15
The bookstore owner signed a long–term contract with that client in the tower.
I often volunteered to make the deliveries.
Occasionally, I would catch a glimpse of Reik Thorne from a distance. He was always in black; you couldn’t find a speck of another color on him. The only exception was the occasional flash of a white shirt collar at his neck.
He was always in a hurry, trailed by a large retinue of subordinates in suits, all bowing and scraping. In public, he was the picture of cold, unapproachable power, showing none of the pale vulnerability I had seen that night.
Sometimes, passing by the common areas, I would overhear employees gossiping in the break room. They said their terrifying boss’s office was just as devoid of color. Not even a single fresh flower. The decor was all oppressive grays and blacks.
The story of Reik’s young, deceased wife was no secret in the company. Perhaps because his son was a frequent visitor, or perhaps because of the simple wedding band on his finger, whi- ch he never once took off. They even speculated that Reik, living like an ascetic monk, was remaining celibate in her honor.
Clutching a heavy stack of books, I walked silently through the crowd of polished, successful people, my head bowed.
suddenly began to question whether agreeing to this mission had been the right decision.
