The Book

By Tanley Milet

When you feel a kind of discomfort in your body, it is not always serves as a proof of a physical illness. It can be a sign of your inner voice to come forward. The sign of You who is ready to see more than you think you know. It is a sign that you have far more questions about you than answers. It is a sign that you would like to have your own answers. That is what happened with Richard in the beginning of The Book. The story is a bit of mine, a bit of his and a bit of ours. So let's see more!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publishdrive
• Release date: Apr 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9789631288827

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Introduction

When I was a child I used to do many things at the same time. Similarly to my adulthood – this may be the reason why I cannot/could not see the wood for the trees. Even as I am writing it I am already wondering what it means to me the wood for the trees. What could a single tree possibly block out? I cannot see the wood as a whole anyway; and if it’s thick, I wouldn’t think that a single tree would be the cause of my lack of clear-sightedness. It is also possible that I am focusing my attention on a single thing so much – my face is so close to that single tree – that I do not realize, I can actually see the wood much clearer than I think.

I just cannot feel the essence of this saying – I could say I am lost in the wood...

There is too much noise nowadays. You have your hands full if you want to do a lot of things, there is no break and you easily become fragmented. You have to make an effort to focus on what is really important, and let go of things that are not.

I have always loved and appreciated silence. The quiet outside and within, the calmness in the clatter.

I wrote this book to confirm you can trust strangers, that you should let go of the reins more often, that I can see the wood for the trees and to demonstrate to myself that order exists around us.

Dear Reader,

I would like to give you this story, that you are probably going to read on your own – I am very happy that we are going to spend some quiet moments together.

An important truth

All encounters in life are meaningful. Every piece of land you set your foot on will hold your unique imprint and will prepare your next one. You can return anytime anywhere. The faces will know you, will look forward to you. If you are courageous, help will always appear where you need it. Knots will loosen and every moment will be pregnant with the potential that you realize what great knowledge you hold and the possibility to find your way back to yourself, to be who you really are.

Are you up for the adventure?

Why?

’Why is this happening? Why like this?’ I am muttering to myself, lying in my bed, alone. I’m surrounded by everything that men could have wished for fifty years ago, or just the day before. My rented New York room is cast in gloom, the evening has descended outside. I can hear the noises of the passing cars from far as the window is opened a crack. The curtain shivers in the breeze, lights filter through from all directions as I am lying, a glass of whiskey in hand. The first three glasses usually take no effect. I’m staring at the ceiling blankly, aware of the incomprehensible world buzzing around me. I am successful, I can do whatever I want, but something is not right. This is not what was promised to that boy when he was little, this is not what the voices said, this is not what I promised myself. Piling up objects and papers was never on the menu. I promised magic and miracles, just like the surrounding world was back then. I am staring at the ceiling, feeling hollow and indifferent.

I travel a lot, owing to my work, mostly on business. I got back from a pleasant dinner a few hours ago, that I spent with a business partner I hadn’t seen in a while. The mood was cordial, we talked at ease about all business and private issues of importance that had happened to us in the preceding three months. Although we do not see each other frequently, we usually pick up the line of conversation where we left off months before.

’I am successful,’ I am trying to assure myself, in case it brings some pleasure to my evening. Finally, the alcohol takes effect and the sedating weariness washes over me, I close my eyes and the next moment the doorbell wakes me and jerks me out of my half-sleep. I look for the light switch groggily, trying to pull myself together, and get up sluggishly from bed, lumber over to the door where I am surprised to see the porter with a package in his hands. I glance at my watch, it is half past twelve in the night. I become angry:

’Why do you ring so late?!’ I snarl at the young man, waiting evidently humbly.

’I was told to look you up tonight,’ he replies with a tempered voice.

’Who?’ I continue indignant and surprised.

’I think your business partner.’

’You think?’ I ask puzzled with a goon face.

’He was in a hurry, wore a coat and the hood was in his eyes, I recognized him more from his voice,’ he continued still in a quiet and slightly unbelievable tone. As if he himself was asking rather than stating it. I let out a sigh. By the time I open the door, my anger is gone, I take the package – it is hardly bigger than an average sized book – and try to thank him for his trouble, with not much success.

’I am sorry for being such a jerk, I was just about to go to sleep,’ I mumble with squinting eyes to the porter in the direction of the bright corridor.

’That’s all right, don’t apologize, I understand. Let’s say, I don’t believe a word from you,’ and he winks at me.

’Well, thank you then,’ I whisper and close the door on me.

’What could it be, that Tom, just a few hours ago, could not give me at the dinner?’ I am fretting again, to myself, as I flick the package on the floor by the bed. I couldn’t care less right now, it can wait till the morning. I take off my robe and go back to bed, and I continue the night where I left off – except for the disturbing thoughts that, looking back, sound a bit ridiculous, and the gloomy mood attached to them. When I close my eyes the room feels very distant, as if even the closest piece of furniture was hundreds of meters away, as if space expanded. I fall asleep soon with this image. It is dawn when I next open my eyes, I squint at the clock out of reflex. I still have time.

I take a hot shower, my mind is rested, so it can start ticking again. Thousands of thoughts swirl in my head about business, income, expenditures, important decisions, meetings. Meetings with women, who I cannot understand and meetings with men who are too easily fathomed. I am not a nice person, that’s a fact, but I try to avoid offending people uncalled for. I am the lone ranger type, misantrophic and suspicious these days. My business partner and friend is the only person I trust blindly, I have known him since I was sixteen. He is punctual, trustworthy, does not prattle, we can finish each other’s sentences and we both strive for the same thing: success. I am drying my hair as I step out from the bathroom and the package catches my eye. Suddenly I recall the last moments of the night and the uncomfortable questions I posed myself. I brush them off quickly, they do not serve the purpose of my day, only hinder me. I learned in all the years how to focus on a single thing – be it a project that needs to take shape or the gym – I hold on for a few hours instead of scattering my attention everywhere after two minutes. This scattering guarantees total failure. As if I didn’t use the building bricks to put together a house but I would just throw them in a pile in any which way. I exclude all side thoughts, doubts to hack the way for the plans that need to be implemented, and I erect a brick fence along the road and I know that all idle thoughts, even if only seemingly idle, can wait. I look at the package, only my first name is on it: Richy. No address, no sender. Tom calls me that, when it’s something really important. This is kind of a secret code between us, Tommy and Richy. When we negotiate and one of us calls the other like this, we instantly know in which direction we should shepherd the meeting. When the tipping point is close, then we warn each other. You can never be too cautious. Knowing this, the package starts to trouble me and I don’t like the way this day begins.

I remember my mother and her superstition about getting up on the wrong side of the bed. I hate superstitions, predestinied days, they induce an aversion in me. Despite the fact that I planned to do this last, I start removing the brown packaging from the book, because everything points to it being a book. I manage to take off the last piece of wrapping, but this is not really a book. It resembles a diary, the type that must have been produced about 500 years ago. The thick, old, pungent pages run blank. As I flip through the book, dark brown on the outside with a hint of gilt on the edges, I immediately notice something. The first page is not blank after all, I found a few lines there, a poem, seemingly. I snicker as the last time I read a poem was in elementary school, and then only because I had to, it was painfully difficult for me. The world of literature is alien to me, even if I hold the actual works of different authors in my hand. The majority of scripts are too honest, too much to the point, and I run from deep truths. They do not interest me, rather scare me and push me far from who I am: a strong man, who is in control of his own fate and calculates every day clearly. It draws my attention so I start to read the following four lines in the diary:

Take the thing that you have got,

If it's there then do not doubt,

One amongst the many rules,

Be prepared and don't be fool."

I am laughing out loud now. I really like it, especially because it makes no sense at all. Those films come to mind where the life of the protagonist changes in a moment as a result of some extreme external impact. What nonsense, what a morning! What has got into my friend Tom? I get dressed shaking my head, but with a grin on my face, getting ready for the real daily fights that I engage the street, work, the café and other people in. While getting ready, for some reason, I slide the strange diary, that I already named smelly brownie in my head, into may laptop case, in case it’s some stupid test whether I have it on me. I step out the door, call the elevator and, again, I have to wait at least a minute for it to arrive. Madness begins.

How much would this cost in my hourly rate? – I start thinking and calculating, but I don’t get angry yet. It finally arrives. I get in, press the button for the ground floor and I await the strange faces that are all my enemies, because they will all stop the elevator to get in, stealing my precious time. The first contestant is already in, grinning stupidly at me, as if he had to. He is already in his biking helmet, even though there is no bike in sight – how pathetic. My lips only curl just perceptibly, but downwards. It doesn’t even matter whether they are men or women, they just keep coming. I need a private elevator. We get to the ground floor, and luckily today it doesn’t stink too badly as it normally does. There are those unlucky days, when my stomach turns in the elevator already, I can hardly stand the smell of other people. Especially the meat eaters and those eating all that rubbish for food smell bad, I have a very sensitive nose for that. The taxi is waiting for me by the door, I glance in the direction of the porter and wink at him, he waves in response, but doesn’t even try to greet me otherwise, he knows too well I have no time to exchange pleasantries. I always give him a tip, he knows exactly what to do. I am glad I did not land with a moron this morning, who no matter how I try to ask for a taxi, does not understand what I want, even though he speaks the language.

Claire

She occupies the room and makes herself at home. She didn’t travel long, she feels refreshed. She folds the clothes neatly into the wardrobe, checks her emails one more time. When she sees there is no new mail in her inbox, she checks her reflection in the mirror, it looks back with a smile, then she leaves to discover the city. She has an important meeting in Rome.

She cannot carry out the plan on her own, she needs help. She has no idea how the meeting will go, has no intuition about it, so just pushes these thoughts away. She would rather enjoy the late summer, the scents, the people, and the city. She wants to be wholly present in the moment, in body and soul. On stepping out on the street, the light flashes in her eyes, she waits for a few seconds until her eyes get used to the radiant world, reflecting the rays of the Sun.

’Fantastic,’ she says smiling, then she turns right. Through the people, out on the big square, through it, along a narrow street, towards her favourite marketplace. She halts at the mouth of the narrow street because she finds something extraordinary on the other side. A woman, wearing a long white silky garment, stands stock-still, unwavering – just one of the local sights, but still, it’s angelic. Her face is painted white and a strange energy surrounds her that catches the eye, and arrests Claire as well. Self-control comes to mind. You need huge self-control to stand still for minutes and not blink, scratch your arm, or shoulder or react to the outside world. After a while a small boy steps up to the ’angel’ and gives her a tip, then the woman moves unexpectedly, she bows and presents the small boy with a short message. Then she looks over at Claire on the other side of the street, they study each other as old acquaintances. Something begins to flow between them, the same that you can instantly feel around your stomach and heart when something really great or bad happens. She is sure the woman can see more in her than most people who she has met in her entire life so far or even her closest friends are capable of. The angelic figure makes a slight bow and waves to her. Her motions are artistic, graceful, and inspired. They say it all, a thousand messages condensed into a single gesture, like don’t worry, I love you, I know you, I embrace you, I let you go, I’ll find you and respect you. This moment is eternal. They are now one. Then the ’angel’ freezes over to become a statue again, and Claire sets out smiling, bliss flooding her whole self. This incident gave her quite a thrill. The brief encounter was all there was to the two of them, but still, it mattered. Often these encounters matter more than those carefully planned and prepared ones. Spontaneous, true, and honest encounters lasting only a few minutes may have deep determining effect lasting a lifetime, they can live on as plastic, living memories. The messages, the experience will conform to the beholder of the memory – the person – to gain life and remind. Her destination is close. The market, a delicious coffee and the statue that lives in the middle of the square, although people tend to think of it as an immobile memory. But it’s not, that’s wrong. It’s still there, it couldn’t be burnt, wiped out or smashed down. It still haunts its assassins, who want to escape his blazing eyes, but the figure holds them back. It has an eerie presence. Claire has never in her life seen a statue with such a profound effect on her. She sits down by a small table in the garden of a charming café, orders a coffee, and strikes up a ’conversation’ with the statue, Giordano Bruno. That power, that sheer force fascinates her deeply.

’Why are you here?’ asks the statue.

’Because I like being here, your presence has a powerful effect on me. I always discover important truths in your company. There is an urgent matter I need to attend to, I have to meet a certain person.’

’Few people believe in the life of the inanimate. Besides, you are fully aware that you are talking to a statue,’ says Giordano Bruno grinning, in a slightly sardonic tone.

’That’s the way it is,’ Claire replies comfortably then takes a sip of her excellent coffee and carries on the conversation. It is stricly their exclusive discussion in the air, carried on secret wavelengths that no radio can detect. It is similar when two people who are far away think of each other at the exact same moment.

Time disappears, she has no idea how long she has lingered on the square, but her inner clock reminds her it is time to leave. It is the end of August, blooming summer, Rome is marvelous in this season, too. The trip back tires her, she doesn’t feel like walking and becomes irritable on the way. When she finally enters the foyer she directs her steps toward the elevator gladly. A man arrives, hastily steps in front of Claire, who is checking her mail on her phone. The man tries to sidestep hurriedly but pushes her slightly. She drops the phone that, admittedly, she wasn’t holding onto very strongly anyway. They both bend down to retrieve it at the same time, the man out of courtesy, Claire indignantly. She doesn’t care much for inattentive, flustered people and she is also tired and impatient. The stranger looks at

Reviews for The Book

[Zsofi Ocsai · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A balanced mixture of action and philosophy make The Book an engaging read. Also directs your attention to questions you tend to forget about in your everyday life, but doesn't force the answers on you - but makes you think. I enjoyed it.