All that well-worn despair and tiresome financial difficulty. And yet, from time to time we have no choice but to find ourselves living those clichés. Like you, Doctora, as the crusading guardian of human rights, or the Comisario here, as the hardened policeman trying to solve his most difficult case. The image of things overwhelms us and turns us to its will. That, it seems, is what happened to our Señor Waterbury. “The boludo had enjoyed some success in the publishing business. His first book, The Black Market, emerged in twelve countries and won various prizes. He’d sat on literary panels, given interviews, seen his words in foreign alphabets. “But success was cruel to Robert Waterbury in a strange way; it made him lose all fear. He had been flattered and greeted with that tone of reverence that seduces all writers: Ah, Robert Waterbury! You wrote The Black Market! A fatal voice, one that washes away the foundations of the real world. He heard the call to take his place among the Great Ones of Literature.
