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a wrinkle can be seen on his skin even as he turns to face her, exhaling deeply with the effort. A good wine, he says. A good choice. Do you have some of it? You think we have anything here? she retorts. You said it yourself. Did I? I forget what I say to people and when. So I try not to remember too much. Less to forget. Like your name. It's an insignificant piece of information as it is, but you notice that I did not ask your name. And what's yours? Mine? His face screws up with the effort to remember. Unconsciously, his jaw drops, and  |
she sees a set of perfect false teeth. He wears the stubborn, stupid look of a boy. I -- I don't know, he stammers. Maybe it's in a book? You have books? You want to know? Yes, yes! He stands up, hands shaking before his chest, frantic. I must, I must! But no, it is not in any book. Because there are no pictures of me. I have never let a person take a picture of me. I spent all my days inside carriages. I would pass through town, so people knew I was there, so they knew that I was in complete control of their destinies, but I did not step outside the carriage even once. That was my power. No one could see me, no one could take a photograph and steal my soul. You understand? No, you are a  |
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