On opening his diary to the first blank page, Aron could tell at a glance that there’d been a breach of his privacy, yet again. Moe might as well have left his fingerprints, for there they were, undeniably his, flakes of skin, like those that trailed around & behind him, dust clouds of them, surging as though out of a whirlwind, symptomatic of the psoriasis that had been plaguing him half his life. It didn’t appear to make any difference where Aron hid the diary, whether it was in amongst shelved cookbooks or how-to manuals, stacked old copies of Architectural Digest or The New Yorker, under the mattress in the guest room or at the back of the ironing board in the hallway closet—no place in their condo could keep the secret. Blessed with a paranormal olfactory sense that any truffle dog would envy, Moe never failed in the hunt. This gift of his regularly drove Aron to the limits of his own considerable patience. How much more infuriating that books, writing in any form, indeed the written word itself, held no interest, much less fascination, for Moe, as it did for Aron. Only stories told through pictorial media did the trick. Whatever the presentation, let it be streamed, on Blu-ray, on pay-per-view, Moe would pretty much be mesmerized from the outset, with his concentration plunging ever deeper as the stories unfolded. Aron, on the contrary, largely owing to his seminary training & tenure in the priesthood, however brief it may have been, held print in reverential awe. Recording his inmost personal experiences on a near daily basis had become an act of devotion. And Moe’s intrusions felt, therefore, like nothing less than a calculated violation. Oscar Wilde might have facetiously remarked: “I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read on the train.” Nevertheless, the rock-solid core of Wilde’s remark clearly meant, insofar as Aron was concerned, that the reader of any diary must, under every circumstance, be solely restricted to the diarist himself, no exceptions.
How to catch out Moe’s subterfuge without arguments or confrontation, that was the question. Over their years together, Aron had learned that Moe’s childish self-absorption was sure always to get in the way of his admitting when he was in the wrong. Why try to shame him when that approach would more than likely prompt him to turn tables, set him into going on the attack? That route would lead them to an all-out war, prolonged, potentially, beyond the farthest reaches of madness. Better to set a trap, let him fall into it, then offer him a hand out. Which meant preparing two separate diaries, the genuine (blue spiral notebook) & the counterfeit (red spiral notebook), the former secured away where Moe would never think to go, like in the locker at Aron’s gym, the latter stored in one of the habitual places at home. Thus, Aron could lead Moe a merry chase down a blind alley, christened Morgan, a name bristling with connotations, enough of them to misdirect Moe into a traffic jam of confusion.
Let’s watch how Aron put his plan into action. Picture this:
[In a robe over pajamas, Moe sits at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee & a plate of toast at hand. He is texting at his cell phone with grim intensity. Aron, in workout clothes, enters, glances towards Moe, then saunters over to the fridge, opens it, looks in, & reaches for some eggs.]
Aron: Guten Morgen. Care for an omelet?
Moe: What?
Aron: Would you like an omelet with that toast? I’m making.
Moe: No, thanks. [pause] Did you say something about Morgan?
Aron [beating eggs in a bowl]: I said “Morgen.” It’s German. German for “Good Morning.” [pours the eggs into a fry pan, spatula at the ready].
Moe [eyes fixed on his phone]: German? You’re saying that Morgan is German?
Aron [sliding the omelet onto a plate & turning off the stove]: I did, yes, jawohl, mein Herr.
Moe [glances up at Aron, then quickly returns to the phone]: Looks like you’re headed over to the gym after breakfast. [pause] Meeting up?
Aron [sitting down opposite Moe]: Who with?
Moe: With Morgan. [pause] What’s he like, anyway?
Aron [taking bites between words & phrases]: He? What makes you think Morgen’s of the male gender? Morgen can go both ways, male, female, plus neuter, even.
Moe [puzzled but smiles]: Neuter? Doesn’t sound like there’s much on offer.
Aron: That all depends on what you’re looking for.
Moe: It takes all kinds, I guess.
Aron: For example, in Spanish “la manana” signifies “morning,” but “el manana” signifies “the future.”
Moe [making eye contact]: What’s this about Spanish? I thought we were talking about Morgan. And Morgan, you said, is German.
Aron [finished with his meal, he pushes the plate away, & takes a sip of coffee]: I did. And it’d be a shame to lose out by not getting back.
Moe [holding eye contact intently]: What? What are you saying? Who is this German, this Morgan? Never heard of him before, not until [stops abruptly] that last [pauses] entry in your [smiles sheepishly] diary.
Aron [standing]: Exactly. No worries. He doesn’t exist. I made him up. Understand? [pause] I made him up for you.
Moe: Oh. [pause] Understood.
[Silence.]