From that moment onwards distrust and negativity grew in me and it did not leave me for years. I could only recall the sacrifices I had made in the past and I felt tired and resentful.

"You're very wasted. Your neurons… You have the head of an old man," he told me one day.

I also felt that way. At the age of thirty, stress had left its mark on me as I imagine it had also on him, in its own way.


As time passed, our relationship was becoming less friendly and more professional. The only thing that seemed to keep us together was the business that we had in common.

Gatsby was very good at managing people in the company. The employees were happy, in spite of the fact that the work could be hard. At that time, something that came to my notice was the fear that Demian inspired among his employees even though they did not know who he really was. Gatsby had a great advantage over Demian from the point of view of business excellence; it was that that called attention to him.

We no longer communicated as we did before. I hardly heard anything about him. I limited myself to noticing the same changes that the others were becoming aware of. Some of them were so notable that it seemed incredible to me that the circle of people around him were not talking about it openly. The most striking were those related to his hair. There were days when I was surprised to see his head covered in white hair. The following day the white hair had diminished until, over a few days, he only retained the few white hairs that he normally had. It was even more surprising to notice how his hair could grow in a single night. I saw him once with very little hair on the top of his head. "He's going to go bald," I told myself. And the very next day I saw him with a full head of hair, totally covering that incipient baldness.

These "arrangements" were things that had to do with Gatsby's image. I understood that perfectly. What worried me was whatever it was that provoked them. He seemed to be under a lot of strain but I could hardly find anything out.

Gatsby never complained although that day he did make a remark to me, maybe because I had also said something. He kept a certain distance from his baby and observed it carefully before getting any closer.

"Demian has managed to get into the baby who then crawled all over me," he said with resignation, pointing to some small scratches on his face.

The fact was that around Gatsby there were always many significant events taking place.

I went to his house. We had to see each other. He put on some music.

"I can't even get near that piece of equipment. It keeps on showing greeting messages on its little display. 'Hello, how are you?' and things like that. When my wife is here I never even go near this part of the house."

"And who can it be?" I asked him.

"I've no idea," he said it without much interest, as if it did not matter in the slightest.

Gatsby appeared to give off a special light. I imagined that he shone that way within the spiritual darkness and that many deceased people would want to contact him. Sometimes we spoke about the large number of deceased that remained disoriented, clinging to a material plane.