We'll meet in Stockholm

By William Castaño-Bedoya

"Being a novelist is less important than living to be one."

 

In the vibrant backdrop of New Orleans' bohemian French Quarter, six independent writers convene at La Tertulia, a sanctuary for creative minds yearning for literary recognition. Bound by their shared passion for writing, they inhabit an old h

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book & Bilias LLC
• Release date: Apr 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798988867173

William Castaño-Bedoya

William es considerado un escritor profundo, humano y vivencial. Mientras, en Los mendigos de la luz de mercurio, desnuda la injusticia social provocada por los excesos de los extremismos, la politización del sufrimiento como herramientas de control político en medio de una de las etapas de más exclusión social en los Estados Unidos; en El Galpón, el autor recrea cómo el conformismo aletargado atenta contra la relatividad del éxito mientras la desconfianza y la excesiva ideologización política se convierte en el trasfondo de una solapada doble moral que torpemente empuja a los protagonistas al manoseo ético. En Flores para María Sucel, el autor reflexiona sobre el viaje por la vida de una familia que trata desesperadamente de mantener el cuerpo y el alma juntos, mientras son destrozados por sus exilios internos. Por su parte, en Los Monólogos de Ludovico, recrea el impacto de la frustración y la impotencia como factores que conforman el absurdo.

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Copyrights

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2024 William Castaño-Bedoya

All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission from Book&Bilias LLC.

For permissions, please contact Book&Bilias at

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ISBN 9798988867180 (Paperback English Version)

ISBN 9798988867197 (Hardcover English Version)

ISBN 9798988867173 (e-book English Version)

ISBN 9798988867166 (Hardcover Spanish Version)

ISBN 9798988867159 (e-book Spanish Version)

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available from the United States Library of Congress

General Direction: Camila Castaño

Writing and Editing: William Castaño-Bedoya

Cover Image and Layout: Book&Bilias

Printed in the United States of America

Book&Bilias

www.bookandbilias.us

Dedication

To the writers of the universe, by Saécula saeculórum.

To those from my backyard, in this hot Miami, where the letters of my close friends, Janiel Humberto Permberty and Hernán Orrego, hibernate.

To those who left us one day, still without having concluded their literary work: Martha Sepúlveda, Armando Caicedo.

To those who coexist in our literary and bohemian environment: Enrique Córdoba Rocha, Elvira Sánchez Blake, Pilar Vélez, Luis Carlos Fallon, Luis Miranda, José Díaz Díaz, Rafael Vega Jacome, Freda Mosquera, Jhon Jairo Palomino, Julio Garzón, Marcela Moreno, Constanza Reverend.

And in distant lands, Mayu Redondo, the eternal poet, as well as Carrie Hollister, Hernán Estupiñan.

To those who have accompanied my process through preliminary readings: Alberto de la Rosa, Juan Carlos Castaño, Aura Colmenares, Jinny Dupré.

To those whom I have forgotten, but who have gained recognition from their readers.

To those who are beginning to tread the paths of writing as a lifelong profession.

To those who have read us.

Epigraph

Being a novelist is less important than living to be one.

Lucas

For countless hours, in the stillness of the night and early morning, a gentle and playful breeze sneaks in without disturbing the tranquility of the cozy writers' lounge. Several handwritten compositions on the neatly stacked sheets, atop Charlie's antiquated desk, cannot withstand the light blows of air and gradually slide to the floor, revealing their secrets to the curious gaze of any sudden intruder. Among the six writers, like Nicolás Sinclair, Charlie Monroe is known for his reluctance to expose his writings until he deems them worthy of sharing.

A peaceful Saturday morning extends over the city amidst the Louisiana autumn. It is the pleasant silence that decides the fate of those pages, selecting who picks them up and who returns them to the stack. Perhaps it is Charlie himself who is chosen to be the first to arrive according to destiny. If logic doesn’t deceive, it is likely so. Unlike the others, even the writer Nora Patel and the poet Maya Roberts, he does not indulge in intoxicating liquors. At seventy-seven years old, he doesn’t even allow himself a sip of beer, retiring each evening before six.

The emblematic wind of New Orleans intensifies its breeze; it becomes restless and carefree and plays a crucial role in the atmosphere of the house. Like a mischievous confidant, it whispers in the corners and filters discreetly, chasing away the stench of revelry ingrained in the jackets hanging on the coat rack and those that seem to be dozing in embrace by the chair backs. The gusts, owners of their own freedom, exercise their right to slip in without restrictions wherever they please, finding open crevices as an invitation to their dance; they are silent allies, contributing to the dissipation of the stale smell of burnt tobacco and residues of alcohol lingering in scattered bottles around the lounge. Other sheets written by Charlie fall into disorder, and some end up face down. The order of the stack is no longer the same, and Charlie will have to reconstruct it.

The delicate gusts express themselves with rhythmic movements through that dwelling in the vibrant French Quarter at the heart of New Orleans and lovingly embrace the residence that cannot deny its history steeped in French and Spanish colonial architecture. These innate and eternal elements bestow upon the sanctuary an essence destined to host the inspirational gatherings of the six writers. The majestic house located on the corner stands as a beacon of creativity, a refuge where words come to life and ideas intertwine in a magical dance.

Down the street, a slender young man advances slowly. He carries with him a backpack filled with sheets trapped in a faux leather folder, a laptop, headphones, cables, and some accessories for storing digital files. The young man, about twenty-six years old, wears comfortable dark jeans that adapt to his relaxed movements. He sports a cotton shirt in a neutral tone, slightly wrinkled but carefully chosen to express his artistic individuality. A sweater that looks more like a worn-out T-shirt peeks out from under the shirt, providing him with a cozy feeling ideal for the autumn weather. His tan complexion and clear eyes, a deep hazel hue, reflect a certain perspicacity. Additionally, a light and unkempt beard highlights his youth but also gives him a touch of bohemian sophistication. He stands a few meters away, observing the corner house with delight; it seems to provide him with some kind of elixir or pleasure. He contemplates each of its details, each day that passes, because all his yearnings as a writer are anchored there. Knowing that he is inexperienced, he is indeed an avid reader with obsessive aspirations to surpass his salon masters. His name? Lucas Thompson.

Someday, he thinks, his loneliness empowering him. He boasts of having been accepted into the literary group referred to as La Tertulia, where he has been attending for the past three months. La Tertulia has been going on for four years now.

Determined, he produces an old colonial style key with its unique appearance and nostalgic charm; he perceives it as an evocative metaphor for the magic that lies in opening a door. Like an undiscovered story, this key possesses symbolic qualities that resonate with the act of unveiling hidden mysteries and venturing into new territories. He enters the residence by crossing the threshold of solid wood, through an aged door decorated with intricate, hand-carved details. The brass rivets shaped like saddlebags highlight its elegance and welcome him, inviting him to delve into the world of creativity and literature.

From the entrance hall, he catches sight of the wrought iron spiral staircase that, like a work of art itself, leads him to the second floor. He steps on each stair, creating subtle creaks that resonate with memories of the stories that have been shared and the dreams that have been woven in each literary gathering. The railing, adorned with delicate arabesques, offers elegant support as he ascends to the abode of imagination. There, scattered on the floor, await Charlie’s pages. The polished wooden floor, with its rich luster and warm mahogany tone, embraces each step taken in the house. The gleam disappears under each fallen leaf. However, like Charlie’s pages, the smooth and shiny surface seems to reflect the stories it has witnessed, seems to whisper the secrets it has heard in each of the literary conversations held there.

Curiously, Lucas scans the trail of leaves, picking them up delicately, hoping not to crush them, and placing them on the disheveled stack on the desk. He assumes they are part of the manuscript that the old man is about to finish. He fears that as he gathers them, Charlie might appear, attentive and suspicious. He has never seen him disheveled or even irritable. For him, Charlie is a respected and admired figure. Dubiously scratching his head, he goes to the window, sticks his head out, and breathes easy. Not seeing anyone approaching the house, he closes it and returns. Boldly, as if facing a tough and forbidden adventure, he sets about harmonizing the stack and finds that it is not paginated. Solitude and determination plunge him into a meticulous task. Three long minutes have passed. He only needs to ensure that the stack of paper is rectangular and its sides proportional. He is thrilled, finally, to go unnoticed by those who arrive,