The journalist was sat in the room, just as I had asked. She looked about twenty-five, not much older than I had been when I had discovered my truth. I suppose to her I still looked that age; if she were to look into my eyes, she would see things differently. I may have the body of a younger man, but my eyes are that of time itself. I have walked this earth for longer than I care to remember. I shall be walking it long after you are gone. I am, you see, one of the immortals.
"I have a story to tell you", I say to her. Will she believe me? I doubt it, but after all this time, I have to get it out. "Do you mind?" She asks me as she places her mobile phone on the table. "Of course not", I reply with a smile. I do not mind, a mobile phone is as good as any. A decade ago, it would have been a dictaphone. Before that, maybe a typewriter or pen and paper. They all serve the same purpose. Why would I care how she recorded our meeting? "So, Mr", she looks at her notes and then back at me. "That is not your real name is it?"
"Of course not, my dear", I reply once again with a smile. I have learned over the years that my smile can be pretty disarming. It does not work with everyone, but it works with most. "I enjoy Agatha Christie. As I was not sure about this meeting, I thought it better to be anonymous. So I used the name from the book".
"Why the secrecy? Why not just use your real name?" She asks. It is a start, I suppose. It is not essential, but if she wants an answer, I shall be forthcoming. "What name do I use?" I ask her. "I could use the name I was born with", no that is not right. "The name I think I was born with, but what good would that do? It would mean nothing to you, and it means even less to me. I could use one of the many names I have used across the years, but they are all just meaningless identities thrown into the mixer when needed. No, I think it is best to let my actions define and describe me".
"So what do I call you?" She asks.
"Well, deary, you can call me whatever you like". I smile again; this time, she smiles back. Putty in my hands was I to want it. She is lucky that I am turning over, flipping the page, and behaving, for now. There was a time, no so long ago, when I would have taken great pleasure in toying with her and then discarding her. "Call me Ano, I tell her", it is as good a name as any. "It works with the name from the book".
"Okay, Ano, what am I doing here?"
"You have come because I offered your newspaper a story", I answer. "I presume that that deemed it of interest and then sent you".
"You presume correctly", she answered. "So what is the story?"
"The story is my life. It is my life from the moment I became up until this hour. It is of the things that I have seen and of what I have experienced. It will seem fictitious, but I assure you it is not". The journalist checks her watch as I finish. She does not want to be here. This is a dead-end waste of time job. I can tell she feels that way; she is not even trying to hide it. She will soon change her mind. "So, how does it start?" she asks.