Untraceable

Начало книги

Vyrin had grown accustomed to the muted, prolonged ailments that accompanied the approach of old age. But he felt the aches and pains more acutely in summer than in any other season. They ripened and gathered strength by late August, the anniversary of his defection, tormenting his joints, vessels, and eyeballs—only to vanish with ease in early fall, when the heat abated and the barometer calmed down.

Maybe this was the death sentence given me in absentia, he joked to himself, his lips tasting the wormwood of death postponed.

“Or is my body taking its revenge?” he thought. “Revenge for the new face created by the plastic surgeon? The scars and birth-marks lasered away? Does it remember and prepare its revenge on the anniversary of my defection?”

He had persistent conjunctivitis from the contact lenses that altered his eye color. His legs ached from the lifts in his shoes. His hair was brittle from the dye. Being someone else entailed intensive daily labor. He couldn’t get used to it.

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