“He’s gone back to his keyboard,” Gertruida says, “so nobody will tell our story for a while.” She tries to smile, but doesn’t quite make it.
“It’s rather selfish of him. We’re living the best story ever told, and he turns his back on us.” Servaas, in his ominous black suit, knits his eyebrows together in an angry scowl. “It’s not fair.”
Vetfaan nods. “You know how writers are. Introverts. Hermits. Loners. They’re not always very sociable creatures – quite the opposite, in fact. They disappear into that small corner of their minds and live there for periods of time. Now me? I can’t live like that. I want company and conversation. But this jerk just ups and leaves us – just like that.” He snaps his fingers.
“Oh, let the man be. He said we must do something for him.” Precilla is particularly beautiful today, wearing a bit of make-up and her hair tied into a glossy ponytail. “He wanted us to place a poster where everybody can see it. I think he wants us to remind people about that one book he wrote.”
“And there’s another one coming: a crazy story he wrote about Servaas. It should be available within a month or two. I hear it’s quite something. Sexy, even. Gertruida appears in it, too.” Boggel pushes a few beers across the counter. “So all isn’t lost, you guys. He’ll be back when he’s ready for us. Now, where’s that poster? And I understand the picture is linked to a Facebook page.”
“What’s Facebook?” Servaas appears to be even more disgruntled now.
“It’s a virtual world, Servaas. Nothing much is real there. Just like our parliament.”
Boggel shrugs. “He left a few CD’s, at least. We can listen to that…”