The Pretender

by David Belbin

  No wonder Helen wasn’t interested in me. No wonder she couldn’t wait to be twenty-one. Back in Paris, I would have been shocked by the relationship, but London had made me more cosmopolitan. The successful writers who stopped by the LR offices often had second wives half their ages, while Tony’s wealthy gay friends could be found with boys my age or younger. Helen was now nearly twenty-two. Her husband was a little younger than I’d first thought: forty-seven.

  At first, I couldn’t think clearly. I kept visualising Helen in bed with Paul. I might not be shocked, but I was disgusted. Slowly, it sunk in that the sex wasn’t what I should be bothered about. The Hemingway manuscript would set the couple up for the rest of their lives. Unless I exposed them. But how could I do that? I wasn’t able to prove that I wrote the Hemingway stories. If I went public with such a claim, there were only two possibilities: the Mercers could say I was lying and it would be my word against theirs, or they could accept that I was telling the truth, but say I had conned them. Either way, I emerged as the bad guy.

  Yet why should the Mercers get a couple of million for my handiwork? Here I was, living in a tiny room, my summer term grant already almost spent, my only substantial possession a house I couldn’t sell or rent. Surely the Mercers should hand over at least some of the proceeds? The newspaper story speculated about how the stories came to be hidden in those magazines in the flea market. I knew the truth.They never were. However, as far as Helen and Paul were concerned, the stories were my discovery. They must be shitting themselves that I would come forward and immerse them in even more scandal.

  One of the American newspapers mentioned which New York hotel the Mercers were staying at. Back at the LR office, I took some headed note paper and wrote the couple a guarded letter.

  You appear to have sold two manuscripts that belong to me, without my permission. I would be grateful if you would contact me at the above address and explain how you will arrange for me to receive the proceeds of this sale.

  I could hardly go to a solicitor. My position was too awkward and, anyhow, I had no money. I thought that using the LR’s headed paper would impress them. And it did, though not in the way I intended.

  Eighteen

  The day after I posted my letter to the Mercers,Tony was in one of his ruminative moods. Lately he’d been going out less at lunchtimes, spending more time on the magazine. I assumed this was because the deadline for issue 498 was coming up.

  ‘Seen a story by Takimoto lying around?’

  ‘No, I’d have read it if I had.’

  ‘Seems he sent me one two years ago. I forgot to publish it. Here.’ He handed me a letter from Ken Takimoto, the only author whose every novel had been shortlisted for the Booker prize. Ken pointed out that he had sent Tony a story because he’d received a begging letter saying the LR needed to boost circulation if it was to survive, and if Tony wasn’t going to use the damn story, he could make a couple of thousand dollars by placing it in The New Yorker.

  ‘I suppose it must be in my in-tray,’ Tony said, casually indicating the full tea-chest to the left of his desk.

  ‘Do you want me to take a look?’ I asked.

  ‘Would you mind? It always depresses me so.’

  When he’d gone home, I shut the office and emptied out the tea chest. It was full of papers: letters, CVs, poems, stories, book reviews, memoirs. On each, Tony had carefully scrawled the date of acceptance. Most were from the last year or two. I was discovering what writers tended to refer to as ‘the only trouble with the Little Review’. While we made quick decisions on whether to accept or reject a piece, Tony was poor at scheduling and frequently took on far more material than he could foreseeably use. For instance, I found an accepted story by Tim Cooper, a writer I’d never heard of, with a letter that was over five years old. In searching for the Takimoto, I found a second letter from Cooper, gushing with joy because he’d had the story taken. The enclosed biog showed that he was twenty-two, a recent graduate. He gave his parents’ address because mail at his current residence often went missing.

  As I continued going through the pile, I found no Takimoto, but I came across several more letters from Tim Cooper, each detailing a change of address. The letters also contained polite inquiries as to publication date and, finally, an angry plea. His last address was care of a bookshop in Willesden Green. Tony had kept all the letters, but never scheduled the story for publication.

  There were similarly petulant or irritated letters from other writers. Had Tony changed his mind about the stories (and, sometimes, poems) but not had the heart to write back? That wasn’t in his character. More likely, they had been displaced by a famous name. Authors like Takimoto contributed to the LR because it had helped them out early in their careers. In doing so, they expected rapid publication, which inevitably increased the backlog. Occasionally, an impatient author, stuck on the waiting list, would withdraw his or her story, but there was nowhere else as prestigious for an obscure writer to go, so most held on, frustrated.

  There were less than a handful of good magazines that regularly published stories by unknowns. A flood of submissions arrived every day. After a few months of sorting the mail, I had learnt to recognise the regulars.They were treated in a cavalier manner, but established writers weren’t always treated better, as the Takimoto incident showed. For all I knew, there might be other lost stories by famous authors that Tony had squirreled away on his drunk and forgetful days.

  Eventually, near the bottom of the pile, I found Ken Takimoto’s story, which was about a widow preparing to go into an old people’s home and her inability to commit suicide. It was well written but, I thought, unconvincing. I preferred Tim Cooper’s story, an account of a drunken night out in which the narrator learnt some painful, embarrassing truths about himself.

  Tony was so delighted I’d found the Takimoto that he took me out to dinner. Issue 498 was late, he said, and he would slot the story into it.

  ‘I’d been thinking of feeding him some line about how I was saving it for the five hundredth issue, but the truth is I can’t afford to wait until then. We need a bit of a sales surge at the moment.’

  I told him about Tim Cooper’s story. ‘You’ve had it for five years.And it’s good.’

  ‘Is it? Sometimes I get carried away, or a writer’s really persistent.’

  I got the impression that Tim’s was not the only story that Tony had accepted but never used. ‘You have to publish it,’ I said.

  ‘Very well,’ Tony told me. ‘Get him to send an updated biog note. We’ll put him in issue 499.’

  ‘There might be a problem there,’ I told Tony as our ravioli arrived.‘The last address he gave was a care of, two years ago. He’s probably moved since then.’

  ‘If we can’t find him, we shouldn’t publish,’ Tony said. ‘We need someone to check his proofs, and there are lots of other people waiting...’

  ‘I’ll find him,’ I promised, thinking about how I’d feel if I’d written my first decent story and had the thing accepted by the LR only for it never to come out.

  Nineteen

  The bookshop Tim Cooper had given as his postal address wasn’t in the phone book. I took the tube to Willesden Green, hoping that it still existed. If I was lucky, somebody there would remember him, maybe even have a forwarding address.

  The street took me some time to find. At first, I didn’t spot the shop, sandwiched between a greengrocer and a halal butcher. It was a run down, shabby place with a grille in front of the dusty windows, and no name legible above. Only when I got close could I make out that it sold not second hand bicycles or bric-a-brac, but books. A bell rang when I opened the door. Nobody was behind the narrow counter. Shelves stood so close together, there was scarcely room to move. The stock consisted mainly of tattered paperbacks. I found one row of hardback novels, and, in a cluttered back room, a pile of literary magazines, not all of which were in shabby condition. I gave a whoop of delight when I found an old copy of the LR. It was one of the two miss
ing from our archive.

  ‘Found something you want?’ The speaker was in his mid-twenties, had long hair like mine and wore a plain, grey T-shirt, cheap blue jeans and scuffed trainers.

  ‘Just this magazine,’ I told him. ‘It’s missing from a set.’

  The guy looked at the magazine and his eyes narrowed with resentment.

  ‘Fifty pence,’ was all he said.

  I handed him a coin. ‘I’m looking for someone,’ I told him. ‘He used to live or work here, I think.’

  ‘There’s only me and the owner,’ the guy told me. ‘I’ve lived in the flat above the shop for a couple of years.’

  ‘Then it must be you I’m looking for. Tim?’

  He nodded warily. I spoke quickly, garbling my words. ‘I work part time for the Little Review, sorting out the archives. I came across this story of yours that should have been published five years ago.’

  Tim’s eyes became wider.

  ‘Thing is, Tony wants to put it in the next issue and I agreed to track you down so that we can get a new biographical note and send you some proofs.’

  Tim still looked angry. ‘This isn’t a wind up, is it?’

  ‘No, no,’ I babbled on about the LR, explaining how the issue I’d just bought was missing from the archives and apologising again for the delay in publication. ‘Tony was mortified when I told him, but he’s incredibly overworked. Mistakes do get made.’

  Tim took a deep breath. ‘I used to tell people I had a story coming out in the Little Review. Then they’d ask to see it.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I know it’s been a long time. Have you published much else?’

  He listed a handful of small magazines, one of which I’d heard of. ‘Nothing that impresses publishers much. I finished a novel, but it didn’t quite work. I’ve started on another one. It’s slow going.’

  I could see how disheartened he’d become. He was still unsure whether this was some kind of practical joke. ‘You’ll definitely be in the next issue,’ I said. ‘If you don’t believe me, you can ring Tony, he’ll confirm it.’

  ‘That might be a bit uncool. I wrote him a really angry letter a while ago.’

  ‘Two years.’ I produced the letter from my pocket. ‘If he ever saw the letter, he’s forgotten it. As I said, things there are a bit chaotic.’

  The letter convinced Tim. ‘This calls for a celebration,’ he said. ‘Fuck it, I’ll close the shop. Fancy a drink?’

  ‘If you’re buying,’ I said. I was skint.

  ‘Sure. But you ought to visit the toilet first.’

  This took me aback. But Tim was smiling mysteriously, so I did as I was told, going up some rickety stairs to the smallest room. This was where he’d been when I entered the shop. Immediately I opened the door, I understood why he’d wanted me to see it. Both the walls and the door of the toilet were papered with rejections from publishers and magazines, large and small. There were letters. Sorry, not for us wrote the editor of a magazine which advertised that it never rejected material without an explanation. There were comments scribbled on Tim’s original letters. This nearly makes the mark, but not quite, the editor of The London Magazine had written. Mostly, there were anonymous slips. The editor regrets...We suggest that before submitting more material, you buy a sample copy of the magazine or, better still, a subscription.

  I counted nearly a hundred rejections, many from the same magazine, again and again, the comments changing from neutral to vaguely promising. There were three from Tony, a not this time, a not quite what we’re after at the moment and a strong work, but we’re very full up at the moment from six years ago. I found rejections from Ambit, Inkshed, Iron, Panurge, Stand, Slow Dancer, Sunk Island Review and one I’d never even heard of called joe soap’s canoe. We only publish poetry, the editor of the latter had written, but if we published prose, yours wouldn’t be it.

  Tim had paid his dues. I was seeing, from the other side, what lay ahead for me, if I was serious about pursuing a career as a writer.

  In a smoky, side street pub, we drank to Tim’s success with the takings from the till. Tim was sanguine about his experiences.

  ‘If you don’t have the early years of failure, you’re worth nothing,’ he said, and I — who had not really tried, never mind failed — agreed. By the time I caught the tube back to Soho, four hours later, Tim and I were bosom buddies.

  Back at the office, I put Tim’s story in the file to go to the typesetter, then put his biographical details and address in the folder marked ‘recent correspondence’. The top drawer of Tony’s desk, usually kept locked, was half open. This was where he kept personal correspondence. But the letter on top of the scattered heap was hardly personal. It was from the London Arts Board.

  The letter was short and to the point, stating that the LR’s circulation had fallen to such a level that the size of its Arts Board grant could no longer be justified. It went on to say that there was great competition for grant money from other magazines. Unless the LR’s circulation doubled by the end of the year, the board would have no choice but to reduce the grant level substantially. I read the letter twice then pushed the drawer shut.

  The LR was on the verge of going bust. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. Tony took no money out of the magazine. He lived off a state pension supplemented by money from poetry readings and occasional journalism. Until his parents died, in the seventies, he’d lived either with them or in the tiny flat that I now occupied. He’d moved up in the world, but often complained about the rates on the flat he’d inherited in Highgate. With a reduced grant, Tony wouldn’t be able to afford to pay contributors their already tiny fees. He might not be able to pay the printing bill. He badly needed to find a way to boost circulation.

  That night, I couldn’t sleep for worrying about the magazine going under. My whole future seemed bound up with it. One short story from a famous writer wouldn’t be enough to lift sales. Tony needed several, soon. He might be able to beg one or two, but I had learnt that big name writers don’t keep masterpieces hidden in their bottom drawers, saved for a rainy day. Nor could most of them come up with a new story at short notice.

  There was, however, somebody who could make up stories quickly, who could imitate the style of other writers and pass them off as genuine. Somebody who owed Tony a favour. He could, maybe, if he tried hard enough and chose well, singlehandedly save the magazine. For, if I could forge Hemingway and fool experts, why shouldn’t I be able to forge someone else just as convincingly?

  Who? I had been working on my own fiction all this time, writing either autobiographical wallowings that I destroyed the next day or surreal, semi-mythical nonsense that I kept, but never showed to anyone. I had no enthusiasm for my own writing. I did not believe in myself. This new project, however, fired me up. I began looking through the LR’s archives, neglecting my university work to search for ideas.

  At first I thought the ideal author would be somebody who had contributed to the LR in the early days and since died, leaving only a small body of work. But there was a problem with that. Many authors suffered a slump in sales in the decade or two after their death.The forgee had to be someone whose work I loved, and could immerse myself in. My first thought was JD Salinger. I reckoned I could easily imitate the style of The Catcher in the Rye. But I soon decided against this. Salinger was already much imitated, and the mentally disturbed, over clever, over-educated Salinger characters reminded me too much of myself. Also, Salinger hadn’t published anything new in nearly thirty years. He’d recently sued a British poet who tried to publish a biography of him, so he was certain to sue anyone who published a story without permission. I wanted to save the Little Review, not bankrupt it.

  My next thought was James Sherwin, nowhere near as famous as Salinger, but still a cult and, I thought, a more interesting writer. Sherwin had published less than Salinger, and had been absent for almost as long. Moreover, two of his stories had been published in the LR in the early sixties. I’d found the MS of one of t
hem, a story that later appeared in his only collection, User. Sherwin’s big success came with I, Singer in 1967, then there was the book of stories and a novella, Stargazer, in 1970. Nothing since. My mother had a signed copy of the last book.

  I remembered Mum telling me how, as a student, she saw Sherwin give a reading. He read from Stargazer, then from another, as yet unpublished and unfinished book, A Commune. After the reading tour, Sherwin returned to his Greek island, which he hadn’t left since, to complete his magnum opus. A Commune was talked about for years. People who’d heard Sherwin read extracts declared that it was going to be ‘the novel to end all novels’. Sherwin — still only in his late thirties — said that A Commune would be his final novel: he’d said in it all that he ever wanted to say. Only the book never came out. Nor did anything else.

  Sherwin’s three other books remained in print but were out of fashion, except with old hippies and a certain kind of student. Nevertheless, an LR containing a new story by him could quadruple its print run and still sell out.The only drawback I could see was this: Sherwin had published so little that he was unlikely to have forgotten a story sent out when he was a young man. Even if I could get a letter to Sherwin and convince him that he’d written a story and forgotten about it, I still had to write the story. And that wouldn’t be easy. From the start, Sherwin’s world weary style was unique.There were hints of Borges, even Nabokov, yet he was also English. His subject matter drifted from working class life in the Midlands to a semi-mythical, ascetic world. He was fascinating, but would be very hard to fake. I needed someone easier. Preferably, someone who was dead and couldn’t kick up a fuss.