They said they wouldn't hurt us and I had no reason not to believe them. But the trip between there and here was an awkward one (to say the least). It always is.
Now, trapped in this dreaded room, I have time to think. Perhaps too much time. One thought pervades my mind:
Hotel walls are thin.
Try as you might, you can not ignore the words on the other side, muffled at first, then clearing as your ear gets closer and closer to the wall.
I like a man who can keep chaos in check.
Who doesn't, you think, as you press your ear flush. Stories, so many stories, are told and untold on either side of a wall.
How did you end up here, here with me?
Some stories, my dear, are greater than even you.
You are cruel.
I am.
You haven't told me your familial name, only your first.
They called me Freddy Rimbault.
Frederick Rimbault - like the author?
Not like - the very same.
Mr Rimbault died a few years back.
You are correct.
They say he was very secretive, mysterious, ambiguous.
You know, now, the nature of the man you share your bed with.
I have his book in my library, you know. Your book.
His book.
He wrote beautifully. If you are indeed he, could you not write something as beautiful? Something for me, right now?
I can not.
Tell me your story, from the very beginning.
Every second is a beginning.
Tell me your story, I need to know.
My story is complex - perhaps even a little unbelievable.
I'm gullible.
Well, as I said, each second is a separate beginning, so I hardly know where to start.
What are you thinking about right now?
Margarete.
Go on.
We stayed in an upstairs room in London, overlooking the rooftops of the stores in the old marketplace below. I had not much money at the time, and just as the rats on the store rooftops scrounged for food, so did we. It was a simple life, but a happy one. We had each other. We were in love.
You said your story was unbelievable. There is nothing so unbelievable about love.
Ah, you have never been in love then.
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