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In this message, I will tell you a little about myself. When I was a child, they called me “the sad robot”. I lived in South America, in a place full of clean, oval-shaped mountains, with no sharp peaks capable of puncturing balloons or dreams. Later, as an adult, I moved to Europe — more precisely to Moscow, in Russia. And I can tell you that Russia is eternally cold. I found a job at a company that sold furniture, in the accounting department. But South America never stopped occupying my thoughts. It was there I would seek temporary refuge, to take a holiday from the depressing and oppressive world in which each of us had to bear up as a salaried office worker.

In Moscow, I managed to rise through the company hierarchy until I reached the top of the office staff. By then, I already had a particular fascination with literature. I remember reading Vila-Matas and dreaming that one day I might plagiarize famous writers. But my career as a failed writer never even began: shortly after starting work on my first novel, I came down with what is known as Montano’s Malady. It was at that point that I decided to leave the furniture company and enlist in the Russian special forces.

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