I am Octavio, the blind flute boy. I have written everything you have read here. The black haired young maker of books lifted his pen from the last page and closed the book, closed his pen and slipped both back into one of the rows of pockets that lined the inside of his long black overcoat. He looked at the dry winter landscape surrounding him. Bare trees, the green of the fields dulled by grey light. The effect of sunlight unexpectedly awoke upon the path across the hill in front of him. Instantly he rose. I’ll think as I go, he felt, his stout black boots striding resolutely upon the old stone way. Ancient pavement. As he moved the quilt of books within his coat beat upon his legs and chest. That’s the last one, he said out loud. There was no one to hear. When I get to the city I will have them published, each under a different name. They will all claim to tell the true original version. A great controversy will arise. At the height of this I shall reveal myself denouncing all these books as fakes. Then I will tell them nothing. He grinned imagining the pompousness of their scholarly embarassment. His boots ground the stones. He was in good health, wiry yet strong as a fox. A large wolf-like fox. At the crest of the hill now the countryside receeded beneath him. In the distance roofs and smoke. He began to sing: Mouse shit mouse shit on the dirty little town. A song he had learnt from a child he had once taken care of.