I can't find answers to my questions. A two-hour walk is not enough time. All I know is: I did my best.
Sometimes, the wall wins.
My parents were right: if we want to change, we'll have to do it together. If democracy means «the right to choose the most selfish people, so they can tell us what they want us to do for them», then I have to accept the desires of the majority. I can't change this world by myself. All I can do is my best. If that's not enough, I have to accept what the majority makes of it.
If the wall is too strong, I should not break my head on it.
At least, I've learnt something important today, which is good enough for a happy end of this worst-day-ever and this horrible story. With a smile, I put my head on my pillow and fall asleep.