Mazelov

I wasn't chasing fame, but Mazelov, like a shadow, always loomed on the horizon, poisoning the air with his venomous attacks. Our feud began with a trifle—an incautious review of his debut novel, which, as a young critic at the time, I rashly dismissed as a "parody of style." He, of course, never forgave me.

From then on, he tried to belittle every success of mine, and blow every failure into disastrous proportions. His columns were full of caustic innuendo, his interviews dripping with undisguised hatred. At first, I tried to ignore it, but his malice followed me everywhere, like an obsession.

One day at a literary festival in Venice, where we were both scheduled to participate, I saw him standing by the canal, gazing into the murky water. I decided to approach him. Not to make peace, of course. Just to look him in the eyes.

He turned around, and in his gaze I saw not only anger but also weariness. Weariness from hatred, from the endless struggle. We were silent, and the water splashed between us, reflecting the distorted lights of the city. Suddenly, he quietly said: "You write better than me, Zimina. Always have."

And in that moment, I realized our enmity was just a mask concealing his own insecurity. I didn't respond. I simply turned and walked away, leaving him standing by the canal, alone with his pain. Was that a victory? I don't know. But I no longer felt hatred for him. Only pity.