4 p.m. The repeated ringing of the bell pulls me from my dreams.
In pajamas, I open the door. The surprised look on the delivery man’s face reminds me of the gap between this world and the other. He hands me a package and something to sign. I scribble my signature and close the door.
I look at the parcel—quite large—with a small card.
…My Brother, many thanks for Florenska, your old Droog*, the phoenix of the Balkans…
A smile spreads across my face. I thought he was dead! The press had announced it.
This story is improbable. I had seen the photo of his body riddled with bullets.
Perplexed, I open the package…
A beautiful wooden box with the famous PP* logo.
Excited, I lift the lid…
That madman!
Platinum and rubies shine with a thousand sparks. It’s magnificent. Nautilus.
Nothing is accidental in his choice. Impossible coming from him…
first cut his teeth writing for fanzines devoted to English subcultures, under various pseudonyms. Collections of poems followed in the same format, still under assumed names. A traveler for eternity, he roams the world, brushing up against the gray zones of existence, observing it with a cup of coffee in hand, from one bout of insomnia to the next, distilling raw life into silk sheets…
Barely outside. The sound of police sirens pulls us out of our Louis XIV–inspired drunkenness. In the distance, heading toward the station, cars riddled with bullets. It’s hard to make out, a police cordon, what look like bodies on the ground. I try to get closer to see better. It does look like Mr. Kral’s Stone* lying there.
