10 μυθιστορήματα για τη μνήμη

Αλήθεια, όμως, ποιος ήταν αυτός ο άνθρωπος; Μέχρι τώρα, ακόμα κι όταν τη χαιρετούσε αναπάντεχα κάποιος στον δρόμο, αμέσως τον αναγνώριζε λέγοντας: «Είσαι ο τάδε, σωστά;» – γεγονός που πάντα χαροποιούσε τον άλλον. Πίστευε πως ήταν πραγματικά άσχημο να γερνάς και να σκουριάζει το μυαλό σου. «Καλώς ήρθατε. Σας περίμενα» της είπε ο άντρας.

NEEDLESS TO SAY, HE WILL BE RELEASED, the voice had said, followed by silence. There was an ironic tone to that finally message, as if the Speaker found it amusing; and Jonas had smiled a little, though he knew what a grim statement it had been. For a contributing citizen to be released from the community was a final decision, a terrible punishment, an overwhelming statement of failure.

Last night, she told him hers was Jess. She lied, but only because she can’t say her real name—one of the vicious little details tucked like nettles in the grass. Hidden barbs designed to sting. What is a person, if not the marks they leave behind? She has learned to step between the thorny weeds, but there are some cuts that cannot be avoided—a memory, a photograph, a name.

Her people were great travelers once, going from district to district to perform their music. Tam Amber remembers it, as he was about my age when the war ended and the Peacekeepers rounded up the Covey, killing all the adults and confining the kids to our district.

And then, as if the lens of a camera had sharpened its focus, the faces cleared. They were boys, all of them—some young, some older. Thomas didn’t know what he’d expected, but seeing those faces puzzled him. They were just teenagers. Kids. Some of his fear melted away, but not enough to calm his racing heart.