WHEN GREGORY EVANS OPENED his eyes and discovered, with relief, that it had all been a bad dream, he took a deep breath before turning on the bedroom light. Then he looked at the alarm clock. It was still four thirty in the morning.
Greg looked at his wife who was already used to his nocturnal insomnia, especially on nights when they didn't make love, which somehow eased Greg's mind and prevented him from having crazy dreams like that...
What the hell was that?
If Greg had sought advice from his brother, who was a prominent cardinal of the Catholic Church, he would have said that God had given him a sign of His designs, but Greg didn't believe in any of that, not God, not the church, much less in anything that he couldn't prove as certain as two plus two equals four.
Greg decided to get up to go to the bathroom, at the same time thinking:
The prostate is protesting...
Referring to this curse that had been dragging on for months and that forced him to urinate the various Cabernet Sauvignons he used to enjoy every night after work. When he returned to the bedroom, he saw on the nightstand a book whose title seemed to have some relation to his dream. It was At the Mountains of Madness.
— No one but you is capable of reading Lovecraft before going to sleep — he said in a low voice, even though he was not alone in the apartment.
At that very moment, the phone rang. He didn't sense anything good, because it was the first time since he had moved to Manhattan that he had been disturbed at such late hours of the morning. It was a bad omen of what was to come. He answered, not without some apprehension.
— Who is it? — he asked apathetically, while trying to put his mind in order.
"... Greg, it's me..." — a familiar female voice answered.
— Did something happen?
"... Don't worry, I'm fine. I'm sorry to wake you up at this hour, but what I have to tell you can't wait any longer..."
Greg sat on the edge of the bed, preparing himself for the worst. His wife Alissa started to wake up, but he kissed her, calming her down and sending her back to a deep sleep. He hinted at some misfortune that must have affected him personally, since she seemed to be about to cry.
— Tell me now... — she asked urgently. — I'm listening.
"... Viana died..." — she said, her pronunciation broken. "... The Spanish police found his body in his house a few hours ago. He was murdered..."
— What are you saying?
"... You heard me right, don't make me repeat myself..."
The woman started to cry, breaking down, overcome by nervousness.
Gregory Evans froze. He felt a knot in his stomach. He could never have imagined that an individual like Jorge Viana, someone who cared only about books, could be the victim of the unscrupulous violence of muggers.
No... of course not... that didn't make any sense in his lifestyle...
— I'll see what I can do...
"... Sorry, Greg... I had no one else to turn to..."
— Thanks for letting me know... I'll probably have an opinion on how I can help you by lunchtime.
And he hung up the phone knowing that he would have to travel to Spain and find out what had really happened to his friend.