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5

Sandra Magnoli only smoked six cigarettes a day and none at work, although her colleagues usually did.

She was a second level employee at the immigration office of the municipality of Castelmuso, and was involved in family reunions, seasonal work, and conversion of residence permits.

There was a lot of bureaucracy in her work, but there was also the opportunity to do something practical for a mass of desperate people pushing the gates of the rich West. On his desk was a series of files, through which she had to decide the fate of an unknown number of Afghan refugees, Korean dissidents exhausted by a communist regime outside of history, and the relocation of migrants arriving from Lampedusa. In her office the miseries ignored the colour of the skin.

When the Freecorporation Media, the company that organized the Next Generation, sent her the tickets for the trip, Sandra thought to refuse, but the director wanted to gratify her by giving her a week's back vacation. For Daisy, her daughter, that would have been her first trip to Milan.

The two women boarded at Falconara airport and landed at Malpensa airport. On that day, due to a transport strike, mother and daughter did not find particularly convenient connections. However, Daisy and Sandra had the Freecorporation Media car, a champagne-coloured sedan with the TV programme logo printed on the sides.

A taciturn cameraman with a corporate cap over his eyes and a sticky author wearing a boring grey split, were at Daisy's beck and call.

The two women stayed at the Cosmopolitan Hotel, a stone's throw from La Scala theatre. The temple of great music was there, keeping a strict watch over the golden dreams of a sixteen-year-old girl. Within two days, Daisy was instructed on how she should perform on stage at the Millennium Arena. This was a tensile structure to the west of the Lombard capital, a fascinating monster made of cables, ropes and fibreglass. It could hold about 8,000 people.

Seen from the outside, the arena showed curved, light and harmonious shapes, and it was a pity that it was dismantled after each edition of Next Generation. The municipality of Milan owned the area where the Millennium was located. The contract provided that the twenty thousand square meters rented were occupied for no more than three months a year, at a cost of three hundred thousand euros per month. The Millennium was elegant and evanescent, an Arab phoenix made of tubes, Teflon and polyester, as it was defined by a theatre critic.

Now, inside that arena, and in front of millions of people, the finalists of one of Italy's most popular talent were about to perform.

Adriano watched the silvery, glittering reflections of the moon as it lay on the dark waters of the sea.

The treatment prescribed by Dr Salieri was a powerful cocktail of nortriline and flufenazine. His quality of life had definitely improved. He no longer stammered, the trembling of his hands had diminished and he walked without dawdling like a zombie.

Downstairs, the guests were waiting for the connection. The room was large and bright because of a huge window that took up the space of two walls. The modern, refined furnishings included a glass table, bar corner, cream-colored leather armchairs and sofas crammed with friends and family of the Magnoli family.

Chatter and laughter resounded from the stairwell. Adriano could hear the beers crackling, the clink of toasts, his aunt wheezing with honours, the baritone voice of Uncle Ambrogio urging his friends to eat hamburgers and salmon mousse canapés.

"Adry, it's about to start! Come on, get down, I can't understand a bat with Sky remote controls” shouted her cousin Annetta, looking out over the stairs.

Adriano came down into the living room appreciating the fact that he was moving, if not with ease, in any case with discreet confidence.

"Adriano, you're a phenomenon! Daisy is on television thanks to you, do you realize?" complimented Franco Leni called Franz, the bearded, light-skinned neighbour, beer-drinker's belly and German face.

Franz had brought his fat wife, his three children, and a considerable amount of barbecued sausages.

"If you hadn't written that piece, we wouldn't be here bothering you" exclaimed his uncle, a skinny, nervous guy who wore a grisaille for the occasion and was proud to wear it at a village party.

Everyone had noticed how much better Adriano was doing. The effect of the new medication would last for at least a couple of months. Then, because of the addiction, the hallucinations would begin again. At which point the psychiatrist would have to establish a new treatment.

The rotation of medicines was essential to allow the boy a dignified quality of life, but at the risk of dangerously poisoning certain organs.

The liver, of course, was the most at risk. But his young age, combined with a diet that did not include alcohol consumption, was a good antidote that would keep him safe from the side effects of medicines. And Adriano was feeling particularly well that night.

The program was about to begin. The uncles had sunk on the couch, alert and excited, and Annetta was shivering with tension. Franz was sitting next to his wife, but kept at arm's length from a row of beer bottles as the children came and went from the garden, noisy and involved in the festive atmosphere. Antonio Bruzzi, the other neighbour, was a retired marshal with a navy background. He had carefully sat in the armchair furthest from the television.

Since his wife's death, the retiree had been suffering from depression and found that at his age, everything made little sense.

He had accepted Sandra's invitation as a courtesy. But now that he was there, he had to admit to himself that he found the company of all those excited and cheerful people pleasant.

After a row of bombastic commercials sponsoring the event, the theme song for Next Generation began.

In the living room, there was a loud buzz. Daisy, their little Daisy, was about to make her talent show debut.

On stage, dazzled by powerful lasers, appeared the slender figure of a young woman.

"Here she is. It's her!" screamed Annetta as she leapt to her feet, her finger pointed at the screen like the barrel of a gun.

"That's the announcer. Don't make a mess and stay down” her husband told her, pulling her by a flap of his shirt and making her butt plunge back into the soft cushions of the sofa.

"But when do they frame her?" Franz's wife asked impatiently, holding her hands on her chest, her heart beating with a hammer.

"It's still early” explained Adriano's uncle, the only one who regularly watched all the episodes of the talent broadcast on Channel 104.

"The jury presents first. Actually, they are the stars of the show. At some point they will call the contestants one by

one. The guys will sing and dance for a minute. The good guys go on for a minute. The others go home."

Adriano observed the group gathered around the TV. He knew they were to be considered his bodyguards. His mother had invited them in order not to leave him alone. Sandra called from Milan to see if everything was all right. Her sister reassured her. A quick hello to her son, and everyone crossed their fingers.

Sandra stood backstage at the Millennium Arena, more stunned than excited. Lasers were cutting through the stage. The head-clacks at the foot of the bleachers sweated under the headphones and waved to cheer the audience on, but there was no need for that as the screams, energy and frenzy were completely spontaneous.

Rows of screaming boys raised banners wearing t-shirts with photos of their friends ready to take to the stage to sing.

The presenter, sheathed in a sequined dress, announced the arrival of the Next Generation jurors.

The four of them walked down the bleachers through the bleachers in a forest of arms waving like reeds in the wind.

The chairman of the jury was Sebastian Monroe, the format's author, a coarse New Zealand producer called Gold Nose – a nickname for his unerring nose for finding talent, but one that also referred to his nasal septum, which had been tried for years on cocaine.

Sebastian, impatient with the rules of show business, where everything had to be politically correct, was a misguided, indisposed, often drunk guy; he had no trouble getting a whisky on the air, or arguing with someone in the audience. The only prohibition was smoking: if he showed himself in public with a cigarette in his mouth, the sponsors would abandon the program. However, a certain quarrelling and a few vices in the protected band were tolerated, if not even encouraged, since they usually produced record peaks in the audience.

That evening, Sebastian showed up with an unkempt beard, a t-shirt greyed under his armpits with haloes of sweat and a bad mood. The other jurors were three parvenu of show business. Jenny Lio was an African singer who had sold two million records thanks to a song that had been at the top of the charts in fifteen countries for three weeks. It was catchy, childish. No big deal. Jenny Lio's artistic biography was like a layer of honey. It's a pity that in her curriculum vitae was omitted an arrest made in her youth: getting caught in Tripoli with a brick of hashish hidden in her suitcase wasn't the best for those who, like her, sang cartoon theme songs.

The other star of the jury was Isabella Larini, famous not so much for her singing qualities as for being the interpreter of a recent summer catchphrase. It was a song to dance to with stale spanking, hands between her tits and winking touches between her thighs. On the beaches and campsites the animators had imposed Isabella's Dance. By the time the autumn arrived, everyone had already forgotten about her.

The last juror was Alessandro Boni, aka Circe. A Drag Queen with an imposing physique and excessive makeup. A brilliant conversationalist, but without any particular artistic talent. They had built a sadomasochistic reputation around her, just to add some substance to the character.

Circe had made the news for ruining the political career of a congressman who had fallen in love with her. Someone had filmed the congressman in a hotel room, completely naked, his ankles and wrists tied to the side of the bed. Circe was accused of kidnapping, harassment, and drug dealing. There was a trial, where the verdict finally spoke of ʺA sex games between consenting adultsʺ. The heads of the prosecution fell and Circe was acquitted in full. The result was one less congressman and one more TV personality.

Now, the four jurors, the souls scratched by human sins, were ready to judge the contestants in the race. The first artist was called Fernando Ramirez. He was a young

Mexican who entered the United States illegally before the Trump Administration allocated $2 billion to raise the walls along the border.

Fernando, once past the curtain, was caught robbing a gas station in a remote Texas desert town. ʺI had to eatʺ, he told the public.

Arrested and kicked out by the feds, penniless, he embarked on an adventurous journey that took him overseas. Now, for some years, he had been living in Rovigo, a guest of second generation uncles and cousins.

Fernando, with his olive skin and black, fiery eyes, after touching everyone with his story, began to sing. He had a rough and engaging voice, and the audience appreciated the performance by peeling their hands with a remote-controlled applause from the leader.

Three out of four judges found the performance convincing.

Sebastian Monroe voted against, explaining that in his opinion the boy was barely an amateur, a smartass who wanted to pity them with his sob story. The public booed outraged at that statement, and Sebastian responded with the middle finger. The web went wild. There was a hailstorm of insults on the socials, controversy raged and the share went up half a point.

Other competitors followed. Some were amazingly good, others were talentless, but eccentric enough to capture the public's attention. The authors of the program gave them a strategic location to raise the audience's attention.

They spent a few commercials inviting viewers to buy products that were voluptuous, but so seductive and captivating that they were indispensable.

After a flurry of dream cars, fine perfumes and designer clothes, the live broadcast could begin again.

The share was around eight per cent when Daisy Magnoli took the stage.

Her young, perfect, restless face, smiling, shrewd eyes, and short pastel-colour dress immediately attracted the jury's attention. ʺHere we are another creature who could lose his innocence behind the glittering world of show business, the judges thought, more or less, they knew they were looking at a potential character.

"Hey, everybody! Aren't you going to say anything? Isn't this little girl a beauty?" Sebastian Monroe exclaimed, addressing the audience who responded to his solicitation with a round of applause.

"Jenny, what do you think of this flower that suddenly blossomed on stage?" Sebastian insisted, repeating the lines on the monitor.

"A truly splendid lily, Sebastian. But I don't like your tone; it sounds like the hum of a bee hunting for pollen, if you know what I mean. And it's underage” Jenny remarked, scrolling through the lines written on the hunchback by the authors.

"Oh, come on, Jenny, you know you're the flower of my dreams” Sebastian replied with a resolution.

Circe didn't read any of the lines, preferring to go on the arm.

"Come on, dear Daisy. Why don't you tell us something about yourself?"

"Hello, everyone” smiled Daisy, who, in spite of her age and with some wonder, was not at all uncomfortable. Being the centre of attention always gave her a thrill of pleasure.

"My name is Daisy. Daisy Magnoli. I come from Castelmuso, a village of 15,000 inhabitants, not far from the Adriatic Sea…"

Daisy continued by reciting some other banality about her high school life, but without the liveliness demanded by the authors.

"Is that all?" Sebastian exclaimed, pretending to be disappointed. "I hope that shyness hides a great talent,

otherwise…" Sebastian spread his arms, as if to say: ʺWhat did you come to do? To disappoint all these people? ʺ

Daisy knew that the program's set list included a few mandatory steps: the jury would start with compliments, so to boost the share they would provoke her into trouble. All she had to do was stand up to the jurors' assaults.

It was all planned.

Now all she had to do was sing I’m Roseand she would become a celebrity.

6

Guido felt a chill running down his shoulder blades. Daisy was about to perform in front of millions of Italians.

"That asshole Sebastian! Did you see how the hell he treated her? Who does he think he is?" Manuel Pianesi was so angry that he spilled the beer on the sofa cushions, making Guido swear.

Guido Gobbi had already regretted hosting his two friends at his home, an apartment on the outskirts of town in the populous San Lorenzo district. Five thousand quiet souls, divided between the buildings with high facades that followed the profile of the hill.

On the one hand Manuel screamed, making him miss the jurors' jokes, on the other, Leo Fratesi replied to the comments, with the vice of emphasizing several times the concept already expressed.

"Please, will you stop messing around?" Guido asked as he pressed the remote control button to turn up the volume.

A week had passed since Daisy and Guido had quarrelled. She thought Guido was a peeping Tom and wanted to report him to the principal. It seemed like the sad ending to a story that had never been told. Then, that phrase appeared on the computer.

Adriano has to stop looking for me. Or he'll come to a bad end.

After an exhausting explanation where Guido had tried to convince her that he had nothing to do with it, they finally made peace, even though the longed-for appointment had been postponed.

Daisy, in fact, had preferred to investigate who had sent the message, with Manuel's help. The dreadlocks high school boyfriend was a good geek, one of those who could trace the source code. Manuel had tried to find out who the author

was, but with every attempt, the computer inexplicably froze.

The seriousness of the attack ruled out the possibility that it was a prank on Daisy.

Guido said that Adriano probably did something he shouldn't have. Perhaps a virtual meeting gone wrong. Or, he stepped on the wrong people's toes, or something, and they were threatening him. Daisy had never seriously considered the possibility that they were really angry with her brother. She used to feel that she was the centre of attention, which led her to think that the message was addressed to her. It is likely that her disabled brother had really attracted someone's hatred, and now she wanted to find out why.

"So, Daisy, what do you want us to hear?" Sebastian Monroe asked, drinking a sip of scotch that made his lips slurp with pleasure.

"Well, I'd like to sing a song. A new song” she replied, grabbing the microphone stand, which she lifted to suit her height.

"Did you hear that?" exclaimed the juror, turning to the audience.

"We're dealing with a singer-songwriter” added Circe, puzzled, who searched the stands for someone who shared her scepticism. There were some whispers of approval.

"I didn't actually write it."

"Could you be a more verbose thread, or shall we move on to monosyllables?"

There was a giggle from the audience.

"It's a song written by Adriano Magnoli. My brother. The song is I’m Rose.

In Castelmuso, Adriano watched the program with his arms folded, his shoulder resting on the door jamb, and there was a lot of excitement around him.

"For God's sake, Adry, they're talking about you here!" Franz shouted out the foam from the beer bottle.

"Really, Adriano. It's great” Uncle Ambrogio remarked, raising his glass to another toast.

The compliments of the people gathered in the living room of the villa were sincere, insistent, and a bit annoying. In Adriano's ears they sounded a bit like ʺNothing bad for a mental patient.ʺ

He couldn't blame them. After all, it was the truth.

"Now a little silence, please" Sebastian said, raising his hands to silence the audience, while the camera's ruthless eye was placed on Circe's finger on the stage.

"Daisy Magnoli. Your time has come!"

Daisy closed her eyes, seeking maximum inspiration.

The sweet sound of a piano rose up. Just a few notes chasing each other. The music, light and evocative, seemed to lead into a garden of fragrant roses. A melody that recalled soft colors, delicate flights of butterflies and clear skies full of harmony.

Adriano's music began as a calm journey into the soul.

Daisy, the feeling of riding a rainbow of emotions, began to sing.

My heart pierced by blinding suns

My hard crystal tears

It's beauty

The joy of love

But a shadow is hidden in the folds of my soul…

The words, whispered like a loud chant, did not provoke any reaction from the audience.

As expected, if the artist showed little, if any, talent during the performance, shouts and whistles were heard, but when the skill was undeniable, applause and shouts were heard. Nothing happened to Daisy. No one said a word. Everything was still, suspended in a vacuum.

Suddenly the sigh of the piano became a thunder rumble. A powerful, dark bass gave off a powerful energy. Melody and rhythm exploded into a gothic rock piece. Drums and guitar fused, in the background, a chorus of deep voices. It was an ancient Gregorian chant translated from Latin, the voices modulated on prophetic tones. A warning that spoke of beauty, love and damnation.

Love is the mirror of the dark.

The dark will be my husband.

The cloak of the black reaper will fall on my face, heavy as a shroud.

Beauty and damnation…

Then the choir silenced. A thick, grey smoke came down on stage.

Daisy's voice rose clear and vibrant.

Sin crept into the mists of my innocence.

The dark angel is joy and innocence.

The dark angel is joy and perversion.

I am the rose.

He is damnation…

The dance steps touched the stage with light and agile touches, a roll rose as the succession of threatening thunder, the choir to create an atmosphere of warning and omen.

At the end of the song the guitars interpreted an acrobatic solo, a perfect counterpoint to celebrate the dying sound of the drums.

Then, suddenly, the music dissolved.

The piece was finished.

Daisy stood motionless, her face turned to the sky, sweat running down her temples, strands of hair clinging to her reddened cheeks, her knee pointed to the ground and her arm outstretched to the sky in a beautiful, epic pose.

Daisy smiled at the jury, holding her anxieties, her heart beating fast in the center of her chest.

It was time for the verdict.

All around, a heavy, unfathomable silence.

Daisy stared at Sebastian Monroe. She knew the verdict would pass through his eyes. The New Zealander, almost always arrogant and clear-headed in his judgements, had an indecisive look, and all of his poise suggested an insecurity that no one recognized. The other judges were also nervous and uncertain.

Daisy, in anticipation of the response, felt that she could hear thudding from under the stage.

She heard a technician swearing heavily behind the scenes. The smoke grenades were not supposed to go off. Daisy, in fact, had been surprised. During rehearsals no one had mentioned that she had to dance in an annoying cold fog.

"I'm Rose" Sebastian finally said, "It's, like, you know… what I heard was something crazy."

"Immense is the word” echoed Circe, caged in a shiny black latex costume, the sweat coming down from under her wig.

The jury's verdict preceded the verdict of the audience, who rose and applauded. An unusual tribute, where everyone's enthusiasm was measured, but full and complete, as if the exhibition deserved admiration and respect as if it were a piece of work.

As people applauded, the thunder under the stage became darker and deeper.

Daisy took a bow. That was the most important moment of her life.

She was restless, smiling and thanking.

The thudding increased. ʺMa no one hears them? ʺ she thought, as the stage vibrated beneath her feet, the mike stick was jumping in front of her lips. He blamed the tension, and thought of his brother. Adriano had fallen ill due to severe stress. She was also under a lot of pressure now. Her imagination led her to believe that someone, or something, was buried somewhere. A presence trapped in a dark and

undefined place trying to free itself. Maybe she was sick, too?

She felt a painful cramp in her stomach and was afraid of vomiting. Despite everything, she struggled to smile.

"Daisy, I have no words. I'm simply astounded” Sebastian exclaimed, shaking his head, as if to shake off the emotions that I’m Rose has brought.

Isabella Larini agreed as she brushed her arm to caress the goose skin, her eyes flashing with admiration.

"Gentlemen, personally I am still in shock. We have witnessed the birth of a star. A star that will long shine in the firmament of the Next Generation” was Circe's comment.

"Now we want to know everything, just everything about you" Sebastian asked, smoothing his hard, stinging beard.

Daisy felt the blows stop. The mike player was no longer jumping and the stage stopped vibrating. She was convinced that she had only imagined them. She passed the back of her hand over her sweaty brow, her eyes spinning in the stands. In her dreams, her audience was always invisible, someone who applauded her but only she could see. Now the audience was real. There he was, in the flesh, standing before her, peeling his hands.

"I'm glad you liked the piece" she could say, almost moved.

Daisy's house had gone up in flames. Amelia, Franz's wealthy wife, laughed with a smiling face. Aunt Annetta took two tears of emotion from the back of her hand. The landline and cell phones were ringing off the hook. Each ring was a friend, a neighbour, an acquaintance who called to congratulate him. Franz and Uncle Ambrogio, half drunk, urged a toast by shaking beer mugs overflowing with foam in their hands.

At that moment in Castelmuso everyone could boast that they were fellow citizens of a celebrity.

Adriano was watching Daisy on the stage of Next Generation. He knew her like no other. She was tense and nervous, and the smile was not sincere.

The young man, just like Daisy, was overwhelmed with anxiety. "Adriano, you're great” his uncle told him, hugging him with an abrupt gesture and throwing his weight around to support himself.

"I said. I have always said it. I don't have two nephews. I have two phenomena."

Adriano departed from his relative to free himself from that cumbersome arm. He left the room and slipped into the hallway. He went up the stairs, cursed every step, cursed his migraine that had suddenly burst and cursed the drugs that were slowing him down.

He went into his room. He opened the desk drawer to take a painkiller. In his head, everything began to take on faded and confused forms.

He went through the drawer with his hand without remembering what he was looking for. He began wandering around the room in a disoriented and distraught air, before collapsing to the floor with his head in his hands. At that moment the hallucinations returned to him.

Adriano convinced himself that his head was a vase full of earth, where dense tangles of roots, impossible to eradicate, were taking root.

He took from the bookshop an old volume with a heavy and worn-out cover. His trembling hands turned the pages of the Bible with a frustrating and resigned slowness.

He stopped on a particularly crumpled page, aware that it would be of no use to read, or even to pray, as if at that moment religion had become distant and contrary to the truth.

Schizophrenia. It is called schizophrenia. My mind is sick. It's just that. It's the only thing I can think of thatis repeating the Bible at the foot of my bed, the pages open on the floor like the wings of a dead bird.

No. It's not schizophrenia, Adriano. He's about to come on stage.

"Very well, Daisy Magnoli” Sebastian said. "I don't know if you realise, but your voice is amazing, you dance like a pro, and if I'm not mistaken you're only 16, right?"

"That's right. At least for the part about my age. Otherwise I trust your judgment."

Daisy's response was underlined by applause from the audience who seemed to like not only her artistic talent, but also her verve.

"Now tell us, darling” exclaimed Circe. "The piece was written by your brother, wasn't it? What did you say his name was?"

"Adriano. Adriano Magnoli."

"Would you like to talk a little about him? Such a good author deserves to be here, next to you."

"Well, my brother can't come. Because he, as it were, he… he… he… is…"

"He what? You look a little embarrassed” Sebastian frowned. You don't want to talk about Adriano, do you?"

ʺHere is the moment of perfidyʺ Daisy thought. ʺCome, now I'm going to get blackmailed.ʺ

Daisy knew that judges could become particularly hateful, even cruel, in the name of ratings.

But she had no intention of falling into that trap, and she tried to concentrate to keep up with their assaults.

"So, where is your brother? You should let us meet him, love…"

Isabella Larini's mellifluous voice officially started the provocations.

"Maybe you didn't want him here because you're jealous of him?"

"Adrianoooo! Where are you? Adrianinooooooo!" Circe suddenly shouted, putting his hand over his forehead to look away, provoking the spectators to laugh.

Sandra had been backstage the whole time. I’m Rose's performance had been perfect. She was proud of Daisy. She had rejoiced and cried with emotion.

The cameras had lingered on her tears, moving housewives and mothers in front of the TV.

The whole show was running on the right track. There was the girl with an uncommon talent, an emotional mother and a composer brother who, in her absence, was feeding the viewers' curiosity.

All oxygen to the ratings. And the ratings were turning into euro palates thanks to the profits from the advertising sales.

NCC's contracts were based on ratings. The higher the ratings, the more companies that advertised their products paid more to the sender. And each share point was worth something like two million euros.

For Sandra, however, the program was taking an unpleasant turn.

Why are they making fun of my son?she wondered. The authors know he's not well. They talked to him a lot. They even prepared a video with a cross-section of our family. An interview where Daisy talked about her dreams, her affections, her mother, her father who's gone… The authors know about Paolo's suicide, Adry's problems. They were impressed and saddened. That's why they advised against mentioning it on TV. Daisy's only 16. She can't handle an interview where they talk about things bigger than her. Why are they acting like this now? That wasn't the fucking deal!

The ratings were on the jury monitors. The average for the Next Generation was normally around nine percent. Jurors got excited when they read that the share was close to eleven.

The data was calculated in real time using a sophisticated system that cross-referenced information from a sample of 20,000 households across all regions. And eleven percent was great news, so the authors decided to go heavy with Daisy. She was the one who raised the ratings.

We had to create interest around the girl. A lot of interest. On the judges' monitors, a string of particularly cynical suggestions appeared in fiery characters.

Listening goes up. Hit the girl hard!

Go for it. Go through the shit. We need to get to thirteen!

The father killed himself. See if you can get it in there somewhere.

Crazy brother, suicidal father. This is strong stuff. We agreed not to do this, but to hell with it! Get it all out. But make sure it doesn't turn on us. We have to splash at thirteen.

Jenny Lio was staring at the monitor enthusiastically. She thought of the jury's bonus, also calculated on the share. If the ratings had been on 12, she could have collected a surplus of 50,000 euros. But to earn that amount, you would have to give your best. She stood up. Sarcastic hummed: "Adrianoooo! Adrianinooooo! Why are you playing hide and seek?"