Recenzii și Cărți .PDF

Marina once told me that we only remember what never really happened. It would take me a lifetime to understand what those words meant. But I suppose I’d better start at the beginning, which in this case is the end. In May 1980 I disappeared from the world for an entire week. For seven days and seven nights nobody knew my whereabouts. Friends, companions, teachers and even the police embarked on a futile search for a fugitive whom they suspected dead or at best lost in the wastelands of the wrong side of town, suffering from amnesia or something worse. By the end of that week a plain-clothes policeman thought he had recognised the boy: he seemed to fit my description. The suspect was spotted wandering around Barcelona’s Estación de Francia like a lost soul in a cathedral hammered out of iron and mist. The policeman ambled up to me just like a character of his ilk would in a crime novel. He asked me whether my name was Oscar Drai and whether I was the boy from the boarding school who had vanished without a trace. I nodded but didn’t say a word. I still remember the reflection of the station’s vaulted ceiling on his spectacle

lenses.