That Book Your Mad Ancestor Wrote

by K. J. Bishop

  Why not? I thought. I had been good at English at school, and I read a fair bit. I thought I was probably capable of writing a short tale.

  I took the story into the spare room, which doubled as a study. We sat together on the bed and the story dictated itself to me. I wrote on a notepad, following what it was saying as well as I could.

  It took me a few drafts before the story declared itself happy with my work. I typed the final draft into the computer and printed it out. As it printed, the words simultaneously appeared on the until-then blank pages of the story itself. When the printing finished the story gave a little bow and asked to be shown out. It trotted down the stairs and I never saw it again. I sent the printed copy to a magazine. It was accepted, and six months later I was a published author.

  After that, more stories came to me. I enjoyed the company of each one as I was writing it, but never felt any pain when a story was completed and I had to watch it toddle off. Our relationships were entirely casual.

  Then the novel showed up. I was leaning on the railing of the promenade beside the river after a typically unexciting day at work, watching the early evening light on the water, when I heard a small but clear attention-getting noise from somewhere down by my right knee. When I looked for its source, I saw a book standing there. It was a fairly bulky paperback, balancing on little legs only marginally sturdier than those of its story-length kindred. Its cover was blank, and as the breeze coming off the water ruffled its pages I could see that they were blank too.

  The unwritten book and I began talking. Or rather, flirting. The book was quite a charming lothario. I found myself unable to object when it accompanied me to the station, nor when it climbed into the train and took the seat next to mine. I didn’t mind at all when it got out at my stop and followed me home, though I did wonder what Ivan was going to think. We were quite an ordinary couple. The stories had all been quickish flings, but a novel would require a much longer commitment. Was he ready for a ménage à trois?

  His car was in its parking spot. Rather than risk a fuss, I snuck the book indoors in my bag. However, as it and I began to spend days and nights in the spare room by ourselves, he wondered what was going on, and one day he walked in on us. We were on the bed, the book dictating to me. I felt I had to be honest: I explained that I had fallen in love with the book, and wanted nothing more than to bring it into the world.

  Ivan took this quite well. In fact, he, too, fell in love with the book. For the next couple of years, he and it and I were an amorous threesome. But once the book was finished, it left us. Ivan accepted its departure philosophically, but I felt bereaved. Even though I was delighted to see its clones when they appeared in shops, I missed my sessions with the original terribly.

  I was at a loose end, too. The consuming business of writing a novel had caused me to give up the piano and the craft classes, and then, finally, to quit my job. I couldn’t crank up any interest in my old hobbies, and I was reluctant to apply myself to ordinary work again. When you’ve written one book the world at large expects you to keep writing books, and I would have been happy to conform to this expectation, since I couldn’t imagine any other pursuit giving me as much pleasure as I’d enjoyed in the company of my paper paramour. The only problem was that there had been no reprise of my experience by the river, and months were going by without another novel approaching me.

  A few stories came my way, but I’d lost the taste for brief liaisons. Writing them was more a duty than a pleasure, and they seemed to notice. Perhaps word got around that I was no fun anymore, since the stories eventually stopped coming. And, indeed, I wasn’t much fun. I was getting depressed and irritable, surly with strangers and waspish with Ivan. Some days I didn’t shower or get dressed. Ivan grew withdrawn, and I couldn’t blame him. I lost touch with friends. I felt bad about all of this, but not as bad as I did about my bookless condition.

  There was also the matter of the Devil’s intercession, which had occurred not long after I finished writing the book, and about which I had said nothing to Ivan. He was a highly principled man, and if I were to tell him of whose aid I had availed myself, I feared he wouldn’t be terribly pleased, and would always think a little less of me. The fact that I was keeping the secret from him added a small but constant weight of guilt to my already burdened mood.

  I knew my state of mind would only worsen if I didn’t find another book to fill the void the first one had left. So I resorted to doing what writers of my ilk must do when unsought: I cruised for books.

  I soon came to recognise my own type. If you know what to look for, a writer in search of a book is easy to spot. We’ll always be alone, usually in a place where there aren’t many people around, and you’ll see us glancing with ill-disguised anxiety at the regions in the vicinity of our calves. We respect territory, the unspoken rule being that we don’t loiter within one another’s sight. To help books find appropriate writers, we use a hanky code. I wore an orange hanky with pale blue checks, indicating a preference for speculative fiction and a secondary interest in general fiction.

  I wasn’t unlucky in the hunt. Quite a few books approached me, and I took most of them home. But the next part of the encounter always went the same way. The book and I would retreat to the spare room, both of us feeling hopeful. My pen would stir, and I’d write a few pages; but then I would notice that I wasn’t falling in love. Most of the books were pleasant company, and I felt that all their stories were worth telling. But the stirrings of passion I felt for some of them had a doomed way of subsiding soon after they had begun. Invariably, after those first pages – or sometimes only paragraphs – my pen would droop and eventually fall out of my fingers to lie on the bedclothes in disgrace.

  Most of the books left quietly when I told them I couldn’t write them. A couple cried bitterly, making me feel terrible. One became violent and hit me over the head with itself.

  I was enjoying the lifestyle the royalties from the first book enabled me to lead, but my inner life was giving me no joy at all. I wondered if I should give up writing – if what I was doing could be called writing – but was unable to persuade myself of the merits of any alternative. I therefore kept to a routine of lurking around suburban railway stations and lonely cafés, hanky displayed in the pocket of my jeans.

  I still brought books home, but found myself decreasingly able do anything with them. A hundred words, fifty, ten – that was what my endurance dwindled to. I couldn’t bear to think that I was never going to have another love affair with a book, but that seemed the most likely prognosis.

  This was when I began to wonder if there was something wrong with my pen.

  ‘I even lost the energy to evict books that wanted to stay with me,’ I admitted to the Devil, concluding a précis of my situation. ‘Four of them are still living in our flat. My husband treats them like pets, even though they’re obviously taking advantage of his good nature. They’ve turned our living room into a pigsty. I can’t even bring other books home anymore. I have to take them to hotel rooms, and that costs money. I need to fall in love with a book again, and I don’t think I can do it by myself. I need your help.’

  ‘It sounds a most trying situation,’ said my ally when I was finished, ‘but I’m afraid that what you’re asking is the one thing I can’t help you with.’

  I was flummoxed. ‘But why not? Don’t tell me you’re incapable of casting a simple love spell.’

  The Devil grinned devilishly. ‘I can’t help you,’ he said, ‘because of our contract.’

  ‘But we don’t have a contract. You said so.’

  ‘Actually, my dear, you said so.’

  I tried to remember, and had to concede that he was right. I had been the one who said we didn’t have a contract. But if we did have one, why couldn’t I remember signing it?

  ‘If we’ve got a contract, you must have a copy. Show it to me.’

  ‘Certainly.’ With a graceful wave of his hand, he plucked a piece of paper out of the air and gave i
t to me to read.

  It was a very ordinary looking contract. No letters of fire, just 12-point Times New Roman. The signatures were in plain black ink, not blood. One was indisputably mine. The other consisted of barbed and twisted marks that looked like melting pitchforks. Eyes better educated than mine could perhaps have deciphered it. Or perhaps not.

  In any case, the contract was short and to the point.

  There were only four paragraphs. The first contained the Devil’s pledge to promote the book to the full extent of his abilities. The second paragraph, which gave me a shock, stated that the Devil was entitled to claim a percentage of my soul – 20% was the figure – at the time of my death. In the third paragraph I granted something additional, namely that I would never be able to fall in love with another unwritten work of fiction. The fourth paragraph stipulated that the Devil would cause me to forget the existence of the contract, and the circumstances under which it had been caused to exist, for a period of three years or until I approached him with a request for aid in regard to problems arising from paragraph 3.

  Would I miss 20% of my soul? Surely not, I tried telling myself. I might even be able to claim it as a tax deduction. Trying to summon a bit of inner bravado, I made a mental note to ask my accountant about the value of a soul, and whether I could claim the loss as an expense while I was still alive. But as for the third paragraph, I couldn’t believe I’d agreed to such a thing.

  ‘I’ve forgotten why I wanted to forget,’ I said, ‘but I can guess that I wanted some time to enjoy my hoped-for success without worrying about the future.’

  The Devil nodded in a sympathetic manner. ‘You thought you’d be able to write without being in love. Many writers are able to. You expected to develop a professional attitude.’

  ‘Please tell me,’ I said, ‘exactly what took place. Did I sell you my soul – 20% of my soul, I mean – over the phone? Did your contract turn up at my door on little legs with cloven hoofs? Am I going to get my memory back?’

  ‘In answer to your first two questions,’ the Devil replied, ‘neither scenario occurred, although the latter has a certain appeal. I hope you won’t mind if I borrow the idea from time to time. To the third question, I regret to say that I can’t restore the memory I extracted, but it will only take me a minute to explain the details. Would you like to know?’

  ‘I think I’d better.’

  ‘Very well. You did, in fact, initiate contact with me. You summoned me with a quaint old spell. Presumably you didn’t know that I’m listed in the Yellow Pages. You were so besotted with your book that you couldn’t face the prospect of it not being successful in the world. It wasn’t so much for your own sake as for the book’s that you wanted my help. Rather touching, really. We negotiated your giving up the chance to fall in love with another book when you refused the first contract I offered, in which you would have been required to surrender 30% of your soul. You declined the only other option I was able to offer.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘The end of your marriage. You would have fallen for another book, and this time your husband would have grown jealous and filed for divorce.’

  At least I could say I felt no regret about turning that option down.

  ‘Why only a percentage of my soul?’

  My benefactor gave the impression of shrugging without actually making the gesture. ‘I gave up demanding entire souls quite a long time ago. People always wanted too much in exchange. They demanded round-the-clock debauchery, bottomless bank accounts, journeys to other planets – you name the extravaganza, I’ve arranged it for someone at some time. And the clever ones always wanted peace of mind into the bargain. It just wasn’t worth it on my part, particularly as most of the people who entered into contracts with me were going to end up in Hell anyway. So I started experimenting with flexible contracts, offering more modest services in exchange for a percentage of the soul – sometimes combined, as in your case, with other commodities of exchange: little afflictions and miseries that increase the total negativity in the world and put a song in an old sadist’s heart. And it worked wonderfully. I found millions of people willing to exchange a part of their soul in return for quite small services. Believe me, the parts add up.’

  ‘And what about the part that’s left?’ Now that I knew about the contract, I was starting to feel more concerned about my soul than the problem with my pen. ‘Can it regenerate the lost portion, like a liver?’ I shook my head at my own question. ‘It can’t, can it?’

  ‘Alas, no. If you had taken the peace of mind clause, you would believe that after your death your soul would be able to regrow the portion I acquire. But that clause costs an extra 5%, and you decided against it. You know the truth, and you’ll have to live with it.’

  ‘And what about your phone call – just an act? A false memory?’

  ‘A little charade, but performed with a sincere spirit. I do have warm feelings for writers, and I did like your book.’

  ‘And the balance of your gain is that for as long as I live I’ll be yearning for another love affair with a book, and you’ll get your jollies from watching me suffer, and from all the times that I’ll no doubt take my misery out on other people. And you put the 3-year limit in so that I’d eventually learn the truth and be unhappy about it.’

  The Devil chuckled lightly. ‘That’s another reason why I like writers. You’re so very easy to torment. All I have to do is deny you things that most people never think of having in the first place.’

  I ignored the gibe and demanded, ‘What about my copy of the contract? Shouldn’t I have one?’ I was sure I hadn’t seen a copy in my files. But then, how often did I look through my files?

  ‘Your agent has it, to prevent your accidentally finding it before your three years of amnesia were up,’ the Devil answered with an air of satisfaction at all being in order.

  I could feel the false calm of shock wearing off and the unpleasant beginning of tears niggling at my sinuses. I wanted to leave before I cracked. I got up from the chair.

  ‘Before you go,’ said the Devil, ‘permit me to give you some advice. Don’t worry too much about your soul. Personal identity is merely fiction, after all, as any number of intelligent people have deduced. This illusion you call identity or soul is merely a grab-bag of fleeting sensations, imaginative self-deception, and the imperfect records known as memory. Think on how much of yourself you’ve already lost, or failed even to construct, through lack of attention, creativity and will.’

  With those comforting words ringing in my ears, I found myself standing in the basement car park of the anonymous building in which the Devil’s office was located. I walked to my car, climbed in, and had a good cry. I banged my forehead against the steering wheel a few times – gently, so as not to accidentally set off the airbag.

  I drove home, trembling so much that I was afraid I’d have an accident. Fortunately there was only light mid-afternoon traffic to deal with. While I was in the car, I wondered where the percentage of my soul that remained my own was heading for. I considered the Devil’s parting advice, but I doubted the picture of souls was as insignificant as he had painted it, or he wouldn’t be so greedy for them. I thought gloomily about the Prada and the camel and the eye of the needle. And what about Ivan? If we were to be together in the afterlife, what would it be like for him if I was only 80% there? Even if I wouldn’t miss 20% of my soul, perhaps he would. I began to feel quite ill with worry and guilt.

  I got home at three-thirty. The quartet of books that wouldn’t go away were lying around in the living room, where they had made camp. They no longer resembled the pristine blank-paged volumes I’d picked up. They were dishevelled, dirty and dog-eared. They smelled, and the room smelled of them and the overflowing ashtrays and empty beer cans heaped all around them. They didn’t greet me. They’d stopped talking to me. They only communicated with Ivan, who made their beer runs.

  But if I was going to keep writing, what was I going to write if not one of the
m? It was all too obvious.

  You still can do it, you know, I told myself. Now that you’re aware of the situation, you can accept it. You don’t need to be in love. Comradeship and a sense of duty can take the place of passion. In fact, they’re often more useful than passion in the long run. You just need some discipline. Application of the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair, and all that.

  I’ve always hated pep talks, and I expected to find myself put off by that little effort. But, instead, a slightly wonderful thing happened. I looked around at the unwritten books and felt a surge of empathy. What was I if not a neglected project, just like them? (Worse, an unfinishable project, if I was going to enter eternity without 20% of my soul.)

  While I had crafted a book with almost delirious pleasure, I had done almost nothing about crafting myself. If I was only an illusion, didn’t I want to be an interesting, well-made illusion, just as, presumably, they did?

  And if the Devil had been lying about souls, then I had more than an illusion to worry about. If I was going to keep 80% of my soul, maybe I ought to make sure I didn’t own 80% of a piece of junk.

  Had the first book been something of a demon lover, and was the real challenge not to write without its charming presence, but to try to make myself into a slightly more charming creature? Because at the moment, the hard voice of reality said, I was a bit of a shit.

  I was moved to say to the books, ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been selfish and unreasonable.’

  The books remained silent in their postures of decrepit indolence. I wasn’t discouraged. I’d found a straw to clutch at, and I was going to clutch like mad in the hope that it was a good, strong, secure straw. It occurred to me that, viewed as a move towards reform, it would be nobler and more character-building to attempt to write one of the unattractive squatters than a book I was mad for.

  By the distinct tone of piety in the thoughts I was having – thoughts towards which my conversation with the Devil had, after all, led me – I felt justified in wondering whether (another straw!) the being with whom I had been dealing was really the Devil. What if there was a larger, benign deception surrounding the one involving the contract? Suppose the entire thing was a plan I’d elaborately contrived in order to stretch myself as a writer and do a bit of self-improvement into the bargain? As for the Devil, couldn’t a benevolent power, such as a guardian angel, have played the part?