‘Folks, this is the book that has made waves in the world of literature. They say Władysław Czartoryski will almost definitely win the Nobel Prize this year. So we are really extremely honoured that we have you here, Mr. Czartoryski.’
Władysław Czartoryski looked blankly at Sheelaaa.
The audience was at the edge of their seats.
Sheelaaa spoke. “Let me begin by saying, sir, that your book is quite remarkable. It must have taken years to write it.’
Władysław Czartoryski looked blankly at Sheelaaa.
‘Critics have said that the book weighs on their shoulders and conscience. Remarkable words of praise. What is this book about?’
Władysław Czartoryski looked blankly at Sheelaaa.
The audience moved further to the edge.
Sheelaaa smiled and smiled but we could see that she was getting nervous.
I suddenly realized that Władysław Czartoryski couldn’t speak a word of English. No wonder he was a best-selling and famous writer.
So I yelled out from the audience in Polish, which I speak fluently.
‘Władisław, co jest wasza książka o?’
Władysław Czartoryski’s face brightened. I had guessed correctly.
Sheelaaa winked at me gratefully.
The crowd went wild.
Władysław Czartoryski spoke. ‘Moja książka jest historią o pisaniu w zupełnym. Co zdarza się kiedy wy nie możecie widzieć co wy piszecie? Robi słowa przyjmują różne znaczenie? Robi one przybył do życia. badam, depresja, łza, wydać, szary nadforma dla odlewania niebiosa, piękność samobójstwa, rozpaczliwy, tortury, wina, napięcie, rozdzielenie i tak dalej napiszę książkę w skończonym.’
The crowd broke out in frenzied applause. Already it was clear that this would be the event of the festival, perhaps its defining moment.
Sheelaaa gestured at me, asking me to interpret.
‘He says that his book is a story about writing in utter darkness. What happens when you cannot see what you’re writing? Do the words take on a different meaning? Do they come to life? He explores darkness, depression, misery, sadness, tears, pathos, utter hopelessness, grey overcast skies, the beauty of suicide, desperate miserable longing, grief, torture, meanness, guilt, grimness, tension, wrenching separation, and so on. He wrote the book in complete darkness.’
Once again the audience broke out into furious clapping. Some louts even whistled loudly. Władysław Czartoryski smiled wanly and nodded in acknowledgement, enjoying another moment of international recognition.
Sheelaaa had to hog some of the limelight. ‘And really, that is what great literature is about. It is about exploring utter misery and sadness. My books are also very sad and I’m hoping to win the Nobel sooner or later.’
‘So now, may I ask you to read from your book? Perhaps pages 750 onwards? I understand that the book is particularly sad at that point.’
Władysław Czartoryski looked at me, bewildered.
‘Tak teraz, może pytam was ogłaszać od waszego książka? Prawdopodobnie Numeruje strony 750 do przodu? rozumiem co książka jest szczególnie smutna przy takim punkcie.’
‘Ah,’ said Władysław Czartoryski, his face brightening. He was planning to enjoy his own sad and miserable writing about misery. He opened the huge book at page 750 and started reading with dramatic flair.
“Ink-czarna noc wirowała o mnie, szarpiąc moim piórem, moją duszę, moje spodnie, kamizelka, moich moich rzęs. Nigdy nie było moim bardzo odczuwalne tak całkowicie zgnieciony. Ciemność docierane w samych komórkach mojej wątrobie i żal nie znaleźć żadnego sensownego wyrazu. Nawet śmierć nie byłabyodpowiedź. Noc nadal mocno, skręcanie i obracanie, odparowanie ciekłego istotę jakiejkolwiek nadziei, że może być jeszcze istniał. Tak, nie ma nadziei. Rzeczywiście, smutek i beznadzieja zdefiniowane mnie i oznaczałoby mnie teraz na wieczność. I napisał w czarnym tuszem na białym papierze, a ja nie wiedziałem, co demon smutku odbyła moje pióro i napisał wszystkie możliwe synonimem smutku. Warszawa była daleko i nigdy nie będzie żadnego światła, które przypomina mi się w tym kierunku. Żadnych pytań może zostać poproszony. Ona odpowiedziała. Nie było się bez kolacji kiełbasy i kaszanki dzisiaj. Jutro. I dzień po. Spojrzałem po mojej lewej stronie. Było ciemno. Potem spojrzałem na prawo. Było ciemno ponownie. Byłem sam. Pisanie ciemne słowa w ciemnym pokoju. Wypełniłem mój żołądek z żalu.”
There was a stunned silence. A few sensitive girls in the first row started crying. It had been deeply moving.
But someone had to say it and he did. ‘But what did he say?’
Sheelaaa looked at me, and I, getting the hint, spoke:
‘The ink-black night swirled about me, tugging at my pen, my soul, my pants, my vest, my eyelashes. Never had my very being felt so completely crushed. Darkness lapped at the very cells of my liver, and grief did not find any worthwhile expression. Even death would not have been an answer. The night continued forcefully, twisting and turning, vaporizing the liquid essence of any hope that might have still existed. Yes, there was no hope. Indeed, grief and hopelessness defined me and would mark me now for eternity. I wrote in black ink on black paper, and I knew not what demon of sorrow held my pen and wrote every possible synonym of tragedy. Warsaw was far away and there would never be any light that would point me in that direction. No questions could be asked. She had answered. There was to be no dinner of sausage and blood pudding today. Tomorrow. Or the day after. I looked to my left. It was dark. Then I looked to my right. It was dark again. I was alone. Writing dark words in a dark room. I filled my stomach with grief.’
This time, the crowd went absolutely mad, having finally understood the genius. Never before had they heard a Polish writer speak with such feeling about his book—in fact, reading from his book. They understood the original, and my translation had turned out to be quite good too.
I beamed at Władysław Czartoryski, and Władysław Czartoryski beamed at me. We were the heroes of the moment, happy that we had made more than a thousand people utterly miserable with his tale of woe.
The reading had been a massive success and I was called on stage to share the happy moment. Sheelaaa actually kissed me and said she appreciated my inputs. Władysław Czartoryski shook my hand and handed over some blood pudding and sausage that he had kept in his trouser pocket. He took me aside.
‘Thank you Mr. Murthy. That was nice of you,’ he said in English.
I was taken aback.
‘Hey, how come you can speak English, Władysław Czartoryski?’
‘Haha, one needs to have a flair for the dramatic, Mr. Murthy! Who reads English novels anyway? This is a good marketing gimmick! I can make fools of hundreds of people pretending to be a depressed author. Now people will buy tons of my book in the original Polish. I’ll be rich and I’ll get the Nobel Prize! Hahaha!’
‘Hahahaha! Really clever, Władysław Czartoryski!’
‘Call me Wlady!’ said the man, with a twinkle in his eyes, slapping my back.
‘Call me Vasu!’ I said, coughing and choking and slapping him with love.
‘I wish you absolute misery and many awards, hahaha!’ said Wlady, having a good chuckle.
‘I hope you get the Nobel Prize posthumously, hahaha! That would be really miserable!’
‘Hahaha!’
‘Hahaha!’
‘What are you guys laughing about?’ said Sheelaaa, coming up to us and trying to reclaim Władysław Czartoryski.
‘Just remembering my wild time in Warsaw and Bydgoszcz.’
‘I never knew you had been to Bydgoszcz,’ said Władysław, in Polish.
‘I haven’t but I wanted to confuse her!’ I said, also in Polish.
‘Hahaha!’
‘Hahaha!’
Sheelaaa tried to join in the laughter but somehow her ‘hahaha’ in English just didn’t ma
ke sense, and she knew it.
I left Władysław Czartoryski busy signing the hundreds of copies of his nine-hundred-fifty-page Polish book to his adoring fans in India who would never be able to read even a single page but would still adore him anyway.
Wild by Name,
Wild by Nature
Jane Finnis
Ever since I became a Poisoned Pen Press author in 2003 I’ve been an oddity…no, a rarity, that’s a better word. I’m English, living and writing in England. How did I find my way from here in Yorkshire to there in Arizona? Through another English mystery writer, Rhys Bowen. She’s settled in California now, but we go back a very long way, to the days when as fellow students at London University we both vowed to write fiction. Rhys got there considerably ahead of me, and when I asked her advice about the U.S. market, suggested I submit my first Aurelia Marcella novel to PPP. “They’re fairly new,” she said—this was 2003, remember—“but they’re already among the best.” I was thrilled when the Press took me on, and still feel very lucky to be published by a team that, though no longer new, is still definitely among the best. Here’s to the next twenty years!
—J.F.
***
I haven’t told anyone about this for ten years. But I think it’s safe enough now. We have a new Caesar in Rome, and there’s more respect for law and justice in the Empire nowadays, even in outlying provinces like ours. Mind you, law and justice aren’t always the same.
It was in our early days in Britannia. My sister, Albia, and I had moved here from Italia, after Pompeii…no, you don’t want to hear all that, do you? The point is that the Fates gave us the chance to be innkeepers, and we found ourselves running the Oak Tree Mansio. We took to the work like ducks to water. Albia was my housekeeper in those days, and together we were building up a good trade, and loving it. Succeeding, too, because of our excellent position on the main road from Eburacum to the coast.
We had an amazing mixture of customers. Some were just changing horses or having a drink and a bite to eat, others stayed overnight. There were government officials, traders, soldiers, couriers, a sprinkling of private travellers, and a few striving so hard for anonymity they must have been spies. We made them all welcome. But until that August afternoon we’d never had a gladiator as a guest.
I wasn’t in the bar-room when he arrived. I was in my office trying to sort out the accounts, which is not my favourite occupation. So I was delighted when Albia came flying in, wearing a smile as big as the Circus Maximus.
“Aurelia, guess who’s asking for a room here tonight. Ferox the Wild Man!”
“You mean Ferox the gladiator? Here? Are you sure?”
“Come and see for yourself. He’s in the bar-room now, large as life and twice as gorgeous. Isn’t it wonderful? One of the most famous fighters in Britannia, under our roof!”
There were a dozen or so men drinking in the bar-room, and Ferox the Wild Man stood out among them like a stallion in a field of mules. He was tall and broad, with muscles on his muscles, and a crescent-shaped scar below his left eye. His golden hair was cropped short, his jaw stuck out, and his pale-blue eyes were sharp. He was a slave, like most gladiators, but he was richly dressed; he wore a tiger-skin cloak and his belt had silver studs. He wasn’t carrying his weapons, of course, but he looked every inch a formidable trained killer, “wild by name, wild by nature,” as his supporters called him. But now and again his fearsome appearance was softened by a wonderful boyish smile which made him look about eighteen, and as handsome as a young god. Albia and I and all the barmaids fell for him immediately.
“Welcome to the Oak Tree, Ferox,” I said. “I’m Aurelia Marcella, the innkeeper. I hope our girls are looking after you properly?”
“Pleased to meet you.” He gave us his dazzling smile, just for a couple of heartbeats. “Yes, everything’s fine, thanks.” He indicated the man sitting next to him. “This is my trainer, Durus.”
Durus didn’t smile. “That’s me. Hard by name, hard by nature.” He was also a big man, presumably an ex-gladiator like most trainers. He was in good shape and well-dressed, but much older than his fighter, with grey hair and a world-weary look to him.
“Welcome, Durus. You’re wanting accommodation for tonight?”
“We are.” He took a drink, and I noticed they both held mugs of beer, which surprised me, because I’d always heard that gladiators only get water to quench their thirst. “Rooms for Ferox and me and one servant, and stabling for our carriage and horses. How much?”
I told him our room charges.
“Expensive,” he grumbled. “But we can’t make Eburacum tonight, so we’ve no choice.”
Albia asked, “Are you on your way to the games at Eburacum?”
They both nodded, and the trainer answered, “My boy’s come north to show your local lads how a real champion fights. He has the opening bout.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “Everyone’s looking forward to the games, even people like Albia and me, who can’t get away to be there in person. We have so few gladiator shows round here, you’ll get a very good crowd. Are you taking on our local hero, the Lion of Brigantia?”
“Yeah. And when I’ve done with him, I’ll be able to call myself Lion-Tamer as well as Wild Man.”
There was a jeer from the other customers, who had been listening to every word. One of them called out, “That’s fighting talk in these parts, Wild Man. Nobody’s ever beaten the Lion.”
“Nobody yet.”
This provoked an even louder jeer and a comment about cocky foreigners being too big for their helmets.
“I’m no foreigner,” he answered. “Born and trained here in Britannia. Down south, though, where folk are a bit more civilised.”
Our customers continued to trade insults and boasts with the Wild Man, and I felt a twinge of alarm. The Lion is a native Brigantian boy, born and trained only a few miles from us. He has a legion of devoted fans, and I didn’t want any trouble. But I needn’t have worried. The banter remained quite good-tempered, mostly because Ferox had the sense to answer cheerfully and with, for a gladiator, fairly moderate bragging. Durus didn’t join in, preferring to sit quiet, watching and listening. I couldn’t help thinking what an odd couple they made. Ferox, a slave who faced death in the arena in a couple of days, was laughing and joking, while Durus, who’d survived long enough to win freedom and safety, looked thoroughly miserable.
Eventually Durus said to me, “I’d like a few words about the Wild Man’s meal requirements, please. You know how important diet is for keeping fighters in top condition, and my boy is on a special regime at present.”
“Of course. Let’s go into the kitchen.”
Cook was getting the evening meal ready, and he eyed Durus somewhat warily when the trainer raised the subject of Ferox’ food. Some gladiators have the most weird and wonderful diets. This one was relatively straightforward, thank the gods—bread and fresh vegetables, and plenty of bull’s meat. This last might have been a problem because we hadn’t any; it isn’t popular hereabouts, and we don’t serve it often. But Durus had brought a supply with him, and insisted he’d cook it himself, with his own special mixture of herbs for the sauce.
He agreed that Cook should prepare onions and carrots and provide plenty of fresh bread, and some of his famous sweet honey cakes to follow. Cook can be temperamental, but he was in a jovial mood and took it all in his stride.
While Durus began his cooking, I went back into the bar-room, which had filled up in the short time I’d been away. There were more customers than usual “just dropping in,” and several of the servants kept finding jobs to do around the bar area. News of our celebrity guest was spreading.
By suppertime Ferox had won over most of our customers by his easy good humour, but all the same he and Durus ate their meal in the private dining-room, probably glad of a bit of peace. Albia and I would have loved an invitat
ion to join them, but it wasn’t forthcoming.
They came back to the bar later, and the evening turned into an impromptu party. Everyone was fascinated by Ferox’ tales of life as a gladiator, even the Lion’s supporters. Durus still refused to be drawn into telling stories of his own, but sat morosely drinking and watching that Ferox didn’t have too much beer. He cheered up a little when one of the barmaids made a point of paying him special attention, and when the party broke up and the guests went to their rooms, he took her with him. Rather you than me, Pluma, I thought, but it’s your choice. And, of course, nobody went with the Wild Man. His training regime meant a life without women in the run-up to a contest. Doubtless he’d make up for this afterwards.
I got to bed about midnight, delighted with a pleasant and profitable evening.
I woke with a shock just before dawn. There was a loud hammering on my door, and my sister was shouting my name. Then the door opened and she came in, looking flustered.
“What is it, Albia? Is something wrong?”
“Yes, something awful, Aurelia. You’d better come straight away. The Wild Man’s been taken ill, he may even be dying. And the trainer says he’s been poisoned.”
I didn’t waste time on questions. I grabbed the nearest tunic and sandals, and we rushed to the guest wing.
Ferox wasn’t dying, in fact he was awake. But he was a sorry sight as he sprawled on his bed, his head and shoulders propped up on pillows. His face was a washed-out grey colour and his eyes seemed to have shrunk into his head. From the unpleasant smell in the room, it was obvious he hadn’t kept his supper down. He’d flung back his blankets and his light night-tunic was soaked in sweat. Anything less like a Wild Man would be hard to imagine.
The trainer was standing by the bed, looking, if possible, gloomier than ever. “Try and drink some more water, lad. It’ll help your body get rid of the poison, then you’ll feel better.”
Again that word poison. I didn’t like the sound of it.
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