I can’t believe
will be in town this Friday…and I won’t [insert massive amounts of expletives] be here!
How, HOW, could the universe do this to me? One of my favorite authors, the man whose books have inspired my own Spanish novels, will be in town while I’m off visiting my mom and aunts in the central valley – over six hours away. I’ve tried to think of all the ways I could see Zafón and get to mom’s place in time, but it just can’t happen.
Aargh! This is indeed terrible, but thus is fate. I will have to accept it.
But, that doesn’t keep me from my grandiose delusions…I imagine a meeting between he and I would go something like this:
“Hola, Senor Zafón. I’m a huge fan of your work. I have fallen in love with all your words, even the ones I don’t understand.” I hand him my dog-eared copy of The Shadow of the Wind and The Angel’s Game, and my newly purchased The Prisoner of Heaven along with my left (writing) arm for him to sign.
Zafón chuckles, and signs my books with a hasty flourish. He takes out a special pen from his breast pocket, its nib diamond sharp, and begins to carve into my arm. I grimace and a bead of sweat forms at my temple, but I hold him fast with my desperate stare.
With a twinkle in his eye, he says, “You’re a writer, no? I can tell. For those who know the signs, the disease is plain on your face and breath.”
He continues to write on my arm. Drops of blood course down to the table, but he catches them with the pages of my books, the dry paper sucking the dark liquid as if it couldn’t get enough. I can’t make out the words he has written, yet, but I stammer out a reply to distract myself from the pain.
“I only write a little. It’s…a hobby of mine. Nothing more.”
Him diamond pen bites harder into my flesh and I whimper.
“Don’t be stupid,” he says. “Write as if your life depended on it.” He pushes me away and yells, “Next!”
Okay. So, maybe that’s a little on the warped side of delusional, but that’s what came to mind just now. I’m sure reality would have me utter a too-loud, one word greeting. He’d ask me to whom to dedicate the books to and I’d forget to tell him the right name to use (I have many). I’d then shuffle out of his life, a minor nuisance easily discarded. (sigh)
Anyway, if you happen to be in Santa Rosa, CA on the evening of Friday, the 13th (wicked day, oh my), check out Copperfield Books and meet the man behind The Shadow of the Wind and The Angel’s Game. He’ll be in town to promote his new book, The Prisoner of Heaven.
The chronicles tell us that when the maker of labyrinths reached Barcelona on board a vessel hailing from the East, he already carried with him the germ of a curse that was to stain the city’s skies with fire and blood. ~ First line from The Rose of Fire, a short story by Carlos Luis Zafón
- The Prisoner of Heaven by Carlos Ruiz Zafón – review (guardian.co.uk)
- Carlos Ruiz Zafón: ‘I’m haunted by the history of my city’ (3quarksdaily.com)