It signed Trevanian. It was a pseudonym. His novels fascinated me. I discovered him with The Eiger sanction and Loo’s sanction. They were starred by a corrosive art teacher. He combined that job with that of a professional assassin. He practiced it as if it were one of the fine arts. The villains were sophisticated and abominable. Brilliant writing. For years Fernando Trueba and I became obsessed with discovering who Trevanian was. Fernando Colomo told us that he had met an old classmate from school and he had told him that he made a living writing under a pseudonym. Guess which one.
He made an appointment with us. He consented to be interviewed by us on condition that his name not be revealed. His safety was in jeopardy. And, of course, we had initial doubts, we were not gullible or stupid but he offered us lots of data and clues that confirmed his authorship.
This intrigue lasted months and exotic adventures. Shortly before publishing the interview, Colomo told us that they had confirmed that it was all a montage by the supposed Trevanian. It was fake. This man had spent infinite time taking over the personality of the mysterious writer. We didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. We came to believe their continual lies. How much work yours, how much delirium. Trevanian continued to publish the magnetic and exotic Shibumi, the moving The Main or the harshly romantic Katya’s summer. Was a best-seller deluxe. I keep reminding him. In the end he discovered her identity. It was a college professor named Rodney Whitaker.
I swallowed, without anyone forcing me, the trilogy signed by Carmen Mola. Okay, as literature only scratches the pass. The sumptuous prize of one million euros has been enough for the authors to discover their identity. Normal. Mr money is a powerful gentleman. But it’s not cool.
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