Freedom does not exist

So this is Perpignan. Three in one: France, Spain and Catalonia gathered here under the hot Mediterranean sun. I didn't even know that was possible. This is a place where you live in both France and Spain at the same time, entirely legally. Wide sandy beaches are just a few miles east, and the snow-capped peaks of the Pyrenees and their ski slopes are to the west. The world-famous resort of Costa Brava is 90 minutes away from Perpignan, and the noisy bustle of Barcelona is less than two hours away. Perpignan, with a population of 300 thousand, offers everything a retiree could wish for. A truly fabulous place: a mild Mediterranean climate, developed public transport, health care and services. What is important for expats is affordable real estate, as well as renting or buying your own home. Perpignan has many supermarkets and specialty stores, similar to any other mid-sized European city. Grocery prices? You'll pay just a dollar for a French baguette and five for a decent bottle of local wine. As for utilities, they're not far off from the average in the US. The same goes for broadband and cell phones. The art, architecture and cuisine are a mix of French and Catalan cultures. But the people of Perpignan don't forget that they're French. Finally, after France and Spain joined the Schengen free trade and travel zone, Perpignan became the lucky guy who won a million dollars in a night at the casino.

It is midday, and I am sitting under a colourful awning, sipping coffee on the bank of a tree-lined canal. It is the middle of summer, and I am never wrong about the season. Snow is winter. Rain is autumn. Everything else is spring and summer. The local sparrows are chattering merrily in the thickets of ornamental shrubs, such as cypress, I think. But I am neither a botanist nor a florist, and I have no time for local beauty. The red-tiled roofs of the surrounding houses exude coziness and safety. I am a little interested in the canal, but I am more occupied with observing the surrounding environment and its two-legged inhabitants. You have probably already realized that I am in Perpignan, the town on the southernmost border of France. Did I forget to mention that I got here without incident? No, I did not. The adventures are just beginning, as is expected in a good detective story. You probably already guessed: here I should wait for the courier, the messenger, the delivery man. He and only he is destined to connect my present with my future. Checking into the hotel? Nothing special. The door is wide open, but the doorman is not there, and why would he be if the door is already hospitably wide open? This says something about the hotel but not about its guests. A standard lobby with standard chandeliers and a standard set of furniture: low uncomfortable sofas to prevent lingering, to match them low oval-shaped wooden tables with stains from spilled Coca-Cola, a couple of ficus trees in the corners. A couple of shaggy teenagers have settled down separately from the head of the family, sipping beer, buried in their smartphones: what brought them here? The older one slaps his brother on the back of the head, obviously playing "shooters". The waiter habitually empties the ashtrays of cigarette butts and wipes them with a wet rag. A desk with a porter on duty. He is short and plump, which is unusual since administrators prefer lanky, agile people. On the other hand, he is friendly and good-natured, like a dolphin. And what is important, like any low-paid worker, is that he is in dire need of tips. His English is terrible, but I am not able to fix it.

- Good afternoon, monsieur! How can I help you?

A smile in return, purely out of politeness. I am a tourist, I am in a good mood, and I like everything.

- The room is booked in my name.

- Just a minute. What is your name?

Hmm... Name? I have about ten, but I am afraid that the fat man only needs one. Which one?

- Giuseppe Garibaldi.

- The room is booked in my name.

- Just a minute. What is your name?

 Hmm... Name? I have about ten, but I am afraid that the fat man only needs one. Which one?

- Giuseppe Garibaldi.

A puzzled look, saying that the porter does not believe his good fortune to see the famous Italian revolutionary in person. The porter, however, quickly pulls himself together; a few strokes on the computer keys and a broad smile, as if they had just announced on the racetrack: his horse came in first. - Welcome, Mr. Garibaldi. Congratulations, a room with a beautiful view of the city. I hope you enjoy your stay. Have you never been here before? Would you like to order anything? I see that you are without luggage, lightly. How talkative and curious. There are still people of this breed: I want to know everything. I was lucky to run into one of them. - May I see your documents, sir? A strange porter. If I called myself Giuseppe, then I am Italian, and he has the right to address me as "sir." How frivolous! There is a bookmark in my passport, 20 euros. Not much, but his pupils dilated, a sure sign of the greed that was overwhelming him, included in the list of deadly sins inherent in man, regardless of age, profession and nationality. - Are you from Palermo? Oh, my Aquiline profile. You can't take a step without being recognized. - My grandmother is from my grandfather's side. The sunny land, and lemons, and olives. And how did you guess? - Very simple. You've already registered in our chain of hotels, haven't you? It's forever. You'll be recognized everywhere. Can you imagine how convenient? So, you're here on business? I nod silently. What else can I do? I can't discuss my family tree or my travel orders with him. And I don't like the fact that I'm recognized everywhere, like this talkative guy, a talking bird, chirps. However, I did stay at the Carlton a couple of times. He's right about that. The digital economy, damn it. The client is in the palm of your hand. But this is not far from the Carlton. Eco-hotel Ibis Perpignan Centre. Five minutes' walk from the historic city center. and from the train station, painted inside, they say, by Salvador Dali himself (full name Salvador Domènech Felipe Jacinth Dali and Domènech, Marquis de Dali de Púbol), who often visited these blessed lands. Whatever they say, the monument to the famous avant-garde surrealist, painter and sculptor, and also our brother-writer, decorated with a modest inscription "Perpignan - the center of the world," in fact, stands. I was convinced that this was true; the station is the center of the universe, and the people in it are passengers arriving and departing. Just like in life. - Breakfast between eight and nine. Buffet. Paella, seafood, yogurts, original pastries, fruits. Wi-Fi is included in the accommodation price. Enjoy your holiday and your time, Signor Garibaldi!

I only have a capacious leather briefcase with me, in which I hide my laptop, a minimal set of toiletries, a Bible, which serves to encrypt and decode messages, and several disposable mobile phones. I carry everything that belongs to me with me. The room is located in the middle of a long corridor on the third floor. It opens with a code key that is the size of a credit card. Nowadays, even private hotels don't use massive cast-iron keys that weigh down your pocket. At first glance, it suits my needs perfectly. Unless there are hidden cameras and microphones installed in it. I've encountered such hospitality more than once or twice. A blockhead like me doesn't need unnecessary attention. Therefore, the first thing I do is conduct a thorough inspection of the room. But I don't stop there, I go downstairs and scold the porter for asking for a room with a view of the square, not the backyard. The porter obeys without question. The new room is already on the fourth floor, next to the fire escape and the elevator. If a trap has been set for me, it wouldn't hurt to be extra careful. The room is clean. Flat-screen TV, air conditioning, toiletries. After a shower, I throw on a cheap (free) robe hanging in the bathroom, go to the window and spend a few minutes looking around. Nothing special. The same red-tiled roofs are viewed from above. Sharp gusts of wind ruffle the chestnut trees' hair. Sleepy provincial tranquillity, interrupted by the heart-rending sounds of a wounded saxophone. The street musician - there he is, downstairs, not far from the entrance to the hotel, clearly visible. It is so clear that you can make out a handful of small coins thrown by passers-by into a felt hat neatly placed on a bench nearby. For some, the melody of the Petite Fleur potpourri sets the mood for a romantic evening. For me, this is a sign, a marker. My arrival has not gone unnoticed. Time to meet the courier. Six o'clock in the evening. My favourite time. The time before dinner. And here he is. A student by the look of it, in a sporty Adidas, a black baseball cap, tinted glasses.

- How did you get here? Were there any problems? - Thank you, everything is fine. Will you have coffee with me? Paella? - I offer after we have shaken hands and settled down under a palm tree on the restaurant terrace. - You won't regret it. Real, not instant from a glass jar, the kind that all of France drinks. And England, too, by the way. Have you tried Andalusian coffee with honey and garlic? The main thing in any coffee is a forged copper Turk. I used to carry it with me. I bought it once on occasion at a flea market in Jaffa. Instead of answering, he opened a small leather folder and handed me two thin sheets of paper, followed by a thick package. - Read and remember. I can't leave this with you. I was ordered to get rid of it so that no traces remain. You will be met in Madrid. The package contains documents, credit cards, and an international driver's license that may come in handy. You are a journalist for the London Evening Standard. You are going on a business trip to Argentina. Your task is to create an advertising brochure for wine products. Officially, of course. The rest is none of my business. An ordinary young man with an ordinary appearance and no distinguishing features. Such people usually start their careers in the corridors of an agency after military service in Her Majesty's Army. - Nothing that I didn't know. It was worth sending you away from London for nothing. - It's not a burden to me, and I need to unwind sometimes. See the world outside the office on Prince Albert Embankment. - Well, if you want to see it, then sure. Maybe some bacon and eggs? The best way to get to know someone better is to feed them. The best way to make friends with them is to ask them for a favour. Not to provide but to ask. But I don't need a favour. And I don't need the friendship of a messenger. All that remains is to treat the guest. - I wouldn't mind a cup of coffee. Thank you. - Are you all right? – I ask for the sake of decency. - Of course, otherwise we would not have met. - Have you ever been to Madrid? - In Madrid? No, but I hope someday. - Is everything as bad as the letter says? - I can't know. I'm just a relay. It's obvious. We finish our coffee in silence. The conversation is clearly not going well. And why should it? Work relationships do not encourage frankness. There is a protocol and instructions. After a few empty phrases, we part ways and are unlikely to see each other again. Goodbye, Perpignan. The authorities have taken care that I have no reason to linger here. Goodbye, Church of Saint James, goodbye, Cathedral of Saint-Jean, which I did not visit. Farewell, mighty walls of the castle of Jaime II the Just and the Loving, father of a dozen legitimate children by four wives and as many more by mistresses, King of Sicily, Count of Barcelona and Gerona, King of Aragon and Valencia, King of Sardinia and Corsica. Farewell and forgive me, Your Royal Majesty. Affairs. Absolute freedom does not exist, but we have the freedom of choice, and having made a choice, you become its hostage. It is decided: only the train. Only the train is capable of delivering my mortal body to Madrid without loss.