Octavia: Fate … yes. It looms over us, yet each of us may hold the power to steer its course.
Octavia: Just like this nation of contradictions. Its fate should also be …
Roberta: Ahem! In that case, shall we officially begin this salon?
The ever-observant Roberta, noticing the tears welling in Octavia's eyes, cuts her off.
Roberta: Would anyone like to share a story on this topic?
Roberta: Whether it's a personal experience or a written tale, let's bring some life to this salon!
Roberta: Well, if no one has anything to say, I could always retell the story of my fateful journey across the Mexican border …
*screech*
A chair screeches as one man stands. All eyes fall on his face, shadowed by his heavy brow and sharp cheekbones.
An unexpected twist. No one noticed him quietly sitting at the edge of the crowd until now.
Julio: I spent the first half of my life as a bank clerk. One day, sitting behind that glass window, staring at the endless stacks of checks, papers, and flyers, it hit me. I was serving a life sentence.
Julio: So I quit, went home, and decided to write something. My wife threw a fit at first, but when I wouldn't budge, a cold war broke out between us, and then finally, she issued a unilateral eviction notice.
Julio: I got drunk, punched a bastard officer who was beating a beggar in the street, and everything after that's a blur. When I came to, I was already here—a place that feels more like home than any other place ever did.
Julio: The Idealist gave me some water and suggested I write to Aleph.
Julio: So I did. I wrote a letter and asked a question.
Julio: Two weeks later, I got a reply. Just one line. I'm still trying to figure out what it means.
Julio: "In the short span of life, there exists an infinitely extending staircase, and at its end lies nothing but a silent body of water."
Roberta: Julio, I had no idea you had such a story. Why haven't you mentioned it before?
Octavia: I didn't know you've written to Aleph too.
Julio: Octavia, maybe you did choose the right topic. Young, passionate writers like you should carry the dream of changing society.
Julio: Don't end up like me—waiting until this age to finally pick up the pen.
Octavia: Oh?
The hostess, fully engrossed in the story, has almost forgotten all about the topic.
Roberta: Great. I suppose it's my turn, then. So, here's my tale of crossing the Mexican border—
Inmate III: For heaven's sake, spare us! I've heard at least seven or eight versions of that story already. Not to mention the five short stories in your collection.
Inmate III: Five stories, Roberta, five! And the only difference between them is the narrative perspective!
García: Repetitive narrative is indeed an important topic in literary criticism ...
The remainder of the salon is spent in noisy chatter as the storytelling quickly spirals out of control.
Only Doctor Dores quietly repeats that name to herself.
Dores: "Aleph"?
Dores: Mr. Julio's past was an unexpected gold nugget—the perfect material for a biography. I'll treat it with care in my next submission.
Dores: By then, I had nearly forgotten I was still in prison. I had been swept up in the literary salon.
Dores: I resolved to record all that I witnessed in this prison. As to whether the inhabitants are truly prisoners—that will be for the readers to decide.
Dores: At the time, I did not ask how they found their way into this prison. Like them, I was thinking of purer things.
Dores: Looking back on this journey, I now see that the tangled strands of las babas del diablo had formed an interconnected web.
Just as the salon gets into full swing, a face emerges from the shadows, only the smile clearly visible.
The Idealist: Rarely do I observe the salon from afar, taking in all its symbolic quirks and subtle metaphors.
The Idealist: The bridge between reality and unreality, the poetry of the typical and the atypical! This is exactly how I envisioned La Sociedad de Poetas de las Américas when I founded it.
The new arrival catches her attention.
Dores: Reality and unreality … Are you referring to the difference between nonfiction and fiction? I'm afraid I haven't quite grasped your full meaning.
The Idealist: Ah, but you understood at least part of it, didn't you? That alone proves we're walking the same path—the unwavering pursuit of aesthetic truth!
The Idealist: We are citizens of the literary kingdom, stargazers chasing the first light to reach the shores of the New World, children crying beneath the tree of pure ideals.
The Idealist: As its founder, I sincerely invite you to join La Sociedad de Poetas de las Américas and become one of us.
Dores: Join … La Sociedad de Poetas de las Américas?
A gentlemanly bow. An invitation that is hard to refuse.
Everything here carries an air of mystery—the literary gathering, the strange architecture, the enigmatic recipient of all those letters.
A rare opportunity.
Dores: I'm truly flattered by your invitation. I'd be delighted to join the poetry society.
Dores: But might I trouble you with one question, Mr. Idealist? You call yourself the founder, so I assume you are THE "Idealist," yes?
The Idealist: Ask away.
Dores: Could you tell me about "Aleph"?
