One autumn afternoon, an elderly man appears in the village. Some recognize him and claim they had seen him the previous winter inspecting the work on the tower at the end of the long uphill road.
The Resins of the King is a novel of a coin. On one side, a disheveled old man who was once a king. On the other, a potbellied man resembling Gargantua or a farmer smiling while holding a wine goblet in his hand.
The narrator flips the coin into the air, and as it spins, it reveals through letters and secrets the family stories and images of a bewildered country, steeped in unemployment and new emigration.
Over the course of a year –the duration of the novel– behind the curtains of each day lurks the Shakespearean world as an undiagnosed illness: towers, kings, daughters, jesters, power, betrayal, blood… All until the coin falls to the ground, there in the earthly allure of fertility and the grave.
There in the soil-village, the old Exarch, the autumn visitor, as time deconstructs him, plays his last card. In the café, amidst drunken laughter, he pleads for the last chance that will grant him the renewal of the world through the warmth of wine, flesh, and love.
