The Big Book of Modern Fantasy

by The Big Book of Modern Fantasy (retail) (epub)

  He’d come up with the plot for the first of the ten planned stories a long time ago, in an interval between producing advertising slogans and editing idiotic brochures that sang the praises of fabric shavers or corn plasters. There was a her, there was a him—and between them, electrostatic discharges, outbursts of animal desire, and acrobatics in free-style scenography. Somewhere along the way there was a political and criminal thread that exposed the sinister, corrupt systems and hypocrisies of the modern world. In short—a sure-fire hit.

  However, although the writing process was under way, the “juicy parts” were proving challenging. Conrad had no intention of executing either a handbook of gynecology for dummies or a tearfully mawkish romance—or, more to the point, the script for a porno movie; as a result, he was completely stuck. Until, as he lay in bed one sleepless night staring blankly at the freshly painted ceiling, enlightenment fell upon him. He gently removed Dammit from under his arm, grabbed his robe and laptop, and dashed off to the library, dodging the ubiquitous sacks, buckets, and cans with varying degrees of success along the way.

  He couldn’t remember the bookcase from which Old Harry had extracted the inconspicuous, modestly bound books. It had turned out that the previous owners of the house had collected not only the native and world classics of belles-lettres, as well as bulky philosophical dissertations, but also a rather racy (to put it mildly) genre of trashy novels. Plagiarism, of course, was not an option—after all, Conrad had something resembling dignity—he was just desperately searching for sources of inspiration. And here he found them, in bulk quantities; without a second thought, he scooped up the contents of half the shelf. He switched on his laptop, opened a new document, and began to browse volume after volume, taking notes at the same time. Inspiration was knocking on the threshold of his mind, proposing some quite passable sentences for approval.

  The hours passed, the Life’s Work grew and grew, and Conrad, paralyzed by cold and inertia, was experiencing some kind of literary ecstasy.

  “What’s this contraption?” came a whisper behind his ear.

  It had been nice, but it was over. Conrad bid his inspiration farewell.

  “A cup of cocoa? It’s hot.” Fortunato put the thermos flask down among the books. He pressed his nose to the monitor. “Oh, it’s flashing! How peculiar…”

  “Are you trying to blind yourself?” Conrad gently moved him away to a safe distance. “This is called a computer; I use it for work. A kind of…machine for writing, you see? An electronic one. And it uses less paper, at least in theory. No, please, don’t press that key. Nor that one, or you’ll delete everything I’ve written…”

  “Aha, you’re a writer?” In the blink of an eye, the young master lost interest in the strange, flashing machine. “What a coincidence! I’m just finishing a digressive poem in nine-canto ottava rima, perhaps you’d like to take a look? Or if you prefer, I also have a few little lyrics…”

  “No, thank you very much,” interjected Conrad, turning off the laptop just in case. “I’m sure they’re great, but I don’t know anything about poetry. I write stories.”

  “Aha, an author of prose! Of course! And what is it you write about, if I may ask?”

  “Well…” He drew a breath. “About everyday life—the mundane, the brutal. About dirty business, dark affairs and dealings. And above all, about difficult, degenerated love in these times of dwindling morality and pestilence.”

  Fortunato froze. The file of crumpled papers that he’d dug out from the carton under the window rustled in his trembling hand. With a dramatic gesture, the young master clutched at his chest. He took a deep sigh, and another, then dropped into a chair.

  “You write about love?” he whispered. “How beautiful that must be, and sad at the same time…Ah, the heaven and hell of my youth!”

  “Pardon me?”

  Heaving a round of sighs, the young master assumed a pained face, and then, in a gesture of deep thought and concern, he leaned his head on his fist.

  “Know you the life of Héloïse?” After an emphatic pause, he continued gloomily. “Know you the fire and tears of Young Werther? Heedless of the warnings of my family and friends, I, a lover of delusions seen only in dreams, was roving in the poets’ imagined heavens…”

  Conrad’s eyebrows also felt impelled to rove, but on a somewhat lower plain, far away from any kind of poetry. They wandered slowly up his forehead.

  “Sorry, I can’t keep up with you. Could you speak more clearly? In prose, ideally.”

  “…my own lone rudder, sailor and vessel,” continued Fortunato, totally undeterred, “I sought my divine mistress…” He took a breath and sailed on at full throttle. He didn’t even notice that his audience, rather than sobbing in rapture and singing his praises, had slipped out of the library.

  * * *

  —

  Things got worse and worse after that. The cooler weather of autumn arrived, accompanied by a detestable, constant drizzle, and the long hours of sitting at the pond had to end. During the day, the builders bent over backward to ensure that silence never fell on Bugaboo Hole. To make matters worse, the water sprites were making relentless attempts to return to nest in the bathroom in which the refurbishment was taking place, and they had to be watched like a hawk. At nighttime, Fortunato took up the baton. He had hidden his embroidery set behind the closet long ago and transformed himself into a full-fledged poet. One minute he was sobbing, the next he was thundering on about innocent love, undeserving of eternal torment, alternately lamenting and reciting in a surge of creative hysteria. Sometimes, when he brightened up, he would loom over Conrad and rummage in his notes, offering up well-meaning advice. A lot of well-meaning advice.

  As a result, Conrad began to sense a nervous breakdown just around the corner and grew desperate to talk, in prose, with someone well-meaning. After a little contemplation, he climbed up to the angel’s turret.

  “Hallelujah,” he was greeted by Bugaboo, who had just dragged the vacuum cleaner out from the broom cupboard. He had wisely changed from his carpet slippers into rubber boots, which were much easier to wash, and he had a tastefully wrapped flowery handkerchief on his head.

  “Listen, Bugaboo…” Conrad began, looking around for a chair. He didn’t find one, so he sat down on a basin that was turned upside down. “You once mentioned that the young master shot himself or something…Do you know how he actually came to be at Bugaboo Hole?”

  “Achoo. Of course I do. He came here one summer for a holiday, to rest and regain his strength so he could continue studying. But he was awfully bored, because that was the fashion at the time. To do nothing, and to complain that it was boring and that no one understood,” explained Bugaboo. “Finally, his boredom drove him out for a walk to the village, which was just beyond the forest at that time. And there he saw this girl, hallelujah, and he fell madly in love with her on the spot. He didn’t even know her name. Day after day, he would follow her and wander through the fields, through the meadows, in the evenings he lurked in the bushes, although Mr. Vincent explained to him that it wasn’t the done thing. It was like talking to a wall, nothing got through to him. He picked raspberries for her, and flowers, he recited poems…”

  “Digressive poems in nine-canto ottava rima, I suppose…”

  “…but she wasn’t interested,” Bugaboo rattled on, “so he went and shot himself in the noggin.”

  “Hallelujah!”

  “Actually no, not hallelujah, hallelujah!” Bugaboo stamped his rubber boot. The effect, it must be said, was feeble. “The following year, the village folks went to the cemetery to undo some traditional witchcraft. And as it happened, that girl was perching on one of the graves, because her legs were aching or something, and that’s where Fortunato was buried. And then Fortunato rose from his grave and started following her again.”

  “And what did the girl do?”

  “She
slapped his ghost in the face and walked away.”

  “See, I’d never have thought of that…”

  The method sounded tempting, even though Conrad generally shunned violence. Unfortunately, he didn’t want to move out himself, and according to the provisions of the will, he wasn’t allowed to expel any of the lifers from Bugaboo Hole, even if Fortunato was an infernal pain in the neck, so face slapping was out. The young master would have to leave of his own accord.

  “Exorcism! Exorcism!” came the voice of the indefatigable higher power, which had been observing the skirmishes of the prose writer and the poet with great amusement.

  * * *

  —

  “No, sir,” shouted Old Harry from under the hood of the old banger. “You can forget about exorcisms. They tried that already, didn’t help none. Fortunato don’t have no intention of leavin’.”

  “But he’s making me lose the will to live!” Conrad moaned in despair. “He won’t let me sleep or work, he just prattles on about the brotherhood of souls, poetic genius, and drowning in the river. I was meant to send the text in last week. I don’t know how to tell my agent that I haven’t finished yet…”

  “It’s true, Fortunato ain’t never pestered no one quite so much as he pesters you, but what can you do? Ain’t no way of shootin’ him again—after all, he’s an apparition, and you can’t kill apparitions. Just to be clear—I’ve tried, so I know what I’m talkin’ about. He can’t go out into the world neither, even if he wanted to—some kinda higher power dictates that he’s tied up at Bugaboo Hole.”

  “That’s right,” the higher power confirmed. “Tied up like a dog, he won’t get further than the forest. Not to boast, but that’s my doing.”

  “And all ’cos of some dumb woman. She had nowhere to park her butt, huh…Don’t even get me started.” Old Harry made a dismissive gesture. “Now he’s found his way out of the grave, you won’t get him back in there. I ain’t got nothin’ but sympathy for you. But chin up!” he shouted, catching sight of Conrad’s increasingly confused expression. “One more week and them guys will have finished the renovation, they’ll be gone, and things will quieten down round here. Bugaboo will whip everyone up into a cleanin’ frenzy, and Fortunato will give you a break. He’s sure to get bored outta his mind sooner or later.”

  Conrad was on the brink of bursting into tears.

  He’d counted his chickens before they’d hatched. The printing was guaranteed, the agent certainly hadn’t been loafing around, and all he had to do was email over the text. The plot was constantly swirling around in his mind, he could think of nothing besides writing. The desire to write was giving him ants in his pants, it was bursting out of him. And then there was the fact that the constant slogging away in front of the computer had left him hardly able to see and with an unsettling pressure in his lower back, and the dose of caffeine he consumed every day was enough to give a herd of elephants a heart attack…Not to mention the fact that he was turning into a zombie at an alarming rate. One less, one more, there was plenty of room at Bugaboo Hole. The lunacy in Conrad’s bloodshot eyes glinted cheerfully at Old Harry.

  “You got much more work to do?”

  “No, just the ending actually. And then I have to look over the whole thing, but that’ll be a breeze.”

  “So what you waitin’ on? Take your laptop, get in the car, and drive. You can pull up somewhere at the side of the road, write what you need, and I’ll take care of this mess while you’re gone.”

  “But the water sprites…the renovation…” Conrad tried to protest, to no avail. Before he knew it, he was being squeezed in behind the steering wheel of the Beetle with his computer, a thermos of coffee, some gloves, and a jacket on the seat beside him.

  “Just remember what I once told you.” Old Harry held the door open on the passenger side and poked his head into the car. “I don’t stay at Bugaboo Hole after dark. Never, you hear? Never!”

  * * *

  —

  Just before midnight, a huddled figure crept upstairs. It peeked into the bedroom—Conrad was sleeping like a log, and next to him lay the snoring Dammit, limbs sprawled like a cat that’s been run over. Good. Very good. The figure retreated on tiptoes into the hallway, closing the door behind it, and then opened the secretary desk.

  * * *

  —

  Somewhere between his hearty breakfast and a fierce discussion on how to arrange the parquet flooring in the hall—squares or herringbone, double or triple?—Conrad finally sent an email with the text attached. He didn’t even have time to take pleasure in the moment, all it took was a few clicks—new message, address, attach, folder, open, send. No subject, no content. The blue message delivery bar quickly went from zero to a hundred percent and disappeared.

  The aesthetic overhaul at Bugaboo Hole was slowly reaching its climax. The excess of Gothic features had vanished, to Conrad’s great relief. The bedrooms, including the one in the turret, had been renovated, and the veranda had been turned into a suntrap where the residents could now spend their time regardless of the weather or the season.

  “I can already see Bugaboo goin’ hell for leather shinin’ them new windows,” laughed Old Harry. They sat down on the packs of drywall that lay in front of the entrance.

  “He’ll certainly have plenty of work, we’ve still got the sanding to do. I was thinking…Bugaboo can’t cope with cleaning up this hellhole on his own, maybe we should get someone to help him?” said Conrad.

  “What do you mean, on his own? What about us two?”

  “The two of us will be tackling the rubble and the rest of the garbage pile in front of the house, behind the house, and next to the house. Besides, the days are getting shorter, and you always leave before sunset,” said Conrad with a sneer. “It’s hardly surprising, I’d make a break for it too if I could. My nightmares are starting to come in poetic form…Anyway, I can’t quite see Fortunato brandishing a broom and rags, and Crackers won’t be able to reach everywhere, so we’ll have to hire someone to help, say, for a week. Maybe two. Otherwise Bugaboo will work himself to death.”

  “Respect your angel, it’s the only one you’ll get.”

  “Mm-hm…that’s what they say.”

  A quiet yet intrusive melody started up. Both men clutched their pockets.

  “It’s mine, it’s mine!” Conrad looked at the screen. It was his agent—he answered quickly before it went to voicemail. “Hey! Did you get the text?”

  “Did I get it? Of course I got it, I wouldn’t be calling otherwise.”

  “So, what do you think? Did you like it?”

  The agent took a deep breath.

  “Listen, Conrad. I don’t know what it is you’ve been drinking while you’re working, but it’s really not helping, you should probably change your tipple. What you sent me is a load of junk!”

  “I don’t understand. You got the synopsis…”

  “I sure did!” She rustled some papers. “I’ve got it right here, but it says nothing about Julius the marksman, or Marletta, the spirit of the meadows!”

  “What?!”

  “Marletta, the spirit of the meadows,” she repeated. “The girl in the sheer nightgown who seduces the gallant marksman and drives him crazy, then turns him into…wait…what does she turn him into? Anyway, never mind. For God’s sake, Conrad, it’s gibberish! Sentimental, soppy, boring gibberish with an unhappy ending! Have you completely lost your mind out there in the sticks? Okay, I’ll admit, the verse interludes came out pretty well, I didn’t know you were a poet. But all that flying over the meadows, yada yada yada, how he loves her and she doesn’t love him back…”

  “Hang on, I’ll send it to you again,” stammered Conrad, the truth dawning on him, and he hung up.

  He saw red, rage pulsed through his veins, and fury swelled in his chest.

  “Dang, Mr. Romanchuk, you’re goin’ purp
le! What happened?”

  The purple Mr. Romanchuk didn’t respond. He tore off down the corridor, frightening the workers and the poor, unsuspecting Dammit along the way, and burst into the library like a hailstorm.

  “Is this your idea of a prank?” he roared like the stricken deer. “Speak, or I’ll kick you in the tombstone!”

  Fortunato burst into musical laughter. With a gesture of grandeur, he put his quill pen down on a stack of papers that he had just finished filling with another poem, this time descriptive.

  “For the sake of precision, my tombstone has long been overgrown with moss and ferns. It’ll be hard to find.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry, I’ll manage! You went through my text, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I decided to take a look out of curiosity,” he admitted without hesitation, even with pride, “and I felt it right to introduce a few necessary changes.”

  “What gave you the right?”

  “Oh, Conrad!” The young master, who had until now been nonchalantly sprawling in his chair, sat up straight. “Is it not obvious? You wrote not about love, but obscene sexual urges! Desire stripped of all its beauty! For true love is an eternal fire that consumes the soul even after death—and man, rather than fighting the fire, yearns to kindle it with flames ever higher and hotter! It is a rebellion of two unblemished hearts against a lousy, mundane world! It is the torment of eternal unhappiness and unfulfillment! It is a poisoned thorn that…”

  “Explain to me, if you’d be so kind,” said Conrad, wheezing, “what some teenage punk knows about love—a punk who spent a few weeks pursuing a peasant woman, and ended up shooting himself because she didn’t want him, and then managed to get slapped by her even after his death?”