The Maltese Manuscript (LSD, #6)

11. Sunday, Bloody Sunday

» You, the writers, fill everything around us, news, novels and cinema, with aggression and violence. Writers tell us 24/7 that fighting is the only solution to our problems, and they end each story with the lie of Poetic Justice to justify themselves. You call TV 'reality', but the reality is that writers and journalists decide what we read and watch, and they are in a constant desperate search for aggression and violence, convinced nobody is interested in peace and friendliness. It's true, we are immune. Today, the millions cry. Tomorrow we watch them die. Do you know why? Because violence pays off, aggression gets attention, and murder makes successful writers."

Malik watches me like a zombie. In less than 500 words, I killed his faith, his religion, and everything he believed in. I must calm down. My tone is too aggressive, too violent. If I want my words to stay, I'll have to play the strings of Malik's Frankenstein soul, and I should play with care and a friendly voice. I put my hand on the French fries that hide his shoulder and say: "Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you? I promised you the answers to the six Big Questions. This is why it took time to give them to you. I'm not here to hurt you. You're my friend. I'm trying to help you."

Malik fights back a salty tear of disillusion: "Gratefully, I know you're my friend. And I also know why nobody is interested in the answers to the Big Questions: it's hard to realise your life's been a failure, that everything you've ever done was useless."

"That's not true. Big Question #5 is: is there life after death? There is. Every mother who raises a happy child will change the world after she's no longer here. Every farmer who's planted his crops today has changed tomorrow's world into a place where others will eat. Every carpenter who builds a bridge, every teacher who teaches skills, and every nurse who saves a life has made this world a better place. Those bridges, skills, and cured people are the proof of meaningful lives, long after we are dead. Of course, there's life after death: how many people find happiness, every day, in books like the Qur'an and the Bible? Those are works of writers who live on as long as their words are worth reading. You're a writer. Your pen has the power to change the world into a better place. As long as readers love your work, you'll live forever, like Dante, Shakespeare, Cervantes, Nietzsche, and Victor Hugo.

» When we find a dead body in a house, we know exactly what to do: don't touch anything, call the police, and look around for clues that will lead us to the identification of the killer. What do we do when we find a crying woman in a house? We have no idea. Fiction trains us for finding dead bodies, not for helping crying women. In real life, a spy chooses who will live and who will die, but the writer chooses what we read about and what we learn. Fiction isn't about finding a happy ending, Malik. Fiction prepares us to do the right thing after reading about our hero's happily ever after.

» Your preferred happy ending ends with me, shooting Khalid El Bullít. I'm armed with Chekhov's gun and I don't mind killing Khalid, but first I want to be sure if he deserves to die, if he's indeed the evident evil evacuee of this mission. Therefore, I need a second opinion, from someone who knows Khalid better than anyone else, someone with no reason to defend him like his mother or his daughter, nor to hate and fear him as you do. Before I attack Malta Castle and kill Khalid, I want proof I'm going to do the right thing. It's my responsibility as a spy and as a human being. In a violent world of killers, it takes more to be wise than to be wicked."

I sit down on a bench in the park. Walking in a suit like this and searching for information on my phone can't be done at the same time. I wrestle my hand with the phone through an opening in the suit and raise it before the eye openings in Chicken Chucky's throat, so I can see what's on the screen. Today is Sunday. We visited Dorsa's school... two days ago. Friday the 9th of February. When we spoke to her, it was around four o'clock in the afternoon, a little later.