Across the river
...And then he couldn't write anymore, he said.
And certainly not because he was bothered by the infection on his face or because he had not been physically well for a while. The vein had dried up, there was emptiness around him.
And then I had arrived. I had so much life, so much enthusiasm in me that I had passed them on to him too. He had started writing again and everything suddenly became easy. He would finish the book and then write another - for me - even more beautiful. Now he could write again and well, and he thanked me.
I was glad of it. I was happy when I could be of help. I had helped several friends by listening, sharing in their problems. I had also helped an adult in crisis by speaking so passionately (so he later told me) of the importance of bearing with intelligence the defects of others, of always putting oneself in the skin of the other before judging, of giving a lot and always without expecting anything in return, that - already on the verge of separating from his wife - he had suspected that part of the fault could be his, had decided to try to follow my ethics and discovered that his marriage was still valid. As a token of gratitude, I am gifted a silver cigarette case, signed by Cartier none the less. For me it was all one...
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