Raquel Says (Something Entirely Unexpected) Read Online Free Page B

the situation worse for anyone not born in Europe.
    Europe and its ghosts came with us. And its disdain. And its tutelage. And its eternal obsession with never letting the others leave childhood, always needing a snack and, once in a while, a slap in the face.
    “Where is the garden?”
    “It’s in my heart.”
    “And what is there in your garden?”
    “Three trees and a flower.”
    “What color is the flower?”
    “The color of your breasts.”
    “And what trees are there?”
    “There’s a cypress. And I don’t know the others.”
    “And who walks in your garden?”
    “You do, barefoot.”
    “And what do I see in your garden?”
    “You see a bird in a tree, but it already disappeared.”
    “And do you see me in the garden?”
    “I see you and I don’t see you. I watch you and then you’re gone. You go between the trees and continue to walk.”
    “And what fruit do your trees bear?”
    “I don’t know, but all the fruit is red and has the same flavor as your kisses.”
    “And why are you leaving now?”
    “It’s because I ran out of words. Without words, I disappear.”

Fourth Chapter
    I n which I talk about the little difference that really exists between literature, virtual reality and what we call real life.
    Raquel says she is afraid we will meet. So am I. For now it’s just e-mails, and we are actually finally both experiencing a relationship that is completely extraterritorial and extramundane; a literary relationship. The Raquel from the e-mails is the Raquel of words, and Moshe is literature. We stroll among the words and drink coffee in imaginary cafes. But for quite some time now I’ve been doubting everything they call material. I walk down the streets and feel as though I live inside a movie. I don’t know when everything changed and the world became literature. Sometimes I want to wake up from this dream, but what happens if the past was actually the dream and I am now in reality? Everything I see is intangible, none of it is exactly what I imagine I see. The whole world exists only in my imagination, in my books. No, there is nothing that could prove the opposite to me. Hundreds of philosophy books couldn’t convince me of it being the most logical possibility. Each of us is Elohim and each entity creates their world and manages it as they can, and maybe as they like.
    This is why Raquel and I live among books. We live among books the way words live among pages. We are two books that communicate the way a chapter of Finnegan’s Wake and a chapter of Le Livre Des Questions might communicate. Like them, they would talk to each other with words, they would send each other e-mails and they would create a world. Maybe they would send photos to each other in order to not get lost between reality and what seems to not be reality.
    Today they published an article about one of my books in the Israeli newspaper Haaretz, another one against it, like the majority of them. But, you see, I just read it and even laughed a little, I was Mois. If every three months they write an article against me, one day I will become very famous. But the reason this article didn’t cause me to become completely depressed for three or four days is simply that I am writing this book. Because when I write, I no longer live in that world outside of the book. When I write I live in the book, and when I live in the book, I understand little about that other person named Moshe who walks along the streets between books. I understand neither what he wants nor how he lives. I don’t understand his bank account or what he does for a living. For a few months he becomes a complete stranger. Sometimes I see him on TV talking about my books, about the ones I’m writing, and I wonder what this guy is talking about and why he would think that because he wrote me he knows me better than others. Only Raquel knows me, and not the Raquel who is married and goes to the supermarket every day and prefers red skirts over brown ones.