I am barreling down a desolate road in the dead of night. Behind me, I hear the defeated sobs of my daughter. Next to me, nervously smoking, eyes fixed on no point in particular somewhere in front of him, is her lover, who also happens to be the lover of my wife.
My hands are firmly on the wheel, my eyes - relaxed, but attentive - are planted on the road. My destination? A two meter thick wall about 30 kilometers away from my current destination.
Even as the dull night landscape rips by, I am still accelerating.
The book is Travesty, by John Hawkes - one of the best reads that I've ever experienced.
"So you are going to relax, cher ami. You are determined to hide your trembling, achieve a few moments of silence, begin smoking one of your delightful cigarettes, and then after this appropriate expenditure of precious time and in the midst of your composure, then you will attempt to dissuade me, to talk me back to sanity (as you will express the idea), to appeal to my kindness and good sense. I approve. I am listening. The hour is yours. But of course you may use the lighter. Only reach for it slowly and keep in mind my warning. Do not be deceived by my good nature. I am as serious as a sheet of flame."