Miss.Direction

By Siona Morgan

A chance meeting entangles the lives of three people as Destiny’s hand strikes to determine their fates in a gripping tale of a harrowing past, bitter lies, and shocking revelations.
Cara, an immigrant, arrives in the United States like several others, to chase the American Dream only to find her hopes dashed against the shores of the promised land as reality shatters the mirror of all illusions.
Alex's fledging aspirations of becoming a writer soon find its promise in Cara, an aspiring documentary director. Allured by his charms, Cara slowly lets down her guard until her old roommate Billy turns up.
In what follows is a shocking turn of events, Cara, Alex, and Billy find their fates tied together by a common thread as they come to grips with their past while a harrowing revelation looms over their present seeking to turn the tide on their connections.
Does Cara realize her aspirations and find her soulmate in Alex, or does Billy's arrival in their lives speak of a startling secret that seeks to offset everything?
Read Miss Direction to find out.
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• Language: English
• Publisher: Siona Morgan
• Release date: Sep 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005567637

Siona Morgan

A native of Romania, Siona Morgan immigrated to the United States before settling in Sweden, where she now works as an illustrator and is pursuing her goal of becoming a full-time writer.Siona lucked out with a love of literature. She read and was inspired by the fantastic worlds of Gaiman, Murakami and many others, including that of her father, who is quite a well-known author himself. To follow in his footsteps, she decided to write a novel that reflected her unique perspective as an immigrant and told her story as a tribute to all the other stories buried beneath the endless clamor of voices on the edge of the American promise.In addition to her debut novel, Siona is also working on a Dungeons and Dragons adventure book in the RPG series and a dystopian science fiction novel. Besides writing, she enjoys learning new languages and binge watching Korean dramas.

Book preview

MISS. DIRECTION

a novel by

SIONA MORGAN

Copyright © 2021 by Siona Morgan

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

TABLE OF ELEMENTS

Particles.

Entangled.

Black boxes.

Uncertainty Principle

Many Worlds

Wave Function Collapse

Entropy

Faraday Ripples

Action-at-a-distance

Holism

REFERENCES

AKNOWLEDGEMENT

Particles.

The universe consists of particles, and we humans do too, but we live each in our own universe.

A

lmost every Sunday since he was 14, Alex snuck out of his grandfather's house at the crack of dawn and cycled through the woods to the lake near the quarry. Locals like him went fishing there, and a few hipsters wandering off the beaten path came to try their hand at foraging for gold.

But for Alex, a few pounds of blue catfish were worth more than gold. Fishing meant a release from spending the day cleaning after his grandfather, Thomas, the pastor who ruled his flock and the insignificant mining town of Claymore with an iron fist disguised as a sermon.

He congratulated himself on drawing up such an ingenious plan. It allowed him to spend all morning without supervision, but also on the pretext of working in the fish market, to place his duties in the lap of his brother Billy 'the Pious,' knowing full well the latter was already busy keeping the tithe books, collecting the offerings, and singing in the church choir.

Billy 'the Pious' my ass, he thought, pedaling faster. Every time he hit the brakes so hard that the tires smoked, Alex smiled with satisfaction. He was using and abusing Billy's only ride, and this time his brother couldn't say anything that would get him in trouble. After all, he had a job at sixteen, and Billy 'the Lazy' didn't have one at eighteen. A proper job, not just a way to ogle girls or steal from the barrels of the communion wine.

He jumped over a rock that bridged the narrow path through the dense forest that spread from the back of his grandfather's cabin to the edge of the lake, lost in angry thoughts. There were no nuances. In dramatic white and black, he stood alone against the unjust world.

In this world, his elder brother was his grandfather's favorite. So unfair, he thought. Just because Billy was quick with his words and even though he never applied himself to learning, he somehow got people to think he was this misunderstood genius. Billy had talents and abilities that Alex wished he had, like drawing, singing, and playing the organ. He milked the image of the sensitive, fragile artist's soul with his six-foot-four Goliath physique, like the man was all muscle. He even calmed down Tom's rough temperament - a feat Alex could never achieve.

Grandpa, I wrote you a poem. Do you want to hear it? Asked Billy at one point, trying to contain Tom's anger after failing to put out the fire that had engulfed the old barn where Tom stored hay for the few sheep and the one cow they had. Alex used the shed as his secret lair, where he took his girlfriend, Laura, and did everything he could to persuade her to sleep with him.

This one unfortunate time, he lit scented candles to romanticize the place and mask the thick animal smell that permeated the air. A particularly stupid idea. While the two lovers were engrossed in caresses and vigorous petting, they paid no attention to Patch, the cat, who knocked over one of the candles. In no time at all, they found themselves trapped, with a wall of fire between them and the barn door, which was locked from the inside. Billy emerged at the last second, after both Laura and Alex had passed out from the smoke. He pushed open the door and pulled them to safety.

When Laura opened her eyes and saw Alex hovering over her, she reckoned he was her savior, and he gladly accepted the title from his brother, who was on the other side of the barn, trying to contain the flames. Alex sent Laura home without offering any further explanation. Then he found Billy sitting on a tree stump, looking resignedly from a distance at the dying fire that had consumed everything it could. Of course, Alex wailed and begged his brother to keep the reason for the fire a secret. Billy scoffed angrily. A thank you would be nice, bruh, I just saved your ass, but now you want more from me, you want me to lie?

Do not lie, just say you do not know how the fire started, Alex said, trying to push a tear out of his eye. Grandpa's going to kill me. I mean it. Unless you want me dead. Do you? Billy grinned at his younger brother and shrugged and went back into the house to wash up and prepare dinner without a word about his intentions. When Tom came home from his trip the next day, he confronted the boys, and just as Alex was about to blame Billy, his brother volunteered that he had left an oil lamp in the barn and that it was his fault. Tom, of course, chased Billy through the yard to spank him, the only time Alex remembered Tom taking his anger on his brother. That part was fun to watch. Tom screamed a lot and ran like a headless chicken after Billy, but it was easier said than done as the agile devil eluded his clutches. To increase his odds, Tom took a lawn chair and pointed it at Billy's head. The boy fell to his knees and recited:

I'll flow like a shadow cast by thy light.

In thy step and thy word, I will fight

To repent in tears of all sins

Like the blade of Jerusalem's kings

With this evil heart, I plead: forgive me, my Shepherd!

The grandfather, surprised at the grand gesture and words, chuckled and put down the chair. He even let Billy get away without the spanking.

How ridiculous, Alex exclaimed aloud as he noticed the last branch hanging over the intersection before the narrow path ended a millisecond too late. The blow to the face hurled him into a thistle hill, onto the rocky plateau on the edge of the lake, and Esmeralda, Billy's precious bike, flew into the air, did a full 180 as if piloted by an invisible clown, and crash landed straight into the branches of a fir. A flock of ravens scattered, frightened from the inside of the heavy crown.

Alex cursed — because holy shit, the pain in his ankle — but also because he could without being dragged into the bathroom by his pa' to get a mouth full of soap. He patted his body to make sure it was still whole, then whimpered as he picked himself up, grabbed his backpack and fishing pole and hobbled over to the long wooden dock where he usually sat to fish. There, he reflected on his journey home, doomed to be taken on foot, while he bathed in the sun's warmth that rose above the lake in an orange and purple crescendo. How would he get back to town now?

With many questions in his mind, he rummaged in the bottom of his backpack for a lure as his fingers brushed the cool and clean surface of a liquor bottle.

Oh, Billy! You stupid drunk. This is where you've been hiding your stash of booze? I can't wait to tell Tom about it, he chortled. He had something to distract his grandfather from using his belt, which he'd do as soon as he learned he crushed Esmeralda in a tree. He examined the glass container, wondering what secret new evil his brother had committed to be drinking so much and so often.

After a moment's thought, he took a sip of the liquid, which he suspected was Tom's home-brewed moonshine. It immediately brought a blush to his face, and he shivered in disgust. His throat burned with something he could only compare to gasoline. He eagerly wiped off the vile taste from his tongue with his sleeve, and took out his breakfast, wrapped in an old newspaper.

Then, he chewed absent-mindedly on the crusty bread and stared at the stale cheese he'd been saving since last Sunday, praying that one of the other anglers would show up with a truck and save him the trouble of trudging ten miles up the hills. But would anyone show up? Probably not, because they too, huddled like cows in church at least until noon.

Surveying the surface of the water, he noticed the bob dipping and got into position, taking a few steps forward to haul in his first catch of the day. It proved to be an open invitation for a hefty, curious crow with yellow eyes to attack the dismal cheese nibble Alex had yet to consume.

What the heck, bird, shoo, shoo, he groaned, holding the fishing pole that kept propelling him forward with one hand and gesticulating wildly with the other to frighten the crow away. But the fowl must have held a grudge - the whole bike in the nest - because it shifted its aim to Alex's eyes.

With a screech and a kraa, it pounced upon Alex, who stood for a moment, dazed and motionless, on the edge of the pier. He tried to defend himself and instinctively took a step backward, plunging into the icy, murky green abyss he had never dared to swim into because, well, he had never learned to swim.

Alex struggled to resurface, but his ankle got caught in the nylon line, still pulling him down, preventing him from doing so. He opened his mouth and screamed for help.

His lungs filled with mud and seaweed. What gigantic whale had he caught? He wondered briefly, as he laboriously bent down and tried to unlace his boot. It was a colossal effort, for his lungs felt as if they were being crushed under a megaton of magma and burned like dry twigs. What would his brother do? Nah, Billy knew how to swim, and he swam well. He'd probably laugh at the irony of the fisher being hooked by the fish he'd just hooked, but Alex didn't feel like laughing. He realized that this could be the premature end of his miserable life. His last conscious thought was of Laura and Billy, who would become lovers, for sure, now that he was out of the game, and he expelled one final resentment-filled bubble of oxygen and watched it float away, stained crimson.

They say that life passes in front of your eyes when you die. At that moment, before he gave up hope and accepted what he'd always laughed at: that he wasn't immortal—he viewed what he hadn't been able to in the last twelve years since his parents' accident.

That last car ride with his mother and father, that balmy Friday afternoon on the day of his birthday. The sultry voice of Nina Simone coming from the radio, the chatter of his parents, a soothing murmur over the roar of the rickety Ford engine. But his much-loved toy, his plush bumblebee, wasn't with him in the back seat. This was a doomsday crisis for a little four-year-old. He vented his anger by banging his head against the window and kicking his feet as hard as he could against his father's chair.

Then he unfastened his seatbelt, pulled himself to his feet, and tried to climb out the window. His mother unfastened hers and leaned down to pull him back in. Kate's long black hair fluttered in the wind and tickled his chin. Alex sneezed loudly and rolled onto the bench and startled, he cried.

That caught his dad's attention right away. Felton turned his head and smiled at him, assuring him that everything would be okay. It happened in a split second. As he glanced back at the road and noticed the oncoming vehicle speeding through the intersection toward them, he jerked the steering wheel to the left and rammed the car directly into a telephone pole.

The events that followed reeled even faster in Alex’s mind, like the accelerated credits of a movie. A trickle of blood dripped from his father’s temple. Felton appeared asleep, his head on the steering wheel, a hint of a smile still on his bruised lips. Kate’s body lay like a worn rag doll halfway through the broken dashboard window.

An unfamiliar woman pulled him from the back seat and took him into her arms. The smell of rose perfume invaded his nostrils, mixed with the thick gray smoke coming from the wreckage. It burned his eyes, and the toddler turned his head to the side instinctively to protect himself and looked over the woman’s shoulder. That’s when he saw this other boy sobbing hysterically over the bodies of some people, half stuck under the front wheel of his father’s truck.

2

Alex woke up choking on his own saliva. He coughed violently, clinging to the bedside for a moment. Then he realized he was home in his cozy apartment in West Manhattan. His pulse raced, and the room spun. He tried to breathe deep, as he always did when he had those vivid dreams that gave him debilitating panic attacks for hours, if not days. He pulled open his nightstand drawer and found his anti-anxiety pills, popped a few in his mouth, and swallowed as if he had ingested a fistful of pebbles.

In the end, his brain freed itself from the nightmare, and calmed down enough to breathe normally, and his hands stopped shaking. But why now, why'd it come back? His last panic attack had been nearly too long ago to remember. The day Laura disappeared.

The sun peeked through the patio windows and warmed his feet. The room was like he left it, not a speck of dust that was joyfully floating in the scattered light. Everything was back to normal. Eclectic, minimalist, but expensive furnishings were still there. The splashes of Warhol color paintings on the walls, contrasting with the sterile white of his kitchen cabinets. The overpriced espresso machine, whose chrome glinted on a fully stacked wet bar - he used it when he felt necessary to impress his guests - all screamed the usual labored attempt to appear wealthy.

Placing his toes on the wooden floor, Alex rose carefully and went to the bathroom like Bambi on ice. He completed his morning routine and get the most out of the day by chasing any thought that questioned his sanity or revised his past. His doctor had said so many times that he had to deal with the root of the night terrors before moving on. But not today; he was too busy.

At ten, he had a rendezvous with the pigeons on the northern side of Central Park, where he sat on a bench donated in honor of Faulkner—not because he loved the latter's tedious works, but because the bench was in an isolated place, far from traffic.

There, he worked on revising and planning the publication of his editorials for the coming week. He'd only recently landed the job with the help of his fiance, who had arranged a meeting with the publisher of one of New York's largest magazines, one of her clients and a close friend. But Alex didn't give her too much credit for his promotion, which meant a lot more money and bragging rights. If he hadn't ingratiated himself during a series of sumptuous and expensive dinners, fascinating Ken with his in-depth knowledge of fashion trends, and the skillful and confident delivery of his theories on 'what women want', he wouldn't have gotten the job.

Barbara promised that the work would be a step towards fame and recognition, as if the talent of other, more respected writers and journalists would rub off on him. But it didn't. Instead, he floundered in a sea of commercialism, fake smiles, and moist handshakes from people who thought he was a token hack. Nobody took him seriously. As for the success of his column, it frustrated him.

Of course, he was living comfortably now, a little outside downtown Manhattan, in a fine high-end neighborhood. He had enough money to splurge on a few things, but the things he splurged on were necessary to keep the facade that he was as posh as his neighbors. And his readers, well, he secretly hated them, for the same reasons he hated most people. They flaunted themselves publicly, thoughtlessly showing off their flaws while he had to tiptoe around them, and pretty much everyone, Barbara included, to hide his.

Before leaving his apartment, he examined himself in a hall mirror. His superpower was that he looked fresh, wrinkle-free, and handsome even when he was sick. Unlike where he admired his face and was proud of its appeal, he sighed at his reflection this morning, clouted by the bitter nightmare. The tall structure of the zygomatic bone, the carved chin, the deep blue eyes had always given him an edge on women and the power to persuade others at his will.

Damn boy. You're getting old. You're losing your edge, he brooded, scratching at his day-old stubble. He felt in desperate need of a quick pick-me-up, so he stopped at the corner cafe and said hello to his usual barista, a young but dull girl named Janetta, a Polish immigrant with ample breasts who'd been flirting with him since he'd moved into the neighborhood. Not that they didn't hit it off, but knowing Barbara's demonic jealousy, why risk it?

Janetta's breasts weren't worth four million dollars. Between the time he met Barbara in their senior year of college, and then after a brief two-year relationship, since she caught him cheating, and they broke up, and when she called him out of the blue, four years later, and they rekindled their relationship, he had many adventures with girls like Janetta, but none lasted more than a few months, if that. Aside from their warm bodies, they had little to offer.

The barista greeted him with an enormous smile and had his order taken care of first, much to the displeasure of the rest of the people in line. She knew what he liked: a grand cuppa' with three sugar cubes and two percent milk. Alex chuckled at Janetta's childish scrawl of a heart pierced by Cupid's arrow on the back of his cup, took his order, winked farewell, and then, in a better mood, walked to the edge of the park.

Once there, he sat in his usual spot, under the blessing of an oak tree with a freshly baked croissant in his hand and his hot cup of coffee. It was a quiet spot from which he could watch the bustle of people from a safe distance. He tossed a crumb to a spotted dirty pigeon with a beak covered in lesions, and other sickly-looking birds flocked around him. The more the merrier, he thought.

He hoped that by feeding the local flock of pigeons who were prone to disease, he'd help spread those diseases to all the bums he found most disgusting, especially in the summer, when they flooded the area to bathe in the public fountains.

These bums who slept everywhere polluted the beauty of the gardens, like dung heaps among pretty flowers. He reflected, annoyed, and set to work with reticence in his head. For half an hour, he scribbled answers to a few bland reader questions in his notepad, like, Are all single men in Manhattan emotionally unavailable? When a tall, older person in a burgundy plaid jacket sat next to him.

Alex recognized him immediately: he had barely finished Stephen King's On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. To improve the column, Alex's editor had saddled him with a series of books on grammar and style, and after reading the first few pages of King's masterful memoir of writing his first book, he couldn't put it down. It touched him and awakened something strange in him: a desire to write professionally, but something that wasn't the bland, wish-washy bullshit he usually wrote for his column.

He couldn't believe his luck and tried not to let his jaw drop any further, swallowing his drool and stammering a tentative hello. The man glanced down at Alex's notepad and pulled out his notepad, identical to Alex's. Then he smiled and nodded as if only the two of them knew some important secret. Alex mused surely the famous author didn't have time for another annoying fan talking about his work.

But then King asked, Writer or Ornithologist?

Alex's heart skipped a beat, and his mouth answered without him.

According to my readers, a better ornithologist than a writer.

King chuckled. If some of my readers have their way, I should plant trees instead of killing them, he said, with some defiance in his voice, alluding to the articles criticizing that 'Under the Dome' was over a thousand pages long.

If it's true that great minds think alike, then it's also true of little minds. You, as the greatest horror writer of our time, can't let these ignorant critics get to you, Alex said, proud to let his fangirling out in what he thought was a subtle, manly way.

Stephen dismissed the compliment with a wave of his hand, as if to chase away a mosquito buzzing over his nose.

"I use their criticism to improve my writing because their suggestions calibrate the validity or fear factor of my characters. Those who say my knowledge of serial killers, for example, is too psychopathic, are hitting the mark too intensely through their mirroring issues, or they don't get it because they're saner. Either way, it's a compliment. Have you read the book?

Of course, I have, Alex lied, having not been able to read past the first three chapters. I'm a big, big fan, he said, wondering if he sounded like a stalker now.

What do you conclude, did you like it?

Certainly, he said. Your portrayal of 'Big Jim' Rennie is so masterful that I almost felt sorry for him, Alex blurted out, and, seeing King's astonished expression, he quickly added, And now I'm wondering why I feel sorry for characters who are villains! He then let out an awkward laugh.

I believed I'd portrayed Rennie as the epitome of evil, with too little good in him to fall into the gray of bad-friendly types I usually dance with, since I like to build them around the edges. But maybe I drew him with an authentic, plausible motivation for self-preservation, said King with a smile.

The observation seemed to please him. He had described the villain's inhumanity on this strange reader's understanding. He scribbled something on his pad after giving Alex a lingering glance, but away from the latter's prying eyes.

When cornered, a human, just like an animal, is capable of unthinkable actions, Alex mused, but didn't elaborate. He decided the smart thing to do was to change the subject and rant as quickly as possible in one breath.

I don't deal with these kinds of complicated characters simply because I write fluff, not novels. I give advice on the First World problems of pissed-off divorcees. You'd think that, since it's general knowledge of trivial importance, I could give my opinion, but no. I must lie, hide the truth, and dose my words carefully, so I don't destroy someone's dreams or self-image. It's such a delicate balance to find the right combination of words between what they want to hear and what I have to say objectively. I'm a columnist, and writing columns sucks my soul. Is it even writing? I wonder when it's all for the benefit of others and not mine.

As he finished the long-winded rant, he paused and glanced at King, expecting him to scamper off to call the first police officer in sight. Heck, those profound revelations came out of nowhere, and scared even him. It must be something that weighted heavily for him to expose himself in front of his hero, of all people, like that. But the silver-haired gentleman nodded and narrowed his gray-steel eyes in a broad smile.

You're funny, young man. You remind me of myself a long time ago, he said. If you're asking my advice on your situation, he paused and looked at Alex as if he needed permission, which Alex gave him, nodding with the energy of a puppy being told to go for a walk by its master.

First, you are making money from it, so it isn't a loss. Second, these trivial phenomena are part of the human psyche, an important part because they're widespread habits, so you can draw stereotypes. Know which cliches to avoid, and let's not forget Proust devoted 1,209,700 words to tea, so little things are important too. If you read my book, you know how far I went against others' warnings that following the 60 and some unique people in Chester's Mill might fatigue the reader. I wanted to, so it had to be done that way. Third, consider the reason behind your desire to write. Know your purpose. Whether it's a column, a blog, haiku, or sonnets, it doesn't matter. I wrote my first horror because I needed to clear my fears. It's therapeutic to expose the things that scare hell out of me, and it relieves me to find that those same things scare others.

Alex nodded in agreement, and again his mouth spoke without him, formulating the stupidest question he could ask. But what if no one would read my stuff?

The risk of not being liked, being rejected, being disproved, told you're the worst. Yes, it happens to everyone in varying degrees, but the truth that comes from writing about what you know, and feel with intensity—be it fear, anger, love, hate—is the thin line that separates mediocrity from success. It's most challenging, but honesty is at the core.

That's horrible. I try as hard as I can to avoid being honest with myself, Alex said, half-jokingly.

King chuckled and put the notebook in his lap as Alex continued his questioning.

Kidding aside, what if I can't write about what I know because I know little about what I want to write?

You think only those who have experienced murder can or will write murder stories? King laughed, this time at the top of his lungs. You don't have to know all the details firsthand unless you're writing a memoir. In fiction, you draw from other sources. In your case, your readers are a bottomless pool of information. You have access to it while I go old-school, interviewing people. Sometimes I use my friend, who's an expert psychologist, and I borrow him and his advice whenever I want to dive deep into the unknown, he said.

I love listening to people's life stories, he said, throwing a piece of gum in his mouth. Reality is better than fiction every time. I only borrow aspects of other people's lives and weave my fears and thoughts into it like a commentary, and that's how I create the narrative. So, I don't think there's anything wrong with working on your column.

Alex agreed, surprised that he didn't take things from this perspective. However, his disgust for his day job came out as another question in a long sigh. But this cursed column requires so much effort that I'm mentally exhausted and bereft of ideas. By the end of the day, how did you find time and energy for it when you were teaching?

Oh, I owe it all to my wife. She said something like this. 'If you don't have the time but you can afford it, quit. And if you can't afford it, make the time.'

Alex opened his mouth to say that he was not so lucky, as Barbara saw his writing as a sustenance and nothing else, when King rose abruptly and looked at his cell phone. Excuse me, I have to take this call, the man said, waving a quick goodbye and disappearing into the crowd of passers-by.

Alex had gotten used to what others regarded as New York's infamous rudeness. Quick meetings where foreigners became best friends, then foreigners again in a few minutes. Greetings and abrupt farewells in the middle of a conversation. In the Big Apple, everyone was busy with their own interests and cared little about keeping their bold promises or new contacts after making them.

Yet through this random encounter, he got what he desperately wanted. A spark of hope and encouragement to pursue what he had begun and abandoned so many times. Turning his diary into a novel has been a year'' prolonged, strenuous Sisyphean pursuit. Two major obstacles came to his mind.

One was convincing his fiance to agree with his resignation from the newspaper, now that he realized it was a necessity, as Stephen also reckoned. The second obstacle was even more complicated: he would have to do extensive research into his past, a notion that made him shudder. Because it meant trusting what Tom, who he hadn't spoken to in ten years, had to say. And no, he wouldn't ask Billy, he decided, never in a million years.

He spent an hour or two sitting on the bench, surrounded by pigeons, calculating the odds of his future novel with the impetuousness of a herd of wild horses galloping in the open field. But to him, it only seemed like seconds. The alarm on the phone sounded so loud it startled the birds. He was late for his and Barbara's twice-weekly lunch at her office at Schutzer & Co, a respected law firm on Wall Street.

Shit! Now he had to sacrifice 50 bucks for a ride! He ran out of the park and hailed the first yellow cab in sight.

3

Hello, where to, sir? The man named Bashir, a pudgy Turk with a substantial mustache and a gold imitation Rolex on his shaggy wrist, asked and rolled the window. The driver gave off the potent scent of pine aftershave, much to the displeasure of Alex's sensitive nose. He gave the address and rolled down the window, but the smog mixed with the permanent chips of lunchtime, and the hot dog smell coming from outside was no better.

The radio was playing Stan by Eminem at a high volume. It was not a terrible song, but it was far from Janacek's Sinfonietta, which, now that he was reading Murakami's last book, 1Q84, he expected all taxis in New York to play as a matter of course. Murakami wasn't even close to his genre, he much preferred horror or thrillers, so how did he end up reading him? Because of Billy, of course.

A little over a year ago, the newspaper sent an invitation to a show of collective art in Soho, with instructions to publish, as directed, a few flattering remarks on the upcoming artists whose names he skimmed over absent mindedly. First, he'd look at art and then, if something caught his eye, he would inquire about the artist on the spot.

He did not go to the opening, because too many people in a confined space had made his skin prickle and his guts wail with a cacophony of gurgling sounds not meant for the public ear, but the next day, which fell on Saturday. Outside, the weather was a rare spring according to New York standards: 20 degrees Celsius, and the sun shone, a clement breeze fluttering through the rigid cement monoliths, so everyone was busy buying ice cream and frolicking in the parks in short sleeves as if it were mid-August.

The gallery was almost deathly cold to keep the works from melting. When entering the first vaulted room of the maze, he found no one to talk to. A pity, because he wore Barbara's latest gift, an elegant Armani waistcoat, hoping to make an impression. He started pacing around with his notebook in his hand, noting some pieces that seemed almost worth his time.

A can of spilled beans, as a love child of Basquiat and Dali had painted, was the piece he stopped in front of the longest. Surely there must be something better here, he reflected and entered the corridor that opened into a larger room with the same cold temperature. To the right, he expected to find someone to talk to — an artist or a curator — but the desk and chair were also unstaffed.

He was wondering if he'd have to pull the fire alarm to get somebody in. Or, if it was safe to take a picture and roll out, maybe that would get their attention? But he noticed there were cameras and electronic devices at the corners of the room, so he assumed whoever was guarding was taking a quick break in the bathroom. If he'd been a thief, he would have come out empty-handed, as the pieces on display were below mediocre.

Except that in a tray of iron and wood, a book and a bottle of whisky with an almost full glass formed such a balance of elements and colors Alex guessed they too were part of the exhibit. An art installation? He read the author and title: Norwegian Wood, from Haruki Murakami. Japanese literature and whisky. The first thing that came to his mind was about Billy. It was his thing; he was a Japanophile and a manga fanatic for as long as Alex could remember.

A panel that divided the room in half drew his eye's attention. There, in a throne of light, he recognized a portrait whose familiarity caused the hairs of his arm to rise as if he were in immediate and imminent danger. The picture on the wall was Laura. No doubt. The painting was an interpretation of Sir John Everett Millais's Ophelia. Laura's long red hair tangled in the trash that could be found in the plastic-polluted Hudson River. Her blue eyes drowned in red. Her thin lips, dark purple. 'This is grotesque,' he thought, rushing to