On a clear and cool Valentine’s Day, I was having lunch with my wife in a Miami restaurant on Le Jeune Road. Miss B., a television news reporter, was sitting at a table next to ours, having a tender conversation with a girlfriend. It was an ordinary day, lacking newsworthy stories: no potentially vibrant political or social event had been announced.

Most people in South Florida would promptly recognize Miss B. The middle-age reporter appears regularly on local newscasts covering a wide range of calamities: drive-by shootings, drugs in schools, race riots, fires, accidental electrocutions, State executions, crimes of passion and the sort. Miss B. has become a celebrity hosting the gruesome, the pathetic and the disgraceful.

Suddenly, a young man parked his bicycle on the sidewalk and came into the restaurant carrying a package in his hands. He went straight to Miss B., identified himself as a carter, delivered the parcel and left without waiting for a tip. Such oddity led me to believe that something significant had been handed over to the journalist.

I must have shown too much interest in the occurrence. My wife felt uneasy every time I looked in the direction of Miss B. Eventually, during coffee, the news lady unwrapped the bound stack of papers. Rather quickly, she skimmed through the first page and some others chosen at random. Then, carelessly, she threw the whole package on the floor, midway between our tables, and returned to chatting.

On seeing how disdainfully the reporter had discarded the package, I became curious. Why would Miss B. pay so little attention to information possibly sent to her at above-normal expense? Well, maybe she’s weary of news… but I’m not.

Miss B. and her younger companion left, leaving the parcel behind. I stretched my arm and grabbed the binder. As I suspected, it was a manuscript. To my wife’s dismay, I began to examine the first few pages before even finishing my grouper with mango sauce.

A quixotically impressing paragraph by a certain Victor Martin was handwritten on the top margin of the first page: “Although a certain contentment had not been unknown to me before I met my woman —thank God for that too—, my life was too full of the void and of a loneliness that no company could mend. A brutal struggle for the lady ensued. Heavens may have demanded such work of me... or perchance not. With cunning, stealth and the help of allies, I slew my opponents. I saw my destiny unfold before my eyes. Now, too much toil and great worry have humbled my enemies. While the peace lasts, I put words to deeds counting the days when I’ll be with my woman again.” I wondered why he’d send such thing to Miss B.

By cappuccino time, I had decided to take the discarded work home. During the next few days, I read the whole story. From the start, I seriously questioned whether ‘The Kaczynski Affair,’ as Mr. Martin had titled his work, was entirely fictitious. Old charades came to mind. The story made fascinating communications with old school mates over the Internet and lively conversations with my wife during nightcaps.

I e-mailed Miss B., reminding her of the binder that she had left at the restaurant. Her reply was, “Do what you want with it because I don’t want it.” Maybe our lady newscaster did not care for the tone of the work or she found it unmarketable, even offensive. My wife tells me that a woman like Miss B. would surely disapprove of certain erotic scenes found in Martin’s narrative.

So, I have the right to claim ownership of the work. On one hand, for reasons that’ll become obvious very soon, the author does not want to be identified —let alone be found; on the other, Miss B. has no interest in such material.

I’ve decided to comply with the author’s wishes —a reasonable craze— and let others read this sassy account of intrigue and indulgence. I judge not. I do not even praise in public those views akin to mine for fear of glorifying my own. I truth, however, Martin’s chronicle shows little deference to the Ten Commandments. Delving into this story can cause soul tremors in people of faith.

Objectively speaking, the morality of Mr. Martin’s account is obscure and prone to misinterpretations. In some instances, he makes little effort to impart decorum to sexually explicit scenes. Still, Martin reiterates questions that most civilized people have considered at one time or another. Will the world improve if everyone is equally brainwashed? Can many wrongs bring into being a luminous grand right? Is prosperous dishonesty an acceptable road to respectability? What in fact constitutes prostitution? Is morality relative? Does a noble end justify any means employed to attain it? What is really a lost innocence? Are attempts to legislate universal laws nonsense? These questions would certainly have proven too difficult for Miss B. She will probably feel much more comfortable covering rat infestations in restaurants, lost pets, dogs gone mad, python snakes released in the Everglades, shark and alligator attacks on humans, traffic accidents, droughts, hurricanes, gasoline prices, etc.

My wife, who’s a Christian woman, read the manuscript too. She finds troubling that Martin should believe the love for one’s neighbor to be unwise. I tell her that it happens all the time. In fact, although still unpopular, one of the most practical proposals aimed at resolving the projected Social Security deficiency in our country calls for sending every man and woman who retires to fight wars in the Middle East.

Victor Martin tells us of a beautiful and exceptionally intelligent woman who is running from murderous government officials and powerful media moguls. He risks his life to help this nearly perfect female escape. They fall in love. During a series of ambushes and preemptive strikes, some sour characters die. Self-preservation makes premeditated murder a moral act in Martin’s account. The love for his woman is beyond good and evil.

Marilyn Kaczynski is just about any civilized man’s ideal —Paradise is wherever the tree of knowledge grows. She’s learned but not very shrewd, likes to be put to bed with a story and has a good heart. During a time of great peril, she falls for an audacious adventurer and, like a woman, lets the man save her.

Victor Martin presents himself as a freedom-loving person and the enemy of those who abuse power. He may very well be a patriot, sharing information with the rest of us at great personal risk; or, maybe, he’s just a man with a big ego. He certainly places himself above inconvenient laws and moral restraints. He may even be unfettered by a conscience.

Martin is now in his early thirties. He’s cynical, profoundly antisocial, eloquent, cultured and bright —even the Devil has been partial to knowledge. A clearly discernible penchant for violence, stemming from sexual voracity, makes it difficult to ascertain Victor Martin’s real position on an evolutionary echelon. I would presume that he means to free Eros from Jewish, Christian and Islamic scolding.

What follows is Victor Martin’s story in his own words. He tells us how, while lazing faraway from home, he saved his lady and reformulated his life through love, passion or both.