To Sao Iovleff

He was fifty-six. For a little over a year the attacks had become less frequent. In the bedroom mirror he saw a puffy face with thickened traits. Jean had never found himself handsome but, recently, he had been avoiding his reflection in the mirror. He sighed, turned around. The writer, as Jean called himself, looked down at his watch: she would be here soon. The young woman had come up to him yesterday, after the conference, and said she was a journalist. She wrote for some review whose name he didn’t know. What was her name again? Irina... Curious, he thought, a Russian first name and yet she spoke with an Italian accent. The writer, who loved things exotic, was delighted by this unexpected contradiction. Irina had wanted to continue the interview in a more private setting. “My hotel room, is it really suitable for me to meet a young woman there who could be my daughter?” thought the writer smugly, proud of himself. Right away, he had made his advances with a disconcerting amount of self-control. And beautiful Irina hasn’t tried to push him away: “What will be will be” she replied, her eyes lighted by a will for challenge.