Nestor couldn’t explain to the guys he wasn’t a communist. The boys were on fire, and this could easily have been an understatement. All three of them reminded him of Trotsky. Nestor knew that in normal circumstances this statement would have made no sense; he knew their passion rather than physical appearance made them look like Trotsky. Even so, he couldn’t escape the notion. He thought he really might become a communist just by looking at them, if he only tried harder. But his education and habits were too bourgeois and it was not expected that a man of his age would easily deny himself the cozy and carefree life he was used to. The position of a sales agent in a company that distributes care skin products didn’t bring him millions, but he had some savings that he inherited when his parents died, and they also left him an apartment in city center. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to think of one’s life as a life of convenient existence. Among other things, his lifestyle enabled him to write. But come to think of it, quitting writing might be a better idea; words put him in this strange situation where he has to explain to these armed rebels he is not one of them and that it would be great if they would just let him go.
Nestor’s poem was published this Wednesday in a literary magazine. It was a poem about a beatiful red flower (a poppy, perhaps, but he wasn’t completely sure) that Nestor noticed when he was buying salad at a marketplace. This magazin (Poetry was the name) was popular only among poetry enthusiasts, and the poem wasn’t even that good. For goodness’ sake, it was a mere description of a flower, and God knows flowers don’t support revolutions. On Saturday they knocked on his door, put him in the car and brought him to this dump, God knows where. ‘I am not a communist, trust me! I would be a lousy one, trust me’. Didn’t help much, they wanted him really bad.