I hold out my hand and thank them for being there. My body might be traveling, but when my soul flies from city to city, I am never alone; I am all the many people I meet and who have understood my soul through my books. I’m not a stranger here in Moscow, or in London, Sofia, Tunis, Kiev, Santiago de Compostela, Guimarães, or any of the other cities I’ve visited in the last month and a half. I can hear an argument going on behind me, but I try to concentrate on what I’m doing. The argument, however, shows no sign of abating. Finally, I turn around and ask my publisher what the problem is. “It’s that girl from yesterday. She says she wants to be near you.” I can’t even recall the girl from yesterday, but I ask them at least to stop arguing. I carry on signing books. Someone sits down close to me only to be removed by one of the uniformed security guards, and the argument starts again. I stop what I’m doing. Beside me is the girl whose eyes speak of love and death. For the first time, I take a proper look at her: dark hair, between twenty-two and twenty-nine years old (I’m useless at judging people’s ages), a beat-up leather jacket, jeans, and sneakers.
