First chapter of the epic fantasy novel "Mika Holdbrand: Diplomacy in Tradewind", the first in "Chronicles of the Apotheosis" series. Sinopsis: The world of Timelah has enjoyed peace for centuries. A tense peace, in which their nations have looked at each other with distrust, but peace, after all. The two most powerful nations, the republic of Priseida and the country of Threecloud, the magicians' homeland, are now on the verge of a conflict fuelled by the expansionist wishes of the Knight Protector, ruler of Priseida. In this atmosphere of growing tension, Mika Holdbrand, consul stationed in Tradewind, works to fulfil the objective that the Knight Protector has set for him, which has nothing to do with the maintenance of peace between nations... In this first novel of the Chronicles of the Apotheosis, a complex fresco is painted, plagued with characters whose lives will be swept away by the whirlwind of events. Politics, magic, action and fantasy go hand to hand in Timelah, a world that is about to suffer convulsions that will transform it forever.

1. MIKA HOLDBRAND:
DIPLOMACY IN TRADEWIND
Chronicles of the Apotheosis, I
Luis M. Núñez

2. TRADEWIND, CAPITAL OF GREENLAKE
A: Lord’s Quarter 4: Honorato’s Bowl
B: High Quarter 5: Priseida consulate
C: Low Quarter 6: Founder Brothers Avenue
D: Garden Quarter 7: Susah River
E: Artisans’ Quarter 8: Beaver Square
1: Palace complex 9: Long Legs
2: Jules, Junger & Jagger 10: Cot and Stew
3: Islet of Stones

3. MONTH OF VEMU
With Vemu arrive rainy days,
the water falls on Timelah:
It irrigates fields, people and land.
Sometimes there's even a deluge!
Cover yourself with that black handkerchief,
my life, the one I gave you,
for I have no desire to see
how the rain wet your brown hair.
When the clouds finally dissipate,
there will be puddles left on the road
and the children will play and smile
splashing their happy dresses.
There'll be birds coming back, too.
their trills to the blue sky will be hear again!

4. LEISURE AND BUSINESS IN TRADEWIND
You want me to tell my story first? Well— I guess that's no problem, although I think,
like the stories of those present here, it will be long. Since we don't have all the time in
the world, I'd better stick to what's important, wouldn't I? In other words, I put aside my
previous job and my life before everything went to shit.
Yeah, it'll be for the best. Once in a while, maybe I'll get carried away and go back a
bit in time to, I don't know, colour in some anecdote, explain something that isn't clear—
that kind of thing.
Doesn't it matter? Good. If I get too long or I bore you, you just have to tell me. I'm
serious. Really. I won't take that the wrong way.
Some of you know my name: Mika Holdbrand. Consul of the Republic of Priseida. You
know: the greatest power in the world, guided with firm hand for almost twenty years
by its Knight Protector, Lumbo Treelined, to heights of splendour and magnificence
never seen by human eyes. Don't laugh. That's right. It's true.
That, at least, say the pasquins that appear lining the walls of buildings not only in
our country, but also in other states.
Yes, I know. Perhaps the homeland of the magicians— by the way, am I the only one
who finds it strange to call Threecloud like that? I mean, most of them weren't even
born there, but the Hermetic Council insists that the rest of the world think that only
their country is worthy of raising them behind its borders.
What was I saying? Right! I'll try not to beat about the bush, although I'm a little
digressive.
Yeah. Maybe Threecloud, just maybe, can be compared in power to Priseida. I don't
know. The Knight Protector is very sure of his success, but I suppose the leader of the
magicians, the Great Wisdom, too. Well, anyway, it looks like it won't be long before we
know which of the two states is stronger.
I was in Threecloud for a while as an ambassador, but— we'd better leave it at that.
What matters, as I see it, is my work in the consulate of Tradewind, capital of the
palatinate of Greenlake, during the first weeks of last month of Vemu.
I remember perfectly the moment when, for me, everything came to a point where
there was no possibility of return. I even evoke the smell of sandalwood burnt in the
chimney with which I tried to heat the cold room that was my office in the consulate. I
knew, from the moment I saw it, that it was not going to be good for my tired, old bones.
Yes, old; in the month of Pruning I turned fifty-three, no less. I recognise it: this belly,
the fruit of too much food and little moving, helps me in the winter months, in the same
way as my wardrobe, assorted with capes and coats. They may not be as elegant as
those worn by the rich merchants of Offenburg, but provide shelter.
However, that day was cold, very cold: the waters of the river Susah, which passes
through the center of the city of Tradewind, had frozen, when it is normal that this does
not happen until now, in the month of Lonia. We don't call Lonia the cold month for
nothing, do we?
So, I was frozen in my office despite the bearskin coat, despite the cape and despite
the chimney crackling behind me. The fire, fed by a good amount of wood, didn't warm

5. my back, my legs were stiff and my ass frozen. A while before, the maiden who cleans
the consulate had arrived at the chamber — of course, she is a compatriot from Priseida:
it would be madness to hire personnel from the country we were in — and had given
her a warning look when she wanted to open the windows.
“It's to ventilate, sir,” she explained, but I hardened my gaze and she withdrew with
an offended face.
In front of me, on the teak table blackened by the passage of time — if I am not
mistaken, diplomatic relations between Priseida and Greenlake go back a hundred and
thirty years—, and I think that table already existed before the consulate building —
there was what I needed: paper, several reams of twenty folios each, tied with cotton
thread dyed red; a pair of quills made of reed cane, which interior was lined with a thin
sheet of aluminum; an inkpot with red ink and another filled with black, of such a quality
that its viscosity was always optimal for writing, regardless of the ambient temperature;
a small messenger turtle that had decided to be swirled and was enclosed in its shell,
sleeping. To all this I added the consul's seal that I wore around my neck — it is always
more difficult to have it stolen than if you have it on your finger, as I was once able to
see first hand for my misfortune — what I left next to the candle that I would use to seal
the missive, once I had written it.
Writing with one of those new quills is a wonder, really. Nothing to do with the crude
calligraphy produced with a bird feather, nor with the impression of rigidity and
boredom that one has when reading something written with quills without an
aluminium soul. The salesman who offered it to me in Priseida, in the market district,
put through the roof the excellent qualities of a new instrument that was going to
revolutionise the art of writing. Obviously, I thought he just wanted to take my money,
but as soon as I gave in to his insistence and did a test, I was amazed. You still feel the
comfortable, nice feel of wood between your fingers, but the metal interior makes the
ink flow continuously, albeit adapted to the speed of the hand. If you add to that the ink
produced in Barroquia, the result is unbeatable. As long as you have good handwriting,
of course.
Not to brag, but my calligraphy is excellent. Clear and round, with small peaks in the
raised letters that give it an elegant touch, but without reaching pedantry. A letter that
I strive to make even more beautiful when I have to send an official direct
communication to the Knight Protector. Hence the high quality paper — made with the
best cottons, no recycled peasant rags — in which I put my words for, I repeat, only the
eyes of Lumbo Treelined.
A light drizzle began to knock against the window panes when I finished writing. With
that ink, I didn't even have to use the blotter, but to avoid any blurring when I rolled it
up, I left it on the table and took a look at the street after staying by the fire for a while
and looking at the dancing flames, which were, at that time, the most intense source of
light since the sun had disappeared behind some black clouds.
Tradewind is a beautiful city. I think it is one of the most beautiful that I have visited,
although it is true that I have not seen many in my life, always attached to a destination
or swarming around the court of the Knight Protector when I am in Priseida. However, I
am sure that Tradewind earned her nickname of Interior Emerald, given the harmony of

6. its constructions of high pointed roofs, the careful urban organization of its streets,
squares and avenues, or the splendid magnificence of its most representative buildings.
Even the common houses are ahead of some of the lesser noble dwellings of Priseida.
It's a pity its rulers don't deserve to live in such a beautiful place. They are sapphires and
not very polite, even rude, and immersed in a permanent paranoia as a result of their
strange, illogical and absurd system of electing the new palatine when the seat is freed
due to the death of the previous one. I'll come back to that: it’s an important question.
It has about twenty thousand souls: Tradewind is the largest city in the palatinate,
where there are seven other municipalities with more than ten thousand inhabitants,
and about one hundred and twenty towns and villages that splash out the wide valleys
of the country, perfect for the development of an agriculture that gives excellent crops.
Or gave, should I say: given the crazy weather we are having this year, I doubt very much
that the barns will be filled within a few months.
People did not seem to care about the water that began to fall more intensely and
continued with its daily bustle: through the cobblestone streets, there were those who
led their mules, whose saddlebags overflowed with products, others carried loads in
baskets over their heads and, the least, went wherever they went with a carefree
appearance.
Industrious people, these Tradewinders. Too bad they're run by a family of idiots.
Don't you know how the Greenlake palatinate government works? Explaining it in broad
terms is not difficult; the problem is understanding it, because it’s absurd as much as it
can be. I mean, there’s no sense in a hereditary system, if the place where the palatine
sits his — or her — ass is chosen among every components of the family. And when I say
every, I say every: from the newborn, if any, to whom they are giving their last breaths
of air. Men, women, old, teenagers, healthy, sick, clever and foolish— All have the same
possibility of being the new palatine when the old one dies.
The idea, in theory, isn't bad: the family gets together, let's say at a meal, for an
afternoon, they talk to each other, reach a consensus and choose the best.
No.
First, the family of the palatinate is so large, that there would not be a room in all of
Greenlake — I think even in all Timelah — to house them. And the time they would
need. This has meant that, over the centuries, the family has split into factions, and
these turned into other factions, and these— I suppose you already know what follows.
In other words, the visible candidates from each of these factions try to win the support
of enough votes to reach the palatinate. Occasionally, a child or a retarded is named, a
strategy carried out by two or more factions trying to control a puppet on the seat. These
attempts usually end with stabs between the powers in the shadows, culminating in the
corresponding assassination of the palatine, of course. And back to square one. A
method that doesn't work, but it hasn't stopped them from doing it several times in
history.
But the most problematic part of the whole system is inbreeding. Yes, you know, the
bad habit that some aristocratic layers of certain countries have of procreating only
among themselves. In the case of Greenlake, they justify such an aberration going back
to the early days of the palatinate: they say that the founding brothers — a certain
Magda and one named Carle, or something like that — received a visit from the gods,
who told them that their blood must remain pure if they wanted the country to endure,

7. a precept that they extended to their entire family. Hence the skin tone of the Greenlake
leaders is so white and the hair so red. It also explains congenital stupidity, of course.
And, if you ask me, I think mental weakness was already present in the two founders,
but—
Nothing like the election system we have in the Republic of Priseida. Yes, I mean it:
our democratic system is clear, clean and fair. No, I'm not joking.
Where was I? Yeah, right. The Tradewinders on the street. There were still about
three laps of clepsydra left for the first of the moons to come out, which explained the
tingling activity of the people. I spent some time looking at the street until I considered
that I could send my letter without fear of smearing the paper when I rolled it up.
Carefully, I formed a cylinder, tied it with red thread, from what I left a long loose end,
and I added my personal seal. I gave a couple of taps on the shell of the turtle, which
was still sleeping, and the animal showed its head. I think it gave me an offended look,
but I took out a cookie tip — I know, it's not really hygienic to carry cookies in your
pockets, but I can't resist pecking at one of those ginger delicacies with chocolate scales
— and the turtle seemed to forgive me. While chewing his prize, I gently passed the
thread around the turtle and opened the top drawer of my desk to take out a letter
opener, which I brought to the back leg.
With all the care in the world not to hurt the turtle, I cut the purple ribbon around
the animal's leg and pushed it to encourage it to walk.
As soon as he took one of his small, slow steps, it disappeared.
There went my message, directly to the office of the Knight Protector of Priseida, my
superior and the superior of all my compatriots.
Yes, that's right: I'm committing a crime of treason by talking about one of the secrets
we keep safely in Priseida. Has anyone ever wondered why we seem to know where,
when and how something will happen? The reputation for foresight that we have earned
is due to this, no more, no less. Our little friends are better allies than many of the
countries we have signed pacts and agreements with.
We must admit it was a stroke of luck that our great navigator Xiu Andan found a
colony of them and that an eminent naturalist — his name has been lost, unfortunately
— who understood the prodigious capacities of these turtle travelled in his ship. One
minute they're here, the next they're half a world away. To be understood and not to
bore: it works like carrier pigeons, but magically, a magic that they themselves possess.
Yes, I know that the use of magic — at least in the only other creature that is capable of
doing it: humans — involves an enormous expenditure of vital energy of its own, but I
suppose turtles are creatures that live so long that they can use the trick several times.
The communication protocol indicates that each turtle will make five trips. Not one
more, because if it doesn't have enough energy — or ragweed, I think they call it the
magicians —, the turtle will be lost, gods know where, and the message with it.
The purple ribbon was, of course, an inhibitor, with its own magic resonance, so, as
the instructions of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and War dictate, I threw it into the
chimney, where it crackled and, with a small pouf, it was consumed.
With the satisfaction of having done a good job, I locked all the drawers in my office,
which is more boring and difficult than it seems: I have a system by which I put the key

8. that I used last in another drawer successively: I close the number one drawer, I put the
key in the number two drawer, the number two key goes to the number three drawer,
etcetera; considering I had a total of twenty-six drawers, it is not surprising that the
whole operation took me almost a third of clepsydra. Anyway, it's the price to pay for
keeping safe the state secrets.
I took a last look from the door, before closing with the last key that remained in my
pocket next to the cookie crumbs, to look at the position of all the relevant objects, and
I started my free time.
The missive? Yeah, sure, it's important to talk about it. I am not exaggerating if I say
that, for me, it was one of the most decisive that a diplomat from Priseida, or spy, as you
like, never consigned. It is obvious that I cannot make a literal transcription, but the spirit
of what I wrote is clear in the following words:
To the attention of His Excellency and Dignified Knight Protector of Priseida, Lumbo
Treelined:
Today, the 5th in the month of Vemu, I address to Your Excellency the following
extraordinary report concerning the facts surrounding the process of election of the new
palatine of Greenlake. Given that it is now three months since the murder of the elderly
Lina Brund, it is no exaggeration to say that this is the longest period of deliberation in
this century; this long interregnum is leading the country to a situation of paralysis, since,
as your excellence well knows, the Greenlake administration cannot take executive
decisions until the new palatine is crowned. The economy, therefore, is the main one
resented by this fact, and symptoms of discomfort among the citizens of Tradewind begin
to be noted, although, for now, they are only mere comments in taverns.
More important is the knowledge I have had of the possible alliance that three of the
family factions are forging, in order to place the young Helga — as you will remember, a
thirteen year old girl, in my opinión, short-minded and more worried for doll games than
for anything else — on the throne.
Logically, the achievement of stability, even a precarious alliance of three actors,
would be an inconvenience to Priseida's expansion plans; I have to say that, even I’ll
make every effort to prevent such an alliance from coming to real, my influence on the
course of events is less than I would wish, given the paranoia prevailing in this crazy
family. If I can get the three factions to continue without achieving a consensus palatine,
the country may slide into a phase of turmoil or even civil war, if family members exalt
themselves enough; either scenario would allow Priseida to intervene in the Palatinate.
For all these reasons, I recommend an acceleration of the military plans, so as to
surprise Greenlake with its guard down; I calculate that, with a surprise attack, our army
stationed in the recently annexed Kamay will be able to take the palatinate in two weeks,
three at the most.
Without any other particulars, trusting that you and your loved ones are in good
health,
Mika Holdbrand, consul of the Greenlake palatinate.

9. ℵℵℵ
I must now speak of a place that I have visited quite frequently in recent times. I knew
of it because, several months earlier, I was exhausted like never before in my life. To the
pressure of the tasks of my post had been added a strong constipation that tested my
physical and mental stamina. Taking care of all the affairs of the consulate when you're
right is hard, so, sick— My job is not one that allows you to take days off. I can't tell my
servant, Julio, to excuse me before the staff I'm in charge while I’m at bed or, worse,
before some appointment made in my schedule, because I have such a flu that I can't
even get up. No. You have to be gutsy and go to the post to do everything that needs to
be done. And, if possible, more.
After all, I'll rest when I'm dead.
The point is, during a round at the consulate, I blew my boogers with a force worthy
of the heroes of the past.
“You have to take care of yourself, cónsul,” one of my subordinates told me worried.
Such a truism made me want to make a rude answer, but I composed my best smile.
“My mother's soups were miraculous,” I commented.
He searched one of the many pockets of his black livery until he came up with what
he wanted. He approached me and handed me a pink card with angular letters and the
drawing of a couple with very little clothing, embraced.
“You should visit him, consul,” he said.
I frowned.
“A brothel? Is sex good for colds now?”
“No, consul,” he replied with a dismissive smile. “It's the other service they offer on
Long Legs.”
I know. That's a ridiculous name. I increased the frown of my brow, so much that the
wrinkles that formed on my forehead could have stayed there forever.
“Another service?”
“Yes, cónsul,” he said. “Smokehouse and apothecary. When medicine is needed, both
recreational and curative, it is the best site in all of Tradewind.”
“Hum.”
“I recommend it, sir,” he continued. “It’s a very clean building, and its owner is very
scrupulous when it comes to order and cleanliness. Her products are the best.”
He said that in such a dreamy tone that I imagined he knew it firsthand; I wondered
how many kinds of drugs he would have used. And, at the same time, I also thought I
had to review his work record, to see if those nights out hadn't affected his performance.
“Okay,” I said at last. “I appreciate the advice.”
He retired to his place with a smile of satisfaction. I suppose he believed that what
he had done would yield him some revenue in the future. No way. I went on with my
bussiness. I thought maybe it'd be worth to go.
Of course I did. That same night.
My subordinate was right. The building where the brothel Long Legs was located was
new, or looked like it; with whitewashed walls, windows with colourful stained-glass

10. windows and a lavishly finished roof —there seems to be a kind of competition between
the owners of the houses to see who manages to have the most exaggerated tip of the
roof without it sinking.
The door, which was opened by a rogue-looking little boy as soon as he saw me arrive
and who received a couple of coins for it, was opened to a large hall lit by numerous
candles hanging from expensive-looking lamps, although they were recharged to me.
No dark room to run through before reaching the area where the acts for which you
were paying were committed. Everything there was in broad light, as if the patroness
made us see that there is nothing to be ashamed of when entering a brothel.
A cheerful ringing of bells signalled my arrival — there was no one else in sight — and
a tall, slender woman with a high neck on which rested a beautiful face, somewhat worn
out by the passage of time, but still capable of arousing passions, came to my side with
a slight wiggle of hips; she bowed her head a little while smiling. She was taller tan me,
at least two hands taller, and I had to raise my back not to look even smaller than I am.
I cleared my throat, looking for a way to start the conversation, but she helped me:
“Good night, sir,” she said. “I'll call you Black Amber, if it's your wish.”
“Black Amber?”
“Here, in the Long Legs, anyone who enters receives a new name to be known within
the borders of our little kingdom of pleasure and love,” she explained. “Don't you like it,
sir?”
“No, no— Black Amber is fine. Why Black Amber?” I asked in a silly voice.
“Because of the color of your clothes, sir.”
I nodded. It made sense. I don’t like colorful clothes, which has made that, behind my
back — although they think I don't know it, I know it —, more than one of my
subordinates calls me in another way much less pleasant than Black Amber: Cockroach.
Okay. She'd given me a name that wasn't bad. I had to ask for a service, but, again,
the mistress came forward with a mellow voice.
“Do you like women? Men? Indistinct?”
“Ah— no. I mean, women, but— I didn't come for that, ma'am.”
“Call me Peony,” she said, letting his hand rest sensually on the broad decolletage.
“So it's the other thing.”
“If by the other you mean the apothecary, yes.”
Just as I finished saying it, I sneezed a couple of times and she composed a sagacious
smile.
“I see,” she said. “Follow me, please.”
Shee led me, after removing some red satin curtains, to a corridor that led to a
staircase after passing several closed doors from which came the sounds of screeching
beds and drowning groans. Peony stepped gently on the wooden steps.
“If you want to come alone to relieve yourself, on the ground floor you will find
someone who satisfies your needs,” she said. “The two upper include bedrooms in
which to spend the entire night, with more luxuries and facilities to give a pleasant rest.”
“Tonight, our destination is below,” added.
I didn't know what to expect. When you talk about smokehouses, you often think of
dark places, full of smoke, with people lying on the floor wearing an expression between
goofy and hallucinated. I thought that, being in the basement, there would be at least
humidity — a constant in the underground floors of Tradewind, given the clayey layer

11. beneath the ground on which the city rises — and that the vapors of the drugs consumed
would form a dense atmosphere like a stew.
Once again, the Long Legs surprised me again: I found myself in a room with more
than two hundred square elbows and rectangular shape, whose ceiling was supported
by imposing and solid columns; in its chapiters, there were scenes pretty erotic carved
by an artist with a good hand. The air was limpid, even fresh, and the lighting, although
there were no windows as is logical, let see in detail what was spreading before my eyes.
On the right hand, as soon as we came down, I saw a counter; a beautiful young woman
was serving the orders behind it and, at that moment, was attending with a wide smile
to an older man who was complaining of the pain in his back. The girl gave him an
ointment after a little thought. I saw that on the wide shelves behind her there were a
lot of substances in labelled jars, many of which didn't even ring a bell.
The smokehouse contained a series of separate rooms with partitions that did not
reach to the ceiling, most of which were closed with simple swing doors in white painted
wood, for the consumption of substances in privacy. I could not avoid to ask Peony, who
walked beside me with a gentle step.
“How do you get rid of the fumes?”
She looked at me with a new nod and raised one hand pointing to a spot on the wall.
I noticed that there was a metal plate with holes and I understood its function.
“Air vents,” I commented. Peony assented, but I kept asking. “Do you have extraction
bombs?”
“Yes,Black Amber. A dwarf invention,” she replied and chuckled. “I would never allow
my clients to feel the least of the drownings. Relax and enjoy the trip.”
As soon as she had finished saying it, she stood in front of me and unfolded his arm
to tell me what my cubicle was. I wanted to come in — the treatment, the place, what I
had seen was exquisite, and something in Peony's voice made me want to try what he
offered me — but I shook my head.
“I told you it's just a cold,” I said. “I don't need trips—”
“Trust me, Black Amber,” she replied.
I shrugged my shoulders and came in. Anyway, I had nothing to lose.
I think Peony asked for me to the girl at the counter, as a first service, a deference to
new customers. I'm saying this because, shortly after, my drink appeared. The woman
carried a tray on which rested a bowl that released a faint mist and a delicate odor, a
fragrance of roses, lavender and a light touch of pine. There were a couple of napkins of
thread too. I was sitting on a very comfortable couch; next to it was a small table with
five legs simulating the claws of a lion, and the woman left the tray on it.
“Wait a minute.” My order was too harsh. “Please,” I added.
It seemed to me that Trisha Basket was the woman coming in. With her I had spent
two of the best years in my life. Trisha Basket, the sweetest, loveliest and most beautiful
of dwarves.
Don't look at me like that. Interracial relations are not frequent, but they are not
taboo. Yes, I know that, in the Greenlake palatinate, the rule is usually to take
xenophobia to its paroxysm — especially among the rulers —, but in Priseida, everyone
can sleep with anyone without problem. We're the champions of freedom and so.

12. Well, the dwarf who served me was surprised that I spoke to her and looked at me
with frightened eyes. I calmed her down:
“I'm not going to hurt you, sorry.” I had noticed my recognition mistake; she had
similar height, and the hair the same color as the ripe wheat, but his face was wider and
his nose more prominent. “You have— reminded me of another person.”
“Sorry, sir,” she said, lowering her eyes.
“Why? It was my fault.”
“I— must go back, sir,” she said. I noticed she was twisting his fingers nervously.
I let her go, but, as I inhaled the vapors of ujiyaue, the image of Trisha did not stop
appearing to me. That, I suppose, should have plunged me into a melancholy state; on
the contrary, I felt euphoric. With every breath, with every inspiration that filled my
lungs with steam, I felt my flu fading and my soul rising and filling with rejoicing.
Trisha danced behind my closed eyelids and I believed, between aspiration and
aspiration, to be intoxicating me with the scent of her hair after washing it in the house
we shared. I remembered her hands, firm and strong like all the hands of her kind, but
affectionate and sweet when she gave himself to the sweet game of love. I heard her
melodious laughter, and the way she enjoyed the birds that flew under the blue skies of
Priseida; yes, it differed from the rest of the dwarves I have known, more given to
appreciate the beauties present in caves, cellars, burrows and, generally speaking, any
hole in the earth they can get into.
Trisha wasn't like that. We used to joke that she had an elf spirit — at least, that's
what I thought not long ago: that the few remaining elves in this world are a bunch of
tree huggers —. She laughed and told me that there really had to be something true in
that, because, since she left her parents' house to carve a future for herself, the most
she had had over her head was the roof of a building in human cities. Much of her life
had been spent on the roads, traveling from city to city trying to survive, as a humble
hawker at first, and then expanding his commercial emporium, which came to have
branches in seven cities of seven countries. Not bad for a dwarf who started with
nothing, is it?
I loved her with all my heart. And she loved me too, I'm sure of it.
But like all stories, good and bad, it had to end.
That night, however, the thought of her did not cause me a sting of pain. I
remembered her fondly and, as I said, I sensed her next to me, hugging me.
When the ujiyaue cooled, I stepped out of the room and walked steadily and vividly
to the counter. I felt young again, as if I had taken twenty or thirty years off my
shoulders.
“The dwarf who served me, is she the waitress?” I said to the woman.
“Yes, sir.” She shook his head gracefully, and the earrings of gold and pearl wiggled; I
wondered how much she had to gain to afford this delicacy. “She's been on the staff for
a long time. Didn’t you like her?”
“No, no, on the contrary,” I replied quickly. “I say this because I intend to come back
here often and I would like her to serve me. Is that possible?”
“It can be done, sir.”
Satisfied with the answer, I paid what she told me for the ujiyaue and left the local
with a feeling of lightness and unconcern that I hadn't felt in a long time.

13. That was the first night I went to the Long Legs and, since then, every time the sun
hided, rarely I stopped visiting it.