Page 20 of Lost Room Lawyer (Room #4)

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Nico

I wandered through the aisles, my eyes gliding over the spines of books lining the shelves.

It had been ages since I’d last set foot in a bookstore.

The days when I devoured one book after another felt like a distant memory.

As a devoted fan of Dostoevsky and Dumas, I had once immersed myself in all their works.

But ever since my writer’s block set in, I had stopped reading too, wondering if the two were somehow connected.

As far as I could remember, it had been seven years since I last held a literary work in my hands; that was before law school.

It was almost as if I had started to fear literature.

Now, as my anxiety was shifting to next Wednesday, when dinner with Hector, his wife, and my father was supposed to take place, I felt a tingling in my fingers.

Was it a coincidence that I was suddenly surrounded by literature again, and that the urge to write was spreading within me?

Maybe it was Hector’s fault.

An affair had often inspired the mind.

Never had two weeks passed so quickly in my life.

With Gerry in Vevey and Linda on vacation, Hector and I had grown closer—not just physically, but on a personal level as well.

Maybe I was imagining it, but I had the impression that Hector’s obsessive-compulsive disorder—his constant handwashing and sanitizing—had eased a bit.

It couldn’t just be the cream that healed the wounds on his hands and made his skin smooth again.

He also seemed a bit more relaxed—probably due to the frequent sex.

However, since that day Linda had unexpectedly returned to the office, he had been even more on edge than before.

Like a watchdog, he reacted to every little sound, even if it was just the door of the office across the hall.

It was no longer easy to seduce him, and it was somehow annoying to watch him first draw the curtains in his office while I had an erection.

Given the circumstances, fooling around with him in the archive was the easiest. The compulsive disorder, previously manifested in excessive handwashing, had been replaced by an over-cautiousness that was no less neurotic.

As I surveyed the books on display, I realized I was smiling.

Strangely enough, that had been happening quite often in recent days.

No matter where I was—whether in the shower, at the supermarket, or here in front of literary works I didn’t know—I kept smiling.

The only thing I knew was that Hector was somehow responsible for this shift in me.

At least, that was what I thought. I couldn’t really explain it.

My gaze wandered over the book covers and landed on a crane. The Birds’ Song of Laughter by Nicola Rossi. I knew it was a reissue; my publisher had recently mentioned they were changing the pastel green background to a dusty rose.

The smile disappeared from my face, and a queasy feeling spread in my stomach.

Nevertheless, I picked up one of the books.

It was a hardcover with exquisite colored edges and weighed almost five pounds.

I leafed through the pages and ran my fingers over the intricately embossed relief print on the cover.

Many authors considered the blurb to be their biggest obstacle. For me, it was now the book itself that stirred my emotions just by looking at it. Some force seemed to choke my throat, and I gasped for air. I tore my gaze away from the book and glanced around.

My mother had come along with me, but she was out of sight, browsing for an art book for her friend Maya’s birthday.

“Can I help you?” a saleswoman asked from a nearby shelf. “Are you searching for something specific?”

I was caught off guard by her unexpected presence and didn’t know how to respond.

“Oh, The Birds’ Song of Laughter … a very beautiful book. Is it for you?”

I frowned in confusion, my gaze drifting back to the crane illustration on the cover in my hands. “I don’t know …” As I turned the book over and scanned the blurb, I felt a wave of nostalgia.

“It’s a bit thick,” the saleswoman said, her tone gentle and understanding.

“But I can assure you, it’s worth it. It’s no wonder it won the German Book Prize.

The story is about a family that gets increasingly pushed to the edge of society due to the illegal activities of an uncle.

They say Nicola Rossi was only eighteen when she published this book. ”

She? I smiled. “Eighteen?”

“Yes! I know!” The saleswoman’s eyes sparkled with bibliophilic passion. “Almost like Francoise Sagan! She wrote Bonjour Tristesse at seventeen!”

“Hm …” I said thoughtfully, now ready to engage in the conversation. “But Bonjour Tristesse —if I remember correctly—was only about 150 pages.”

“Yes, that’s why it’s such a pity that Nicola Rossi has never shown herself in public.”

I want to write!

A single thought rolled through my veins like a powerful storm.

I clutched the book in my hands, unable to put it down.

Maybe it was because I didn’t have a single copy at home.

After I won the award, my block had worsened, and I wanted nothing to do with The Birds’ Song of Laughter .

Yet, I felt something changing within me.

And what I held in my hands was the bridge back to writing.

“I’ll take it,” I murmured, as if it were an admission I needed to make to myself to truly embark on the path.

“Is there anything else you want to check out? I can hold it at the register for you if you like.”

“No, I’m fine.”

I followed the saleswoman to the register and paid for my book.

It cost 45 francs. Okay, it had just over a thousand pages, but still.

I was sure the young woman had no idea that publishing authors only received 8-15 percent of the sale price.

Thanks to my father, who had secured me favorable terms, I was able to enjoy 15 percent that went back into my pocket, but most authors weren’t so lucky.

“Should I wrap it for you?”

“No,” I answered, opening my messenger bag. “I’ll take it as is.”

The saleswoman slipped the receipt into the book and handed it to me. “Enjoy your reading.”

I only had a faint smile to offer. “Thank you.” Feeling somehow uplifted, I made my way to the art section.

“What did you buy?” my mother asked. She was sitting in an armchair with three books, trying to decide between Alberto Giacometti, Picasso, and Auguste Rodin.

Her friend Maya was in the same studio as her, and they had attended many exhibitions together. I had known Maya since I was a child, and since we moved back to Zurich, she lived less than five minutes away from my mother.

“You really don’t want to know what I bought,” I replied, sitting down in the empty chair next to her.

“Show me,” she said with a wink.

Knowing she wouldn’t let up, I opened my bag to give her a glimpse of my purchase. My mother’s mouth dropped open, and she looked at me in surprise.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” I said, closing the bag again.

“How is that supposed to work?” she asked with raised eyebrows. She set the Giacometti book aside and moved a little closer to me. “I’m happy for you. I know it’s a big step and a good sign.”

“I want to finally move on. The time has come. I want to write again.”

The love in my mother’s understanding glance meant the world to me. She had tried to support me back then, after my father forced that contract through—driven by his fear of being recognized as Luciano.

How often had I cursed myself for visiting him on that day and being in the wrong place at the wrong time?

It was one thing to hear him talking in the study with a guy, offering him money in exchange for fake evidence that would guarantee his client an acquittal.

But I had no idea how big the case was, as I didn’t care.

The brief conversation was all I needed to give Luciano the final touches.

Turning him into a mobster who controlled and terrorized the family with rage made my novel a bestseller.

Leo’s fear of being recognized and losing his license—or worse, going to jail—was so great that he did everything to protect himself. That our relationship had suffered due to his volatile character wasn’t shocking.

For a while, I had completely lost my footing. I blamed myself for signing that gag order. Every time I reminded myself that I had no other choice, I cursed myself for having written the book at all.

Yes, I had considered it a curse. A curse I had imposed on myself, and for which I had simmered in the hell of writer’s block for years.

But that was about to end. I could feel it.

I was inspired and wanted to start something new.

Maybe it wasn’t even necessary to use all the notes I had gathered over the years.

When I looked up and saw my mother’s gaze, I felt exposed. “What?” I asked, trying to act casual.

Her smile was too suspicious. When she left my question unanswered and nodded knowingly, I wanted to know even more.

“What is it?”

“You’re in love.”

I burst out laughing. “Nonsense!”

“Believe what you want, but I can see it in the tip of your nose. You’re in love—or at least infatuated.”

I leaned back in the chair and let my gaze wander through the store.

Am I? I don’t know.

“Hector Lando?” my mother asked playfully.

Oh God! I thought, rolling my eyes. “We’re just having fun together.”

“Yes, together. But you seem to be getting a lot out of it.” She nodded at the bag in my lap. “ The Birds’ Song of Laughter ?”

“Alright,” I admitted reluctantly. “Maybe I’ve developed a bit of a crush on him, but I’m not stupid. The man is married and has two kids. I’m just someone he’s having an affair with.”