My mother won't be born for another 102 years.

- Alexander Tuniak

Sorry, what?

„Beginnings are always the hardest“, he continued. „I've thought long and hard about what makes a good beginning and this sentence fits all conditions perfectly.“

What conditions?

„The sentence is unusual. A beginning should create curiosity.. It should contain one or two pieces of important information, which it does. And, most important of it all, it should be true.“

So I put that sentence at the beginning. But Alexander Tuniak doesn't want to write his biography himself, so I can take a few liberties. Not about the content, but about the presentation (of course, I don't have complete control, I get paid by him after all).

But I think I will begin (or continue to begin) at the same place where it all started for me. Last week.

I'm a student. What I study is of no importance, this is not about me. But it is important that I am a student. Because like any other student I was looking for a job. Nothing big. I didn't want to get rich. I just wanted to gain some work experience, which looks good on any c.v. I didn't want to spend a lot of time working either. I can do 16-hour-shifts as a cab driver once I've finished my studies.

At the university there's a black board, where basically everyone can put up a post-it note. You can look for stuff (like apartments), you can offer stuff (like old scripts). Sometimes you'll find a job offer. That's how I found Mr. Tuniak's note.

This is what it said:

“Wanted! Someone to write my biography – meetings once a week – limited creative freedom – for more information, please call...”

I thought “Why not?” and called the number. I was invited to an interview, which took place in an office on the last floor of a building of the Raben Consulting company. The same place where most of the other meetings will take place in, as Mr. Tuniak promised. The office is nothing special. There is a desk (of course there is), but surprisingly without a computer. Thinking back, I can't recall if there was a telephone there or not, but I think there wasn't. Book shelves were standing in front of three of the four walls. I couldn't make out what kind of books they were, maybe next time. The fourth wall – the one behind the desk – was a big glass window, which offered a great view of the city (and also a new meaning to the rule of “not breaking the fourth wall”). There was also a smaller desk, with a couch, a few plants (ferns, I think), lamps of course... But it didn't seem like a place where a lot of work was done. Or any work. It seemed more like a theatre or film set than an actual office. As if the whole room was only prepared so that we'd have a place for the interview.

The interview itself was the easiest one I've ever had.

This is how it went:

I enter the room.

Mr. Tuniak: “You've got the job.”

That's it. He didn't ask any more questions. He didn't want to know if I had ever done anything similar. He didn't want to know if I had any skills that would make me especially suited for the job. He didn't ask if he owned any of my relatives a favour. There were no discussions about my payment or about the times when we would meet. I had the job.

So what is my job?

Every Sunday I will go to Mr. Tuniak's office and he will talk about his life. I will take notes and try to bring all his thoughts into a presentable form. And all of this will be published – piece by piece, one every week – on the internet.

Why?

“I'll explain later.”

Oh, and one more thing: It will only be for one year. He will talk once a week for exactly one year and not a day longer.

“If you start a narrative, any kind of narrative, it's important to know when and where it will end”, he explained. “Otherwise you are in danger of getting lost in the small stuff, of loosing the main thread of what you wanted to tell. Of course, that can turn out interesting in its own way, but that's not what I want. One year gives me enough time to mention everything of importance. And we will start next week.”

But he didn't want to let me go just like that. That's why he told me the sentence you read at the beginning.

“For the way home”, he said.

I wrote down “102 years”, trying not to laugh. “And when were you born?”, I asked.

“1996”, he answered. He noticed that I didn't write this down immediately. “I don't look that young, do I?”, he asked with a smile.

No, he doesn't. This is what Mr. Tuniak looks like: He is tall, nearly two metres. His hair is white but if you look closely you can see that it must have been black in his youth. His name sounds Greek, but with his appearance he would also fit in every country in the Middle East. It's actually very difficult to guess his nationality. I asked him about that. “None”, he answered. “Or Terra, if you prefer.”

Terra. Earth. Ok. And how old is he?

“I'm honestly not sure. But I must be about a hundred years old.” I have to say, he looks very good for someone of that age. He doesn't look a day over seventy.

I changed his year of birth to 1896 in my notes. I was convinced that I had simply misunderstood him at first. But he noticed that and I had to change it back again.

“I was born in 1996, I know that”, he said. “I'm also over a hundred years old. And by the way: I never experienced 1998. I think I missed 2003 as well, but I'm not sure.”

He's the boss. I don't have to make sense of what he says, I just have to report it as truthfully as I can.

I asked him, carefully, how all of that was possible.

“Well, that's quite elementary”, he said. “But if you can't figure it out yourself, then, like Mr Gently, you will have to ask a child.

“One more thing before you leave”, he continued. “I want to read you a legend. It may explain why I'm doing all of this.” He took a sheet of paper from the desk. “There are people who think that the end of the legend is missing. But I think it stops at precisely the right point.”

This is the legend:

A long time ago there was a man who had three sons. The old man died, as we all must some day. He was buried and his sons put a big tombstone on his grave. The name of the man was written there, in big letters, so that everyone who passed it by would read it and the man would never be forgotten.

Years passed. A day came when the three sons decided to return to their father's grave, but once they arrived they saw that the name on the tombstone was nearly impossible to read. Rains and storms had nearly erased it. The sons immediately decided to put up a new tombstone, but they also knew that the same thing would happen to it. So they were standing at their father's grave and they were thinking not only about him, but also about themselves. What would happen once they died? Would they be forgotten? Would their sons take care of their graves? Would they make sure that their names would always be visible on their tombstones?

And the first son said: “I do not want to be forgotten. I will have children, many children, and they will have children and so on and on. My descendants will be the biggest family that ever lived. They will create a dynasty and I will never be forgotten. For whenever anyone wants to find out how this family started they will find my name. And every family tree will start with me.”

The second son answered: “I don't want to be forgotten either. I will create a work of art. A palace, so big and strong, that even time won't be able to destroy it. Kings and queens will live in this palace and it will become the most famous building in the world. And every time someone asks who build it, they will hear my name.”

And the third son said: “To be forgotten, no, I don't want that to happen to me either. That's why I will tell everyone I meet my story. I will tell everyone who I am, what I have seen and what I have done. Most of it will be true, some of it won't. But that's not important. Because the people who listen to me, will repeat my story and they will leave out things I said or add others I didn't say. They will change my story, but they will never forget me.”

Mr Tuniak gave me copy of that legend. “I read this story once to a few friends of mine”, he told me. “Do you want to know what they said? They said that the only way to make sure that you are never forgotten is to live forever. And they laughed. Of course, the irony is that no one knows their names.”

And then he smiled and said good-bye.

NEXT WEEK:

Credo, quia impossibile est.