CHAPTER 1: THE PROPOSAL

  It's a hot afternoon, just like the whole week, and

  they predict even more heat for the upcoming days. The fans

  at Lucio Visconti restaurant barely provide any relief from the

  sweltering heat, but it's better than nothing. No one in their

  right mind would be on the terrace, yet, beneath the shade of

  the grapevine and with a hint of breeze, having lunch outdoors

  is still possible without risking one's life.

  The few customers are savoring the delicious risotto.

  The squid stir-fry also has its loyal followers. As for me, I'm

  sticking with the classic but somewhat boring Bolognese pasta

  dish. Although it's a safe choice, it comes with its drawbacks:

  no matter how big the napkin, there's always a darn tomato

  drop determined to ruin your shirt.

  I clean my sunglasses from an indiscriminate sauce

  assault and notice a person sitting a few tables away. He has a

  boyish face and a round countenance that won't stop staring at

  me. I decide to ignore him behind the tinted glasses, but his

  persistence starts to make me nervous. Finally, what I feared

  happened. The man gathers his courage and approaches my

  table.

  "Excuse me," he begins, intruding upon my solitude.

  I look up, sparing a thought for the poor, deluded soul.

  "Sorry to disturb you, but are you the author of the

  'Franciscan of Las Heras' biography?"

  Pausing my meal, I wipe my mouth.

  "Yes, you've found me out," I exclaimed, a hint of

  surprise in my tone.

  "I must say, the language in your book is among the

  most beautiful things I've recently read. It's become my

  nightly reading companion."

  "Thank you."

  "Do you mind if I sit?"

  He asks, moving a chair to face me.

  "Since my mother passed, your book has brought me

  peace, and..."

  "I'm sorry about your mother," I interrupt him, "and I

  appreciate the compliment, but I'm eating.”

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  "Oh, of course, I'm sorry, I just saw you and couldn't

  resist."

  "It's alright," I return to my newspaper.

  The man moves his plate to my table.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Oh, this way, eating together won't feel so

  awkward," he says with a nervous smile.

  I calmly remove my glasses and place them on the

  table, fixing him with a glare that could freeze the blood of a

  lizard.

  "Listen, you damned psychopath, I don't care if my

  book puts your little winnie hard every time you go to bed or

  if you've been in love with your mother your entire life. That

  book you so admire is by far the worst thing I've ever written.

  The life of a damned pedophile sanctified by the church is

  more repulsive than having to endure your pathetic, lecherous

  face for another second."

  For a few moments, the man is rendered speechless.

  Gathering his thoughts, he finally speaks,

  "I won't bother you anymore. You've lost an admirer,"

  a mix of unrealistic pride and sincere disillusion in his voice.

  "Thank you, sincerely," I respond, placing a hand

  over my heart. Then my phone buzzed. I pull it out and

  scrutinize the screen. It's Paul, my editor, he wants to meet me,

  and it seems urgent. It's been months since I've heard from

  him, but his text suggests something important. I hope it's

  worthwhile, or I'll soon find myself writing trashy articles for

  gossip magazines.

  I pocket the phone once more, finish the remaining

  wine with soda, dab my lips with the napkin, and exit the

  establishment. Before leaving, I jot down a risqué joke for

  Joseph, the restaurant manager, who usually finds them rather

  entertaining. Hopefully, if my instinct is right, I can soon

  repay his hospitality with more than just indecent lines.

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  Back in my apartment, the melodic strains of "Loser"

  by Beck waft through an open window, providing the perfect

  soundtrack to my mission of selecting the ideal attire for my

  upcoming appointment. I've always despised meetings with

  Paul, and sifting through my wardrobe for a suitable outfit

  only adds to my reluctance. But hey, business is business. I

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  can't help but wonder when I last tackled the laundry. But it

  hardly matters; there's always something relatively clean

  lurking amidst the chaos of my closet, resembling a clothing

  donation bin.

  Various items of clothing are scattered around the

  room, resembling a whirlwind of fabric. I must look like a dog

  digging in the sand. Trousers, shirts, and underwear now

  decorate my bedroom floor, transforming it into a chaotic

  runway of choices for the impending meeting. In front of the

  mirror, I attempt a gray hat, scrutinizing it from both the front

  and the side before ultimately returning it to its place in the

  closet.

  With a sigh, I settle for the shoes I purchased for my

  only friend's wedding. Tragically, just two years after the

  joyful occasion, he took his own life. During the oppressive

  years of the “green dictatorship”, the dreamer had received a

  thirty-year sentence for a bizarre act – pouring a pan of hot oil

  into the toilet. He confessed to me that it was, in fact, his wife

  who had committed the “crime”, but out of sheer love, he

  chose to take the blame himself. A pitiable dreamer, indeed.

  His beloved wife wasted no time in remarrying, choosing his

  best friend as her new partner—a cruel twist that made it

  difficult to find any honesty in his actions or in his own

  existence.

  It appears that the last combination is the most

  suitable. Jeans and a jacket may be a bit cliché, but I don't

  have the luxury of time to consider other options. It's time to

  leave. However, just as I'm about to step out, a sudden

  realization hits me like a ton of bricks – my keys are nowhere

  to be found.

  A lingering urge for tidiness, a trait I never quite

  embraced, drives me to rummage through a room in disarray.

  Open drawers and disheveled cushions serve as testament to

  my growing frustration. But the elusive keys remain hidden

  from sight.

  I scour every possible nook and cranny. Claudia used

  to keep them in the same place, a habit that I could never quite

  adopt. I've always been scatterbrained and disorganized, a

  characteristic that neither time nor anyone else has managed to

  change.

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  Could they be on the kitchen counter, buried beneath

  the mess of papers on the desk, or perhaps under the living

  room sofa? Maybe nestled within the coats hanging in the

  hallway? I can't leave without my keys, but canceling the

  appointment and finding another writer is a luxury I can ill

  afford. Time is slipping away, and I must leave now. My mind

  drifts to ridiculous thoughts, I might have to resort to entering

  through a window upon my return, with the very real

  possibility of taking a tumble and fracturing my skull. How

  pathetic.

  With an exasperated sigh, I open the front door, only

  to find my keys dangling from the lock. I mutter an expletive

  under my breath. Perhaps I am slowly losing my grip on

  reality. Now, Sebastian, close that damn door, and hurry on

  your way. Twenty minutes later, I arrive at the publisher's office,

  nestled within an ancient building in the heart of the gothic

  quarter. In recent years, a wave of new businesses, particularly

  art galleries, has flooded this historic district. The once

  charming area has transformed into a bustling circus of art

  showcases – paintings, sculptures, and exotic curiosities – all

  seemingly designed to displace the neighborhood's traditional

  shops, pushing them to the outskirts or into oblivion. The

  result is a cleaner but substantially more expensive

  neighborhood, the cost of gentrification.

  I walk up the three floors of the building. No rush,

  let's take it easy, I don't want to come sweating and panting,

  nor to throw up on my editor either; we are friends, but not

  that close.

  I come across a young woman in her early twenties

  and the panting and exhaustion disappear. She greets me, I

  greet her, I don't know her, or yes. It cannot be, she is the

  concierge’s daughter. I wouldn’t have recognized her but her

  ear has given her away: a dog ripped the lobe from her left ear

  when she was ten. The girl is hot, and I am too old.

  I enter the office. The creak of the old oak door’s

  hinges announces my presence. The usual hallway greets me,

  with the same background music playing softly from the

  ceiling. The wooden floor cracks under my steps as I walk

  past the various businesses: a notary; a law office; a

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  psychologist; and a small publishing house. Raining Letters,

  that's been its name since it opened more than twenty years

  ago. There used to be a receptionist, but the position was

  eliminated a long time ago to cut expenses. They once tried

  using a holographic one, but it was removed after someone

  hacked it, causing it to say inappropriate things to anyone who

  entered.

  The normal thing is to knock on several doors until

  you find the right one; the numbers that indicate the office are

  barely visible, and it is not uncommon to come across

  someone lost in the middle of the premises. It's what happened

  to me, a few years ago, when I waited in front of a door,

  thinking it was the publisher’s, and ran into a guy wiping his

  ass. I cannot deny that the restroom almost coincides with that

  of the publisher’s office itself, at the end of the corridor and to

  the right.

  I decide to enter the small restroom to check my

  appearance. It's a cramped space, barely housing a toilet, a

  small sink, and a mirror. The same old magazine basket sits in

  the corner, untouched since the office's inauguration. I take a

  seat and browse through them. They're mostly about decor,

  outdated TV shows, and celebrity gossip. One magazine,

  however, catches my eye. Its cover shows a tombstone

  engraved with "The Giants." Inside is an extensive report on

  the mysterious disease that wiped out their species. Headlines

  read, "80% to Disappear in the Next 20 Years" and

  "Symptoms Mild in Humans, Fatal for Giants." Images of

  sick, skeletal giants lying on stretchers fill the pages. It's

  unsettling, to see a nearly four-meter-tall species so helpless. I

  close the magazine, feeling a pang of sadness for their

  extinction.

  Exiting the restroom, I knock on the door of the

  publishing office at the end of the hall. Angie, the reserved

  secretary, greets me. She's changed; her fringe is too long, and

  she's put on weight. A noticeable pimple on her nose suggests

  a fondness for chocolate. How many boyfriends has she had

  now? But then I remember, the porter's daughter, how

  attractive she was.

  "Hello, Angie, is he…" I begin.

  "Good morning, Sebastian. He's on the phone, but he

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  said you can go in," Angie replies, avoiding eye contact.

  I nod and enter Paul's office. He's on a hands-free

  call, gesturing for me to sit down.

  "We can't be sued. The biography is approved by his

  family," Paul asserts over the phone.

  "There was no quorum," the caller suggests.

  "I don't get what this idiot wants. He should've cared

  more about his aunt, not show up after thirty years demanding

  a slice of the pie," Paul retorts.

  "Yeah, but we need to cover our bases," the caller

  advises.

  "Talk to Philippe, let me know what he says," Paul

  concludes the call.

  "Everything alright?" I inquire.

  "Yes, just the usual. People wanting money for doing

  nothing," Paul sighs.

  "National sport," I remark, trying to lighten the

  mood.

  Paul leans back, fingers interlocked under his chin.

  "So, what's this urgent matter you wanted to

  discuss?"

  He rummages through the clutter on his desk,

  eventually finding an open envelope. He hands me a document

  with an elegant letterhead.

  "Read this," he prompts.

  I scan the letter. “Dear Sir, I write to you from the

  residence of the Lord of the Eastern Lands. Mr Viktor wishes

  to enlist your services as a personal biographer. He

  specifically requests Sebastian Baena for this task. We desire

  utmost discretion. Please inform us of a suitable time for a

  meeting."

  I lean back, astonished.

  "Wasn't there a giant named Viktor?"

  "Yes, the last giant. And he wants you as his

  biographer."

  "I thought there were none left."

  "So, are you interested?"

  "I'm not sure. You know my opinions on such

  characters. Is there no one else?"

  "They specifically want you, Sebastian."

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  "Why me?"

  "I don't know, but he's the client. We can't say no."

  I mull over the proposal, torn between refusal and

  acceptance.

  "Do you know what would any writer give to be

  chosen as the biographer of the last giant? This could be the

  opportunity of a lifetime."

  "I'm aware of your past," Paul interjects. "Call it

  shock therapy," he insists.

  "Give me some time to think about it." I say with a

  hint of hesitation.

  Paul nods, and calmly adds,

  "A car will pick you up tomorrow morning," he

  finally admits.

  "I don't appreciate being rushed into this," I protest,

  slightly irked.

  "I'll double your pay, cover all expenses, and give

  you a percentage of sales."

  The offer lingers in my mind, but I'm still undecided.

  "Let me think it over," I finally say, contemplating

  this unexpected turn in my career