FOREWORD
As we all know ‘squatters’ squat, that is, they break into our houses and there they settle, never to leave, except by force. The squatters in these stories also squat, unexpectedly, illegally, even brutally, albeit not in our houses, but in our minds. No one is safe from these “mind” squatters. The characters who make up these stories are only an example, a mere possibility; even more, you who are reading these lines and I who wrote them could well be the victims of mind squatters, and still not know it.
There are seven stories in this book. In Lena’s World, the narrator, a writer by profession, sees his existence suddenly occupied by a female stranger who nonetheless brings coherence with her. In the story that follows, the young Azahara, whose name titles it, bursts into the life of a celibate university professor shaking up his beloved routine. The Fortress offers the reader the possibility to see the squatting process for it is outside the character’s mind. The Other, which could well be a nightmare, is the writer-narrator’s encounter with his self that has crept into his world. Similar situations are presented in Juan, the author of novels and The Re-encounter: two parallel worlds that have never crossed, until one invades the other, with devastating results.
The theory of parallel worlds, formulated by the physicist Hugh Everett in the 1950s, cannot be ignored when it comes to plotting, or perhaps I should say ‘dreaming’ a story: it is a truly fantastic conception, with no need for magic or unimaginable beings, nor aliens or the living dead. It is simply a matter of a character occupying the parallel world that corresponds to him. In doing so he encounters two realities, and therein lies the story.
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Lena’s WORLD
…between parallel universes.
david Deutsch
Actually, I knew it all along, ever since she came to my place and walked in as if she had lived with me for ages. She did a good job, I have to admit. She knocked on the door, and when I opened it she just walked in carrying a shopping bag. I was amazed at her shamelessness. As she went resolutely down the corridor, without looking back, she said she had forgotten her key; one day she was going to forget her head; she hadn’t interrupted me, had she? Sacred were my hours at the computer with my characters and my stuff, she said almost exactly and I still wonder how she knew all this, unless she had been spying on me, or had even been inquiring at the bookshop opposite, where I not only buy my books but also have long conversations with Sebastian, the bookseller.
She went straight into the kitchen –I, still perplexed at the door, just watched–, put the bag down on the table and looked around. That’s when I caught her: she was hesitating, her eyes searching: she didn’t know where to place each item. But I did not say a single word, simply because she…. was a beauty. Never in my stories had I imagined such a beautiful woman, let alone such a beautiful woman who would so naturally walk through my door; into the house of a confirmed bachelor, I might add. She wanted to deceive me, of course, but I would deceive her because I would let myself be deceived; and see who came out on top. I made up my mind there and then, as I looked at her. To reach the top cupboard, she climbed up on the stool: pink jeans, tight, or rather figure-hugging. I thought of a statue of Greek perfection, Aphrodite no doubt, coloured and moving.