Aefle & Giesla

by Libby Malin

  That had been the first contact. They’d met for a beer at Fiesta House restaurant a couple days later. What a surprise -- the local newspaper happened to have a reporter on the premises with a camera just as Buck “surprised” her with a repeat proposal. “We already have the license, honey,” he’d said with what she’d thought was a smirk but looked like a grin in the picture that had accompanied the little story the next day.

  The only other face-to-face meeting they’d had was at the town hall with the minister. It was a different one this time, one Buck knew. They couldn’t get a church at such short notice so they were going to be married on the steps of city hall.

  Once again, a reporter was there, snapping pictures of the “happy couple.”

  Despite nearly gagging when Buck put his arm around her, DeeDee was content. Her plan was working. Kelly and her husband continued to mine the depths of town gossip, and all indicators were go. Gretchen Waters was as happy as a bee in clover, which meant she didn’t feel threatened, and she continued to sport her pre-promise ring. Buck must have let her know the wedding wasn’t for real and she must have been dumb enough not to care that her beau was petty enough to rig a cruel trick on another woman.

  Another indicator that DeeDee was right about Buck’s need to publicly reject her: the litigation ceased. Jane-Ann called and told her Buck had let it all go, including the suit against Tom.

  She was right, her plan was good. DeeDee reminded herself of that every time she got the jitters. She felt terribly alone, except for Kelly. Jane-Ann had been aghast at the news of the re-do, but eventually just shrugged, saying “to each his own,” before sending DeeDee her bill for services rendered.

  And Tom… well, he was still insistent that she should drop the whole thing.

  Or rather, “Aefle” was. They continued their charade on email, both agreeing that they wouldn’t shed the pretense until after the “wedding” was over.

  “I can hardly type that word,” Tom wrote to her that morning. “I continue to believe no good can come of this. For the thousandth time, please stop. You don’t need to do this. You could always leave Oyster Point -- at least for a while -- and let Buck calm down. Have you considered that? You could stay with me.”

  This proposal saddened her. It reminded her too much of Tom’s first suggestion years ago that they live together for convenience. She didn’t want to be with him because it was convenient. She wanted to be with him because they loved each other. And she wasn’t going to run away from Oyster Point with her tail between her legs. She would stand at the altar with Buck, let him reject her in front of the numerous townspeople and media, and then she’d hold her head high as she went back to work at a doomed dealership. But she wouldn’t run away.

  “I can’t stop it now,” she wrote back as Gisela. “I’m too close to succeeding. Buck has almost everything he needs to re-create the humiliation in reverse.”

  “Almost everything” -- she’d struggled over those words. One thing Buck wouldn’t have was Tom as a witness in the crowd. She’d not asked him to attend.

  But somewhere deep in her heart, she was profoundly disappointed that he’d not yet insisted on coming.

  ***

  Close to succeeding. Tom mused as he stared at his computer screen. But what was ultimate success in this case -- to go back to the way things were before the wedding incident had occurred in the first place?

  It didn’t escape his attention that his “Gisela” had yet to tell him she loved him in as many words, despite her warm notes. And when he’d suggested she come stay with him, she’d been adamant in her refusal. She liked Oyster Point and didn’t want to leave.

  That didn’t bode well. She couldn’t expect him to live there. There was nothing for him in Oyster Point except a reputation he couldn’t escape and a father who would insist on living with him if he knew his son was back in town.

  After visiting a few facilities while in town, Tom now had George Charlemagne on a waiting list for another institution, but as the days passed by, George became more impatient. Megan had had another call from Buck Bewley’s sister about his behavior, and both she and Tom knew this report had probably not been prompted by Buck.

  To comfort himself, he reread Dr. Gilbert’s letter of support, which had moved him considerably when he’d looked it over for the first time. Dr. Gilbert had written that the world of academe needed more men like Thomas Charlemagne among their ranks, someone willing to approach a research project discarding preconceived notions about a historical period and looking with unvarnished zeal at the humanity of his subjects.

  It had to impress Beewater and everyone else. That, along with his new abstract and his other letter of support -- which was due any day now, according to a note from its writer -- would surely seal the tenure deal. He’d received numerous congratulations from colleagues --including Beewater and Belcamp -- after they’d read his latest Aefle abstract, and the university’s PR office had already contacted him about publicity possibilities.

  The only conspicuous lack of sincere support came from Heather. Oh, she’d dropped him a dutiful note after receiving his email, but it had contained sting as well as balm. “Aefle continues to surprise,” she’d written, before launching into a list of tasks she wanted him to do for the interdisciplinary committee and mentioning that it hadn’t looked good when he’d not shown up for graduation.

  To prove he was a good team player, he tried his best to show interest in the interdisciplinary effort. He volunteered to set up the next meeting with Dr. Farley. He even offered to deal with campus services to have the meeting catered. These mindless tasks also helped keep his thoughts off DeeDee.

  He started preparing for his summer session classes and continuing his translation of Aefle’s writings.

  On this latter point, he suddenly found himself… abandoned.

  Abandoned by his little monk, that is. Just as Peter Gilbert had predicted, Aefle’s personal writings abruptly halted near the end of the stack of manuscripts Tom had meticulously collected.

  In fact, peering through a magnifying glass at the last batch of illuminated drawings, Tom was sure he was now staring at a different hand, not Aefle’s. The lettering and illustrations were far more precise. No more “coloring outside the lines,” no more errant pinpricks of paint.

  Sitting at his office desk, Tom straightened. He quickly rummaged through the last translations he’d done. They read more like journal entries than poetry:

  G takes my heart with her

  But my body remains here

  How can it live without a beating heart?

  Had Gisela moved away? Had Aefle died? Had he followed her, leaving the monastery?

  Tom reached for his phone, scrambling to find the number he wanted, and dialed Peter Gilbert’s office at St. Mary’s. Voice mail.

  He turned to his computer and wrote an email instead, telling Peter what he’d found and asking his opinion on what it meant.

  But Tom knew what it meant. Aefle was gone.

  Hours later, Peter affirmed this belief with his own opinion, expressed in an email. “Our little monk has gone into the wide world at last, Tom. Don’t you wish you could pat him on the back and say ‘attaboy’?”

  ***

  Tom was gratified to receive in his office his second letter of support the next day, a glowing note from a professor at Franklin & Marshall College in Pennsylvania. Not as heartfelt as Peter’s, but still a strong endorsement of his work and abilities, based on some interaction the two had had at a conference.

  Feeling extremely confident now about his tenure chances, he decided to drop the letter off to Beewater in person. He’d seen him come in that morning for a meeting with Heather about the committee. Tom would grab him before Heather arrived and try to get a feel for whether the tenure application was now moving forward at a reasonable clip.

  Standing at the chairman’s open door, Tom knocked. Getting no response, he walked in to see Beewater immersed in reading something on h
is computer screen, his shoulders slumped and his eyes squinting.

  “Sorry to interrupt you,” Tom said, “but I have my second letter of support here, and I was wondering if we could discuss the tenure application in more detail.” He held out the white envelope, but Beewater just waved at him as he finished his read.

  Finally, the chairman turned to Tom, blinking as if trying to remember what Tom had said, and then taking the proffered letter.

  “I don’t know,” was all the chairman muttered, a look of glum confusion on his face.

  “You don’t know how it’s going?” Tom asked incredulously. Now, what?

  “I mean I thought I knew, until I got this note…” He gestured to the computer screen. “Sit down a moment, will you?”

  Tom didn’t like the tone of his voice. Gone was Beewater’s usual syrupy attempts at charm. Gone was his supercilious arrogance. He was dead serious as he leaned forward.

  “Your abstract -- you said the college PR machine is cranking up on it. How far has that gone?”

  “I… not far… I’m supposed to do an interview with a medieval history magazine next week and I promised to write a short article for a history journal at St. Mary’s. I’m sure there will be more, though, as I flesh out my findings.” Tom gripped the arms of his chair, sweating in the small room that was made even more claustrophobic by the books jammed in every available space.

  “Don’t. Don’t do the interviews and articles,” Beewater said. “Not yet.”

  “What’s the matter?” Tom asked. “What’s in that note?” He pointed to the computer.

  “How familiar are you with the Cambridge Songs?” Beewater asked, looking at him from the tops of his eyes.

  “Very! Every medievalist is familiar with them. Eleventh century. Found on ten leaves--”

  “You didn’t find any of your Aefle’s poetry familiar? The latest samples you sent around, the ones supposedly written to his… his…”

  “Gisela.” Tom gulped. He sat back. He mentally combed through poems. He saw. His bluster gone, he felt sweat bead on his brow.

  “They’re remarkably similar,” he heard himself admitting. “The love poems. Aefle’s…”

  “Precisely. They’re copies, with a word changed here or there. Something a prankster would do to fool the world, figuring most of the world is unfamiliar with the Cambridge Songs.”

  “You’re saying the songs are a hoax?” Tom asked, grasping a last hope.

  “I’m saying -- this note is suggesting -- that Aefle himself is a hoax and the Cambridge Songs rip-off is but one of several clues, the others being the monk’s distinctly contemporary attitude toward women,” Beewater informed him.

  Heather. She must have written the note.

  But did it matter? How could Tom have been so stupid? He knew his material. He should have recognized the similarities immediately between Aefle’s poems and the Cambridge Songs. Why had he not?

  Because he’d been excited. Excited to fall in love with DeeDee, excited to have her in his life, excited that Aefle had found a love, too.

  He would have noticed it eventually. But maybe not before another scholar pointed out the embarrassing gaffe.

  “I… I’m sorry,” was all Tom could think of to say. “I’m sure there’s an explanation. I’ll do some more research. I’ll see how extensive the copying is…”

  “No, you don’t understand, Thomas. It’s not just the songs. As I said, it’s Aefle’s validity, his very existence, that could be the deeper problem here. The university is all for tooting its horn when we have something genuine to promote. But if this Aefle thing turns into a grand scheme to fool historians, we’re going to look like idiots, not to mention having to answer to the university librarians for the money spent on acquiring the manuscripts.”

  “They’re still valuable,” Tom protested, “And Aefle is no scheme to fool anybody.” Tom shook his head. “Now, wait a minute, Q.T., I’m willing to admit that there’s a problem with this latest batch of poems. But I stand by my previous work on Aefle. He’s as authentic as you or I. He was real. He was human…”

  “I don’t doubt that, my dear boy. I just doubt he was a twelfth century human.”

  “We can have paint samples tested. Carbon dating…” Some of it had already been done on the first manuscripts he’d analyzed.

  Beewater held up his hand. “Go ahead and do your work, Tom. But I’m afraid the university will have to tread carefully around this one. Very carefully. And, obviously, that has implications for your tenure quest. Let’s put it on hold for now. Shall we?”

  ***

  Tom didn’t think he could feel any lower than he already did, but when he went back to his apartment later that day, he encountered a bit of disturbing news. Megan, in a misguided desire to assure him his legal woes were gone, sent him an email with a photo of DeeDee and Buck in the Oyster Point paper under the headline: “New Nuptials for Runaway Bride.” Her note to Tom simply read: Our long local nightmare is over. Dickie Faulkes informed me today the suit against you is officially dropped.

  That should have cheered him. Instead, the photo sent him straight to his liquor cabinet. He poured himself a stiff glass of whiskey and sat at his computer. He wanted to talk to DeeDee. She’d comfort him. She’d tell him not to give up.

  But he couldn’t bear to contact her. First, he didn’t want to call, lest she was in the middle of something with Buck.

  He took another drink.

  Second, he didn’t want to come off as a whining jerk. She had enough on her mind. As much as she took an interest in his work, he strongly suspected she’d not get the full import of the day’s discovery.

  He couldn’t stop himself, though. After another sip, he opened his other Aefle email account and wrote her a note, under the subject “Am I real?” He tried to keep it short and simple, but found himself going on for paragraphs, the gist of which was that his integrity, not just his tenure track, was in jeopardy now.

  When he hit send, he didn’t expect to hear back from her right away, so he was uplifted when he saw in his box a reply within ten minutes.

  “Oh, poor Aefle. Of course you are real. You did all your homework. I remember you telling me about how much you went through to prove Aefle was real. Don’t let jackasses get you down. So what if Aefle cribbed some love poetry for his gal? Guys have been doing that since time began.”

  He smiled as he took in her wisdom. Yes, guys had been stealing other, more eloquent writers’ love poems since…

  He sat up. He’d done it, too. He laughed out loud. He’d stolen Aefle’s poems and sent them to his own “Gisela” when he’d first come upon them.

  He, a big university professor, a man who knew language, a man who knew rhetoric and nuance. Even he had stolen another poet’s works to impress his lady love.

  These latest poems didn’t prove Aefle was a hoax. They could prove jut the opposite -- he was all too real.

  ***

  DeeDee’s words helped light the fire under Tom to continue to prove Aefle was no hoax, but all fires need fuel, and the university wasn’t providing any, in the form of funds to do continued carbon dating and other forensic analyses of the latest manuscripts. Beewater pled “draconian budget cuts,” but Tom knew better. He knew there was a discretionary fund that could be used for projects like his. Beewater just refused to let him have at it.

  Okay, he’d roll up his sleeves and apply for some grants.

  But grants took time. It could be months before he heard from anyone. As he toiled over the next few days, he found himself exchanging more notes with Peter Gilbert who, like DeeDee, saw nothing wrong in Aefle’s use of the Cambridge Songs, if it turned out the manuscripts were legit.

  “I have every confidence you’ll do due diligence on this,” Peter emailed him. “Your previous research was sound. You went the extra mile on it, further than many would go, to keep bias and personal preference out of the work.”

  Peter even offered to help him put together some gr
ant proposals to fund the new analyses required.

  If all of this was good, two shadows loomed in Tom’s life. One was Heather, who didn’t hide her opinion of the possible scandal, should her theory prove correct.

  “If Aefle didn’t write the poems, who’s to say he wrote anything at all?” she chided him at the end of a meeting to prepare for the next meeting with Dr. Farley.

  “I don’t know, Heather. Who’s to say Virginia Woolf wrote anything? Who’s to say she even exists? Who’s to say we exist?” He scooped up his papers and prepared to leave the stuffy room.

  “Don’t be petulant,” she said. “I’m trying to help you, you know. You don’t want a stain on your record. If you clear this up, you can move forward. You’ve been very capable and cooperative on the interdisciplinary project.”

  So at least his accommodating attitude on that had impressed her.

  In truth, he’d liked having things to fill his days as DeeDee got closer to the march down the fake aisle. In the back of his mind, he kept asking himself what he should be doing to fight Buck so that she wouldn’t have to. He came up blank every time. And his helplessness made him wonder if he really was still Timid Tommy, if he had been as wimpy as they'd said all along..

  I need someone to dare me to do something to help her, he thought as he made his way home. Whatever the dare, I’ll just take it this time.

  At least he knew she had no residual feelings for Buck. The wedding was the day after tomorrow, and she was writing him several times a day as Gisela, some of the notes sexy and provocative, hinting at what they could do together once this was behind them.

  He comforted himself with those thoughts, looking at the calendar, wondering if they could squeeze in a weekend away before summer session began.

  Just one more day, he thought. And then Buck Bewley would be satisfied and leave them alone, if DeeDee’s plan worked.

  If it worked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  TWO DAYS later, DeeDee McGowan sat in her bedroom patting the sweat from her nose with a soft powder puff, her hand shaking so hard she had to put the puff down several times and resume again. Something felt wrong.