Jack woke up feeling tired. That was strange, since he had slept soundly, without dreams. Following his daily routine in the bathroom, then first coffee, dressing, he came out of his apartment, walked down the one floor and out to the street. The day was bright, sunny, and a light breeze blew from the sea. He walked briskly to Allenby Street, measuring his steps. That was his "constitutional", he joked to himself.

            Something different drew his attention. The building on the other side, with the clothing store, had been painted overnight. He didn't like the new shade, a garish kind of purplish blue.

            Arriving at his café, he saw a new waiter was working. He sat at his usual table and motioned with his head to Albert, who was wiping clean the counter.

            "New waiter, Albert?" he asked.

            Albert looked surprised, and shrugged. "Not Momo," he said. "Four months already. Didn't you notice?"

            Jack was disturbed. He could swear he hadn't seen Momo before. But then, he usually didn't pay much attention to the waiters, being absorbed in his book. His book, finally out. He was going through it carefully, seeing if he could found any misprints. At last, after so many years, he had found a publisher and his first novel had come out, with a beautiful cover, and his photo on the back He had collected his stories on the life of an immigrant family from Argentine, made the appropriate connections and changes, and it became a good-sized novel.

            He consulted his watch. He had enough time, At 11:00 he was to be on hand to sign books at Handler's bookstore. A ten-minute walk, at the most. He drank his coffee and swallowed a bite of the croissant, relaxing, enjoying the sunny day, he was happy, well, not happy, contented would be a better definition of his mood.

            A bus passed by. It was painted in a different color. What was this fashion of changing colors all of a sudden?

            He left the money on the table, the usual sum with the usual tip, and walked away.

            "Mister!" the new waiter called him waiving the bill.

            He walked back and pointed to the coins. "Five shekels for the coffee, fifteen for the croissant, and five shekels for the tip, that's it, ok?"

            "But the bill is for 25 shekels," said the waiter pleadingly. "Tip not included".

            Jack took a look at the bill. The waiter was right. So Albert had raised the prices overnight without giving notice. He felt irritated. The day had started on the wrong foot. He added five shekels to the coins on the table and walked away. Now he had no time, but when he returned he was going to tell Albert some truths. There was no inflation to speak of. No justification for raising prices like this. No sir, no justification at all!

            He arrived at the bookstore skipping the first windows, devoted to a display of pocketbooks and children's books. The big window at the entrance was the one that interested him. He wanted to see again the stack of books, his books, with the sign inviting the public to the signing. He looked at the display and felt a sudden cold. The books were different!

            He looked again. Yes, the title was the same, his name was there, but the cover was different, another picture, a couple dancing the tango, instead of the galloping gaucho on the cover of the book he held in his hand.

            He walked in and the store manager came to greet him, Yevgeny Shwartz, the Ukrainian ex athlete, still limping from the unfortunate fall that put an end to his career.

            "You are early, but no matter, we'll have lunch until the signing."

            Jack shook his hand and frowned.

            "But isn't it scheduled for 11 a.m.?"

            Yevgeny smiled and took him by the arm, leading him to the back.

            "You forgot. Second edition signings are always in the afternoon. More people can come. First editions are different, because of the publicity."

            Jack stood and released himself from the other's hold.

            "Second edition?" he asked incredulously, "so soon? I can't believe it, after only a few days."

            Now the other was surprised. "After a year, it's not too soon. The book sold well, but it took some time to get good reviews."

            "What do you mean, a year?" shouted Jack, unable to restrain his excitement. "What day is today?"

            'Thursday June 22, of course,' said Yevgeny. "What's the matter with you? Why did you bring a copy of the first edition?"

            "Right, right, I just don't get it," muttered Jack. "Thursday? This is supposed to be Wednesday… But, listen, Yevgeny, what is the year?"

            "Bogemoi," whispered Yevgeny, shaking his head, "You are in bad shape. Too much vodka last night? Two thousand and seven, of course."

            Now Jack had to seek support from the near table. "Not 2006?" he pleaded. '"Are you sure?"

            The rest of the day passed like a nightmare. A year had been erased in his memory, one full year to the day, and he couldn't understand how.

            The lunch, the signing were welcome distractions. Quite a few people came and bought the book. This improved his state of mind, but the fact remained, he had lost a year of his life.

            Finally, the signing ended. The store was closing. Jack took his leave, and walked back to his apartment. Traffic was heavy, shops were closing and people rushed to go back home.

            The revolution in his mind had abated only momentarily, again the question came again and again, and no matter how many explanations he could try to imagine, none could really explain what had happened.

            Distracted, he paid no attention to the traffic light that turned red the moment he stepped onto the pavement. He went on walking, oblivious to the angry expletives of the drivers who went around him. Unfortunately, one of the drivers received a phone call just at that time. He swerved too late, hitting Jack and throwing him on the path of an incoming truck driving in the opposite direction. This was the last Jack saw, the approaching huge bumper of the truck; then darkness.

 

            He woke up with sudden fright. It took him several moments to realize he was back on his bed, and the clock showed that fifteen minutes still had to pass before it was supposed to ring.

            The events of the day were clear in his mind. Of the day? Obviously, all had been a dream. A bad dream! He leaned back and breathed deeply a few times, to calm his heart.

            The telephone rang. "Jack?" It was Yevgeny, the bookstore manager. "Did I wake you up? Sorry, I wanted to make sure to catch you before you went out."

            "It doesn't matter. I was already awake."

            "Just wanted to remind you that the signing of today will be in the afternoon. Not in the morning, like last time. Second editions are signed in the afternoon…"