“You’re right about that. Starting, that is the hardest part. My advice is, don’t try to find the beginning. Doing that keeps you from getting started. And most often it turns out to be a waste of time and energy. Has to be trashed in the end. Which proves it’s not really a part of the story. You’ve heard the phrase ‘false start’? The way to go about it, governor, is to plunge right in, as a smart Greek once advised. Or to use an analogy—it’s like getting into cold water.”
“Suppose I refuse?”
“Look here, governor, I don’t mean to threaten you. But believe me, now that you’ve summoned me and I’m here, I’m not leaving with my story untold. Like a certain infamous raven I’m here till the end.”
“Raven? With that nose you look more like a…”
“I know, I know, It does look like a parrot’s beak. But to be blunt, governor, you have a hell of a lot more in common with an American poet manqué than with a truly great French writer of fiction. Fact is, I have no more choice in this whole business than you. Were it up to me, I certainly wouldn’t have alighted—to keep the metaphor running—here. But unfortunately you and I…well, to shift the figure from Aves to Reptilia, are intertwined like a pair of copulating cobras.”
“I can disentangle us by throwing you out. You don’t look to be in the best of shape for a brawl.”
“True. But I’ll just come back.”
“I can lock my doors, you know.”
“But you won’t, you know.”
“What makes you so certain I won’t?”
“Because, as you and I are fully aware, governor, you’re scared to death of locked doors.”
“Even though all that you say, preposterous as you and I know it is, were to be so, I’m not…”
“Preposterous? Of course it’s preposterous. That’s the nature of the beast in the jungle we find ourselves in. Look at it this way, governor. When I received this summons, in the early hours of the morning it was, I knew I had to respond. No way not to. So here I am. To stay until you’ve told my story. It’s as simple as that.”
“By stay, do you mean the whole time? You here in my study?
Until it’s done?”
“Until the story’s been told. To the end. Fini, as you might elegantly put it.”
“Wait a minute. You don’t just snap your fingers and have a finished story. It takes time.”
“Depends, largely on how long or short the story is. This one, my guess is…well, a matter of hours, not days. Should be finished by lunchtime if you put yourself to it.”
“In one morning? It can’t be much of a story.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I have no doubt it’s a necessary story. Dickens, remember, had a story told in one Christmas Eve. One of his most widely read. And it’s still around.”
“Well, I’m no Dickens.”
“Glad to hear you say that, governor. Something we can agree on. A storyteller’s reach shouldn’t exceed his grasp. But you should feel flattered that, with it all, I’ve enough confi—”
“Hold on. You’ve got it backwards. Browning said . . . “
“—dence in you, I was going to say, before you so rudely interrupted me. But let it pass. Forget about Browning. The story’ll determine its own shape and be just as long or short as it needs to be. The thing to do is get started, move that ball point across those empty blue-green lines that are just waiting to be written on. Ready to begin?”
“I am not. The more I think about it, the more outrageous I find your intrusion and the more absurd your demand. I won’t, no, I can’t allow myself to be imposed on in this way. There is a right to privacy, you know. This is my place and it’s my time and it’s your story, not mine.”
“None of that holds true or applies, governor, when someone’s been summoned to do it. Here and now.”
“Back to that, huh. Necessity. Listen, for the sake of argument, I’ll grant that you have a story, a great story, a story that has to be told. I’ll even grant that you have, or believe you have, received some kind of a summons from someone to tell your story. But that doesn’t mean that I’ve summoned you. No by a long shot.” “Well, I have had some false leads and made missteps, have tried a few others. Couldn’t even get my foot inside the places where they dwelled, let alone the rooms they worked in. When I found your doors open, I knew I’d come to the very spot from where the summons had been issued. And there was the dude who had issued it.”
“So we’re at an impasse. Great God, I feel a migraine coming on. You can’t believe what they do to me. Totally incapacitate. And the pain. It’s exquisite. Have to lie down—the rest of the day. Listen, I’ll tell you what. Compromise. I agree to tell your story, just to get rid of you. But not today. Not just because of the migraine. Already weary, now I’m exhausted, worn to a frazzle, whatever that is, trying to reason with you. Later. Say, tomorrow. The migraine will be gone. Tomorrow morning. Even though I don’t know you and haven’t an inkling of what your story…”
“An inkling. Just the right word in the right place. I can tell you’ll do just fine.”
“…I’ll give it some thought as soon as the pain in my brain has gone and I can think. Try to come up with something. But you have to agree not to harass me any more. After I’ve finished, done all I can for you, you can come back to pick it up. Then disappear from my life forever. Promise?”
“Good try, governor, but no cigar. Just won’t do. Even though I do trust your intention. Because you strike me as being a man of your word, as well as a man of words. But intentions have short lives, give up quickly, vanish as soon as they run into difficulty. As I’ve said, I‘ll be here when you tell my story. Because you’ll need me.”
“Despite your offensive manner, a certain crudeness in your speech, and a preposterousness in your reasoning, I can see you’re not a stupid fellow.”
“Appreciate the compliment, even though it does come from that left hand of yours. The one still holding the pen.”
“But there are limits.”
“That there are, governor. But who sets them is one question. And who enforces is another.”
“In this instance, since you’re asking me to tell your story, it’s only reasonable that I set and I enforce.”
“Reasonable? Well, maybe. But certainly wrong. Why, governor, if you were given the authority to set and the power to enforce, there would be no limits. And it follows as the night the day, no story. See what I mean?’
“So that, I suppose, puts limits—incidentally, again you’ve got the quotation backward—and enforcement in your disinterested hands.”
“Now you’re getting into the quicksand of metaphysics, a place I refuse to venture anywhere near. Let’s keep our feet planted in the real world, which gives us more than enough to contend with. Here and now, seeing that it’s my story, I have the right to see that it’s properly told, at least as properly as is possible, given the person who’s summoned me to tell it. Isn’t what I say self-evident, governor?”
“Just how will your being here, when your presence oppresses me, assure that your story is properly told. Are you going to read over my shoulder? take my pen in hand?”
“We’ll get to that, governor. But first let me tell you that all the while I’ve been here, standing over you, I’ve been eyeing that easy chair over in the corner. That’s where I’ll be sitting. Starting, say, about nine a. m. tomorrow. Staying till you’ve finished. About lunchtime, it should be, if all goes well.”
“You make it sound as though I’m a common laborer and you’re the overseer, the big boss.”
“That’s the long and short of it, all right. Es muss sein, to quote from the notation on the score of a string quartet that came from the heart, or the gut, of a certain heroic composer.”
“I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about. But, to be practical, keeping our feet planted in the real world, as you so elegan
tly and originally put it, apart from making sure I hold to our agreement, that I give it a go, and you’ve conceded I’m a man of my word, what’s the point of having you here, sitting in the chair I read in, with a whip in your hand, so to speak, while I’m at work? Doing my Goddamn best to tell your story.”
“You have my word, as long as you’re moving on the right track at a reasonable speed, you won’t hear a peep out of me. Nor even know I’m here. But just suppose you get stuck. Find you’ve switched off onto the wrong track. Not knowing where you are or what comes next. What if you come to a dead-end, land in a cul-de-sac? Or have a failure of nerve? Or your energy plumb gives out and you up and quit? Well, here I’ll be. To re-route you, give you a shove, get you going. Fact is, governor, you read me all wrong. Imagining that I’m your enemy, your oppressor, an obstacle, when I’m making myself available as your little friend. To get you started, keep you moving, see that you finish, ready to help with whatever along the way.”
“Well if you stay off my back, maybe we can get on, after all. Despite your intrusion on my privacy and the abrasiveness of your manner. At nine tomorrow morning, then. Will you need a cup of coffee? I always carry a second cup when I come in here to start work. On whatever. Caffeine helps me overcome inertia and move into gear. A quick shot of energy.”
“Never touch the stuff. Now if you happen to have a snort or so of bourbon…”
“At nine a. m.? Bourbon? No way. A drink comes after I leave my study and quit work. It’s a reward. As for me, it’s a couple of martinis. As for you, if you’ll forgive my saying so, I can’t help noticing the purple blotches of broken blood vessels covering your cheeks and nose, and…well, I don’t want to be insulting, but I find myself wondering what you’ve done to your liver, as well as to your brain. Maybe that’s the reason you can’t tell your own story and have come up with this fantasy about being summoned. No, no. No bourbon first thing in the morning. I don’t want to be responsible for your self-destruction.”
“Afraid you’ve guessed me about right, governor, as the old cowboy song goes. I thank you for your concern about my vital organs. Do you mind, though, if I smoke? Confess I’ m a bit addicted to nicotine too.”
“Absolutely no smoking in this room, where I spend most of my day. It’s a proven fact that secondhand smoke can damage the lungs.
Even though I myself enjoy a Brazilian cigar, deep brown leaf, tightly wrapped, after dinner, there’s no smoking in my work place.”
“Can’t deny a word you say. Tough as it’ll be I’ll give up the weed too tomorrow morning. Fair enough?”
“Entente cordiale.” Nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning.”
“So, you’re a disciplined dude, after all. Way you were sitting there with a blank sheet of paper in front of you, pen in the air, staring into space, had me wondering. But to be honest about myself again, nights sometimes are right mean for me. Takes me a while to get it together next morning. So I may be a couple of minutes late. Don’tnworry, though, I’ll show up. Want you to know this so you don’t try to get started before I arrive. You well might get off on the wrong foot. Besides, something else important I have to let you know. Then.”
“Uh oh. Sounds ominous. Better let me have it right now. To forestall anxiety. And allow me to sleep. You see I am an insomniac.”
“A dose of anxiety never hurts, really. Revs up the nerves, in fact. Believe me, I know. See you tomorrow at nine or thereabouts.”
If Fels—a name I’m now convinced isn’t his but is one that for some reason he’s assumed for the occasion—doesn’t smile, I sense he’s trying to. The walrus mustache makes it difficult to tell. Yet I do believe he parts his blubbery purple lips and draws back the corners of his mouth before he turns and goes wobbling toward the door. The back of his raincoat drops to what look to be a pair of brogans, badly run-down at the heels.
As he’s passing out through the doorway, I find sufficient vocal strength—rehearing my words in the silence that’s set in, I suddenly realize my voice has become progressively more bodiless—to rasp out, “Close the door as you leave.” Then add “Please,” as an afterthought.
The soundlessness with which he complies I construe as an indictator of respect. Or, on second thought, self-satisfaction. That he’s conned me. Like the smile. If there was one.
During what remains of the morning, I sit at my desk, pen in air. After lunch I prowl the streets of the once genteel neighborhood I’m living in, on the lookout for I don’t know what. Certainly not for “Fels.” I have dinner in a nearby Indonesian restaurant and spend the rest of the evening listening to Couperin’s “Lecon de Tenebros” on my obsolete stereo. Three times.
Before going to bed at midnight, as I always do, I lock the door to my flat. I can’t fall asleep. A voice in my brain keeps repeating “something else important.” The tinnitus I’m subject to serves as a continuo. When finally I drift off, sleep is fitful and shallow. During periods of wakefulness and drowse, the voice keeps chanting.
Sometime after five, according to the luminescent face of the clock on my bedside table, I do lose consciousness. When I come awake, it’s quarter past eight. Following my morning routine, I raise the blinds and unlock the door, then shave while I’m waiting for coffee to heat on the stove. During breakfast—a banana, which I eat, holding it like a monkey, with its skin peeled back, an English muffin, well-done, black coffee, without sugar—I’m aware I’m in such a stupor my brain is effectively shut down. It’s a minute before nine—I’m fastidious about time—when, carrying a second mugful of coffee, I head for my studio.
#
After depositing my mug on the pull-out leaf of my desk and plopping myself in my swivel chair, I hear myself growl “Fels.” The sound, involuntary, is prompted by a recollection of disgust. It’s the first time I’ve uttered the name aloud to myself.
“Nice to hear your voice this morning, governor. Hope you’re in fine fettle. Sleep that migraine off, did you?”
Not being aware that anyone had entered my flat while I was engaged in my morning routine, I hadn’t thought to look toward the corner to my left. There he is, ensconced in my reading chair as though he owns it. Recalling his advising me he might be late and why, I conclude he’s had a less wretched night than I had. To let him know I’m in no mood to put up with any more of his taunting and bullying, I fix a hard stare on him.
As if in expectation, or from languor, he’s leaning forward. He looks for all the world like a tramp on pharaoh’s throne, except that in- instead of his fingers overlapping the ends of the arms, his hands are in the pockets of his raincoat, which he’s wearing on another sunny day.
“Will you kindly stop addressing me as ‘governor’?” I accentuate the “kindly” to make certain my annoyance, which I hope will finesse yesterday’s ploy of an imminent migraine, gets through. Turning with a jerk, intended to express repugnance, I stare at my ball-point pen, which, top off, is lying askew on the blank page of a legal pad confronting me from my desk top, as if the pen were a lit stick of dynamite and the paper the top of a strongbox, its key lost, which I need to get into.
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s what you are. Governor, from the Latin gubernare, to steer, as no doubt you know. In your case, to steer not a trireme across the Tyrrhenian Sea but a pen across a yellow sheet of paper.”
“Well, then, recognize that a governor is in a position of authority.”
“True enough. Within limits, as I thought we agreed yesterday.”
“I never did. But I get it. Limits are set by an emperor. Or a dictator.”
“Righto. Your choice.”
“Dictator Fels,” I grunt, provoked to sneer the title and name. Then add, “If it’s not an alias.”
“Self-doubt if I ever heard it, governor. But let that be. Fact that you’re able to get out my name, however distasteful, indicates a
bit of familiarity, if not cozy acceptance. And makes it easier to acquaint you with something else—the necessary condition I thought it best not to put to you yesterday. Our initial meeting, you know, getting to feel each other out, as they say of boxers in the first round.”
“How could I forget? Your announcement that something was coming, after I’d been led to believe the compromise we’d reached had settled everything, to your, not my satisfaction, let me point out, has kept me awake for hours. You’ll have to admit, if not readily, I did submit to your demand.”
“That you did. And it was gracious of you, governor, even though you really had no choice. But we never came to terms on your actual telling of the story. The how of it, you might say. What I’m obliged to bring up now, not whimsically or arbitrarily, is not negotiable. It’s a means, the only means, that must be used. An inescapable implication of the word tell.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Of course you’re not. How could you when it’s never even crossed your mind? Because it’s not the way you’re used to doing. We all prefer to do things in our own way, don’t we? But in this instance, sorry to say, you can’t. So objectionable as you’re going to find it, I have to spell out what tell means and what it demands of you.”
“However you’re trying to manipulate me, I don’t like it. Not one bit. But go ahead, let me know the worst. That’s not saying I’ll comply.”
“Oh, it’s not that bad. No threat to your life or welfare. At first you’ll be reluctant, no doubt. But after some serious consideration you’ll grant the necessity and give in. And once you’ve got used to this way of doing, you’ll find it actually makes the doing easier. Believe me, governor, this is not just catering to a whim of mine. It’s for you too.”
“I’m grateful for your benevolent concern.”
“Okey dokey. Here goes. You know, as you compose a tale you jogtrot along. Getting down a page or so in a sitting. If you’re lucky. More likely a paragraph that you’re satisfied with. Maybe only a single sentence. Or like that Frenchman who had a thing about a parrot, putting in just one comma during a morning, that afternoon taking the comma out. However much or little, before pushing on you stop. Not only to consider where to go from where you’ve got to. Also to find the courage to go on. And if not always, sometimes, in fact often, you’ll read back over what you’ve managed to get down. A perilous practice, governor, really treacherous. A ruse de guerre, as you might say, self against self in the battle in which words are weapons. Am I right?”