There is something about A’s tone, however, that makes B wary, as if there were a message to be read between the lines, as if the famous writer were saying to him, Don’t think you’ve fooled me; I know you put me in your book; I know you made fun of me. He’s praising my book to the skies, thinks B, so he can let it plummet back to earth later on. Or he’s praising my book to make sure no one will identify him with Medina Mena. Or he hasn’t even realized, and it was a case of genuine appreciation, a simple meeting of minds. None of these possibilities seems to bode well. B doesn’t believe that
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Paranoia
