The Secret of the Unicorn

He wasn't the most intimidating man, nor the most famous, but he was a man who, just seeing him walk into Planeta K today, had Jorge Elías's head in a knot. He was a member of the Royal Spanish Academy, where he occupied the T chair (for "fearsome," to use a random word), an expert social media blocker, and a highly successful novelist. A man who stopped being addressed informally at twelve, surely. Or maybe eleven.

Oh, and I almost forgot: a polemicist. In a jungle where every word was a dagger, he was an expert knife thrower. Sharp. Cutting. Accurate. Whether you agreed with him or not, it was hard not to admire the lucid, bad-tempered nature of this guy. Although Jorge often wished his slashes had gone in a different direction—damn, what a skill he had for slashing, skinning, and flaying.

Back to the topic: what was the occupant of the T (for 'stubborn,' to use a random word) doing in a comic book store? Well, looking for Tintin comics. Curious, very curious. But it's no wonder; even Vargas Llosa himself confessed in El pez en el agua that what he loved most as a child was reading Billikens , Penecas , and all kinds of comics.

As he watched the occupant of the T (for 'temperament', to use a random word) search through the drawers of his establishment for Hergé's album The Secret of the Unicorn , the bookseller's mind wandered to some of the invisible threads that linked his life to the man's work:

Jorge remembered feeling like Lucas Corso, the protagonist of The Dumas Club , when he and David Valentín investigated the Nóvaro crimes, even going to clandestine bookstores like Antifaz.

And he remembered going to the theater to see the film adaptation of that novel: Polanski's The Ninth Gate . Jorge will never forget it because it gave him the opportunity to say his favorite phrase in the universe: "Books are always better."

Jorge also remembered how he'd sulked when he found out that this man, as far removed from Hip Hop as someone of his age and status could be, had written a novel that delved into the world of graffiti. It was called The Patient Sniper ; Jorge Elías read it with fear and every imaginable prejudice. Of course, the bookseller lived with Suso33 as a neighbor, was a colleague of Pastron#7, and had a great feat of having seen b-boys like Muelle, Glub, and Remebe paint... He wasn't about to tolerate this man doing... doing... what turned out to be a perfectly documented work with enormous respect for wall artists. As Peter Griffin would say: Bam! Right in the mouth.

He smiled when he remembered how angry he was when he learned they were going to adapt ALL the Captain Alatriste books… into ONE film. On forums like Dreamers, Jorge wrote long rants arguing that “no other country would allow this absurdity of cramming seven books together.” Even today, he continues his crusade, and when some smart-aleck asks him , “What would you have done? Seven films?” Jorge Elías replies:

—Eight. If we've learned anything from Harry Potter , Twilight , and The Hunger Games , it's that the final book should always be split into two parts.

Although if there was one thing that always delighted Jorge about the adventures of Captain Alatriste, it was that the first book was written by this academic from the T (for 'Storm', to use a random word) with his young daughter. That, at the time, made Jorgito dream of writing a book with his own mother. It would surely have been a novel set in ancient Egypt, which was his mother's favorite genre; although he would have made sure someone wore a superhero costume. It wasn't that it was difficult to find references; there are countless characters with an 'Egyptian theme,' from DC's Hawkman to Marvel's Moon Knight, including Black Adam, Apocalypse, and Rama-Tut.

Shit, I'm already rambling , Jorge Elías thought then. And on top of that, the person occupying chair T (for 'Tajante', to use a random word) at the RAE was already heading towards the counter with the Tintin album in hand. He left it next to the cash register and said apologetically:

—I already have it, of course. This one's for a gift.

"I imagine so," the bookseller replied.

This exchange of banal phrases made Jorge Elías's head spin: God, this shit is at the top of the list of the most embarrassing conversations I've ever had. Why are you telling me you already have him? Do you really want me to start a conversation? I hate fucking Tintin! I only love Snowy because his merchandise sells like hotcakes. It doesn't matter. Talk about something else. Anything. Come on, Jorge, say something.

—And… What do you think of Vértice?

Come on, let's go! Bravely. Without a bit of Vaseline. For no reason at all. Jorge Elías, you're an idiot, an idiot, an idiot. That's how the bookseller tortured himself. But he was being unfair to himself; the truth was, after what happened at Christmas with Vértice, now that everyone in Madrid knew the city had a superhero... asking people what they thought of him was a totally normal, legitimate, and super-common conversation in any elevator (the epitome of the awkward silence that needs to be broken, no matter what).

But of course, what stressed Jorge out wasn't just the little question he'd vomited up. It was who was asking it. Jorge Elías dreaded the inquisitive stare of that former war reporter (oh, yes, I forgot to mention that) famous for not mincing words and for having rubbed shoulders with tough guys his whole life until he became one himself. The bookseller saw himself through the writer's eyes and saw himself as soft, fat, childish, and ridiculous: a grown man in a Spider-Ham T-shirt. If only it had been a Punisher one...

There was nothing he could do; it was clear he was going to get a snort in response. In a jungle where every word was a dagger, he was going to be cut open for being impertinent.

The writer, oblivious to all these tribulations of Jorge Elías, took out the card and with all the normality in the world and a mocking half-smile, answered:

—I think Vértice has a good pair of balls.

Then he paid. He said goodbye with a slight nod. And then he walked off, like a character in a Frank Miller comic after delivering a punchline. He certainly wasn't the kindest or most talkative man, but he was a man Jorge Elías wouldn't mind seeing in his store again.