not to need to work, giving me the opportunity to try my hand at something I always
dreamed of doing - to write. I started off with a novel and published it at my own
expense as no publisher would accept it and gave the copies away to friends and
acquaintances. I then started writing short stories in French and English and many
were accepted and published in magazines and literary journals. I was, step by step,
making a name for myself.
Years later when I met Paul again, it felt as if I had won a lottery. I would
write his autobiography in the form of a fictitious story. He resisted the idea telling
me he was a nonentity, that in his last professional post he was a minor employee, that
he did nothing worthwhile in his life and so on. I told him I was not certain but
suspected he had a long-term passionate love affair and he said he could not bare his
soul to me. I told him his reticence showed he did not love me. He said he did, as
much as his sons. Perhaps more. I was the daughter he almost committed incest with.
He loved me more than I could ever imagine. I told him to stop lying and he
consented.
We spent hours talking and taking notes and I condensed this mountain of
words to a hillock of sentences, reminiscences and emotions. I am in it, of course, a
minor, incidental player, almost an accident, though Paul denies it. I do, it is true, start
and end the story. I could also write a larger part for myself but I would feel less than
honest even if this is supposed to be a work of fiction. I asked Paul what the story's
title should be and he characteristically suggested "The Pathetic Suitor". Perhaps the
reader shall figure out why. But I did not think "Pathetic" is an apt adjective for a man
who, despite his weaknesses, loved so much and was so much loved.
Finally, I should like to introduce myself. I am "Amy" in the story. May the
reader forgive me for talking of myself in the third person, like royalty, but I do so for
the continuity of the story. I am peripheral in it and not always present and when I pop
in, I want to be Amy and not use the intimate, all-knowing "I" for there are still so
many things "I" do not know.
It was at a reception in her house that Sonia gave him the transcript of
Marquez's e-mail. She was busy and beautiful, vivacious and gracious, flitting here
and there like an exquisite butterfly to entertain her guests. She came up to him, held
his hand in a way that multiplied his heartbeats and told him,
“I have something for you.”
They both smiled. That phrase had a past in their lives.
“I have been waiting so long,” he said.
She gave him a peck on the cheek.
“It's not what you think, Paulie,” she said. “I shall get them.”
She left for a moment and came back with a few folded sheets. She gave them
to him smiling quizzically.
“Do you still read a lot?” she asked.
“Not as much,” he said. “Do you?”
“It's my job… Excuse me, Paulie. I'll be back.”
She left to join a noisy group that was calling her and he only talked to her
again as he left, to thank her, kiss her and say good-bye.
He read the transcript at home before going to bed and wondered if Sonia was
trying to tell him something. However, she said, „It's not what you think.’ She
