‘Since I turned sixty, I’m not afraid anymore. For what should I be afraid of? What is still there that is worth the dread of loosing it? I learned to live in peace with all that needs to leave or perish or die out. And now I’m afraid again. But I’m not afraid for myself. I’m afraid for someone I am responsible for. Not for the waiter, not for the fat family, and not for the lady with the head like a bullet... there, in the corner with the saddest child..’
He points at the woman whose head resembles a bullet, and sips from his coffee.
‘But I’m afraid for you.’
The girl doesn’t know what to say. She sets her t-shirt right, regretting that she put on such a deeply cloven top this morning. Is he blackmailing her? She agreed on having coffee with him because it would not have been strategic to say no to her creative writing professor after she sent him to hell and far beyond, drunk at the party of the literature department, when he invited her to his flat to discuss her grade.
‘What are you afraid of?’ she asks, staring at the fat family at the neighboring table: the father just refused to offer ice cream and sympathy for his only child who is now making up his mind to have another nervous breakdown – the third today and it’s only three in the afternoon. For he is young, he doesn’t mind: he still has plenty of nerves to break down. The mother is good, non-judgmental; too busy with her heavy breathing.
The professor raises his eyebrows, he is not here to share the attention of the girl with some side characters and the fat father takes a fifty euros note out of his wallet, leaves it on the table and walks away abruptly. His folks follow him with marble eyes and no discussion. Thirty euros tip is enormous but so is the family, the waiter thinks and smiles goodbye.
‘As you might know, having read all my books and attended my seminars, that I’m not one of those idiots who talks about conspiracy theories, like the Tel Aviv, London, New York plot or the nine eleven folklore. What I’m talking about is true, relevant and terrifying. And above all, it can be proven. When could you really relax for the last time?’
‘I don’t remember,’ the girl says and sets her T-shirt even righter.
She sits right and talks the truth: she doesn’t remember. There is always something to worry about. She dries her sweaty palms on her jeans and looks around, hoping for the waiter. But there is no movement in the whole venue whatsoever, and the place looks smaller than before. Where is the bullet lady with the sad infant? And the old Moroccan guy and the deaf toy speculator? She didn’t see them leaving.
‘You might think that this nervousness is in your nature’, the professor continues. ‘But what if someone is keeping you insecure? You are about to graduate, you look at the job sites and there are hardly any ads apart from non-paid internships. You think that there are no jobs on the market. But what if there are no ads because someone is hiding them from you?’
The girl is sitting hunched up, staring at her thumb that is drawing circles on the napkin. A bystander couldn’t tell if she is listening or not, but the professor knows that she is listening. He must be right, for who could know it better?
‘What if someone wants you to feel anxious and uses all the tools he has to keep you feel insecure? And what if he has all the possible tools? You believe that the financial crisis is actually happening. But what if someone invented it to make you feel more worried? What if the economy is going very well? What if the environment never felt better? You take the climate change for granted, and the elections in Iran...
‘What about the elections in Iran?’
‘It’s not true.’ The professor whispers. ‘It didn’t happen.’
‘What didn’t happen?’
‘Iran didn’t happen.’
The girl shakes her head and makes a numb attempt to laugh. The professor looks around and sees exactly that he wants to see: no one. He is still whispering, for the effect rather than for any reasonable reason.
‘And do you remember that last month your boyfriend broke up with you after a fight over biscuits and blowjobs?’
‘Of course I remember.’ The girl rubs her forehead. ‘But how the hell do you know about it? Did someone from the class...?'
‘It didn’t happen.’
‘What didn’t happen?’
‘You didn’t break up, because you had no one to break up with. You haven’t had a relationship for years. There was no boyfriend.’
‘God. You are crazy.’
‘Are we becoming personal here, is that what’s happening? Do you think I am crazy? What if you are crazy? Do you want to go crazy?’
‘Leave me alone. Please. Just leave me alone.’
The girl tries to stand up but the professor grabs her wrist.
‘Last Saturday. You were rather impolite if I may say.'
‘You know what, you miserable, horny old fuck?’ the girl’s eyes widen and her voice is now high pitched. It sounds like a sheep in labor, the professor notes down as the girl goes on ‘You go and fuck yourself and leave me alone...’
The voice dies out.
'You look pale.' The professor says gently. 'Do you feel rather unstable lately?'
The girl shakes her head almost invisibly.
'Let me go.'
'Do you feel sometimes that it would be nice to fall asleep and not wake up?'
'Cut the crap, please..' Her voice is begging.
'I will cut the crap, dear.' The professor nods. 'It's time to cut the crap. I tell you the truth why I'm here.'
The girl looks up, and there is a hint of hope in the red eyes: was this scene just some crazy writing experiment? And the professor says:
'I'm the messiah, sent to you by the God of writing.' He chuckles and winks and then he stays silent for a second. The girl is speechless for what could be said to such nonsense?
'And I was sent here to tell you that you will never be a writer. You will never be a writer because you don't even have a story yourself. Once I thought you were worth a story, once I had big plans with you – but you made me change my mind. You didn't live up to my expectations. You disappointed me. I was fooled by my instinct: you are not worth mentioning. You are expelled, dear.'
The professor lets go of her wrist and the girl doesn’t try to stand up.
‘What a sorrowful end after such a promising beginning.’ The professor finishes the last sentence, pays for his coffee and leaves the girl with eyes wide open in the cafe, frozen for eternity in such a nasty surprise.
He points at the woman whose head resembles a bullet, and sips from his coffee.
‘But I’m afraid for you.’
The girl doesn’t know what to say. She sets her t-shirt right, regretting that she put on such a deeply cloven top this morning. Is he blackmailing her? She agreed on having coffee with him because it would not have been strategic to say no to her creative writing professor after she sent him to hell and far beyond, drunk at the party of the literature department, when he invited her to his flat to discuss her grade.
‘What are you afraid of?’ she asks, staring at the fat family at the neighboring table: the father just refused to offer ice cream and sympathy for his only child who is now making up his mind to have another nervous breakdown – the third today and it’s only three in the afternoon. For he is young, he doesn’t mind: he still has plenty of nerves to break down. The mother is good, non-judgmental; too busy with her heavy breathing.
The professor raises his eyebrows, he is not here to share the attention of the girl with some side characters and the fat father takes a fifty euros note out of his wallet, leaves it on the table and walks away abruptly. His folks follow him with marble eyes and no discussion. Thirty euros tip is enormous but so is the family, the waiter thinks and smiles goodbye.
‘As you might know, having read all my books and attended my seminars, that I’m not one of those idiots who talks about conspiracy theories, like the Tel Aviv, London, New York plot or the nine eleven folklore. What I’m talking about is true, relevant and terrifying. And above all, it can be proven. When could you really relax for the last time?’
‘I don’t remember,’ the girl says and sets her T-shirt even righter.
She sits right and talks the truth: she doesn’t remember. There is always something to worry about. She dries her sweaty palms on her jeans and looks around, hoping for the waiter. But there is no movement in the whole venue whatsoever, and the place looks smaller than before. Where is the bullet lady with the sad infant? And the old Moroccan guy and the deaf toy speculator? She didn’t see them leaving.
‘You might think that this nervousness is in your nature’, the professor continues. ‘But what if someone is keeping you insecure? You are about to graduate, you look at the job sites and there are hardly any ads apart from non-paid internships. You think that there are no jobs on the market. But what if there are no ads because someone is hiding them from you?’
The girl is sitting hunched up, staring at her thumb that is drawing circles on the napkin. A bystander couldn’t tell if she is listening or not, but the professor knows that she is listening. He must be right, for who could know it better?
‘What if someone wants you to feel anxious and uses all the tools he has to keep you feel insecure? And what if he has all the possible tools? You believe that the financial crisis is actually happening. But what if someone invented it to make you feel more worried? What if the economy is going very well? What if the environment never felt better? You take the climate change for granted, and the elections in Iran...
‘What about the elections in Iran?’
‘It’s not true.’ The professor whispers. ‘It didn’t happen.’
‘What didn’t happen?’
‘Iran didn’t happen.’
The girl shakes her head and makes a numb attempt to laugh. The professor looks around and sees exactly that he wants to see: no one. He is still whispering, for the effect rather than for any reasonable reason.
‘And do you remember that last month your boyfriend broke up with you after a fight over biscuits and blowjobs?’
‘Of course I remember.’ The girl rubs her forehead. ‘But how the hell do you know about it? Did someone from the class...?'
‘It didn’t happen.’
‘What didn’t happen?’
‘You didn’t break up, because you had no one to break up with. You haven’t had a relationship for years. There was no boyfriend.’
‘God. You are crazy.’
‘Are we becoming personal here, is that what’s happening? Do you think I am crazy? What if you are crazy? Do you want to go crazy?’
‘Leave me alone. Please. Just leave me alone.’
The girl tries to stand up but the professor grabs her wrist.
‘Last Saturday. You were rather impolite if I may say.'
‘You know what, you miserable, horny old fuck?’ the girl’s eyes widen and her voice is now high pitched. It sounds like a sheep in labor, the professor notes down as the girl goes on ‘You go and fuck yourself and leave me alone...’
The voice dies out.
'You look pale.' The professor says gently. 'Do you feel rather unstable lately?'
The girl shakes her head almost invisibly.
'Let me go.'
'Do you feel sometimes that it would be nice to fall asleep and not wake up?'
'Cut the crap, please..' Her voice is begging.
'I will cut the crap, dear.' The professor nods. 'It's time to cut the crap. I tell you the truth why I'm here.'
The girl looks up, and there is a hint of hope in the red eyes: was this scene just some crazy writing experiment? And the professor says:
'I'm the messiah, sent to you by the God of writing.' He chuckles and winks and then he stays silent for a second. The girl is speechless for what could be said to such nonsense?
'And I was sent here to tell you that you will never be a writer. You will never be a writer because you don't even have a story yourself. Once I thought you were worth a story, once I had big plans with you – but you made me change my mind. You didn't live up to my expectations. You disappointed me. I was fooled by my instinct: you are not worth mentioning. You are expelled, dear.'
The professor lets go of her wrist and the girl doesn’t try to stand up.
‘What a sorrowful end after such a promising beginning.’ The professor finishes the last sentence, pays for his coffee and leaves the girl with eyes wide open in the cafe, frozen for eternity in such a nasty surprise.
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