The book was released in the understated manner imaginable. No publicity, no announcements. It just showed up in bookstores around Europe and on internet listings its cover boasting a minimalist, refined look, with a subtle raised labyrinth pattern. The author was credited as "A Witness."
For seven days silence. Then a critique showed up in a Swiss literary magazine. It described the book as "a beautiful philosophical exploration " and "a piece of magical realism that seems disturbingly autobiographical." Another review appeared in an intellectual periodical. Gradually news circulated, not as controversy. As literature.
The clinic no longer saw visits from attorneys or fake relatives. Journalists called now seeking "remarks on the concepts in the book " rather than contacting the librarian personally. The pressure, for the time being had eased. The world was pursuing the specter he had invented.
One afternoon a parcel came for Giovanni. It was sent by the publisher. Inside were five copies of his book. He grasped one, its weight tangible and genuine within his hands. He traced his fingers across the maze on the cover then over the one, on his arm. They differed,. They seemed to be communicating.
He flipped to a page and saw his own writing: "To exist bearing a truth that defines you means realizing that each falsehood also leaves a mark. The issue isn't, about dodging the ink. About the narrative you create with the canvas you possess."
Isabella entered, clutching her copy her eyes shining. "It's effective. They're discussing the concepts, not the individual."
"For the moment " Giovanni remarked, though the previous fear was absent. It was an acceptance of the situation.
"Siegfried gave an interview " she remarked, her smile growing ironic. "He described the book as 'a piece of inventive autofiction ' and mentioned it 'demonstrates the deep psychological effect of thinking one has such an ability.' He's attempting to appropriate it to align it with his argument."
Giovanni nearly chuckled. "Let him be. He's studying the shadow. We exist in the light."
Days afterward a last intimate appeal arrived. It wasn't, via means but through the intricate human web Ibrahim maintained. It came from Émile Lacroix. Céleste remained missing. The inquiry went on.. The emphasis had changed and he was freed. He had returned to his village to his workshop. The note was straightforward: "Thank you for paying attention. For understanding the matter."
Giovanni never responded. It wasn't necessary. The hollow space on his chest had, by now dimmed into a silver remembrance.. The reality of it persisted.
That evening as the sun dipped below the horizon of Valence casting a glow, on the clinic walls Giovanni remained by his window. He sensed the faint tingle of the citys myriad minor deceits—the harmless fibs, the grandiose claims, the concealed anxieties. They resembled off radio interference. He noticed them. Allowed them to fade away.
He gazed upon the maze. It remained steady. An intricate enclosed design. A chart of an adventure, not a cage. He reflected on the name of his book. On the Skin of the World. He was not the skin of the world. He was a sentence inscribed upon it.. He was a sentence that now carried significance, punctuation, a tone.
Arthur came in carrying two tea cups. He passed one to Giovanni. "The board has given their approval " he spoke softly. "Your formal 'assessment' has concluded. The legal review period has ended. You are, at liberty to exit this room Giovanni. Whenever you choose."
Giovanni grabbed the tea. He glanced around the room that had served as his cell, his refuge, his study. He gazed at Arthur, his companion and caretaker. His mind went to Maria in her herb-filled chamber to Jacques stationed in the antechamber to Isabella pursuing clues that were now merely tales, no longer dangers.
"Where should I head?" he inquired, not out of despair. With true interest.
"Anywhere " Arthur replied. "You might return to a library. A different one.. Maybe not. You could compose another book.. Just exist. The curse belongs to you now. Not vice versa."
Giovanni took a sip of his tea. It was warm, sharp and sugary. A genuine flavor.
He was not healed. He never would be. The worlds inkwell would constantly stain his skin.. He was no longer merely parchment. He had discovered how to read. He had even mastered the art of writing.
The opening line of the remainder of his life wasn't etched in ink on flesh. It was a decision, whispered into the stillness of the room.
"I think," Giovanni said, a faint, true smile touching his lips, "I'd like to go for a walk."