CHAPTER 4:Telemachus in The French Revolution
He takes his cell phone out of his pocket, and texts Kostas to switch their meeting to a nearby bar instead of the cafeteria.
I still have time for a quick one before the Sigmund Freud charlatan arrives, he thinks, ordering a double whisky. He chugs it and orders another. Different kinds of shots follow. His stomach cannot follow, and in its unique language that is universally understood, shouts for mercy. Telemachus doesn’t seem to care. Besides; a little pain can divert the mind from constant negative thinking.
The waiter didn’t bring a coaster for the rapidly emptying glass, but the Hitler book works fine as a replacement. Things around him start to take a slow spin, from the magic hand of the whisky fairy.
“Hey mate, are you OK?” says K
