For this brilliant attempt to evade poverty he has been dubbed a forger of his own work. —Georges LeFleur, quoted in El País newspaper “Stop asking questions,” a sinister voice growled when I answered my cell phone. I let my mother into my apartment and lingered on the landing, prepared to deal harshly with a certain Bosnian friend of mine who adored sophomoric jokes. “Pete, is that you?” I demanded. “Stop fooling around.” There was a pause. “It’s not Pete,” the voice said, and I thought I detected a slight Spanish accent. “Then who is it?” My heart started to pound as I realized this might be an actual threat. That sort of thing rarely happened to faux finishers. “Stop asking questions or you will die.” “What is this about?” I was scared but also a little angry. “Have the guts to identify yourself.” “You know what this is about,” the voice replied. “And little girls shouldn’t be so rude.” A bully and a sexist. Could it be Pascal? “If I knew what you were talking about, I wouldn’t ask.”
