He tossed the book towards me but as I tried to catch it, and failed, he was already heading back towards the street.
I picked up the book from the floor, and saw what it was.
‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
‘Read it, and you will. I can’t believe I fell for that woman. I should have realized what she was up to, coming to my place that time. All those questions about the job I had in the theatre. Had I seen anything that happened? Did I know anything? I thought she was different from the others but I was a damned fool and besotted. I was taken in by her.’
‘Let me read it,’ I said, already sensing that the book contained information about my brother. ‘Does it damage you in any way?’
‘Just read the thing then throw it away. I never want to see it again.’
After he had stormed out I sat down immediately and read the book from beginning to end. It was not particularly long and was written in a terse, attractive style that I found readable and unusually compelling.
Caurer told the story of the killing that had led ultimately to the execution of Kerith Sington. She went into a great deal of background detail about the victim, a theatre performer called Commis, and also about the theatre where Commis’s death had occurred.
Her skill in reconstructing the scene was remarkable. She followed the policier investigation carefully, referring back to original statements and interviews wherever they were available. Then she moved on to the story of Kerith Sington, how he had become involved, how a certain amount of circumstantial evidence incriminated him.
In the longest chapter in the book Caurer went into Sington’s childhood and psychological background, and the kind of deprived and socially chaotic world in which he lived. She produced several examples of other, less serious offences in which he had been involved, how he had been secretive about them at first, then bragged to impress his friends. After she had analysed his alleged confession in detail, the reader could have been left in no doubt that Sington had been wrongly accused. She certainly convinced this reader that an innocent man had died for a murder he had not committed.
Nothing, to this point, had any relevance to my brother, or so it seemed. But in her final chapter Caurer tried to answer the question: if Sington was not the murderer of Commis, who was?
She examined the lives and backgrounds of other people who had been near the scene of the crime at the time. There was the manager of the theatre, the directors of the company which owned the theatre, several performing artistes, the technical and backstage crew, some itinerant manual workers, townspeople, visitors, members of the audience on the night when the killing took place.
And – ‘a young man, employed on a part-time basis as a general assistant backstage.’ No name was mentioned. Later the young man was brought into the story again. Shortly before the death, ‘he had been involved in a violent street scuffle with the murdered man, but according to witnesses in the street it had appeared to be a misunderstanding and the two men parted amicably.’ And again: ‘the young man had applied for the job under an assumed name, a fact which greatly interested the investigating officers. Furthermore, he left the island in mysterious circumstances, and at a time no one was able to be sure about. These two facts made him the number one suspect, at least for a time.’
Then this paragraph: ‘The policier authorities later established the true identity of this young man. Although he was then unknown, he later became a world-renowned writer of novels, a man of unquestioned integrity and honesty who is entitled to remain anonymous. Moreover, once his real identity became known, investigations were taken to his home island, where a conclusive alibi was established.’
There was no other mention of this young man, either directly or by implication. Of course I realized he was Chaster: the story about a violent scuffle in the street certainly had a ring of truth to it. At that age Chas had always been quick to ball his fists and strike an aggressive pose, and as a teenager he had involved himself in arguments in Piqay Town several times, and been beaten up for his trouble.
Caurer ended her book with the statement that although it was impossible for her to identify the real killer of Commis, the central truth remained unchallenged: that Kerith Sington had been wrongly accused, convicted and executed.
At first, I was not sure how I should react to this book. Chaster was not named. Nothing in it implicated him in anything illegal, and the identification of him was so vague that the ‘true identity’ could have been one of several people – Chaster was by no means the only world-renowned novelist of his, or my, approximate age.
When he threw Caurer’s book at me, though, he had clearly been upset, which made me wonder if there was more to know or tell than there appeared. Perhaps he was concerned that Caurer had revealed enough clues for other people to follow up. Surely there would be an interest in trying to identify who this mysterious young man had been?
I assumed that his anger against her was more or less the same as mine: that he realized now that she had gone directly to his house, not to seduce him or in any other way inveigle herself into his life, but simply to ask some questions, while she researched her book on Commis’s death.
The fact that he had fallen for her so completely had probably helped her cause on the day, and was a matter of indifference to her afterwards.
As had become my habit for many years, I decided to say nothing to Chas, nor to ask him any questions about the book. I continued to feel angry with Caurer on his behalf.
A few weeks later, I was amazed to receive a card from Chaster, inviting Hísar and myself to the house for drinks one evening. It was totally unprecedented. I had not been near the old house for several years, so if nothing else I was curious to see it again.
When the day came, Chaster greeted us with great friendliness and apparent good cheer, introduced us to the other friends he had invited, and made us welcome not only with generous quantities of drink but a superb meal too.
I couldn’t help noticing that a copy of Caurer’s book was standing prominently on one of the bookshelves, its cover facing out. Later, I spotted another copy, less obviously on show, in a neat pile of books stacked on a reading table in one corner.
When I could I took Chaster aside and asked him outright what had happened to change his mind about her.
He said, simply, ‘I love her, Woll.’
‘Still? After all this?’
‘More than ever. Nothing has changed since the day I met her. I think about Esla every day. I hope and plan to see her. I imagine that every letter that arrives, every email, every telephone call, will be from her. She is an inspiration to me, the woman I most admire and love. I shall never meet another like her. I live my life for her, I write every word for her.’
‘But you were so angry with her about the book.’
‘I was hasty. I thought she had betrayed me, but I realized later that in fact the opposite was true. She protected me, Woll.’
‘So this means – do you have any plans to see her again?’
‘All I know is that one day she will come back here to see me.’
Tragically, he was right.
Only three weeks after this evening meeting at the house, Chaster went down with an attack of pneumonia. He fought for life and the hospital did everything possible to save him, but he died in terrible discomfort a few days later.
Of course there was a funeral and following his instructions, whispered to me from his hospital bed, and later found in a sealed letter addressed to me in his study, Caurer was to be invited to be present.
She was then well into her sixties but she was one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. She said hardly anything to the other people who were there, and always stood alone. I could not stop looking at her. I began at last to understand much that until then I had not.
We returned to the house after the funeral ceremony, and everyone had a few drinks. As the guests started to depart, Hísar and I stood formally by the main door to give our thanks and say our f
arewells.
When Caurer’s turn came I felt overcome with a strange but powerful sense of wanting to hold her, embrace her, possess her in some way, however briefly. I did not want to lose sight of her, let her away from me. I was finally understanding the charismatic effect on which so many people had remarked, over the years and in so many different contexts.
She thanked us politely for our hospitality. I held out a hand to shake hers. She did not respond.
She said, ‘He told me a lot about you, Wolter. I am pleased to meet you at last.’
Her voice had the unmistakable and always attractive burr of the Quietude islands, that picturesque but remote group far to the south.
I said, fumbling for adequate words, ‘I’m sure Chaster would have been pleased to know that you were here today.’
‘He certainly did know I would be here. This is the day when I should tell you that Chaster and I were in love for many years, although we only ever met once, years ago. He is the only person I ever allowed to use my given name.’
‘He always called you Esla.’
‘Indeed, but now no one ever will again.’
I noticed then that her right hand, which I had tried to take, had a reddish-brown smear across the fingers and palm and that she was holding it slightly away from her body. Hísar had noticed it too.
‘Have you cut yourself, Madame Caurer?’ she said. ‘Let me have a look. We have a trained nurse here, so we could have it cleaned and dressed for you.’
‘No, it’s not a cut, but thank you.’ She moved her hand back, further away from us. ‘I hurt myself, that’s all.’
Then she left, stepping across the gravel drive to the car that had brought her, which drove away slowly towards the town.
* * *
Wolter Kammeston died thirteen months after his brother. He was survived by his wife of fifty-two years, Hísar, and two adult sons. His funeral was a private ceremony at the local crematorium, the only guests being family and close friends.
Chaster Kammeston’s grave may be visited in the church burial ground, close to the crematorium, where there is also a commemorative plaque for his brother.
RAWTHERSAY (1)
DECLARE / SING
A small island in the southern Midway Sea, RAWTHERSAY is sheltered from prevailing winds by the mountains on the curving arm of the Qataari Peninsula that lies to the east. This area of the Dream Archipelago is known as the Quietude Bay, because although deep in the temperate zone of the southern hemisphere the shelter of the landmass has created a vast and tranquil bay where storms are rare and all extremes of weather are virtually unknown. Summers are warm and delightful with nights that are short, and mild winters are endured in short days and chilly nights. Springtime and autumn are periods of picturesque natural change.
Approximately five thousand islands of every size are found in Quietude. All are fertile and inhabited, governments are stable, industry is varied, trade between islands has been harmonious as long as there has been recorded history. The creative and performing arts are practised at a high level of accomplishment. When the Covenant of Neutrality was agreed, the people of Quietude famously neglected to ratify it for more than a hundred years, not affected by the urgent need for peace that was felt elsewhere in the Archipelago.
Although not the largest island in Quietude, Rawthersay is one of the most developed. Its patois name renders as DECLARE. It is situated in the coolest part of the Bay, far to the south. The two principal activities on the island are sheep farming and mining. The tall but fertile hills of Rawthersay provide ideal grazing for the hardy breed of sheep that thrives on the island. The wool the animals produce is warm, soft and hard-wearing, and is a major source of export funds. Coal is mined in the southern valleys of Rawthersay, where a separate patois is spoken (the miners call the island SING), and in the east there are large deposits of iron ore which have been mined for centuries.
Rawthersay is a university island, drawing its students from islands all over the southern reaches of Quietude Bay. Ostensibly specializing in the practical vocations of mining and animal husbandry, Rawthersay University has developed many challenging courses devoted to folk literature and music, with an emphasis on performance skills. Touring troupes of performers from Rawthersay regularly travel around all parts of the Archipelago, where they are much appreciated.
The social reformer CAURER is probably the most celebrated alumna of the university. Born Esla Wann Caurer, she was brought up in a small farmhouse in the central valley of Rawthersay, and educated at the local village school. She won a scholarship to the university when she was seventeen.
The farmhouse is open to visitors but an advance appointment is necessary as it is still partly occupied. Many of Caurer’s toys and letters from her childhood are displayed in the public rooms. There is a small but excellent bookstore next to the main building.
Caurer founded the university’s literary magazine, Free!, and edited the first eleven issues while still an undergraduate. Free! editorialized about the unfairness of the feudal laws that still existed in most islands and the need for universal suffrage and human rights. It also published a great deal of student poetry, reviews, stories and art. The most notable item, the one that ensures the magazine’s immortality, is a long article written by Caurer herself and published in the ninth edition of Free!
This was a review of Stationed, Chaster Kammeston’s third novel. How the copy reached Rawthersay and Caurer’s hands is still not fully understood, because Kammeston’s early books were all but unavailable outside his native island, but nevertheless Caurer got hold of it somehow and the article was written.
Using the name ‘Esla W. Caurer’ – she did not drop the use of her first names until after she left university – she wrote a review that is now known to be the first extended piece of criticism of Kammeston’s work. From the text it is possible to discern that Caurer had read earlier novels by the same writer, but this was her first opportunity to discuss them in print. The review of Stationed runs for eight tightly printed pages, full of abundant praise for the novel, but also, notoriously, it contains many speculations and pointed insinuations about Kammeston’s presumed motives, proclivities and psychology. More than a year later these immature, unwarranted but witty and highly quotable judgements provoked a hurt but intrigued letter from the author. By this time Caurer had graduated and was no longer at the university.
The letter, addressed to ‘Dear Editor’, was never printed in Free!, but the original is today displayed in a case in the foyer of the Caurer Memorial Theatre. The review itself has been widely anthologized, but a facsimile of its original appearance in Free! is displayed next to Kammeston’s letter.
The remarkable fact of this review is that Caurer accurately identified, described and praised the unique quality of Kammeston’s work, which did not receive wider critical recognition for several more years. At the time, Caurer’s essay had a negligible impact: it was after all an obscure book by a more or less unknown author, reviewed by a student at a minor university.
After graduation, Caurer left Rawthersay. Her first work was as an assistant community consultant in the neighbouring Olldus Group. She took up the cause of the poor and immigrant classes on that heavily industrialized chain of islands and wrote the first of her three plays, Woman Gone.
Woman Gone is an undisguised attack on feudalism unmodified by human rights, and for several years put her life at risk of reprisals. There were many barons and lords with vested interests. Her powerful, flowing and poetic use of language was unprecedented, and although the play opened in a small theatre in an economically declining part of Olldus Town, within a year it had transferred to Le Théâtre Merveilleux in Jethra, Faiandland. After a long run in Jethra the play was produced in many other theatres around the Archipelago, and is still today regularly revived.
When islanders in all parts of the Archipelago began to demand reforms to the way they were governed, Woman Gone was usually cited as the liberating inspi
ration. Lines from it were adopted as campaign slogans, posters were created using the images of the central characters.
Caurer was soon recognized as a powerful and moving public speaker. She kept Rawthersay as her base and returned there whenever she could, but she travelled constantly to public meetings throughout the Archipelago, where she gained increasingly appreciative audiences. During this period her second play appeared: The Autumn of Recognition.
Against expectations, Autumn was a light-hearted comedy with musical interludes, although many critics were quick to point out a certain paradox. Beneath the flow of witty dialogue, the scenes of casual adultery and sexual mix-ups, there must be some inconsolable tragedy that the author was not directly addressing. Whatever it was she meant seemed impossible to grasp, but there were clues in the text throughout the play and several of the speeches had a seriousness that was out of key with the rest. The play was delightful entertainment and it played to packed houses, but this enigma at its heart sometimes left audiences puzzled.
Caurer herself rarely discussed her work but during one public speech, in answer to a question from the audience, she mentioned as an aside that if the four acts of Autumn were performed in reverse order, certain scenes were removed, the music was omitted, and all the characters were played by actors of the opposite sex, then the play’s real meaning would be revealed.
Soon after this the play was re-mounted in that form, and it was seen to be transformed. These days it is rarely performed in its ‘original’ version, although the Caurer Memorial Theatre does revive it in workshop productions every few years.
Her third play appeared at approximately the same time as Autumn was being reinterpreted. Called The Reconstruction it was another tragedy: an immense work of some three and a half hours’ duration without an interval. It was presented in the form of a series of heartfelt monologues, describing life on particular islands. Each monologue was reconstructed by the next speaking part, making what had just been stated much more complex, but also more comprehensible. The language throughout was judged to be some of the most graceful and resonant ever spoken on the stage. Audiences were almost invariably reduced to tears by the experience of listening to her prose.