The Mountain Shadow

by Gregory David Roberts

‘Maybe I’m not what I used to be.’ ‘We’re all what we used to be, even when we’re not.’ ‘That’s not telling me what you’re doing here,’ she said. ‘What we tell, is rarely what we do.’ ‘I’m not doing an aphorism contest,’ she said, frowning a smile and sitting down beside me. ‘We are the art, that sees us as art.’ ‘No way,’ she said. ‘Keep your lines to yourself.’ ‘Fanaticism means that if you’re not against me, you’re against me.’ ‘I could report you for aphorism harassment, do you know that?’ ‘Honour is the art of being humble,’ I replied, deadpan. We were speaking softly, but our eyes were sharp. ‘Okay,’ she whispered, ‘you’re on. My turn?’ ‘Of course it’s your turn. I’m already three up on you.’ ‘Every goodbye is a dress rehearsal for the last goodbye,’ she said. ‘Not bad. Hello can lie, sometimes, but goodbye always tells the truth.’ ‘Fiction is fact, made stranger. The truth about anything is a lie about something else. Come on, step it up, Shantaram.’