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So that's what it is, Perpignan. I'll be damned. Three in one: France, Spain, and Catalonia, come together here under the hot Mediterranean sun. I didn't know it was possible. It's a place where you live both in France and Spain at the same time, on a completely legal basis. The wide, sandy beaches are just a few miles to the east and the snow-capped peaks of the Pyrenees with their ski slopes to the west. The world-famous resort of the Costa Brava is a 90-minute drive from Perpignan, while the hustle and bustle of Barcelona are less than two hours away. With a population of 300,000, Perpignan offers everything a retiree could want. Perpignan is a fabulous place: a mild Mediterranean climate, well-developed urban transport, as well as health care and services. What is important for ex-pats - is affordable real estate, renting or buying your own home. Perpignan has many supermarkets and specialty stores, similar to those found in any other medium-sized European city. Grocery prices? You'll only pay a dollar for a French baguette and five for a bottle of decent local wine. As for utility bills, they have not gone far from the U.S. average. The same goes for broadband Internet and cell phones. The art, architecture, and cuisine here are a chic mix of French and Catalan culture. But the people of Perpignan do not forget that they are French. Finally, after France and Spain joined the Schengen zone, Perpignan became the lucky winner of a million dollars a night at the casino.
It's noon, and I'm sitting under a colourful awning sipping coffee on the bank of a tree-lined canal. Midsummer, in what, but in defining the time of year, I am never wrong. Snow in winter Rain is fall. Everything else is spring and summer. The local sparrows are cheerfully galloping in a thicket of ornamental shrubbery, cypress, I think. But I'm no botanist or florist. I don't care for the local beauties. The red-tiled roofs of the surrounding houses reek of comfort and security. I have little interest in the canal; I'm more interested in observing the environment and its two-legged inhabitants. You may have realized by now that I am in Perpignan, the southernmost frontier town in France. Did I forget to mention that I arrived without adventure? No, I did not forget. The adventure is just beginning, as a good detective story should. You may have guessed by now: here I must wait for the courier, the liaison, the messenger. He and he alone is destined to link my present with my future. Am I checking into a hotel? Nothing remarkable. The door is wide open, the doorman is not present, and why should he be when the door is already wide open. This says something about the hotel, but not about its guests. Standard lobby with standard chandeliers and the standard set of furniture: low uncomfortable sofas, so as not to linger, to match them low oval wooden tables with stains from spilled coke, a pair of figs in the corners. A couple of shaggy-haired teenagers were seated apart from the head of the family, sipping their beers and staring at their smartphones: what brings them here? The older one slaps his brother on the back of the head, clearly playing "shooters A waiter habitually empties the ashtray of cigarette butts, wipes them with a wet rag. Desk porter on duty. He is short and overweight, which is unusual since receptionists prefer lanky, agile ones. On the other hand, he is friendly and good-natured, like a dolphin. And importantly, like any low-wage employee, he is in dire need of a tip. His English is terrible, but I can't help it.
- Bonjour, monsieur! How may I help you?
An answering smile, purely out of courtesy. I'm a tourist, I'm in a good mood, and I like everything.
- I have a room booked in my name.
- Just a moment. What's your name?
Um... Name? I have a dozen of them. But I'm afraid fatty only wants one. What is it?
- Giuseppe Garibaldi.
A puzzled look, which told me that the porter could not believe his luck: to see the famous Italian revolutionary alive. A few strokes on the keys of his computer and a broad smile, as if he had just announced that his horse had just arrived first at the hippodrome.
- Welcome, Mr. Garibaldi. Congratulations, number with a beautiful view of the city. I hope you like it here. Haven't you been here before? Would you like to order something? You don't have any belongings, I see, but you're light.
You're very talkative and curious. There are still such people of the "I want to know everything" breed I was lucky enough to run into one of them.
- May I see your papers, sir?
Strange porter. If I call myself Giuseppe, I am Italian, and he has a right to address me as "Signore." What levity!
Oh, my eagle's profile. You can't step a step without being recognized.
- Breakfast between eight and nine. Buffet. Paella, seafood, yogurts, original pastries, fruit. Wi-Fi is included Enjoy your stay and your time, Mr. Garibaldi!
I have with me a roomy leather briefcase with a notebook, a minimal set of toiletries, a Bible, which is used to encrypt and decode messages, and several disposable telephones. I carry everything of mine with me. The room is located in the middle of a long corridor on the third floor. It opens with a code key the size of a credit card. These days even private hotels don't use massive cast-iron keys, which pull out your pocket. The room, at first glance, seems perfect for my needs, if only... Unless it has hidden cameras and microphones. I've encountered this kind of hospitality more than once or twice. An idiot like me doesn't need too much attention. The first thing I do, therefore, is to make a thorough inspection of the room. I go downstairs and tell the porter that I asked for a room facing the square, not the backyard. The porter obeys me unconditionally. The new room is already on the fourth floor, next to the fire escape and the elevator. If I have a trap prepared, an extra precaution won't hurt. The room is clean. A flat-screen TV, air conditioning, toiletries. After showering, I throw on a cheap (free) robe that was hanging in the bathroom, walk over to the window and spend a few minutes looking at my surroundings. Nothing special. Still the same red-tiled roofs, the view from above. Sharp gusts of wind ruffle the neck of chestnuts. Sleepy provincial tranquillity, interrupted by the heart-wrenching sounds of a wounded saxophone. The street musician - there he is, down near the hotel entrance, clearly visible. So good, in fact, that you can see the handful of small coins tossed by passersby into a fedora placed neatly on a bench nearby. For someone, the melody of a medley on the theme of Petite fleur should set the mood for a romantic evening. For me, it's a sign, a marker. My arrival has not gone unnoticed.
Time to meet the courier. Seven o'clock in the evening. My favourite time. Time before dinner. There he is. Looks like a student, sports Adidas, a black baseball cap, shaded glasses.
- How was your trip? Any problems?
- Nothing, I don't know. It was worth chasing you out of London for nothing.
- Well, if you do, of course. How about some eggs and bacon?
- Coffee would be great. Thank you.
- Are you all right? - I'm just asking for the sake of decorum.
- Of course, otherwise, we wouldn't have met.
- Have you ever been to Madrid?
- Madrid? No, but I hope to someday.
- Is it really as bad as the letter says?
- I don't know. I'm just an intermediary.
An avalanche passed over the cabin days ago. The surroundings are full of white dust that the lonely man tries to release in order to get out and no longer feel that claustrophobia that involves living locked up, without help. He knows it, he recognizes that there is no one else alive in the world. That apocalyptic end was not expected by the most conspiratorial being in the universe. One survivor in billions. He is undoubtedly special. How do you know? When the earth is empty, it is palpable. Not the slightest howl of a wolf or the singing of birds. Nothing. A deathly silence that snatches all hope of life. Finally, he manages to displace the disaster and the door is free to leave. Those zero degrees Celsius does not matter much to him because he has nothing to lose, and nothing to gain either.
The survivor's eyes suddenly widen. Perplexed, stunned and trembling body. A miracle is presented in front of him Open arms of a being in a ski mask that, without resentment, runs in terror, imprisoned by fear and the incessant cold, and offers a comforting hug to that one, the apparent last survivor.
? Who are you? ? asked Mohamad.
?I don't know ... ? says the young man. An answer that left Mohamad with a bad taste in his mouth.
? What is your name? Don't tell me you don't know.
? You don't you know your name?
? No.
? So what the hell do you know? ?
Head down, the thin guy continues on his way being part of his uselessness. They arrive to a frozen lake with crystal-laden trees all around it. Just by looking closely at the water, they could see how frozen it is
? I do not feel anything. ? says the boy.
? Am I already dead? Is this paradise?
The head come out like a needle in a haystack. The boy's hair was damp and sparkling more than ever.
? Get in the water! ? He exclaims to Mohamad. He hesitates.
? Tss, stay there. Do not go out. I will follow.
? Go on, cunt!
Mohamad jumps. The water is not part of the rest of the environment. It is an unstoppable shield that moves away from the coldness outside. It is placidly warm. The bearded man can't believe it.
? What the hell did you do? ? he asks
? I do not know!
? Then what the hell do you know!? ? Mohamad lunged forwards, and they both frolicked in the water for the huge fish. A relief in the midst of the catastrophe.
?Can you get another one? I don't know why I'm asking at this point.
? I think so!
Sharks, dolphins, fins. Figures Mohamad had not seen for a long time. Everything is peaceful, there is no danger.
? A fucking whale! ? Mohamad shouts when he sees at his side an orca approaching like a cat. It does not hurt.
? Let's get out of here. I want to eat
? We won't eat.
? What the hell are you saying?
? We won't eat.
? I heard you! Why won't we eat?
? These beings are our friends.
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