Vakkert Rupitsio is a millionaire and hands out a million dollars every Saturday morning among the interested, the deserving poor, the life-lovers, the ne’er-do-wells, the black cats, the otters, the former politicians and the ravens in the main shopping street in Fabberlund. When he is done he goes to cafe Blak where he writes a letter which he memorizes, burns in an ashtray and then reads from memory through a black tube into the ear of the bartender Saljenbock:
“He’s impossible to reach. Unless you own a pretty long stick. For now, he’s sitting up in the chandelier like a squirrel who has run away from home.”
It’s Saturday in Bez, exactly 800 kilometers from Fabberlund. Outside, the sun is blinking. I sit with my cell phone in one hand and a picture book in the other as I read to my little daughter.
