L'Ombelico Del Mondo
Valletta is a city like no other. Even with my painful muscles after this afternoon's beating, it's an authentic pleasure to walk around here, enjoying the view over the natural harbour, surrounded by ancient fortresses, antique churches, and the many other old buildings in the typical sand colour, decorated with palm trees and tropical birds. The sea and its eternal breeze are prominent, but its salty smell is just a minor element of the fragrance of food and flowers that changes after every corner. The blue sky and the fine February temperature invite you to spend some time with a drink on one of the many terraces, or with a book on one of the benches in the colourful squares and parks. We're not here to enjoy the view; we're on a mission, searching the number one of the Most Dangerous Criminals top 100 of Time for Crime Magazine, and to find him before he finds us.
"What are we going to do now?", Malik asks.
"Pick up our luggage and prepare ourselves for tonight's Art Gala. You received two invitations: one for you and one for me. I have a strong feeling that Mister El Bullít will be present there, ready to play a game of hide-and-seek with us. In the meantime, we can enjoy our walk through this magnificent city while we chat about the answer to Big Question #4: poetry or prose? Indeed, an appropriate topic to prepare for an Art Gala."
Malik's face grows cloudy: "Probably, that's the hardest question ever to answer. I have experience in both; I wrote «Precious Poetry» and «Noxious Secrets». Although I decided to make the switch from poetry to prose some time ago, I'm no longer sure I made the right choice. It's like you have to choose between the wife you've been happily married to all your life, and the lover that lights your fire like you've never experienced before."
"If you compare writing symbols on a piece of paper with sex, you've never had any decent sex, my friend."
"Or perhaps you've never experienced any decent writing, my friend. When people ask me to explain how it feels to write a novel, I always say: sex. The novel and I, we have such an intense relationship, so fulfilling, so erotic, that only the metaphor of sex comes close to describing it.
» It starts when we first meet. She's not more than an idea, an illusion, an innocent flirt, an attractive well-dressed smile with black hair in a sunny park. I don't have time to flirt, I have work to do, and I should spend my spare time with others. But she keeps me thinking, she keeps me awake at night and distracts my thought from work and hobbies. Slowly, she becomes an obsession. I want to know her better. I write down what I know about her, where she takes place, who she deals with, how she starts and how she ends. The foreplay. The fantasies. I begin having short dialogues with her. She excites me with her style, the tone of her voice, her word choice. And then... I can no longer resist. I want her. Irresistibly, I long to spend time with her. First, I forget about my work and neglect all my other tasks. All my energy and all my time, I dedicate to her, my novel, my love, and love is a verb rather than a noun, she wears me out, nights without sleep, entire weekends and far too many weeknights I work as hard as I can, to satisfy her and to satisfy myself, my thirst and hunger, and every word from her makes me horny for the climax, the final chapter, in which we, finally, become one, making all this hard work feel like a gigantic orgasm that lasts for three months. And when it's over, when I've read her and edited her for the last time, when I send her to the publisher, I shed one bitter tear and start with another novel, another flirt, even more promising than the love I leave behind.
» And then, there's writing poetry, which is like playing the strings of Frankenstein, an emotion that reduces having sex to a cheap second-hand experience. Novels and poems are organic entities; they grow as they go, like babies come alive as the result of making love. Difficultly, choosing between poetry or prose is like abandoning either your new lover or the wife you've been married with for so many years..."
"Emotions, emotions, emotions... You can't put a number on emotions, Malik. You can't decide which one of two pleasant emotions is the best. The answer is, in fact, extremely simple, and I already know what your choice will be, but I want you to find it out by yourself. Big Question #4 isn't just about prose or poetry. Your metaphor about the wife and the lover is another example. It's about how to choose between two opposites. Socialism or liberalism? Christianity or Islam? Defensive or offensive football? Black, white, or coloured? Male or female? Each one has advantages and disadvantages.
» The best decision tool is the Libra-technique, the scale of justice. Take a piece of paper and divide it in two with a vertical line. On top, you write «Poetry». Then you write the pros on the right side of the sheet and the cons on the left. What are the powerful points of poetry?"
"I like it, I'm good at it, and it gives me a glorious feeling when I can translate a feeling into words."
"What are the minor points of poetry, when you compare it with prose?"
"Not many readers like poetry. Violent action thrillers, for the convenience of the bloodthirsty reader, are much more popular—"
"Which makes it an economic benefit, right? You write prose for the money."
Malik feels insulted: "Certainly, that's not it. When you write for yourself, you keep your writing under your pillow and call it «a diary». When you write for others, you publish and reach as many readers as possible. I may be a prodigious poet and a horrible novel writer, but many people have horrible taste, and the majority always wins."
"If you want more readers, why don't you give your work away for free? Because you are only interested in paying readers? I know that story, Malik. It's called The Copyright Law, a relic from the 18th century to encourage the creation of art and culture by rewarding the authors and artists with a set of exclusive rights. In the 21st century, artists and authors depend on the commercial censorship of a handful of commercial publishing companies that keep most of the turnover. 98% of all authors get nothing but rejection letters, and 98% of the remaining 2% earn less than a minimum wage. The publishing industry is the antagonist in the life story of almost every creative author and artist. You dream of entering the New Joke Times bestseller list, but statistics confirm that 2.499 of every 2.500 manuscripts don't pay off. Fiction is a lie. Buying lottery tickets would be a much better investment."
Malik is truly hurt now: "Statistically, those numbers are for other writers. Not for me. I've dedicated most of my 58 years of life to writing, studying language, and getting better. My manuscript about Khalid El Bullít will be one of this year's best-selling books."
"So the choice between Poetry and Prose is economical? You pick what pays best? For money and honour, we sacrifice art and beauty? Is the answer to Big Question #4 «We choose what gives us the highest financial profit»? Fine, Malik. Write texts for commercials or slogans for happy-birthday cards; they give the highest income per word. What were your arguments on the Poetry-side of your scale?"
"I like to write poetry."
"So you give up what you like, to get something you don't need. You have a strange logic, Malik. Let me clarify this with the other metaphors. When you doubt between your wife and your lover, can't you teach your wife to make love to you as your lover does? When you doubt between political left and right, why don't you choose «forward»? Can't you win the match by playing attractive football? Will the world be a better place when only the white, the black or the coloured race survives? Or will it be better if stop fighting and start learning how to work together? When either male or female wins the battle of the sexes, will humanity survive one more generation? Sometimes, the best choice between Plan A and Plan B is... Plan C."
Malik walks on without saying one letter. Letters blow away in the wind, but when loose letters unite and become words, team up with meaning, charge with emotion, grow with experience, and they turn into lyrics, weapons of truth, strong enough to stop bombs, sharp enough to stab a liar in the back, and literary enough to be never forgotten. Peace. Hope. Love.
I need one final metaphor to help this stubborn writer change his mind forever: "Do we choose between the prose of the Bible and the precious poetry of the Qur'an? Or do we, for once and for always, accept that both contain many important lessons from Allah and make life better for everyone on this planet? Do we need to choose? Or do we combine prose and poetry into the meaning of life?"
Finally, Malik understands. Impressed, he whispers the answer to Big Question #4: "Both. Colossally... With poetic prose, I can show and tell a story. It's so simple..."
Suddenly, he turns around: "I have to go home, to make notes. I need pen and paper, and time, lots of time, to work out this fantastic idea in the second draft of «Noxious Secrets». Poetic prose. Obviously, you don't have to choose between your lover and your wife; a threesome is much more fun."
I stop Malik: "You have a talent for precious writing, and you have a message to tell the world. It's your duty and obligation to tell your story as clear and beautiful as you can, and you might end up rich and famous, but... not now, Malik. We have a mission and I need your help. Before you rewrite your story about Khalid El Bullít, I want to know how the first draft ends, I want to see how Good wins the fight against Evil. I have a gut feeling this will end tonight, at the Gala of Art of the Year, in the ballroom of the Phoenix Hotel Malta."
Malik looks at me, disappointed, frowning: "Apparently, I have to choose. Plan A consists of writing fascinating fiction to warn the world of the biggest criminal in history. Plan B forces me to go with my friend to a party, where deadly danger awaits us, and also a clan of stupid writers who can do nothing but talk about themselves. There's no Plan C. It's either poetic prose, or bore myself to death."
I nod, determined: "Are you afraid?"
Malik looks away. He takes a deep breath. I hit his weak spot.
I put my arm on his shoulder: "It's okay, Malik. You can tell me. I'm your friend."
"Yes. I'm afraid. I'm afraid I don't have enough to say on the topic. I'm afraid I lack the skills to do it right. I'm afraid I'll use poor language, clichés, and confusing metaphors. I'm afraid nobody will be interested. I'm afraid the critics will slice me and my story. I'm afraid that, when I'm finally Number One on the New Joke Times bestseller list, I won't have enough inspiration to write a decent follow-up novel. I'm afraid that I'm, deep down inside, a poet and not a novel writer. I'm terribly afraid that I'll never get the story written, but..."
"But fear is a useless emotion here and you're going to write it anyway. I believe in you, Malik. You've worked hard, suffered and never given up. You're a writer, not a fighter. You have what it takes.", I add.
Somehow, my words seem to have an effect. With a firm look in his eyes, Malik raises his hanging shoulders and says: "In my worst nightmare, nothing matters but small miseries and happinesses. Who would be interested in reading such a story? Evidentially, I have something bigger than my worst nightmare: courage. I believe that a high purpose guides our steps. Allah gave me the talent to write and also the courage to overcome my fears.
» When I write poetry, I'm happy as a pig in deep shit. When I made the switch to writing action novels, fear of the unknown came into my house. Primarily, I didn't understand why so many people like to read about conflict, conflict and more conflict. Is fighting and killing interesting? I never understood the fiction of the Holy Bible, in which people kill their Saviour. I preferred the precious poetry of the Qur'an. But now, finally, I understand: it's all about courage. Most people see change as something dangerous, something they want to avoid for themselves, although they admire it in fictional characters. Life is evolution. Good fiction helps us to learn. Good fiction is about change, about overcoming your fears, about courage. I can write that stupid story, and I will. Fear is a useless emotion here."
"I thought you were afraid of facing Khalid El Bullít tonight."
"Me? Afraid of Khalid? While my friend Sami protects me? Khalid should be afraid of us. It's two against one. I bet he's so afraid he won't show up tonight. Don't you remember what the poets in Lin-Kin Park said? Khalid doesn't like book people. This Gala is packed with book people."
If Malik is wrong and Khalid shows up, I'm afraid we'll get more trouble than we bargained for. But I'm also afraid Malik is right and Khalid won't be there; we'll lose more precious time.
Malik pushes away my worries with interesting information: "Realistically, there's no need to be afraid. Fear is only a lack of knowledge. If you fear the monster in your closet: be brave, open the door, and find out what's inside. Writing is easy. It has only two rules, each with its own logical explanation. If you want others to listen to what you have to say: make it interesting. If you want others to understand what you say: make it clear. The first rule defines the content: add information and emotions. The second rule defines the form: your word choice, the construction of your sentences, and the structure of your story. Both are skills, things you can learn. There's nothing to be afraid of..."
* * *
"I'm afraid I can't help you, Sirs."
"I'm afraid you don't understand."
The salesman looks again at the paper in my hand. It says: "1F Y0U C4N R34D 7H15 3NCRYP73D M355463 Y0U 4R3 4 H16HLY 1N73LL163N7 1N7R0V3R7 WH0 3XC3L5 1N F1NDIN6 50LU710N5 70 PR08L3M5."
It's obvious he doesn't understand. We're wasting time here. I make a gesture to his boss at the back: "Can we have a word, please?"
"Which word? This is a bookstore. We have millions of words.", the boss snaps.
His employee shows him my encrypted message: "It's top-secret, Sir."
I show him my FBI badge: "Forbidden Books Interdiction. We have strong evidence that you're selling copies of bad writing, and also that you have in stock some illegal copies of works, protected by the Copyright Law."
The boss turns red: "You have no right. We only sell works of art."
"With the «art» of «artificial», without any doubt. Take this novel, for instance: «From the Inside», by Ronaldo Siète. Just an example."
I pick up one of the copies from the pile on the table in the centre of the shop, the table where all the best-selling titles cry for attention. I open it and read aloud: "On page 234, it says this: «Our language is too complicated. You can walk a walk, drink a drink or house someone in a house, but you can't tear a tear, sentence a sentence or make a duck duck. Why?» On page 173, it says this: «Grammatical errors should be allowed by editors and publishers. In the real world, nobody speak grammatically correctly. Why don't have writers the same rights as anybody else?» On page 421, I read this: «Every house has a mail box. That's sexist behaviour. Our government should make sure that the number of femail boxes equals the number of mail boxes in our streets.» Is that bad writing or not?"
The employer doesn't know what to say. The boss stammers: "But... That's our best-selling title..."
"Making money isn't an excuse to do whatever you like. Page 375: «There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, nobody knows what they are.» Those words belong to William Somerset Maugham. And the next paragraph says: «Humour is the most significant activity of the human brain.» Those words are owned by the Maltese philosopher Edward de Bono. You're selling stolen property. According to the Copyright Law, it's a capital crime to make money with words that somebody else has already used to make money with. This is a federal offence. What can we do?"
"What can we do?", the employee asks.
"What can we do?", the boss asks.
"We can confiscate your stock, give you a warning, and forget about it. Or..."
No need to explain more. Half a minute later, we leave the bookstore with a bag full of books, which didn't cost us a cent.
* * *
"It's going to cost you."
The girl is smart. I take the twenty euros that we earned from babysitting little Mickey, move it slowly in front of her eyes and smile: "My money is as good as your work. Twenty euros for twenty seconds of work..."
"The Royal Suite only?"
"That's what I said. Can we count on you?"
She grins, snaps the banknote out of my hand, takes the bag of books, and goes inside through the back door. Malik and I walk around the building, slowly, to give the chambermaid enough time to put the books in the suite. We climb the impressive stairs of the Phoenix Hotel Malta and present ourselves with our badges at the reception: "Good afternoon, Miss. We're from the F.B.I., the Filthy Bugs Imprisonment. We're here for a surprise inspection."
"I'm sorry, Sirs. Nobody told me there would be a surprise inspection. Can't you come back later? We have an important meeting coming up, the Gala of Art of the Year, and we don't have time for a surprise inspection right now."
Malik adds authority to our request: "Indisputably, we have to close the hotel if you don't allow us to do our jobs. Antiseptically, there have been complaints about bugs in the Royal Suite on the top floor. Do you prefer a scandal about hygiene?"
The receptionist decides it's time to call the manager. The manager takes complaints seriously: "We can't have a scandal about hygiene, as you can imagine. We'll do everything to be of your assistance. Every room in this hotel is available for inspection. I'll personally come with you. I'm sure this is all some kind of misunderstanding."
But it's not. When we enter the Royal Suite, there are copies of «From the Inside» everywhere. Malik and I, with rubber gloves, open the books and show the manager what's between the pages: "Bookworms. We have to clean this room immediately. These bugs resist everything except chemical warfare."
The horror on the manager's face shows he's read the filthy language on the pages too: "This is... outrageous. You're fully correct, Sirs. By no means does this match the standards of our fine hotel. How can we avoid a scandal?"
Malik and I look around, worried, like B-actors in a Hollywood detective movie: "We can spray the room right now. In 48 hours, it should be clean and operational again. It would mean we can't check the other rooms. This might be a one-room case, but if there are more cases like this, we'll have to close the entire hotel and call for assistance."
The manager doesn't look forward to assistance and closing the hotel: "Don't worry, Sirs. I will personally arrange proper rooms on another floor for the current guests of this Royal Suite. I'll instruct our personnel to check every room and read every page they find, and we'll solve this unhealthy affair in hardly any time. You can count on me. I hope you won't report anything unusual to the local authorities."
"We thank you for your cooperation, Sir. We will personally take care that nobody enters this room until the bugbear has fully disappeared. Does your cooperation include room service and continental breakfast tomorrow morning?"
Funny how some small words can change the way we look at the world. Weapons are power, money is power, but the most influential power in the world is the right word at the right moment.
* * *
Malik looks good in his smoking jacket. At an art gala, it's all about being seen. I don't want to be seen. I want to blend in with the crowd, but how do you do that if every single person in that crowd wants to be seen?
I don't want to give a wrong impression: I like art. I like paintings, from Monet to Salvador Dali, I like music, from Elvis Presley to Beyoncé, I like sculptures, from ancient Greek goddesses to modern perfume bottles, I like the art of films and football, and I like books, both poetry and prose, but I don't like artists. When you're at a gala like this, the only art that matters is the art of selling, yourself above all. Some writers here can't write their name with a stick in the sand on the beach, but they have enough imagination to believe they're the guest of honour at tonight's gala. When they shake hands, they don't look each other in the eye but peek over each other's shoulders to find out if there's someone more important to meet.
I gave Malik an elegant small moustache, hoping the disguise would be sufficient, but not even ten seconds after we enter the ballroom of the hotel, we hear a female voice behind us: "Good night, Mister Querida. Amicably, is it acceptably if I call you Malik? If I'm correctly, you're the author of the bundle «Precious Poetry». Artistically, it's brilliantly. I'm Fatima E. Stowe. Journalistically, I work for MGM, the Maltese Gossip Mill. Interestedly, I have a question for you. Linguistically, the line «My papa was a Rolling Stone» from your poem «Satisfaction», is that poetically about the lack of love your parents gave you? Musically, they forebode you to listen to your favourite Beatles?"
I interrupt: "Sorry Miss. You said one question. That's two already. Mister Malik is the number one author of Malta and he doesn't get paid for this, so, I suggest that, instead of an interview, you entertain your readers with a word game, inventing new anagrams of your name, Fatima E. Stowe, which is, anagrammatically, a waste of time."
Miss Fatima doesn't see a problem; she sees an opportunity: "If this is financially about money... That can be arranged satisfactorily. How about one thousand euros for an exclusively interview of fifteen minutes, right here, right now?" She smiles seductively while she counts twenty banknotes from the pile in her purse.
Malik makes the money disappear and smiles back: "Actually, that poem is about satisfaction. My parents were the best I've ever had."
Miss Fatima takes Malik to the side for the rest of the interview («exclusively» excludes me), while I inspect the perimeter for risks and opportunities. Lately, I've been thinking a lot about Khalid El Bullít. I've even tried to make some kind of profile of him. It's rather amateur, based on unscientific TV fiction, but it might be enough to recognise Khalid before he recognises us.
Khalid is male. According to the looks of his mother and his daughter, he has Arabic roots. Khalid is intelligent; if you're stupid, you can't set up an organization like his and you can't keep yourself hidden for so long. He's also rich; his turnover must be higher than the combined income of several African countries. He has enough to sponsor the local home for elderly people, the local school and who knows what else.
The most important clue came from Malik, who said Malta is like a village. Everybody knows each other. That's why Malik is talking to a journalist, who recognised him as the writer of the book she's just read. If everyone knows everyone, why does nobody know Khalid El Bullít?
Khalid must have a second identity, one that makes it possible for him to walk around like a respected member of the Maltese society. Dorsa said her father was never at home. A businessman? It's possible, but not very likely. Businessmen, the word itself says it, are usually busy with doing business. Khalid leads a global criminal organization. He can't waste time, upholding a legal business, an office, employees, and clients.
Malik uses animated gestures to explain the preciousness of his poetry to Miss Fatima. Khalid could easily be a writer: nobody would ask questions, he would work alone, and if he didn't produce a new novel every year, writer's block would be an acceptable excuse. But the young poets in the park said Khalid hates book people. It has to be something else.
To kill the time and the empty feeling in my stomach, I walk to the buffet at the other end of the ballroom and scan the scaffold of scantiness to feed the scandalmongers: lobster, caviar, truffles, sushi, smoked quail's eggs, oysters, pineapple pie and baklava, all free, as much as you can eat. The Maltese art industry can afford so much luxury at their yearly gala, thanks to the writers who earn so little.
Some of the success stories on top of the food chain are entertaining each other with an animated conversation. The topic is, of course: themselves.
"Mine is the largest."
"Mine is the thickets."
"Mine is the sweetest."
"Mine is the most popular with the ladies."
"Mine has been the Number One most weeks."
"Mine has made more money than anyone else's."
They're not talking about their dicks, but about their latest novels, of course. This is a place of art and inspiration. It is here where strange faces meet, where creative energy comes from, where the well of imagination turns into expression, where life becomes precious poetry, where love grows towards a romantic novel, and where the lack of rules gives birth to violent action thrillers.
Some people here are different. Some people here are authentic artists, creative and successful, like the man in the dinner jacket next to me who's looking for some high-quality conversation.
"How is it going?", I ask him.
His smile is wider than a frog's: "Fantastic. I gave up writing romance novels and now I sell kisses to women."
"Does that work? Most women can get as many kisses as they want, for free.", I wonder.
"But there are also many women who haven't been kissed for a long time and they're happy to pay me 500 euros for a kiss. Thanks to my outstanding network, I'm never without work. If you happen to find women who are willing to pay my price, I'll give you fifty percent of my turnover."
"Do you give me 250 euros for every woman I can convince to kiss you?"
"No, I pay your fee in kisses, to your wife, so she can pass them along to you."
Writers don't do anything useful. Writers see themselves as l'ombelico del mondo, the navel of the world, for just putting on paper what other people make happen. And some of them make lots of money with that. Fatima, the journalist, just paid Malik 1.000 euros for some information, and her newspaper will earn it back, thanks to the curiosity of their readers.
I wouldn't be a good spy with a degree in Economy if this didn't raise my suspicion. I see at least twenty waiters serving champagne and other expensive drinks. The Royal Suite costs over 500 euros per night; how much would this ballroom cost? Malik said they sent him two invitations; there's no entrance fee for the... (900? 1.000?) guests. There is no banner with the name of a big multinational company or some other sponsor. Somebody has to pay for all this.
I go back to the entrance where I find a program for tonight: the show is organized by the Magnificent Association of Literary Textual Art. Quickly, I search the Internet for more info about the organization. It's a foundation to encourage the creation of art and culture by rewarding the authors and artists with a set of exclusive benefits, from a free pen and notebook for school children, via free courses of creative writing, up to the possibility of free food and lodging for starting writers in a writer's colony, The Cradle. They even grant scholarship-like donations to support promising writers during the time they need to write their masterpieces. It's impressive to see how money can be used to create art, but I'm more interested in the art that's been used to make that money.
On the website of the association, there's no information about the total budget or where it comes from. All I can find is the name of the President: Mister Frederick Fitzrumbold IV. According to further investigation, Frederick belongs to one of the ancient noble Anglo-Saxon families of Malta, whose roots go back as far as the days of the Maltese Knights. There isn't much private information about the man. He's almost as big an enigma as...
Frederick Fitzrumbold IV doesn't work. Nobody knows where his money comes from, but apparently, he has enough of it to sponsor an expensive event like this yearly art gala and donate to encourage creative writing. He has a perfect social disguise for criminal activities. But... Khalid hates book people. Why would he be the President of a national organization that encourages writing? And Khalid is Arab, not Anglo-Saxon. They can't be the same man. Can they?
"Ladies and gentlemen. I would like to ask for your attention and hope for a warm applause for our next speaker, the President of the Magnificent Association of Literary Textual Art: Mister Frederick Fitzrumbold IV..."
I look at my program: at 22:00, it's time to present the winners of the yearly awards. Frederick Fitzrumbold IV asks for silence: "Dearly beloved lovers of art and literature. Before we present the winners in each category, I have special and also excellent news. The biggest honour anyone can receive in the literary world, right after the Nobel Prize for Literature, is the Maltese Cross, the medal of honour that our association awards, once every ten years, to a work of art with exceptional qualities."
The crowd falls silent. I have no idea about the value of the Maltese Cross, but I'm the only one in this ballroom; all the others are in awe of the moment, and hope to be called forward.
"As the president of M.A.L.T.A., it is my pleasure to announce the decision of the high council of our association to award the Maltese Cross to a work that was described by our jurors as... No. I will not repeat what the jurors thought. I will read aloud three poems of this precious work of art, so you can judge for yourself if this deserves the highest Maltese literary prize or not. The first poem, about love for financial fortune, is called: «Satisfaction»:
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..."
An elderly woman next to me takes a handkerchief from her purse and pinks a tear away.
"The next poem, about love for cooking, is 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..."
Deep sighs everywhere. The mass is moved massively, but doesn't dare to disturb the magic moment.
"This third and last poem, winner of the silver medal for Poetry In Motion during the latest European Games, is about love itself. It's called «The Dream»:
In the dream, she was right here with me
Right here with me in the bed
She said: «Baby, come and kiss me»
«Never leave me!» was what she said
Then when I reached out to hold her
I woke my wife instead.
» Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the Maltese Cross is... the bundle «Precious Poetry»!"
The applause is deafening. On the other side of the ballroom, a woman shouts: "He's here. Malik Querida is here. The writer of «Precious Poetry» just gave an exclusive interview to the readers of the Maltese Gossip Mill. Read all about it for just two euro fifty."
Frederick Fitzrumbold IV stretches his hand out to Malik, whose face has lost five tones of colour. He didn't expect this.
I shout as loud as I can to warn Malik: "Don't go, Malik. It's a trap. He'll kill you as soon as you step on that stage."
Malik doesn't hear me. Malik doesn't hear anything, not the applause, not the cheers of the crowd, not Frederick, who repeats his invitation to the author of «Precious Poetry» to come on stage. He's in a trance. He lets himself be pushed forward by the public, not paying attention to me, not aware I'm being pushed away, making it impossible for me to protect him. Everybody wants to touch him, take a selfie with him, shake his hand, congratulate him, tell him they knew it all along, that they've read his bundle and were moved by its beauty.
I can't come close. I can't see what's happening. All I can do is wait, wait for that fatal moment, that gunshot, then the screaming, the running of people trying to get away from the danger, bumping into other people who want to come as close as possible to see what happened. There's nothing I can do. I try to move. Malik and his art-apostles crowd towards the stairs on the left side of the stage. I inch to the other side, the right side, to get at least the chance to climb on the stage and body-check Fitzrumbold when he puts his hand in his pocket to draw his deadly gun. I'm too late. Malik is already on the stairs, already on the stage, walking towards Frederick with his hand stretched out to meet Frederick's right hand while Frederick's left hand disappears under his jacket, to his shoulder holster with his loaded gun, to give Malik's story the bloody end, promised in his manuscript. I shout, but nobody hears me. I wrestle through the crowd, but they don't let me pass. I want to close my eyes, I don't want to see it happen, but I can't, I have to look, like all the others present, to see how Frederick shakes Malik's hand while his other hand leaves his jacket and, under the eyes of at least a thousand enthusiastic art-lovers, emerges... the golden Maltese Cross for special art-chievements of the M.A.L.T.A., the Magnificent Association for Literary Textual Art. Frederick Fitzrumbold IV hangs it around Malik's neck and poor Malik stands there, shaken, not stirred, and doesn't know what to say. The crowd loves it.
With the dying applause, Malik emerges into the crowd, to receive congratulations from all his new best friends. The show must go on. Frederick announces the first winner of the long list of last year's prizes: "In the category «most trendy topic on asocial media», the first prize goes to... Miss S.M. James for her novel «Fifty Shades of Bluebeard»."