The book of mazes

‘’You should sit there halfway conscious, calmly observing the movie from the blurry space that precedes sleep, between the crowd and the darkness of a movie theatre.”

Those are not the exact words David said, while holding a cigarette near the end of its lifespan. Nearby, two cups filled with coffee sat idly on a grimy small table which looked like it had just come up from the depths of hell.

To be honest, I don’t even remember if those were his words; I was locked in an intense battle against sleep and David was amused by my lapsing efforts to follow the conversation.

“Tarkovsky tells stories in a similar way,” he said.

“Similar how?” I asked as the hot coffee began to finally take effect.

“In that, he thought like me. Now, I don’t think like him, that’s for sure, but I like to entertain the notion that he did think like me. To bore is a much more noble task than to entertain. Think about it: Entertainment, it’s vices and distortions, have reduced us to the way we are now. Those sick Hollywood sons of bitches...”

He replied.

“I’m from further down south,” I said, trying to be slick.

“South of what?” he asked.

“South of America.”

“Then why are we talking about my movies?” Dave asked, with a sudden spark of interest written across his face. “South America is the way Hollywood should be: A story so goddamn real, it’s unbelievable. Those characters from Macondo for example, I would love to do a movie based off that book, but set in Poland.”

“Picture Warsaw,” he continued, “the river, the city and in the background some sort of palm tree jungle, not literal of course; a jungle painted on the apartment blocks walls... The city council hires this famous Colombian artist, maybe Mexican? That actually makes more sense, a descendant of Rivera brought to Warsaw for some kind of art project, the ones they always do in Europe; Cultural capital of the year, that kind of shit.” David shot a quick glance at the coffee table before