Pressure manifested in ways. The lawyer's proposal was the heavy-handed tool. The subsequent tactic resembled a scalpel.
A woman showed up at the clinic asserting she was a relative. She introduced herself as Sophie. She was kind neatly attired and her gaze carried a compassion flawless it seemed practiced. Jacques, watchful permitted her into the waiting area. Arthur was not present. Maria observed the woman from the threshold of her office. Offered a faint nearly unnoticed shake of her head.
Giovanni encountered her. Her tale seemed credible her worry genuine. She talked about family his solitude, the weight on his shoulders. Throughout Giovanni's skin displayed a mixed array of reactions. A brief heat on his wrist as she referenced his mother's compassion (truth). A chilly slippery feeling on his neck while she recounted her voyage, from Marseille (falsehood). Numerous small. Chills. She was a mosaic of untruths interlaced, into a broader ambiguous image.
It was exhausting. It was an assault.
"I believe it's time for you to go " he stated at last his courtesy worn thin.
Sophie's complete compassion remained steady. "Naturally. I have burdened you. Yet please before I leave… a friend of mine. He's a publisher. He learned about your viewpoint. He's curious if you might consider writing a memoir. Sharing your story. It has the potential to aid many."
The last element fell into place. Not a relative. A literary scout. Dispatched to extract the richness of his experience. The empathy was a device. The whole act was a fabrication serving a reality.
"Leave " Giovanni stated softly.
She departed her stance remaining that of worry. Giovanni collapsed into a seat in the waiting area shaking with a feeling unrelated, to disease. They weren't merely attempting to exploit his gift. They aimed to commercialize his suffering to sell his affliction.
"They won't ever cease " Jacques remarked from his position declaring it as a bleak reality.
That night the main team assembled—Arthur, Maria, Isabella with Ibrahim joining via speakerphone. It was a strategy meeting held in a place designed for recovery.
"The clinics security is breached " Arthur said, raking his fingers through his hair. "They located us. They'll continue to come. As a physician I cannot ethically allow you to remain in a setting that produces this amount of stress."
"We have to make you vanish " Ibrahim's voice sputtered over the phone. "Completely. A fresh identity. A new location. Far away, from the grasp of investigators, attorneys and prosecutors handling charges."
"A life spent in concealment " Giovanni stated. It wasn't an inquiry.
"A life " Maria amended. "The maze belongs to you. Yet you don't need to serve as a tribute, to it. You can remain a document."
Isabella remained quiet for quite a while. Afterward she spoke up "There is an alternative."
Every one of them gazed at her.
"We don't conceal the manuscript. We release it. According to our conditions." She leaned in. "Giovanni you've been jotting in that notebook for weeks now. Background. Emotion. The emotional climate encircling the falsehoods. What if that's the book? Not an explosive exposé on politicians and crimes.. A reflection. A philosophy, on truth and deception viewed through the perspective of one man's perception. We publish it without revealing the author. A piece of literature. It would form a barrier—the enigma would belong to it. The scavengers would pursue the writer, not the individual.. You… you would at last be able to express yourself free, from exploitation."
The concept was bold. To confront the urge to manipulate his reality by presenting an alternative more profound reality. To wield art as a disguise and a form of release.
"That's a tactic " Ibrahim remarked, his tone filled with respect. "Saturate the market with a managed narrative."
"That would be your testimony " Maria stated. "Not, before a court. In front of humanity."
Giovanni pictured the swing etched on his chest representing Émile Lacroix's genuine sorrow. He reflected on the maze, a sealed intricate pupil. He considered the minute scars, a biography of human flaws. He had endured being inscribed on for such a time. The thought of responding with his writing of crafting the narrative was both frightening and irresistibly alluring.
"I'm not sure how " he confessed.
"You already are " Isabella remarked, indicating the notebook on his desk. "We only assist you in completing it. Then we release it."
This was a responsibility. Not to. To examine or to bear witness. To produce. To convert the dialect of his flesh into the dialect of the soul.
Their work started that evening. The clinic, supervised by Jacques transformed into a sanctuary for a writer. Giovanni composed, until the early hours, illuminated by a lone lamp. He composed about the quiet of the library the burden of the strokes. He reflected on the contrast, between a lie that shields and one that devours. He described Osborne's city and the chilling pain of Lacroix's reality. No names were mentioned. He communicated through forms, emotions and signs.
Isabella refined the text, her expertise shaping his writing into something precise and elegant. Maria contributed understanding of the significance. Arthur made certain that the physical and emotional impact was presented accurately and with respect. Ibrahim found a well-regarded publisher, in Belgium specializing in philosophical fiction who prioritized confidentiality.
The book carried the title: On the Skin of the World: Fragments of a Lived Truth.
Writing served as both a form of exorcism and a consecration. With each page completed the maze etched on his arm appeared to embed itself transforming into an integral element of his being instead of a mere intruder. It ceased to be an outcry; it became a foundation.
After three months the manuscript was finished. The publication process began. On the day the final version was submitted Giovanni experienced a sense of lightness. The external world remained overwhelming. He had created an inner sanctuary, a calm space, within himself to witness the pressure without being overwhelmed.
That evening he more envisioned the library of flesh-covered books. On this occasion he selected one. It belonged to him. He flipped it open. The pages lacked the signs of falsehoods. Instead they contained his handwriting, the text, from his journal. The maze was carved on the front. Inside was not a log of untruths but an analysis of them. A deciphering.
He awoke understanding for the time since the curse started what he truly was. Not a casualty. Not an instrument. Not a repository.
He was an author.