Here were books by Arthur Machen, Algernon Blackwood, M. R. James and Ambrose Bierce, amongst dozens of others. Most striking however, was the vast range of collections available written by H. P. Lovecraft. The browsing man in the dark suit picked up one after the other, almost reluctant to return each to its proper place, although if his down-at-heel appearance were an indication, their price was surely beyond his limited means. New books in Mexico are scarcely ever cheap.
Armstrong looked away. He could not understand why this rather ordinary gentleman had stirred his imagination. He was, after all, merely typical of the sort of book-addict found anywhere and at any time. Meanwhile Juan San Isidro had noticed Victor’s arrival and called down to him.
“¡Ay, Víctor, quiero más chela! Lo siento, pero no tengo dinero.”
Armstrong sighed, and made his way up the stairs.
When they were eventually sitting opposite one another, Armstrong with a bottle of Indio and San Isidro with a fresh bottle of Sol, the Mexican switched from Spanish to English. He was always keen to take whatever opportunity he could to converse in the language. A huge bear of a man, he’d recently grown a shaggy goatee beard and the T-shirt he wore bore the logo of some outlandish band called Control Machete, whose music Armstrong did not know and did not want to know. Years ago Armstrong had foolishly mentioned San Isidro’s literary efforts to the publisher of a small press imprint in California who was looking for cosmic or outré verse. The result had been a chapbook with a selection of San Isidro’s Aztec-influenced work translated into English, and thereafter Armstrong had never been able to entirely shake off his “discovery”.
“So,” San Isidro said, “how are things with you? Still editing those antologías?”
“There’s scarcely any money in them Juan,” Armstrong replied, “unless I’ve managed to wrangle something original out of Steve King, the publishers want to nail my balls to the wall.”
“You know him? King? Do you think he’d give me a loan? He’s very rich, no? Help out a struggling brother artist?”
Armstrong tried not to smile inappropriately. He could only imagine how quickly San Isidro would piss away any handouts he’d receive on booze. No one other than their agents, accountants, lawyers or publishers milks cash-cow authors.
“He’s a busy man. I don’t think he’d appreciate my . . .”
“You mean he’s a pinche cabrón. Keeps his money up his culo where no one else can get at it. That’s why todos los gringos walk around with their legs apart, like cowboys, no? All those dollar bills stuffed in there.”
Armstrong was relieved to be British. Even liberal Americans who came south, seeking to atone for the recent sins of NAFTA and a long history of land grabbing, were objects of ridicule here. They might get away with such conscience posturing in the north, in cities like Monterrey that were closer to the border and which looked to rich US States like Texas for inspiration, but in Mexico D. F. gringos are only ever pinches gringos and no amount of self-loathing or atonement on their part could ever erase the fact. The British, on the other hand, despite their Imperial past, were redeemed by virtue of having given the Beatles and association football to the world.
“Why did you want to see me, Juan?” Armstrong asked, taking out his packet of Faros and putting them on the table. His companion looked at the cheap brand with amused contempt. Nevertheless, this attitude did not stop him from smoking them.
“I want you to take a look at some cuentos,” San Isidro replied, puffing away on the cigarette he’d taken. “Read them and make me an offer. They’re in your line of work.”
He delved into a shoulder bag lying underneath the table and took out a pile of papers, individuated into sections by rubber bands, and handed them over.
“I thought you didn’t write short stories.” Armstrong said.
“I didn’t write them. I’m acting as the exclusive agent. They’re in English, as you see, and they’re the type of horror stories you like. I handle all his stuff,” San Isidro replied.
“Who’s this author,” Armstrong said, looking at the top sheet, “Felipe López? I can’t say I’ve heard of him.”
“El señor López has only been writing for a couple of years. He’s my personal discovery, like you discovered me, no? Es un autor auténtico, not some hack. Mira al cabellero down there, the one who’s looking through the books? That’s el señor López. He doesn’t want to meet you until you’ve read his stuff. I told him I knew you, and that you weren’t the same as all those other culeros who’d rejected him.”
So that man in the crumpled grey suit was San Isidro’s first client, Armstrong thought. He hesitated for a moment but then relented. At least this man López had the appearance of being literate.
“Alright,” Armstrong said, “I’ll take them away with me and call you once I’ve read them. I can’t promise anything though.”
“Why not sit here and read them now, compañero? I tell you, these things are a gold mine. We can have a few more chelas while I wait for you to finish. He also does his own proofreading, so you won’t need to trabajar mucho yourself.”
“Short stories,” Armstrong riposted, “are fool’s gold, Juan. I told you, there’s no real money in them anymore. Have another on me if you like, but I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch.”
With that closing remark Armstrong stood up, left a hundred pesos note on the table, and made his exit. He didn’t notice whether or not el Señor López saw him leave.
Over the next few days Armstrong almost forgot about the stories by Felipe López. He hated being asked to read fiction by an unknown author that had been praised by one of his friends. All too often he had to prick their enthusiasm, usually fired by beer and comradeship rather than from an objective assessment of literary merit. And San Isidro had never acted as an agent for anybody before; he was far too consumed by his own literary ambitions. So it appeared obvious to Armstrong that San Isidro was paying back a favour of some sort. Though it seemed unlikely given the down-at-heel appearance of López, but perhaps it was a case of San Isidro owing him money.
Armstrong was staying close to Cuauhtémoc metro station in an apartment owned by Mexican friends of his. The couple, Enrique and María, were in London for a few weeks, staying in his flat there in an exchange holiday. It was something they did every other year to save on hotel bills. There were only three days left before they were due to cross each other high over the Atlantic in flights going in the opposite direction. Enrique and María were both involved in publishing themselves, and he’d struck up a friendship with them in 1995 whilst attending a fantasy and horror convention held in San Francisco.
Since he was staying in an apartment belonging to friends, Armstrong paid little attention to the telephone, as he knew he’d just be taking messages for his absent hosts. Anything desperately important that needed to be passed on to them would be left on the answering machine. When he got around to checking it, there were three messages, two for Enrique and María, and one for him. It was left by Juan San Isidro.
“Oye, ¿qué onda? Man, don’t fuck me over. Have you read los cuentos? I think not. Otherwise you’d be chasing my ass like a puto. You don’t leave Mexico until I hear from you, ¿te queda claro?”
Despite his reluctance, Armstrong didn’t see any alternative but to look the stories over. He took them out onto the little balcony overlooking the privada in which the apartment was situated. It was pleasantly warm outside in the evening, being October, and since the only traffic passing below consisted of pedestrians it was easy to concentrate. He sat down on the chair he’d moved out there, put the papers that he’d retrieved from his suitcase on his lap, and looked them over.
San Isidro had given him four stories, the longest of which was the third at around 40,000 words.
Armstrong had seen this type of story on dozens of occasions in the past, usually sent for his consideration by “fan authors” who were obsessed with the life and works of H. P. Lovecraft. Most of these pastiches conta
ined long lists of clichéd forbidden books and names of unpronounceable entities to be incorporated into the so-called “Cthulhu Mythos”. As he turned the pages of the first of López’s tales though, he was surprised to discover that they did not also contain the other feature associated with Lovecraft fan pastiches – there were no obvious grammatical, spelling or common textual errors. The work had already been gone over by an author with a keen eye for copy-editing.
Additionally, it had to be the case that Felipe López was fluent in English to the degree of being able to pass completely for a native. The text contained no trace of any Spanish language idioms indicating his Mexican nationality. Indeed, López even favoured the British spelling of certain words, rather than that used in the United States, in exactly the same fashion as Lovecraft himself had done.
Despite his disdain for pastiche, Armstrong kept reading. Eventually, to his surprise, he found that López’s mimetic skills were so expert that he could almost believe that he was reading a previously undiscovered work written by Lovecraft himself. The story had the exact same sense of nightmarish authenticity as the best of the Providence author’s tales. By the time he’d finished reading the first story, Armstrong was in a state of dazed wonder. Of course he realized, on a professional level, that the thing had no commercial potential. It smacked far too much of an in-joke, or a hoax, but it was nevertheless profoundly impressive in its own right.
He began to wonder what this López person might be able to achieve were he to wean himself from the Lovecraft influence and produce fiction utilizing a distinct authorial voice. It might result in another modern-day writer of the order of Thomas Ligotti.
Armstrong was dimly aware of the telephone ringing in the background. He ignored the sound, allowing the answering machine to deal with whoever it was. He supposed that it could be San Isidro again and that it might have been better to pick up, but he was too eager to discover whether the story he’d just read was a fluke or not. Since the mosquitoes were now busy in the night air, he took the manuscripts inside and carried on reading.
Whoever had left the weird message on Enrique and María’s answering machine was obviously some crank, thought Armstrong. He played it back again the morning after it was recorded.
There was click on the line and the sound of unintelligible voices conferring amongst themselves and then a jarring, discordant muttering in English. The voice had a Mexican accent but was unknown to Armstrong. It said, “He belongs to us. His products belong to us. No one will take him from us.”
That was all.
After listening to the message one more time, Armstrong wondered if it were not simply San Isidro playing a joke on him, pretending to be another rival party involved with the works of Felipe López. Perhaps he thought the idea of some competition might spur Armstrong to a quick decision. If so, it was an unnecessary ploy.
After having read the second of López’s tales he was convinced that the author had unmatched imagination and ability, despite being almost ruinously handicapped by his slavish mimicry of Love-craft’s style and themes. However, there was more than enough pure genius in there to convince Armstrong to take the matter further. If he could meet with López in person, he was determined to press upon him the necessity of a last revision of the texts – one that removed entirely the Cthulhu Mythos elements and replaced the florid, adjective-ridden prose with a minimalist approach.
When he telephoned Juan San Isidro it was no surprise that the poet-turned-agent was deeply suspicious about Armstrong’s insistence that he must meet López alone.
“You want to cut me out of the deal, ¡estás loco! Forget it, man. Now you know que es un maestro, lo quieres todo para ti.”
“I only want to suggest a few changes to the texts, Juan. Nothing sinister in that, really. You’ll get your commission, I’ll not cheat you, believe me.”
Their conversation went round in circles for ten minutes before Armstrong eventually convinced San Isidro that he had no underhand motive with regards to López’s work. Even so, Armstrong realized that there was something more going on between the two of them than the usual protective relationship between an agent and his client. Nevertheless, he successfully elicited a promise from San Isidro that he would ensure López met with him alone in the Café la Habana on La Calle de Bucareli at 2:00 p.m. that same afternoon.
The Café la Habana was a haunt for distinguished old men who came to play chess, smoke their pipes or cigars and spend the better part of the afternoon dreaming over coffee or beer. It had a high ceiling and was decorated with framed photographs of Havana from the time before Castro’s revolution. Many Communist exiles from Batista Cuba came here, having fled persecution, and its fame dated from that period. The number of exiles had dwindled as the years passed, but it still had a reputation amongst all those who championed leftist defiance. The place had a long pedigree, having been a favourite meeting place, in even earlier decades, of those Spanish Republican refugees who’d settled in D. F. after escaping the wrath of General Franco’s regime.
Armstrong sat in a corner, lingering over a glass of tequila with lime, when López walked in. He was half an hour late. His lean form was framed in the doorway by the brilliant sunshine outside. López cast his glance around the place before spotting Armstrong and making for the table at which he sat.
López had changed his dark grey suit for a cream-coloured one, and this time he was wearing a matching Panama hat. He gave a nod of recognition towards Armstrong as he approached.
Before he sat down he shook Armstrong’s hand and apologised in English. “I hope that you will excuse my tardiness Mr Armstrong, but the truth is that I was distracted by a particularly fascinating example of eighteenth-century colonial architecture whilst making my way over here.”
Armstrong did not reply at once. He was taken aback by López’s accent. Unless he was mistaken, it was pure, authentic New England Yankee. There was not a trace of Mexican in it.
“No need to apologise,” Armstrong finally said, “can I get you a drink; some beer or tequila perhaps?”
“Thank you but no. I never partake of alcoholic beverages, even for the purposes of refreshment. However, a cup of coffee, perhaps a double espresso, would be most welcome.”
Armstrong ordered López’s coffee and asked for another tequila with lime to be brought to their table.
“I liked your tales very much, it was quite an experience reading through them I can tell you. Of course they’re overly derivative, but I imagine that you could easily tone down all the Lovecraftian elements . . .”
“I’m afraid, Mr Armstrong,” López said, with a chill tone entering his voice, “that alterations of any sort are completely out of the question. The stories must be printed as written, down to the last detail, otherwise this conversation is simply a waste of my time and your own.”
The drinks arrived. López calmly began to shovel spoonful after spoonful of sugar into his cup, turning the coffee into treacly, caffeine-rich syrup. Armstrong looked at him incredulously. Now he understood what was going on. San Isidro was definitely having a joke at his expense. He must have coached this López character, telling him all about H. P. Lovecraft’s mannerisms and . . . to what end?
“Why are you persisting with this absurd Lovecraft impersonation?” Armstrong blurted out, “It’s ridiculous. San Isidro put you up to it I suppose. But what I can’t figure out is why, so let me in on the joke.”
López looked up from his coffee and his eyes were deadly serious. And here it comes, boy and girls, thought Armstrong; here comes the line we’ve all been waiting for:
This is no joke Mr Armstrong, far from it, for I am in reality Howard Phillips Lovecraft of Providence, Rhode Island.
“Surely the only rational answer has already suggested itself,” López replied, very calmly and without any melodrama, “you are in fact sitting across the table from a certifiable lunatic.”
Armstrong leaned back in his seat and very carefully considered the man opp
osite. His manner betrayed no sign of humour and he spoke as if what he’d suggested was an established truism.
“Then despite your behaviour, you know that you’re not really Lovecraft?” Armstrong said.
“Howard Phillips Lovecraft died in agony on the morning of Monday 15 March 1937 in Providence’s Jane Brown Memorial Hospital. I cannot be him. However, since Tuesday 15 March 2003,1 have been subject to a delusion whereby the identity of Lovecraft completely supplanted my own. I currently have no memories whatsoever of having once been Felipe López of Mexico City. His family and friends are complete strangers to me. Meanwhile everyone Lovecraft knew is dead. I have become an outsider in this country and in this time. Unless one accepts the existence of the supernatural, which I emphatically do not, then only the explanation I have advanced has any credence.”
Armstrong was taken aback by these remarks. This was like no madman he’d heard of – one who was not only able to recognize his derangement, but who also was totally a slave to it. It was more like some bizarre variant of a multiple personality disorder.
“What did the doctors here have to say?” Armstrong asked.
“They did their best, but with no appreciable effect, let alone any amelioration, upon my malady. They tended to agree with my analysis of the situation.” López said, after taking a sip of his coffee.
“What about López before this happened? Did he have any interest in Lovecraft prior to your – umm – alteration? I can’t believe something like that would come out of nowhere.”
It was annoying, but Armstrong found himself questioning López as if he were actually addressing Lovecraft inhabiting another body.
“Quite so. I have discovered that López was a fanatical devotee of Lovecraft’s life and work. Moreover, he was one of that rather contemptible breed of freaks who adhere to the outlandish belief that, rather than writing fiction, Lovecraft had unconscious access to ultra-mundane dimensions. The group to which he belonged, who styled themselves “The Sodality of the Black Sun”, advocated the piteous theory that Lovecraft was an occult prophet instead of a mere scribbler. This indicates to me a brain already on the brink of a potential collapse into total chaos. You see before you the inevitable consequence.”
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