Death by Publication

by J. J. Fiechter

  Nora hid her tears behind a black veil and held on to my hand for a long time.

  “You were his best friend,” she told me. “He loved you very much and spoke often of your growing up together in Alexandria.”

  This caused me pain. I wanted to get away from everyone as quickly as possible, but Millagard insisted on driving me to the airport, and I could hardly refuse the offer.

  We sat in silence for a while. I heard him sniffle and realized that he was truly saddened by Nicolas’s death.

  Suddenly, to my alarm, he burst into sobs, like a child.

  “Damn it all! I loved him, Edward. I loved him. . . . Despite everything that he did to me, I loved him. What a man he was—magnificent, funny, moving.” Millagard wiped his eyes. “You know, if we hadn’t had formal proof of his amnesia I never would have bought that plagiarism story. And you know why? Because that just was not something he would do, that’s why. He was the real thing. I still don’t buy it completely. It just doesn’t add up somehow, but I’ll be damned if I can put my finger on why.”

  The trip was an insufferable one for me, but thank the good Lord it didn’t last long, and with enormous relief I managed to detach myself from Millagard.

  I spent the next two days in a state of near-total disorientation. It was a very good thing I had so much work to do. Happily, too, all the agitation caused by Nicolas’s death quickly passed. His suicide was widely regarded as an admission of guilt, and after a few days the tabloids and gossipmongers had moved on to other, fresher scandals. Only the lawyers didn’t lose interest in the case. The problem of copyright ownership for Il faut aimer was not fully resolved.

  I permitted myself the luxury of magnanimity. Having repurchased all rights to Marble Arch Press titles, I had in effect replaced Brown’s legal heirs in terms of claiming the profits earned in France on Nicolas’s last book. I needed to bring the suit against Millagard formally, given that the English court had gone no further than verifying the authenticity of The Need to Love and rejecting the basis for Nicolas’s countersuit. Sir Charles Vanderon urged me to push ahead, but I refused. Justice had been served. I decided to allow Nicolas to remain the beneficiary of any “legal” doubt in the matter.

  The only causes I wanted to advance were those of sparing my loyal colleague in France further anguish and allowing Peter to profit from the royalties of his father’s book, which had outsold all his previous books. I was content with world rights to Brown’s book—which, naturally, I was planning to reissue in paperback.

  The Need to Love, would, I was sure, enjoy such tremendous commercial success that I would be able to afford my generosity. Millagard, of course, was thrilled with the arrangement. Not so Peter, who was furious at the idea I was reissuing the original, complete with a biographical sketch of Brown and a brief introduction in which I explained that I felt honor-bound as a publisher to offer to the public the right to judge for themselves the “celebrated and troubling similarities” between the two texts. The final verdict lay in the hearts and minds of readers.

  Peter defended his father vehemently, something he had never done when Nicolas was alive. He called me all sorts of names. I decided that his response was emotional and that he was still getting at his father through me. In time he would see this and understand, as Millagard did, that I had handled things fairly.

  For me, the passage of time changed almost nothing. The Death of the Author had not restored to me any creativity. I tried, unsuccessfully, to write.

  Did my lack of creative talent have nothing to do with Nicolas Fabry?

  Two weeks after The Need to Love appeared, a call came for me from Burgleyhad, in Scotland.

  “I am so sorry to disturb you,” a voice told me in a pleasant, slightly lilting voice. “My name is Ossiana Macpherson. A friend gave me a copy of The Need to Love and I haven’t been able to put it down! You see, I had no idea that my brother had published a novel.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Yes. I’m C. Irving Brown’s sister.”

  The sky had come crashing down upon my head. Sweat poured out. I felt as if I were watching the collapse of my magnificent creation. I started babbling shamefully, then attempted to collect my thoughts.

  “Mrs. Macpherson, you must think me a dithering idiot. It’s just that I’m rather taken aback, you see! Do you think you could come round to my office? Right away, if it’s not too inconvenient?”

  “I’m afraid that I can’t leave Burgleyhad.”

  She explained that since the death of her husband, she was alone in raising greyhounds in a remote comer of the country, and positively could not leave home for more than a few hours at most. I therefore proposed going up to see her in Burgleyhad, a proposition she accepted with enthusiasm. I told her I would be arriving the next day.

  Very early the next morning I took a train to Inverness, where I hired a car to cover the remaining forty-five miles. I thought I would never arrive. I was awash in new sensations, just when I thought I had exhausted the whole register of human emotions these last few months. My skin felt prickly, my arms stiff, and I was having difficulty breathing.

  Finally, I was there—21 Stuart Lane, Burgleyhad, a modest, clean little town that couldn’t have held more than a few hundred inhabitants. Seeing it helped me understand why Brown’s sister had not heard anything about the whole Fabry business.

  She lived in a small house, much like the ones you find in illustrated children’s books on Scotland. The roof was thatched. Vines and roses clung to the whitewashed walls. The front wall was covered with moss. At the back of a garden filled with flowers was a partly covered enclosure, which I assumed served as a kennel.

  I didn’t have to ring the bell. A woman, in her fifties I guessed, and still very attractive, opened the door. She seemed very fit, with the rosy, glowing complexion that comes with healthy living. Her hair was long and free-flowing. We introduced ourselves, and I followed her into the house. The sitting room was cozy and comfortable and showed perfect taste. Here and there were bits of exotica. She inquired politely how my trip had gone and apologized for all the trouble I had gone to reach her. I found her smile charming, and her blue-eyed expression seemed honest and open. Yet I was very much on my guard. This woman could, after all, bring about my downfall.

  I had sat down in an overstuffed chair with a flowery pattern, and she came directly to the point.

  “I thought I should repeat what I told you on the phone yesterday. I don’t understand this whole business about my brother and this novel.”

  “Nonetheless, madam, it is true. It was published by Marble Arch Press, whose rights I have purchased.”

  “Yes, I understand all that. I did read your introduction. But Chatterton could not have written it.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Well, I am his sister, after all. I should know, don’t you think?”

  I crossed my legs and took a deep breath.

  “Mrs. Macpherson, permit me to try and explain what I believe occurred. Due to the bombing during the Blitz, the novel was never properly distributed. All that remained of the printing were some half-dozen copies. Your brother probably died without knowing the book had even been published.”

  “Fine. Imagine that I accept this as true. After all, I was a girl at the time, and Chatterton was a few years older. The only thing I was interested in then was horses. But what about our parents?”

  “Ah, yes. Well, you see, parents are a little like cuckolded spouses, aren’t they? Always the last to know.”

  Not very elegant, I will admit. But I doggedly pressed onward with the idea that young writers very often submit their manuscript in secrecy, without having told a living soul they’ve written it. Frequently this is because their parents would be aghast that their children are thinking of becoming writers, when they ought to become bankers, lawyers, and accountants. Writing for a living is a very unwise thing to do.

  I could see I was bringing her round. All she really wa
nted was to be convinced; because the royalties that would come to her would be very handsome. For a widow raising dogs in a remote corner of Scotland, the money was a godsend.

  She showed me some photos of her brother. There he was at last, my author, in the flesh. I was thrilled. His handwriting appeared on some of them, and I noted that it was slanted and precise. Very much like mine. So too his background—a studious teenager with a ravenous appetite for books and for secrecy, and hampered by tremendous shyness. It was him. I knew it.

  The time seemed to fly. I could have spent many happy hours talking with Ossiana Macpherson, and I asked if she would join me for dinner at the finest restaurant in the village. She accepted with a dazzling smile.

  We went to a charming little country inn. She let me choose the menu and was delighted when I ordered a bottle of Bordeaux, the best claret on the list. As a rule I am very awkward on first dates, but this was a euphoric exception.

  There are moments in life when we have everything we desire, when we are simply and completely happy. The peace I felt with Ossiana cleansed my sins and justified my crimes. We talked as if we had known each other for ages. She was fascinated by everything I had to say, wishing to know all about my life, my profession, my experiences in the war. She remarked on the color of my eyes, my only remarkable feature. For my part, I was swept up by the tenderest of feelings for her. Putting my hand on hers, I told her with a deep sigh that it seemed like ages since we hadn’t known each other.

  She smiled and let her hand remain beneath mine. What pure joy that smile was to me.

  After the coffee, she suddenly gave a start.

  “I just remembered something! If you’re not in too great a rush, we could make a quick trip up to my attic. That’s where I keep Chatterton’s old trunk. I’ve never been through it carefully, but I remember it was filled with his papers.”

  We returned to her house. I was filled with apprehension. Would there be something in that trunk that would bring down my house of cards? A diary, perhaps? Anything that might make it clear that C. Irving could not have written a novel?

  Ossiana jumped out of the car as nimbly as a young girl. With me huffing behind, she shinnied up the ladder to the attic. My heart was pounding. Beneath piles of boxes and behind dusty furniture, she found the trunk in question.

  “Here it is. I don’t believe it’s been touched since I moved from Ipswich. How funny! I can’t imagine what we’ll find.”

  I undid the latches and raised the lid, slowly, like someone opening a casket. Inside were books, clippings, notebooks, lecture notes, letters. At the bottom lay a black moleskin folder, which I immediately opened and began looking through, a cold sweat beading my forehead. Three hundred pages of writing. It was not a diary. It was a manuscript. On the title page was handwritten in large letters: Only the Journey Matters: A Novel by C. Irving Brown.

  My cry of relief was also an exclamation of joy. Ossiana saw what it was and jumped into my arms. We looked at each other, then burst out laughing like children.

  We went back to the sitting room, me carrying the manuscript under my arm. Without even glancing at it, I began to talk to Ossiana about author’s rights and what sort of contract would be best. She interrupted me.

  “Edward, I’ll do whatever you think is right.”

  I took the contract that I had brought for The Need to Love out of my briefcase and simply changed the language where appropriate, initialing where necessary. Ossiana then signed it, thereby according Turner Press exclusive rights to the complete works of C. Irving Brown, on terms very favorable to her. Then I wrote her out a check for five thousand pounds for the rights to The Need to Love—the same amount I had paid to Anthony Ramsay. She was so happy. I could have almost taken her into my arms.

  Sitting in the train taking me back to London, I began to read the yellowing pages of Chatterton’s manuscript. It reminded me of Nicolas’s early works, the kind of things he did when he had not yet become famous. Their voices were similar—the cadence of the sentences, the high-spirited insolence. How moved I felt by the mysterious harmony between the works of these two dead men, whose destinies I had brought together.

  Of course, the novel was hardly ready for immediate publication. It required a great deal of work before it approached the level of The Need to Love. The work gave me a feeling of freedom, of creative joy, that far surpassed anything I would have ever dreamt possible. Finally, rebirth!

  What a glorious morning it is! The boxwood hedges in Hyde Park are giving off a sweet, musky odor. Ossiana has just told me over the telephone that she will spend a few days with me on the Isle of Wight. Her neighbor will see that her greyhounds are cared for. Only the Journey Matters is at the printers (the French edition, published by Laurent Millagard, will appear later this autumn), and everyone impatiently awaits this second work by C. Irving Brown. This “resurrection” has transformed my hatred to mercy. I have given this unknown writer posthumous fame to rival that of Leo Perutz, Rupert Brook, and Elizabeth Holden.

  I am putting together a small collection of poems. I think I know how to live without Nicolas now. My memory of him dims with each passing day. My demons have fled, and stretching before me are green fields and pastures new.