Double Twenty

PROLOGUE - C U When U Get There (Coolio feat. 40 Thevz)

"Time is the substance I am made of." – Jorge Luis Borges

The personality of a home reflects the essence of its inhabitant. At the threshold of this estate stretches a vast, well-tended garden, displaying its charms under the clear sky of a spring afternoon. Along the winding paths lined with brightly colored flowers, one particular species catches the eye: the heliotrope, whose purple heads gently turn to follow the sun throughout the day, an organic symbol of the perpetual movement of time. Like sentinels of the diurnal cycle, they guide us toward a grand mansion, whose stones, cradled by the ages, softly whisper the secrets of its occupants. The high gables and pointed windows of the house stand proudly, framed by a richly decorated front door, a palpable transition between the chaos of the world and the inner order that seems to hold its breath, whispering an invitation to cross its threshold with deference.

Beyond the entrance, each step leading from the hall to the vast study, where the master of the house and his guest have already taken their places, resonates on the ancient parquet floor. These steps are sometimes muffled by large Turkish rugs with complex patterns and deep colors, tinted with red, ocher, and beige, creating a contrast with the dark wood of the floor.

The shelves, laden with leather-bound books, and the walls adorned with austere portraits silently watch over the room. A large window open to the garden lets in a soft light that dances on a sumptuous 19th-century Empire desk situated in the center. Behind this desk, the old man waits, gathering his strength. Seated in a leather armchair worn by years of near-continuous use, he emerges as the final element of a meticulously composed Dutch school painting. His gaze, fixed and deep, seems to absorb more light than it reflects. Leaning forward with effort, his trembling hands rest lightly on his knees, worn by time, as he stares at the object before him with the intensity of a goldsmith shaping his finest piece. His emaciated face bears wrinkles sculpted by a life of crucial and sometimes painful decisions, testifying to his unwavering integrity. From his thinning temples to his bespoke suit, every detail reflects an imposing and thoughtful presence. A quiet authority emanates from him, a man accustomed to influencing the destinies of others. Keeper of long-hidden truths. His thin lips are now ready to reveal a unique confession, situated at the intersection of reality.

"Miss, do you think your digital recorder can truly capture the echoes of the past?" he asks, his voice tinged with the significance of the discourse he is about to deliver. Frowning, he continues, "I must warn you of one essential point: the story we are about to reveal transcends the limits of the conceivable and the reasonable. It is a tale woven in the shadows of time, so extraordinary and abyssal that only a discerning ear, ready to question reality, can grasp its essence. We are about to share a truth, a truth that, if you listen carefully, could shake the foundations of everything you thought you knew."

Véra, whose charm and youth contrast with the emphasis of her interlocutor, meets his gaze with measured patience. Her blue eyes, slightly distracted, quickly scan the room, absorbing the antiquated ambiance that surrounds her. She adjusts her bun mechanically and her attention slides to a gramophone discreetly placed to the left of the desk, its immaculate surface gleaming under the filtered light. Then she turns her head slightly to the right to admire a large, intricately designed clock, perfectly positioned between two bookshelves, marking time with an astonishingly silent precision. A small fortune in auction houses, she thinks, impressed by the majesty of the object. She is not here for that. She must not lose sight of her assigned role. Her editor-in-chief ordered her to conduct this interview. A terse email with the time, place, and subject, without further details. Despite multiple inquiries, Véra has not managed to gather enough information about her host to prepare for the interview in advance. "He might confess to killing Kennedy, or better yet, to harboring Dupont de Ligonnès." A laugh dangerously rises within her. She knows he had a notable career in business and then in politics, without ever becoming a major public figure. Nevertheless, she hopes, without too much faith, that this subject will be her ticket out of writing about minor news and celebrity gossip that she is usually assigned. It doesn't really matter, after all, she is already paid and in advance! That's something at least.

"Yes, sir, everything works. Just make sure to speak clearly and at a moderate pace." She gently adjusts the microphone connected to her latest-generation MacBook. "Would you prefer that I guide you through your memories, or would you like to dive straight into the heart of the matter?"

The old man emits a raspy laugh, interrupted by a series of coughs that seem to shake his entire body. "Oh, there is much more to reveal than you can yet imagine, miss," he says with a mischievous smile. "But rest assured, we will not censor our words, if that is your concern. However, to truly appreciate the story, we recommend that you pay attention to the details, listen with your heart rather than your reason, and above all, do not make the mistake of judging too hastily. Always ask yourself what you would have done if you had been in our place."

Adjusting her position in the old-fashioned floral armchair in which she sits, Véra prepares her notebook, an elegant way to steer the conversation back on track if necessary. A half-faded sticker, "It's like rain on your wedding day," adorns the cover. A personal relic she cherishes and which seems, in this case, more appropriate than a vulgar digital keyboard.

With her host's permission, who had his household staff previously arrange various refreshments and a steaming teapot on the desk, Véra pours herself a cup of jasmine tea. The warmth and delicate aroma of the brew offer her the renewed attention she needs. After a long sigh, the old man closes his eyes and channels his thoughts like a master yogi. When he begins to speak, his voice is initially fragile, but gradually gains strength and confidence as the memories flow. Soon, another voice seems to take over, that of a man who has lived a thousand lives, a storyteller whose true essence has never really left him. The reel turns, and the film begins to unfold. "Bon voyage..." he murmurs, ready to finally unburden himself of a secret too long kept.