I had stood in the signing queue for almost an hour. The author had to leave, and ten people still waited ahead of me. The organizer apologized. I bought the book and went home angry about the wasted afternoon. It was my husband's birthday the next day. For months he had talked about wanting to meet that writer. The previous week I had told him I had a special present, in a voice already promising more than an ordinary book.
I did not plan to forge the signature until I opened the first page. I found a photograph of an inscription and tried copying just the name, out of curiosity, I told myself. I added a few warm words addressed to Emir. When the ink dried, I spread wrapping paper across the table. I was not skilled at copying handwriting. I counted on his love for the present leaving little room for close inspection.
Emir showed everyone the book. He particularly liked the sentence about people who find time to read. I had written it thinking of him reading on the bus, his bag wedged between his legs. I was glad it touched him, then hurt that his gratitude belonged to a stranger. I had no right to feel wounded. Nevertheless, I did, and that feeling made me avoid every further conversation about the gift.
In spring the author returned to our town. Emir decided to take the book and thank him. I suggested buying the new novel instead, without bothering him over old matters. He could not understand why gratitude would bother anyone. Watching him dust the cover, I realized I was about to let him embarrass himself so that I could preserve my little role as a thoughtful wife. That was when I told him who had written the inscription.
He placed the book on the table. First he asked whether the writer had really visited the previous autumn. That was the only truth I could easily confirm. Then he read the sentence about time for reading. He said it would have meant something if I had signed my own name. I did not explain that I had wanted to make him happy. He looked like somebody who had been lent another person's happiness, only to have it collected.
He went to the new event alone. He bought a book without an inscription because he did not feel like queuing. He kept mine, though for a while he did not read it. Later he asked me to add the date and my own name below the false signature. I did not mistake that for forgiveness closing the matter. I wrote them neatly. For the first time the present contained something I did not need another story to defend.