Ben Goodman's funeral was a modest one.

In accordance with his wishes, his body was cremated and the short funeral service was held at the crematorium.

"Why not a church?" Kepler had asked when they were looking through the papers.

"Ben wasn't a religious guy." Kepler nodded his understanding. "Are you? Religious?" JC risked asking.

"Not really. I lost my faith in Him when I lost faith in men. In any case, Life and Death existed before men and their gods."

JC had doubts about God herself. What she had no doubt about was the monumental size of bureaucracy. Again. Even in death. Without Kepler's help she'd have been buried under the tons of documents and certificates required, the papers needed to be given to the registrar and the ones she had to get from his office, the ones she had to send to the social security office and the copies meant to be kept. The state was taking its revenge on the living.

When the bureaucracy ended, the fun part began. Ben had left three files with his funeral wishes depending on the state he would be in at the time of his death. As a writer at heart—Ben had written a novel in his early thirties—who considered his career in sales the ultimate compromise of his lifetime, equal to Gordon Comstock's surrender in George Orwell's Keep the Aspidistra Flying as he often described it, he had foreseen three paths for his future:

"Nobel Prize". That was written on the first envelope.

"Booker Prize" was the title of the second.

"Before recognition" was written on the third.

JC had followed the requests of that third envelope wholeheartedly wishing her father had gained the supreme recognition in literature and in life. Her motives were not completely unselfish.

According to the plan, three days after Ben Goodman's cremation and with all paperwork miraculously out of the way, JC—Kepler's office to be precise—would inform a dozen people of her father's death. Two days later, a mini bus would be waiting for them at a central location in London. The idea was for his friends to meet while Ben would give them his unique tour of the city: his favorite bookshop cafe, two specific rooms in the National Gallery, a quick stop at the Tate Modern, for Ben was never very fond of the place, a ride by Cross Bones, his favorite post-medieval cemetery for prostitutes and children if the weather permitted and finally, a visit to his favorite pub, well-hidden from tourists and serving the best fish pie he had tasted in his life. At the end, theater tickets for a Shakespearean play, preferably a drama. JC had printed two-page pamphlets with Ben's handwritten thoughts and suggestions on the places for every guest. It was a whole day event: a London tour with deceased Benjamin Goodman acting as their tour director. He had even set up a bank account for that purpose.

It was morbid and fun, the way Ben defined "fun". What JC's father hadn't predicted was that more than three years in a vegetative state would alienate him from everyone. He had plenty of friends who visited him on a regular basis during the first couple of months of his hospitalization, but the visits became rarer as time passed. JC didn't recall any visits in the last couple of years. When she had talked with a friend of his on the phone last Christmas, the man had at one point said: "We have to face the facts. Ben has left the building."

That phrase had stuck in JC's mind like one of those intolerable commercial jingles she despised yet nevertheless kept playing inside her head till she embarrassedly realized she was humming them. Her sweaty hands were holding the pamphlets tightly as she sat in the back seat of Kepler's SUV.

Radek was driving. Dylan was sitting next to him. Kepler hadn't escorted her for obvious reasons and only JC's pride had restrained her from calling him. She had handled the whole situation very maturely these past days and didn't want to spoil the impression which, after all, was not a lie. JC had mourned her father long ago.

They were waiting in the parking lot beside the bus she had hired. As always, JC was early. She had already decided that she'd wait for half an hour after the set appointment before contemplating leaving. The brilliance in her father's plan was that if the whole thing turned out pathetic, he wouldn't be around to see it. Not that JC would blame his friends. Most people had better plans for their Saturdays.

A quarter before the arranged time the first car came. Thirty minutes later, JC regretted hiring only a mini bus. Her father's friends came. They had called other friends. They had brought their families.

Like a devoted fan club, they had arrived with high expectations, hoping to be surprised. The bus was full in no time and most of them followed it with their cars. Dylan rushed to make more photocopies so that everyone had a pamphlet by their first stop at "Only Words", the bookshop café on Hackney Rd. In no time the place was packed. The titles of newly arrived books were written with chalk on a blackboard at the front window. Inside everything was covered with books, old and new. To be precise, everything was made of books, too: chairs, shelves, table surfaces, even a small fridge—its surface was covered by book pages. It was as if the whole store was made out of printed material. There were even books hanging from the ceiling. The only brick wall that was free of pages was filled with small, various-shaped, framed blackboards where guests were invited to write their thoughts. A famous Wilde quote was written beside an "I love coffee—not tea!" and a haiku poem. On a board high enough not to be erased JC recognized Ben's handwriting. The Irish owner refused to charge her for the teas and coffees or the "best carrot cake in town," as described in Ben's notes.

"The least I can do for Bennie. Crazy bastard! And I'm more than compensated with the books people buy." He winked and gave her a hug as if he had known her for years.

At the National Gallery, a small chaos was unleashed. JC, with the floor plan in hand, was leading a slow-walking but quite loud group as everyone read Ben's thoughts on Henri Rousseau's Tiger in a Tropical Storm and The Ambassadors by Hans Holbein the Younger. A kid tried to pass quickly before the painting to catch the anamorphic skull effect and JC attracted many disapproving stares from visiting tourists. She smiled at them defiantly. For the first time in her life, she was not a tourist in London. She was the host.

By the time they were drinking pints at "The Birdcage", smaller groups had formed. Unsurprisingly, the old cemetery for sinful "single women" was the dominant theme of discussion even though JC listened to them argue about meta-poems, literature and doomed sales strategies in a lively cacophony that drowned out the music. It was almost six thirty when they separated into two groups: those who would go to the theater and those with kids who had to go home. JC had called an election and Othello was chosen. Tickets were booked on the spot online and the parking in Chinatown was a five minute walk from the theater. What more could she ask for? It was one of those times where Lady Luck favors you and everything falls into place of its own accord with the least possible effort. No one would forget this. Ben had managed to engrave his "Benjamin Goodman Day" on those people's collective memory and she was the maestro of it all.

JC exited the car taking a deep breath and took Dylan aside.

"You don't have to come to the theater if you don't like—" she started.

"If it's no inconvenience, I'd like to come. It's been years since I've been to a play. I wish I'd met your father. He seems like a great guy." JC believed him.

"If you stay, can you at least tell Radek to call it a day? Poor man, he'll be bored to tears in the theater. You can give me a ride if you don't mind—"

Dylan nodded, opening the door to deal with the other Alionin brother.

"JC—" he paused.

"What?"

"If that was your father's 'Before Recognition' memorial plan, what was the rest?"

JC's smile was devoid of sadness or bitterness. "The 'Booker Prize' was something similar only a bit more extravagant. And the funeral was different." Cremation was cheaper but JC withheld that piece of information. "He meant to have one of those environmentally friendly woodland burials, have you heard of them?" Dylan's frown showed he hadn't. "They involve biodegradable coffins and planted trees instead of the usual headstones. There are special places for these burials—"

Dylan didn't get into the car, but stood, waiting.

"In the 'Nobel Prize' envelope there was nothing else but a couple of sentences: 'The hell with it! It's enough of a circus anyway.'"

Another short chapter till Thursday… Have a beautiful week and stay safe!

TOWDNWTBN, Vale: thank you! Extra thank you to all of you who review. You warm my heart. :-)