Mirkwood: A Novel About J.R.R. Tolkien

by Стив Хиллард

  The address was a nondescript concrete building with no signage whatsoever. It could have been anything from a wholesale warehouse to an S&M bar. Feeling her confidence sink by the second, Cadence steeled herself and entered the building.

  Inside, she passed through a steel door. An elevator beckoned to her. She pressed the button and it whooshed open much too quickly for comfort.

  When she arrived at the sixth floor, things were no clearer. Everything was black — the walls, the floors, even the ceilings were painted black. Halogen lights gave their eerie sharp glow. She walked a long corridor until she arrived at another closed steel door.

  She didn’t like it. She was considering leaving the building when the steel door flung open.

  “Oh, there you are.” It was the chatty receptionist from the uptown office. Cadence was whisked away to a room that looked, well, like a television studio. Lights, cables, monitors, blacked-out windows. The chair on which she was instructed to sit was hard-backed and uncomfortable. It was like a set-up for a third-degree. A bank of lights came on.

  She winced. Facing her was a panel of four strangers, all sitting and looking at her with clinical smiles. The Inspecteurs, she presumed.

  A woman with a Yankees baseball cap scurried around. She brought a wireless mike to Cadence and pinned it on. From the periphery, Cadence saw two people with small, pro-look digital cameras roaming the room. She could feel the close-up focus on her as the side door opened and Bois-Gilbert lurched into the space between Cadence and the panel. He adjusted the conch-shell buttons on his bespoke suit, smoothed his impeccable tie, shot his gold cuff-linked cuffs, and focused a barracuda smile on Cadence.

  It fell into place with a thud. This wasn’t a scientific exam at all. Feeling ridiculously slow on the uptake, Cadence realized she was in a television studio. It was a TV show — a pilot, maybe, for a French-produced reality show.

  Mel had set her up.

  “Are you ready, Miss Grande?” asked Bois-Gilbert in mock-portentous tones.

  What could she say? Here she was, pinned like an insect on an examination card. She could make a disagreeable scene or go with the flow. She wanted the three documents back, and going with the flow seemed like the most reasonable path to get to them.

  “Sure, what’s on the menu today, Brian?”

  “The very best thing — the proofs! Are you prepared to receive them?”

  Before she could answer, the stage manager called for quiet on the set and the lights went black except for a spot on M.C. Monsieur Bois-Gilbert. As he began reading off the teleprompter, she realized that his natural, over-elegant, slightly oleaginous manner made perfect sense. In front of the camera, his English became as smooth as Jacques Cousteau.

  “In the worlds of myth, religion, art, currency, wines, and documentation of all sorts there is a common, immutable, and ancient rule. Where there has been money or passion, there has been deception. Fakery — the practice of flattery by studied imitation or even brazen imagining of what might have been — is indeed an esteemed art. When done at the hand of a maestro, it brings together precise science, extraordinary diligence, and the deft hand of the often unrecognized and unheralded master.

  “So too must be the qualities of those who would unmask the imposters. Nothing is so false and so damaging to a culture than the flood of falsehoods that would wash away truth and originality if left unchecked.”

  He paused for a second, as if the script indicated an insertion point for a pre-taped roll-in. Maybe the show’s title sequence, she mused. She felt the sticky, probing, violating fingers of the cameras playing with her features.

  “In the fifth century, Greeks routinely faked ancient art for Roman patrons. Much of it sits unquestioned in museums to this day. In more recent times, a rogue’s gallery of forgeries has been detected by the forensic sciences. Witness the stream of imposters!”

  His voice was like that of a jury foreman, a reader of verdicts. Firm, definitive, pausing after each damning item. Nothing was in sight, but she could sense the montage that would fill the screen.

  “The Shroud of Turin.”

  “The Hitler Diaries.”

  “The Alamo Diaries showing that, contrary to myth, Davy Crockett did not go down swinging Old Betsy.”

  “The MJ-12 documents detailing the American President Truman’s cover-up of UFOs.”

  “The lost plays of William Shakespeare.”

  “Newly discovered masterworks by Vermeer. So good they fooled Herr Göring.”

  Cadence felt transfixed by the indictment. She could imagine his damning finger itching to point straight at her.

  “The Vinland Map.”

  “The Howard Hughes Autobiography.”

  “The Jack the Ripper Diaries.”

  “The fake wines reputedly hidden in a Paris cellar by the American Ambassador to France, Thomas Jefferson.”

  “And now we come at last to another candidate, adding unexpected chapters to our special mythology. Let us bring the cold eye of science to this most recent candidate. We focus the microscope today on … The Tolkien Documents!”

  So here it was, the careful turn of the head, the unyielding glare of the Inquisitor. And yes, just as she’d figured, the bony finger unfurling and stretching out to damn her as a member of the League of Frauds. The insta-science of Bossier Thornton’s little gizmo suddenly seemed pretty dubious.

  The cameraman yelled “Arêtes!” and Bois-Gilbert fished a pack of Gauloises from his coat, shot one into his mouth, lit it as smoothly as a finger snap, and walked out the door. A cloud of smoke more foul-smelling than any cigarette she’d ever whiffed lingered in the air after him.

  At that point Cadence got up, retrieved her purse, and pulled out her cell phone. Coverage was spotty but she got through. Mel answered.

  “Yo.”

  “Don’t yo me, you bastard! Why didn’t you tell me it’s a TV show.”

  “Wait! Cadence, slow down. It’s just to memorialize things, that’s all. Just one more meeting.”

  “It’s not just a meeting, that’s what I’m telling you. It’s a recorded sideshow at my expense. No more guinea pig stuff, Mel. I want my damn documents back from these jackals.”

  “OK, but the results will be in soon. Shouldn’t we find out? You want to lose the Mirkwood Forest or save it? Come on, kid, it’s your best shot. Now, tell me …”

  She hung up.

  After the aborted phone call with Mel, Cadence waited in a folding chair by a rack of unplugged lights. The crew milled about and she sensed this lull might last awhile. She was just getting relaxed.

  The receptionist rushed up. “Mademoiselle Grande? Are you ready? Vitement! He is coming!”

  She was escorted back to her place on the set, the judges re-empaneled, and all eyes went to the stage director. His fingers silently marched down the count. Five. Four. Three. Two. A pointed finger. They were live …

  … and Bois-Gilbert bounded into the room.

  “As forgery is an ancient art, so the fineness of its accomplishment must be esteemed, most especially by those whose profession is detection. We judge not on the moral plane, but only on the quality of the product. We are Les Inspecteurs!

  “Tonight we bring you the reality of our investigation, our clash between the art and science of fakery and the art and science of detection. We have before us a thorough test of our skills. And in the balance lies authenticity or an unmasking …”

  Cadence could imagine the images of legendary fakes being somehow blue-screened and rolled in behind the cuts of her sitting alone, accused and friendless. These would be followed by close-ups of her suspiciously darting eyes and tell-tale twitching hands. The background would roll with aerial shots of crop circles, a grainy snip from the lone Sasquatch film, flying lights over desert mountains, the gravel pit excavation site of Piltdown Man, and on and on.

  “Cadence, you have met our panel of expert judges. In a moment they will announce their findings. Are you prepared to receive the pro
ofs?”

  Now both cameras were facing her. If one missed the incriminating droplet of sweat that now formed on her upper lip, the other would be sure to catch it. But before she could speak, Bois-Gilbert started up again.

  “Here, then, are the proofs! And they are stunning. By the classic methodologie de faux, the Seven Principles of the Fake, we shall judge now your supposed Tolkien Documents!

  Oh God, she thought, not air quotes.

  “The Principles are … wrong ink … wrong type … wrong implement … wrong paper … wrong handwriting … wrong time … wrong style. Cadence Grande, can you run the gauntlet of our judges?”

  What followed was the studied false pause of the reality show. In the strange, complicit seduction of the television camera, she felt an almost irresistible urge to bite her lip.

  “Hold, before you answer!” More pause. He raised his right hand, index finger pointing upward, the sign of the Great Idea. “I have, as you Americans say, a deal for you. Let me measure your faith in your documents by the capacity of your purse.” Great, she thought, hit me where it hurts. She thought about her purse, cheap and empty of money, sitting on the chair over against the wall.

  “I offer you now twenty thousand American dollars to confess the forgery of these pages and call off our verdict. And, before you answer, should you choose to proceed, you shall have the further choice to accept a different, perhaps a lesser but still substantial amount, if you confess before the growing weight of the evidence. Thus is the gravity of truth laid on your decision. Wait until the end, and you will receive nothing but the judgment of our experts. Each will, in turn, pronounce his or her verdict, and we will see the results on the screen behind you — a red ‘X’ for fakery, a green check for possible authenticity, and a yellow question mark for ambiguity.”

  Glimpsing the monitor closest to her, Cadence saw three large images suddenly illuminated. They were blow ups of the three pages, identified as simply “Tolkien Note,” “Manuscript I,” and “Manuscript II.”

  “So it is up to you, Ms. Grande. The money … or the proofs?”

  She thought about the upcoming auctioneer’s cant in Topanga, the “Sold!” exclamation on the steps of the Mirkwood Forest. Three weeks ago, twenty thousand smackers would have bought her soul. Now …

  “I …”

  “Yes?”

  “… choose … “

  The camera zoomed in as the barracuda leered.

  “… the proofs.”

  Betraying no reaction, Bois-Gilbert turned with a flourish. He raised his hand in the air like a conductor calling a vast orchestra to the opening note.

  “Professeur Aranax, you may begin the verdicts.”

  A breathy female voice-over intoned the first judge’s CV as a camera lingered on a grayed, somber-looking man at the judge’s table. “Professor Aranax is the Lecard Professeur of Archival Science at L’Université de Cité in Marseilles. He specializes in analysis of the physical characteristics of documents — inks, methods of inscription, papers and the like …”

  A translator came and sat by Cadence. She intoned in English as Professor Aranax, who used a lighted cigarette held twixt two fingers Euro-style as a sort of signature prop for his pronouncements, rambled on. His speech was interlaced with long, fatigued, smoke-plumed sighs of impatience.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle. We have been allowed, thus far, to examine only three of your documents. A pity, and no judgments there, but let’s proceed. I speak first to the so-called Tolkien Note.”

  He consulted his notes.

  “The initials JRRT appear accurate as compared to numerous authenticated standards. I have used the Fabian Method to identify the age of the inks. As you can see, the note consists, in its entirety, of three typed sentences preceded by the date of October nineteenth, nineteen seventy, and the letters ‘NYC’. It is followed by the hand-scribbled initials ‘JRRT.’ The ink in the type is from a ribbon manufactured in nineteen sixty seven by Smith-Corona in Litchfield, Connecticut. It was not commercially distributed in Britain. The ink from the initials is from a BIC pen manufactured in Chicago, Illinois in nineteen sixty eight. The paper was manufactured at a mill in Georgia in the same year. Thus, the note is by my measure not provable as inauthentic. Be mindful, however, that my colleagues have other views. I provisionally give you that one, Mademoiselle.”

  Bleep. On the big screen a green check mark went up by the Tolkien Note.

  “Now, however, to the other two exhibits. They are puzzling. They are hand-written manuscripts, in what are probably different hands, and purporting to be, by your account, in a language called ‘Elvish.’ Such matters are of no importance to me for this analysis, as I have concentrated exclusively on the material in and on which they were written. That alone has led to interesting results. The gold standard for authentication of ancient documents is the Pressard-Lyons Gas Chromatograph. These pages have been subjected to analysis by this device. It identified three strange physical characteristics. They are on vellum, made from the washed, stretched, scraped and polished skin of young lambs. The result is a parchment that is quite durable and may be easily dated. The date for these examples is between twelve hundred and twelve ten A.D. The margin of error is plus or minus ten years. The lambs were from the variety Aoriscadea, found principally in England in that era. They were inscribed with a simple carbon ink made from lampblack of the willow tree mixed with a solution of gum. The soot in both cases is from a species of short heather bush unique to England and Wales and all but exterminated by the clearing of the lands in the period after one thousand A.D. Such inks remain black for centuries, and their stability is quite superior to the iron-gall inks, which appeared in the next hundred years. Unsophisticated but effective.”

  “The age of the inks is consistent with that of the parchments. The inscriptions were made by quill pens, albeit ones with finer points and stylistic capability than is common to the era. But they are not anomalous. Most likely this means that the scribe or scribes worked in the extensive production of written documents at a place that could afford the finest materials. Thus, I find the documents physically consistent, but obviously at odds with the described provenance of coming from Professor Tolkien. Perhaps he merely had possession of them. Nonetheless, they are simply what they are. Their meaning and import I leave for today to the tender mercies of my most scrupulous comrades. You pass this blow of the gauntlet!”

  Bleep. Bleep. Two more green checks went up.

  Bois-Gilbert swept to the center of the room. “Well, Cadence Grande, you pass the initial test. But, as you Americans say, ‘Not so fast.’ For it seems we are left with even more mystery. Few fakes pass the probing intensity of Madame Litton’s eyes. She will assess the style and content of the documents. But first Cadence, I am going to make this more interesting for you. In this valise is the sum of fifty thousand dollars. A tidy sum. You may release all of the Tolkien Documents to us, take the money and walk out now. Or … you may stay to learn more of the truth.”

  With exaggerated ceremony, he placed the black leather bag on the floor before her. Cadence pegged it for what it was: a classic payoff bag from a prop house. Cameras be damned, her mouth was dry and she had to wet her lips. Buyer’s remorse was heavy in her heart.

  Bois-Gilbert waited. Patiently.

  Cadence thought about the black T-shirted Topanga creeker, his warning of gifts-you-most-desire that would tempt her. She began. “I think … “

  “Do you believe, Cadence?”

  “I could …”

  “Renounce this sham now and take the money!”

  “But it’s got to be …”

  “Truth is a rare and flighty bird, often misidentified.”

  “I wish my grandfather …”

  “Our wishes dictate much of our perceptions. But money is more constant, Cadence. A small fortune lies before you, within your grasp.”

  “I’ll … stay.”

  “So shall it be!” He swooped away the bag. “Madame Litto
n, please present your proofs.”

  Cadence felt the ground go oozy under her straight-backed chair as the lady scientist leaned forward. She looked formidable, like a genius granddaughter of Madame Curie. Madame Litton carefully removed her spectacles and looked directly at Cadence before speaking.

  “Cadence, something smells.”

  She adjusted her bifocals and started to read, but then looked up to deliver her lines right to the camera. She had an intense look that she held for an unnaturally long time.

  “Arêtes! Dix minutes!”

  Madame Litton knew the drill. Camera people relaxed. One camera person, a young black man, hung to the side. He was hoping to steal a guilt-revealing candid shot of Cadence that might secure the pay-bump he wanted when they sold the pilot.

  She got up and went out to the lobby. She checked her phone. Mel had called several times. She punched the return button.

  He answered. “Hello.”

  “I’m not signing anything or releasing anything.”

  “OK, all right. I’ve been trying to call you back. Just slow down for a second and tell me what these translations say.”

  “What? Oh. Well, it’s all about a female halfling named Ara. She’s been on a helluva journey. I like her. You wouldn’t.”

  “Don’t be so testy. I still think I should send someone over to take custody of the originals. Let your friend work with copies.”

  “There’s no way I’m giving the originals to anyone. For now, I trust Osley and no one else. Don’t ask me why. I just do.”

  “These could be priceless.”

  She decided to deflect his control-freak energy. “Look Mel, I’m not sure these have anything to do with Tolkien’s own works. All the pieces — wizards, rings, dragons, and little people — is the same old stuff. She could be Harry Potter’s cousin, for all I can tell.”

  “Well, think of this. At least it’s about a ‘she’. Look, it’s a good story and the documents seem pretty authentic.”

  “How do you know? Are you getting reports I don’t know about, Mel?”

  For the moment he seemed to be occupied with an office interruption.