Chest of wonders
Chest of Wonders
by R J Dent
His heart pounding hard, Stephen opened the lid of the wooden chest and looked inside.
Everything else around him – the slight chill of the large, but badly-lit loft, the musty smell, the brown solidity of the rafters, the roof lining that smelled (and looked) like old potato sacks, the roughly-rendered brick chimney-breast, the cobwebs, the items of no-longer-needed-or-used furniture, the bags of steadily mildewing clothes, the scuttlings and occasional cheeps of the birds, possibly martins, nesting under the eaves – suddenly faded away to nothing as his attention and concentration zeroed in – like the beam of the black rubber-coated torch he held in his right hand – on to the contents of the old wooden chest.
Paper!
His initial feeling was one of disappointment, but as his eyes took in the many different coloured cardboard document wallets, the stacks of notebooks, the collection of diaries, the envelopes with the name MR ROGER BROOKS and an address typed on the front, Stephen’s emotion changed to one of over-whelming curiosity. It took him a few moments to realize that he had made an exciting and possibly very important discovery.
He sat down so that he was sideways on to the front of the chest and leaned back against the solidity of the chimneybreast, noticing, but not really caring, that the cold laminate of the tongue-and-groove loft flooring penetrated his jeans, chilling his buttocks and the backs of his thighs. Suddenly he was nervous. Suddenly he got goose bumps up his arms. Suddenly, he felt he needed to defecate badly. He waited for a second or two and sure enough, the nervousness and the goose bumps – and the need to defecate – went away and were replaced almost immediately by a cool, almost ironic, sense of euphoria. Stephen laughed softly and then relaxed. This always happened. He knew himself well. Every time he stood on the brink of a life-changing discovery, he felt a momentary rush of fear, followed by an intense surge of adrenalin. This was immediately followed by a sense of mild detachment and self-awareness that usually lasted a couple of days.
Momentarily, Stephen wondered if he was weird, then promptly forgot the thought as he delved into the chest.
MR ROGER BROOKS
The name of his grandfather shouted at him from the front of several envelopes. There was no doubt at all as to the ownership of this particular chest’s contents.
Ignoring the letters, for they made him feel uneasy, Stephen pulled out a yellow cardboard document wallet. He turned it around and looked at the two lines of neat hand-written lettering on the front flap.
Fable
by Roger Brooks
Stephen nodded appreciatively in the loft’s gloom. He rested the torch on the top of the cardboard wallets, aiming the beam at the one he held in his hand. Then he pulled the flap open and slid the heavy sheaf of A4 paper out. The top page was typed. It bore the same legend as the front of the wallet, although there were a few more details.
Fable
a 100,000 word novel
by Roger Brooks
At the bottom left hand corner was an address Stephen didn’t recognize.
Stephen removed the top page and placed it at the bottom of the ream. The next page was full of writing. At the top of the page were the words: Chapter One.
Stephen read the first two paragraphs.
The nightmare started during the second week of their holiday.
Up until then, James Barratt and his girlfriend of two and a half years, Penny Ward, had been enjoying eight days of idyllic holidaying on the tiny Greek island of Aphros. They had sunbathed, fucked frequently, swum, fished, eaten good food, got drunk twice, gone on one tour of ancient architectural remains - and generally had a great time.
Then things changed. Badly.
Stephen read on. He finished Chapter One in fifteen minutes. He was gripped. Clutching the manuscript to his chest, he got up, picked up his torch and made his way out of the loft. He climbed down the ladder, went into his bedroom, shut the door, stretched out on his bed and continued to read. Three hours later he’d finished reading the novel.
It was wonderful. The story was about a young couple that go on holiday and end up looking for – and find, much to their regret – a mythical beast, the chimera. Stephen knew – somehow – that that was only the story’s outside appearance. What it was really about was the power, the durability and the underlying fragility of relationships – especially sexual relationships.
Stephen – despite being only fifteen – had enjoyed and understood the story. He was a former member of the local Writer’s Circle and was – until he’d left a few weeks previously – developing as a fairly good fiction writer. Not the best in the group, but not bad either. He’d enjoyed reading his grandfather’s novel, liking the monster bits – especially when the monster got people – and he’d enjoying the sexy stuff too. The explicit sex scenes had given him an instant hard-on.
Stephen had not been able to equate his grandfather, who’d died two years ago at the age of seventy-seven, with the man who had written Fable. They seemed to be two distinctly different people. His grandfather – who he’d liked a lot – had been a friendly, but severe-looking man – a man who’d seemed to spend all of his time immersed in some aspect or other of his aerodynamics work at the Concorde plant. As far as Stephen knew, no one had ever mentioned the fact that Roger Brooks wrote novels in his spare time. Good novels.
That evening at dinner, Stephen asked his mother if Grandfather Brooks had ever been a writer.
“A writer! Good heavens, no,” his mother had said. “Why do you ask?”
Stephen shrugged.
“I just wondered,” he said.
“There are no literary geniuses in this family, I’m afraid – not on either side.”
Pondering on this, Stephen had finished his dinner and then gone to his room. He replaced the Fable manuscript in its yellow wallet, and then went back up into the loft. He put the yellow wallet back in the chest, and then took out another, this time a red one. He looked at the writing on the flap and read the handwritten two lines.
Exile on Prism Planet
by Roger Brooks
Stephen looked into the chest and calculated the total number of cardboard wallets in there. There were about – just over – twenty in total. He stood up, made his way down to his bedroom, shut the door again and took the manuscript out of the cardboard wallet. The typed top page, which stated:
Exile on Prism Planet
a 100,000 word novel
by Roger Brooks
confirmed what was written on the wallet.
For the second time that day, Stephen started to read one of his grandfather’s novels. Within a month, he had read all nineteen of them, as well as the four short story collections, some of the poetry – which he didn’t really understand – and the three plays. He’d liked all of the stories – no! – he’d been gripped and exhilarated by them all. His grandfather was the best and greatest writer in the world. At present, only Stephen knew this to be so. Nevertheless, he was determined to do something about it.
It took him ten more years.
After he’d left university with a BA in English, Drama and Media Studies, and an MA in Modern English Literature, Stephen had started to write in earnest. He’d sent a few stories out to various magazines and had had some success in getting them published. On the strength of this modest success, he’d managed to get himself a literary agent, to whom he’d sent his first novel, entitled Fable. It was a powerful and gripping novel about a couple who go on holiday to a Greek Island, then have a terrible time after they are persuaded by a local that the mythical beast, the chimera, is alive in the hills. The agent was good and Fable was published without fanfare and sold reasonably well for a first novel. A few critics gave it moderately favourable reviews, commenting on how ‘well-written’, ‘well-plotted’ and ‘well-researched’ it was for a novel ‘of its kind’, which meant that they didn’t really like it, but didn’t really know why.
Stephen followed Fable with another novel, this time a dystopian fiction along the lines of Huxley’s Brave New World and Orwell’s 1984, but a bit more upbeat than those two novels. It was entitled: Exile on Prism Planet. He suddenly started getting letters from readers. By the time his third novel, The Flightlings, was in print, he’d started to be referred to as: ‘One of the world’s leading fantasy writers’, a label which puzzled and perplexed him a little, because he didn’t regard any of the novels as fantasies at all.
Despite his success, Stephen felt occasional twinges of guilt. He had no illusions as to what he was doing – he was stealing another writer’s work and passing it off as his own. Plagiarism. And yet not fully, for he did actually write – he had rewritten three of his grandfather’s novels. That was what he did. He took the original manuscript, typed it into his laptop, and then started to add bits of his own. He also changed locations, character’s names, events and incidents. He also replaced archaic words, phrases and cultural references with more modern ones, as well as altered sentences or paragraphs to suit the era he was writing in or about. The one thing he didn’t do – which, strangely, he considered to be a matter of principle – was change the titles of the novels.
By the time he was forty he was a best-selling author of ten novels and three short story collections.
And then his grandfather put in an appearance.
One night, Stephen dreamed that his grandfather walked into his bedroom, stood at the foot of his bed and pointed one of his long fingers at him.
“It’s got to stop, Stephen,” his grandfather stated reproachfully. “Now!”
“I’m sorry,” Stephen said sorrowfully. “I didn’t mean to do it, I swear. I just loved them so much, then I wanted to write and wasn’t very good, and so I thought I could use them to get myself into print. Besides, I couldn’t have just left them in that chest in the loft. I just couldn’t!”
Roger Brooks shook his head.
“There never was a chest and there are no manuscripts, Stephen,” he said flatly. “That’s why it’s got to stop.”
“Of course there was a chest,” Stephen said hysterically. “And manuscripts too - I’ve been passing them off as mine for years.”
“Stephen! Pay attention! There never were any manuscripts left in a chest in the loft. You invented the whole thing for the sake of a story.”
“You’re wrong, I’ve been using them,” Stephen protested. “All of my own works are really your works. I’ve just changed a few things to make them a bit more contemporary, that’s all. They’re all your stories.”
“I’ve never written a story in my life,” Roger Brooks said. “Too busy making aeroplanes. But I’ll tell you one thing though – if I ever had decided to write, I’d never have used a metaphor as clumsy as an old chest full of manuscripts in the loft, left by a family member of a previous generation – well, not to describe the imagination – or the lack of it,” he added pointedly.
“You did use it!” Stephen accused. “In your short story, Chest of Wonders.”
Roger sighed.
“Stephen, you wrote Chest of Wonders, not me.”
“No, I copied it from you,” Stephen said, after silently – and automatically – correcting his grandfather’s grammar.
“Stop silently correcting my grammar!” Roger snapped. “I’ll talk how I want.”
“This is my dream!” Stephen snapped back. “You’ll speak how I want you to! And you’ll do what I say too!”
Roger Brooks must have suddenly realized that further argument with his grandson was futile, because he abruptly turned and walked out of the bedroom.
Stephen sat up in his bed, wide-awake, his heart thumping, his body covered in a layer of fast-cooling sweat.
He got up quietly, so as not to wake up Kitty, who was sleeping peacefully and soundly, slipped into his trousers and shirt, and made his way to his office. He entered the room gratefully, switched a lamp on and stretched out on his sofa, thinking about his dream. His grandfather’s voice echoed from the dream.
There never were any manuscripts left in a chest in the loft. You invented the whole thing for the sake of a story.
Stephen grunted and got up. He went over to his filing cabinet and pulled the second drawer open. He found the green document wallet marked: PUBLISHED SHORT STORY ORIGINALS and opened it. He sifted through the various stories until he found Chest of Wonders. He took it back to the sofa, turning the reading lamp on on the way. Stretched out on the sofa again, Stephen started to read.
His heart pounding hard, Marty opened the lid of the chest and looked inside.
Everything else around him – the slight chill of the large, but badly-lit loft, the musty smell, the brown solidity of the rafters, the roof lining that smelled (and looked) like old potato sacks, the roughly-rendered stone chimney-breast, the cobwebs, the items of no-longer-needed-or-used furniture, the bags of steadily mildewing clothes, the scuttlings and occasional cheeps of the birds nesting under the eaves – suddenly faded away to nothing as his attention and concentration zeroed in – like the beam of the black rubber-coated torch he held in his right hand – on to the contents of the old wooden chest.
Paper!
Stephen stopped reading for a moment. He could remember that loft scene vividly. It was definitely something he’d experienced as a child. Quickly, he flipped to the back page of the story and looked at the author’s name. S D Brooks. Himself! Not Roger Brooks!
No, that can’t be right, Stephen told himself. I copied it! I definitely copied it!
But had he? Was he absolutely sure, or was his mind playing tricks on him? What he remembered of that whole plagiarism scene was that as a teenager, he’d shifted the contents of the trunk – one novel or story collection every couple of months – into his room, where he’d mixed them in with his own – not very good – writings. Then, upon leaving home, he’d taken them all with him, keeping them in his filing cabinet as he worked on the first one he’d had published.
And that was what he did – using his grandfather’s manuscript as a rough draft, he rewrote it on his laptop, then sent it – under his own name – to his publisher, who duly published it. After three novels were published in succession, he sent in a rewritten short story collection, which was received with only slightly less enthusiasm than the novels.
And once they were rewritten, the original manuscripts his grandfather had written were of no further use, so what he did with them was-
What?
Burned them, of course. It would have been far too incriminating to have them hanging around. That’s what I did, Stephen told himself. I burned them all once I’d used them.
And it was true. Once he’d typed them up onto his word processor – which he did at the speed of one a year – he’d had no further need of the original manuscripts, manuscripts which – to him – had suddenly become nothing more than rough first drafts of his own work. Such was the fate of his grandfather’s fine writing. Relegated to rough draft status, then burned, then scattered far and wide.
Slightly perturbed, Stephen went to the filing cabinet again. He returned Chest of Wonders to its rightful place, and then pulled out another cardboard wallet. On the flap were two short lines of his own neat handwriting.
Ransom
by S D Brooks
Stephen flipped through his original manuscript of his latest due-to-be-published novel. By the time he reached the last word processed page, he knew that the evidence was incontrovertible. To all intents and purposes, he was the author of Ransom. The only author. The sole author. There was no proof that he’d ever copied it from an aging manuscript written by his long-dead grandfather. No proof whatsoever. The original manuscript had been burned, along with the original manuscripts of all of the other published novels and short stories.
In that case, Stephen realized with a sudden mental wrench, the ones that remain to be published must still exist in their original form.
Scarcely daring to believe he hadn’t thought of that until just that second – which was probably the main reason he’d remained such a mediocre writer – Stephen opened the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet – the drawer in which he kept his grandfather’s unpublished manuscripts.
The nine vividly coloured cardboard wallets were all sitting neatly in there, but Stephen could see at a glance that they were all empty. He pulled the nearest one out. Empty. Nothing was written on the front. No title, no name, no nothing. He opened it. Nothing. Not even an A4 sheet with an outline on it.
“What the fuck is going on?” Stephen asked aloud, his voice fearful.
You know what’s going on, Stephen! a voice in his mind told him. You know exactly what’s going on, don’t you?
No! Stephen mentally denied hastily. No I don’t, so shut up, you bastard! Keep your fucking mouth shut!
But it was too late, of course. Stephen did know what was going on - knew exactly. He also – very suddenly and very clearly – knew that he had never plagiarized any of his grandfather’s work at all. Roger Brooks had never written anything apart from a few design specifications and details for some aeroplanes – and maybe the odd note or love letter to his wife.
But Stephen did recognize the voice in his head and he therefore knew that Simon Dorn had finally caught up with him. It had taken him nearly twenty years, but he’d managed it somehow.
Shaken, Stephen made his way unsteadily to the sofa and slumped on it.
Simon Dorn. Now there’s a name from the past. From the days of the Writer’s Circle. Back when I was fifteen and just starting out learning to write properly. Simon Dorn!
Stephen tried to blank out the name, but it was persistent - Simon Dorn. Simon Dorn. Simon–
“- Dorn?”
“Yes?”
“Would you care to read something of yours to us this week?”
“Yes, I would,” Dorn said. “Thank you.”
The other nineteen members of the Writer’s Circle settled back in their comfortable chairs and waited for Dorn to begin. Despite his youth – he was only seventeen – he was a good writer, a good reader, and his stories were always entertaining and thought-provoking.
Stephen sat back too, hating Simon Dorn with a passion. He hated Dorn because he wrote such good stories. Writing stories seemed almost effortless to him. Stephen on the other hand struggled desperately with words, wanting to be good, but never really being that good. Of course, none of the Writer’s Circle actually criticized his work too damagingly, but Stephen knew that when he read one of his stories to them there was usually a lot of fidgeting and a general lack of interest in what he was saying – reading. Not that he didn’t try. Every week, Stephen slaved over a story he could read to them with pride. Once every four of five weeks he got to read one of them.
Dorn, however, got asked to read one of his stories every week. And got appreciative applause after each reading too. And that was exactly what happened again this week, once Dorn had finished reading his short story entitled: The Polymorphic Adventures of Miranda, which was a very good, if slightly moral tale. Dorn’s originality had been to present it using the devices and the style usually found in pornography.
Stephen joined in with the applause, but he was jealous of Dorn’s talent; jealous of Dorn’s ability to write well. Despite that – he told himself later – he never really intended to do what he did. Not really.
After a few more readings and a brief discussion on some of the uses of metaphor, the Writer’s Circle stopped for a short coffee break. They broke into their natural groupings and Stephen found himself in Dorn’s group. Dorn seemed to like him, a situation that caused Stephen to have ambivalent feelings. On the one hand he respected Dorn’s talent, but on the other, he loathed him because of his talent.
Clutching his cup of coffee tightly, Stephen turned around to find Dorn in front of him.
“Great story, Simon,” he said, meaning it.
“Thanks, Stephen. Are you going to read one of yours?”
Stephen shrugged.
“I’ve got one I’d like to read,” he said. “We’ll see if I get asked.”
“I like what you do in yours,” Dorn stated.
“Do you?” Stephen asked, trying to keep the gratitude out of his voice.
“Yes. Especially the way you manage to use those really telling juxtapositions to yoke the extraordinary to the everyday. The way you do it reminds me of Nicolas Roeg’s film editing techniques – or the structural presentation of some modern poetry.”
Stephen was amazed. Stunned. He’d never heard anyone describe his writing technique in those terms before. More disquieting was the fact that he would never have thought to describe it that way himself. And yet, as soon as Dorn had said it, Stephen had seen what he’d meant and how it applied to his stories. And then, unbidden, the petulant part of his character resurfaced – bringing with it vast resentment at Dorn’s unerring ability to cut through the verbiage and pinpoint exactly what Stephen’s stories were doing – and why, in their fashion – they worked.
It means that Dorn knows more about my stories than I do! Stephen’s inner voice told him. And understands them better than I do too.
Stephen’s resentment stayed with him through the other readings – which he didn’t get invited to participate in. When the Writer’s Circle meeting finally ended, Stephen put his story inside his jacket pocket and moved towards the door.
“Stephen! Wait a minute!”
Stephen turned. It was Dorn.
“I’ll walk with you,” Dorn said. “And I want to ask a favour, too.”
Stephen – who suddenly knew what was coming – felt a familiar momentary rush of fear, followed by an intense surge of adrenalin.
“Name it,” he said, modulating his voice so that his – seemingly contradictory, but actually connected – excitement and resentment didn’t reveal themselves.
Dorn held out a sheaf of papers. It was clearly a story.
“I wrote this yesterday and I’d like you to take it home, have a read and let me know what you think. Do you mind?”
Stephen shook his head and took the story.
“No,” he said evenly. “Of course not. I’d be delighted.”
“That’s the spirit,” Dorn said, slapping him on the back. “I’d appreciate any constructive criticism.”
They reached the street and began to walk towards the city centre.
After a moment of silence, Dorn said: “Isn’t it great to be born a writer?”
“Yes, it is,” Stephen answered, but what he really believed was that Dorn was lying. Writers weren’t born, they made themselves. By hard work. Or by luck. Or by taking opportunities when they presented themselves. That was all.
“When did you first know?” Dorn asked.
“Three years ago. When I was twelve,” Stephen said truthfully. “You?”
“I’m only just beginning to realize that anything less than writing is not acceptable,” Dorn said. “But I’ve been writing since I was twelve too.”
“You’re good. Very good,” Stephen said. “I see a great literary future ahead of you.”
Dorn laughed.
“Maybe,” he said.
“No, really. Your stories hold the interest, present interesting ideas in original ways – and they entertain. You write clearly, you use good metaphors, you have a firm grasp of language and its potential – all in all, I’d put you down as an important author of the near future.”
Dorn laughed again.
“Thanks, Stephen. I really appreciate what you’re saying. Let’s hope you’re right. Anyway, this is where I go my way and you go yours. Can you bring my story – and your comments – with you next week?”
“Of course,” Stephen answered as Dorn walked off into the night, heading towards the beach.
“See you on the best-seller list in ten years!” Stephen called, immediately feeling foolish.
There was no answer. Dorn had gone.
Back home, Stephen read Simon Dorn’s short story, A Triumph, and marvelled at its composition, structure, message and linguistic clarity. The next day, in the public library, he photocopied it. He kept the photocopy. He returned Dorn’s story at the next Writer’s Circle meeting and passed on his constructive criticism during the coffee break. Dorn listened carefully to what he had to say, then thanked him. Soon after that, Stephen stopped going to the Writer’s Circle. But he continued to read Dorn’s story. He worked his way through it paragraph by paragraph, trying to analyse its complex simplicity or simple complexity – he wasn’t sure which. He pulled every sentence to pieces in an attempt to work out why the syntax patterns worked. He tried to find a set of formulaic characteristics, but gave up. He thought he’d found the key to its structure once, but soon found he was mistaken. He also imitated it once, but his story, A Victory, sounded like a weak parody – which it was. He began to despair. He’d never be a good – really good – writer if he couldn’t understand the basic tenets of the writing process. He became despondent.
A few days later, he went up into the loft and immediately saw the wooden chest in a far corner, next to the chimneybreast...
Some years on, after he’d received his MA, Stephen knew he needed to start his career as a writer seriously. He typed up the dog-eared and stained copy of Dorn’s story on his new word processor, gave it the title of his imitation, and sent it, under his own name, to a magazine editor. It was accepted for publication immediately. Stephen got a small cheque and a free copy of the magazine through the post. He cashed the cheque and spent it. So many years had passed since the photocopying of Dorn’s manuscript that Stephen had very few qualms about what he’d done. Simon Dorn would never know.
On the day of A Victory’s publication, Stephen went to a restaurant and had a wonderful dinner. Later that evening, he threw up. He put the plagiarism incident out of his mind. He forgot it – or rather, he buried the memory of it safely away where he’d never have to look at it again.
But Simon Dorn, the man born to be a writer, the man who’d never been heard of in any literary circles, had not been prepared to be nothing more than a buried memory in a forgotten part of Stephen Brooks” mind. He’d dug himself up and had come after Stephen. It had taken him a long time, but Stephen owed him his career.
See you on the best-seller list in ten years! Stephen had called, and Simon Dorn had not answered. Stephen had been on the best-seller lists for nearly two decades and had never met Simon Dorn there. Nor anywhere else. And now the memory was back.
“But why?” Stephen asked aloud. His office offered him no answer.
Because you owe Simon Dorn, he told himself.
He paused. Was that true?
He supposed it was.
In that case, I’d better try and find him.
It took six months.
“The important thing to remember then,” Simon Dorn said, “is that this particular story is a densely-woven text which is a self-reflexive meta-narrative – by that, I mean it draws attention to its own textual nature. It is made up of a series of connected texts: journal entries, letters, telegrams, diary entries, phonograph recordings, medical reports, newspaper reports, articles and interviews, all of which are put together to describe the appearance and the actions of Dracula, the central character who is never allowed by the transcribers, compilers and editors of these texts – here I am referring to the Harkers and not to Stoker – to speak in his own voice, nor to put his side of the story across to the reader.
“When Dracula does speak, his words are always mediated through someone else’s written voice. This is the Victorian – and not so Victorian – way of controlling the reader’s perception of the chosen enemy. Such techniques are used today in news items. If we heard both sides of the story, we’d have an informed choice to make and we may want to extend sympathy to the central character. Some readers do, despite the obvious intentions of the novel. For some, Dracula is comparable to Satan in Paradise Lost. But, because of the deliberately biased way in which the story is written, we, as readers, are given less of a choice - the central character is made monstrous – and – following the Victorian logic of Christian, conservative, married, domestic normality – must therefore be destroyed in order to keep civilization civilized.
“And yet, what Dracula – the character – represents is Stoker’s own disillusion with Victorian society mores – Dracula is a subversive creature. He invades England and begins to seduce the country’s women. He destroys an intended marriage – the one between Lord Godalming and Lucy Westenra – by causing Lucy to become as he is – not living, not dead. This state of being not one thing or the other is unacceptable to our Victorian band of heroes and Lucy must be stopped. Destroyed. Black and white only, you see? Nothing indeterminate. That’s why homosexuality was condemned too.
“The scene involving the destruction of Lucy – which significantly takes place one day after her proposed wedding to Arthur – has some of the most graphically sexual symbolism to be found in any novel of the same period. Lucy has become one of Dracula’s minions, or as Van Helsing refers to her, “the Devil’s concubine”. Here are some of Doctor Seward’s observations:
She seemed like a nightmare Lucy as she lay there... voluptuous... carnal... a devilish mockery of Lucy’s sweet purity. Van Helsing... took out... a round wooden stake, some two and a half or three inches thick and about three feet long. One end of it was hardened...
“The stake must be driven through her... it will be only a short time, and you will then rejoice...”
“Go on,” said Arthur hoarsely. “Tell me what I am to do...”
Arthur took the stake and... placed the point... and... once his mind was set... he struck with all his might. The Thing in the coffin writhed... The body shook and quivered and twisted in wild contortions; the sharp white teeth champed together... But Arthur never faltered... driving deeper and deeper and deeper the mercy-bearing stake... and spurted up around it... And then the writhing and quivering of the body became less... Finally it lay still. The terrible task was over...
“And now, my child, you may kiss her...”
Then we cut off the head and filled the mouth with garlic.
“As is clearly evident, that one scene embodies many of the Victorian fears and conceits – English nationalism and notions of English masculine superiority, as well as xenophobia, misogyny, sexism, puritanism, and duty. As you heard, it is also a parody of the intended wedding nuptials, with the handsome English Lord driving his three foot hardened stake into his intended bride, after which, naturally, she is saved from the foul corruption of the foreign seducer. It’s also a classic example of Victorian voyeurism.”
Dorn paused, then added pointedly: “Twenty-first century voyeurism too.”
Some of the students laughed nervously, not sure if their tutor was making a joke.
“Okay, that’ll do for now. Let’s take a short break – fifteen minutes – and then we’ll have a look at the psychology of metaphor.”
The students got up noisily and made their way out of the room. Dorn wiped his notes from the board, and then turned to follow them out.
“Excuse me.”
A man in a charcoal suit stood in the doorway. There was a magazine in his jacket pocket. Dorn recognized him immediately and was very surprised.
“Stephen Brooks!”
Stephen nodded and stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.
“I didn’t think you’d remember me,” he said as Dorn extended his hand. Feeling hypocritical, Stephen shook it.
Dorn laughed. “I teach one of your books. It’s good to see you. Congratulations on a great career. You did it, didn’t you?”
Stephen nodded. “And you? Do you still write?”
“Lecture notes and seminar plans mostly,” Dorn said evenly. “I’ll write an occasional short story or poem, if the mood moves me, but I gave up any idea of having a literary career a long time ago. Too many rejections.”
“But you were really good,” Stephen protested. He paused. “I could help, you know.”
Dorn shook his head quickly. Stephen saw the look of distaste that crossed his features, despite Dorn trying to disguise it.
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
“But I owe you,” Stephen said.
“You don’t owe me anything,” Dorn said. “A few general ideas from a Writer’s Circle years ago. Hardly a big debt, is it?”
“Actually, it’s huge,” Stephen said, pulling the magazine out and passing it to Dorn. “Page forty one. You might want to sit down.”
Dorn looked at him strangely, but perched on the corner of a desk. He looked at the cover of the magazine, and then flicked it open to page forty-one. Then he read. The room was silent except for the ticking of a wall clock.
Dorn closed the magazine and handed it back. His face was expressionless.
“My story,” he said.
“Yes. Yours,” Stephen answered. “It started my career.”
“My story under your name.”
“Yes. I felt you ought to know. I do owe you.”
“Why are you here?” Dorn demanded wearily. “What is it you want from me? Forgiveness? Violence? Absolution? An invoice? What?”
“I want to put things right,” Stephen said. “Without knowing it, you started me on the road I’m on now. As I said, I owe you.”
There was a long silence.
“You don’t owe me anything,” Dorn said finally. “I sent that story out hundreds of times and no one wanted it. How many times did you send it out? Two or three?”
“Once,” Stephen said.
Dorn nodded.
“You see.”
“Frankly, no, I don’t.”
“Okay, then I’ll explain. I wrote that story to be read. Not for your reasons: not to make money. Not to get critical acclaim. Not for fame. Not for fortune. Not for media exposure or celebrity interviews. I wrote it for one reason only – for it to be read.”
“Yes, but you wrote it in your name. And you must have wanted your story credited to you, the author.”
Dorn sighed.
“Why do you write, Stephen? And don’t give me the usual seminar answer. Give me your answer.”
“Because I always wanted to.”
“But what drove you to writing, rather than painting, music, photography, acting, filmmaking, or any of the other “arts”?”
“Writing fits my head,” Stephen said, surprised by his answer.
Dorn nodded. “All writers are people whose minds instinctively break the rules.”
Stephen looked puzzled. “Who said that?”
“Me,” said Dorn dryly. “It wasn’t a quotation.”
Stephen shook his head. “I don’t think it’s true.”
Dorn looked at him without needing to comment.
“Your story has earned me six thousand to date,” Stephen said hurriedly, putting a white envelope down on the desk. “Here are your royalties. Any more will be sent to you here.”
“We don’t even speak the same language,” Dorn observed. “That’s why you’re a best-selling author and I’m not.”
Stephen turned to leave. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m sorry I stole your story, Simon.” He reached the door and pulled it open.
“It doesn’t matter,” Dorn said, as Stephen walked out of the classroom. “My story has been read. By millions of people. It’s fulfilled its primary function. End of story.”
Chest of Wonders (© R J Dent 2006) first appeared at the Express Art Gallery
