by Lori Lebow
Contents
Title & Copyright
CHAPTER 1
An Image to Die For
OverPopulation Bureau
King’s Castle (Part 1)
King’s Castle (Part 2)
Dog Story: A Parable
CHAPTER 2
Shift Workers
The Motivator
The Knight of the Black Rose
Canine Therapy
Heart Transfusion
CHAPTER 3
The Museum of Miracles
Gothic Dog
Life Script
CHAPTER 4
Mind Reading
Last Story
THANK YOU FOR READING
READ FOR YOUR LIFE
Lori Lebow
Copyright © 2017 Lori Lebow
Wedge-tailed Eagle Press
All rights reserved.
CHAPTER 1
Brendon felt the shadow of the passer-by fall over him, eclipsing the sun and sending a cold chill through him. He lowered his newspaper and squinted at the silhouette of a tall, bearded gentleman who was holding a book in one hand and leaning slightly toward him. “Do you mind if I join you?” the stranger asked, already slipping onto the park bench and into Brendon’s personal space. Brendon shifted toward his own end of the bench while the white-haired stranger smiled pleasantly.
Brendon made an elaborate gesture of consulting his watch. “I have to be going soon, anyway,” he admitted, and started arranging his newspapers. Why, he wondered, did this guy have to share his bench in the park when there were plenty of empty seats all around them? But Brendon had told his girlfriend to meet him, and this was their usual spot.
“Could I trouble you for a few minutes of your time?” the stranger continued. “I’m not selling anything. In fact, I would like to give you something without any cost or obligation aside from the few minutes it will take, if you are at liberty to indulge in a little adventure.”
Brendon concealed his growing annoyance. While he considered what action to take, the man introduced himself.” My name is Marcel Dante –– my pen name.” He handed the book to Brendon. It was called Read for Your Life and his name was on the cover along with a picture of a Victorian portico leading into a hotel or mansion in a dark, wooded landscape. “I would like to ask you to read a short passage from my book, and tell me what you think of it. Since we are total strangers, your opinion will be of great value to me because my friends often express their responses worrying about my feelings rather than giving me an honest reaction. You would be able to tell me the truth without concern for our relationship because we don’t have one.”
Brendon flipped the book over and glanced at the blurbs. One said: “A Gothic, romantic masterpiece…” and another said: “… totally original in conception and execution…” and the last read: “…Sheherazade meets The Ancient Mariner….” He then thumbed the pages and saw that the chapters were filled with paragraphs broken by boldface titles. “I’m asking you to read just one passage of the text between the titles,” Marcel explained. “It will only take a moment.” Brendon was a little intrigued, but also irritated with himself because he had missed his chance to escape sooner. He looked at his watch again. Marcel persevered. “It might help if I explained how the novel works. You see, the main character is the concierge of a hotel in the mountains of Maine, mid-twentieth century. His name is Florian Gothik. He writes stories when he is not entertaining a hotel full of guests, but because his stories have never been published, he begins to feel that unless someone is reading his tales, he does not exist. So, he prevails upon his guests to read the stories. He tells them that unless they read the tales, they will never be able to leave his hotel alive.” Brendon glanced up at Marcel with a look of disapproval, so Marcel quickly added. “Of course, it is a joke, but it does get them to read.” Brendon scanned the park for a sign of his girlfriend. Then he parted the book near the beginning and read this excerpt:
An Image to Die For
Adrienne was a handsome woman with refined tastes and elegant style. She understood how colours and shapes, textures and fabrics, scarves and jewellery, deportment and presentation could enhance a person’s stature, so she took elaborate pains to get her image right. When she consulted the mirror it was to confirm that her hair, her hat, her dress, her gloves, her handbag, her shoes, her entire figure and her expression did justice to her desire to appear totally under control. Indeed, the image she sought was a military precision. The creases in her pleats were as sharp as sabres; her black blazer fit like a custom-made suit of armour. Her make-up was invisible, but it created a flawless and beautiful face whose blazing, level gaze exuded penetrating intelligence and absolute power. For a brief moment, Adrienne was pleased with her reflection. A tiny flickering smile of approval lifted her lips, but then vanished to resume her usual expression of intense, purposeful determination.
The mirror image broke rank. It began to tremble. Adrienne saw her own hands reach up to adjust the hat: first more forward, then back, to the left, to the right, straight on top, then off. The scarf was untied and retied with a bow in front. Then the bow was pushed to the right, swung to the left. The scarf was untied and retied inside the jacket. The jacket was buttoned and then unbuttoned. Off it came. The blouse was tucked in tighter; then pulled out completely. Adrienne’s reflection became more and more frantic, more desperate. Even her impeccably applied makeup could not conceal her growing panic as the perfectly decisive and controlled authority crumbled into chaotic, immobilized despair. Adrienne shuddered to see this revelation of her inner self: a wildly insecure and indecisive victim of whim. But she couldn’t afford to let anyone know this terrifying secret self, so she grasped a bronze figure of an owl that adorned her dresser and threw it into the mirror, shattering the glass into fragments. Adrienne fell dead amidst the glittering shards, for she had destroyed not her image, but her real self.
§ § §
Brendon looked up to see Marcel grinning at him. “Well, what did you think?”
“It was strange. Kind of weird. Trying to be Gothic, but not succeeding. I suppose if you like that kind of book it would be okay. It’s not really my taste in stories.”
“Thank you,” Marcel replied. “Do you have time to read another?” Brendon glanced at his watch. “If you could, I would be very much obliged.”
“I’m meeting my girlfriend any minute now,” Brendon answered. “There she is! Catriona!” He was so relieved he jumped up and dropped the book. Embarrassed, he greeted her as he handed the book back to the author, but before it left his hand, she twisted it to read the title.
“Glad to see you are trying to broaden your literary horizons,” she laughed.
“Perhaps you would like to read a bit. Your friend just did me the honour of trying a sample.”
“We don’t have time,” Brendon blocked Marcel’s attempt to pass the book to Catriona. “We have to go,” he told her. But Catriona reached out and before he could stop her, she had the book in her hand.
“The wedding isn’t until three,” she laughed, “and the Seafarer’s House is only ten minutes walk. Did you write this book?” she asked Marcel, who nodded. “What’s it about?”
Marcel acknowledged Brendon’s agitation with a smile. “Your friend has already heard a synopsis of the plot. Basically, it starts with a young couple on their first holiday since their honeymoon. They come to the Hotel Gothik late one stormy night when they take a detour on a winding, mountain road. Their car gets bogged in a rut, and they are forced to stay the night at the hotel. The hotelier, Florian Gothik, invites them to stay as his guests, for free. In return he asks them to read stories from a co
llection he has been gathering for many years. He tells them that he feels he only exists if someone is reading his stories. So the book is a series of vignettes.”
“Sounds interesting,” Catriona opened the volume in the middle and saw the little boldface headings breaking up the printed pages.
“Let’s go,” Brendon urged.
“Is each story under a title?” she asked. When Marcel nodded, she flipped to a page between two little headings and read the first.
OverPopulation Bureau
“Harriet Lamour, you have been sent to this office because you are contributing to the world’s overpopulation in an alarming manner. You will need to reduce your impact.”
Harriet tossed her head and sighed. “I don’t really think there is anyway I can help except by taking my own life.”
“That is an option,” Mr Sangster admitted. Harriet gave him a furious grimace. She was not amused. “However, perhaps we can come to a less horrific arrangement.”
“I don’t see why I have been singled out for this treatment,” Harriet continued. “I have no children. I’m not in a long-term relationship. I think you are targeting the wrong person.”
“On the contrary,” Mr Sangster insisted. “You are an actress, so you are more at fault than most people.”
“How?” Harriet was angry. “You just like to persecute people who have chosen the hard life of artists and performers because most of us do not have the money to fight back.”
“Indeed no, Ms Lamour,” Mr Sangster replied. The OverPopulation Bureau is dealing with a far greater problem then most people recognize. We are concerned about the growing number of personae that are crowding our imaginations and theoretical space.”
“You mean, you are reducing the various identities that each person calls into play in the course of normal activities?”
“Exactly.” Mr Sangster was delighted that Harriet had understood so quickly. “You see, the population at the moment is close to ten billion people. But that is counting only the physical bodies. Each person actually demonstrates different kinds of behaviour and personality in different situations, called personae. So a normal person could generate perhaps twenty different personality constructs. A very gifted person, or a criminal might make twice that number of characters. This means the actual world population could be two-hundred billion, or even four-hundred billion persons, counting all the personae possible.”
“But why have I been sent here?” Harriet wanted to know.
“Because, Ms Lamour, “you are an actress. You are able to produce an almost unlimited number of personae. The damage to our environment resulting from people with your skills alone is far worse than the population impact caused by poor family-planning in any underdeveloped country on the planet. To control overpopulation in the realm of character creation, actors must be educated to reduce their generation of multiple personalities.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” Harriet fumed. “Become a one-trick pony and get myself type-cast?”
“Splendid idea!” Mr Sangster grinned. He passed a contract across the desk and handed Harriet a pen. “Just sign here and you can go.”
“What is this?” Harriet strained to read the pale, eight-point print on the page that was covered with text.
“Your agreement to curtail your behaviour. One personality type per person is all that you will be allowed. If you fail to live up to this agreement, your imagination will be surgically altered.”
“You can’t do that,” she argued.
“We can try,” Mr Sangster shrugged. “If the operation is not a success in one respect, it will be in another.” He smiled as he rose to open the door. “Ms Lamour, you have chosen for this interview at least three, rather unattractive personae: outraged creative genius, sulky passive aggressive rebel, and hostile, uncooperative anti-social. I suggest that you have already broken the contract limitations. So, please be careful. Choose a single, pleasant, positive personality type, perhaps more like mine, in order to enjoy your new life as an environmentally sustainable supporter of a less crowded imaginative world.”
§ § §
Marcel was watching Catriona for her reaction and she knew it. Her broad grin and nod of approval rewarded him.
“Very cute,” she said, closing the book with her finger inside to mark the place. “More than just cute, though. It is a social commentary. Yes, I like it.”
“Have you got time to read one more?” Marcel could hardly contain his excitement. It was so gratifying to hear some positive feedback.
“No,” Brendon said quickly. “We have to leave now.”
“Oh, one more won’t hurt,” Catriona pleaded gently. “They are only short stories, Brendon.” She handed him his newspaper. “You can check the film reviews and I’ll just read another little narrative. Ten minutes.” She smiled at Marcel and then began the next story:
King’s Castle (Part 1)
Sonia blew the dust off the cover and read, King’s Castle: A Book About Chess. As she dropped the old volume into the packing crate, an envelope slipped from the cover. “What’s this? It’s addressed to: ‘Aram Dubrovnian; post-marked New York, 1940. The letter is still inside.”
Her grandfather glanced up and took the envelope. His dark eyes sparkled and a thoughtful smile illuminated his face. His features had lost little of their strength or character in eighty years. He ran his fingers through his grey hair and studied Sonia. “This envelope contains the conclusion of one of the most remarkable episodes in my career.”
Sonia snorted. “Every story you tell is remarkable.”
“Ah,” he sighed, turning his gaze to a point far in his past, “but this story surpasses anything you can imagine. It is the story of the King’s Castle.”
While Sonia continued sorting through the library tomes, her grandfather related the following tale:
Nearly forty years ago, I was called by the housekeeper of the Lander Estate to conduct a routine valuation of the property for insurance purposes. Mrs Rebecca Bridges was a robust, energetic woman, about seventy years old. She sparkled when she led me through the mansion, clearly as proud of each art treasure as if she had been responsible for its creation. Antiques of the finest quality and in museum condition were tastefully arranged throughout the home which was itself an impressive architectural masterpiece. Basically Tudor in style, the house managed to retain a colonial American simplicity with the substantial weight of Gothic.
Mrs Bridges opened the first volume of the Estate Catalogue of art treasures, and ran her finger down the extensive index. “Randolf Lander knew how to invest his money,” she smiled in admiration. “His private collection is not the largest, nor the most valuable, but you must agree that he acquired only the finest examples of art works by the greatest masters.”
We spent most of the day examining the magnate’s treasures, and ascertained that nearly all of the items listed in the estate catalogue could be accounted for. Toward lunchtime, my tour concluded, and I was about to bid Mrs Bridges good-bye when we passed a closed door leading from the main salon. She noted my unspoken inquiry and said, “That is what Mr. Lander used to refer to as his ‘War Room’. It has been kept strictly closed to visitors for twenty-five years. A number of items remaining on your list are within. Perhaps, under the unusual circumstances of your visit, I might open it to you.”
With that, Mrs Bridges produced a key from around her neck, and opened the door into a sunny retreat, carpeted with red Persian tapestries. The fireplace tiles gleamed between polished brass andirons. Crystal and bronze statuary lined the mantle and along the wall appeared a dramatic collection of oil-painted landscapes, and one Flemish interior masterpiece depicting a young woman and man bent over a chessboard. While the woman intently scrutinized the board, the man scrutinized her.
In the corner, formed by leaded glass windows, a chessboard was assembled on an Italian Renaissance marble table. The pieces were ivory; the board inlaid exotic hardwoods. “It appears that the game is still
in progress,” I observed.
“The match has been continuous for twenty-five years,” Mrs Bridges replied.
“Amazing!” I noted that play had reached a critical point.
“The players will meet today to conclude the match, originally begun by their parents.”
“And do you mean, Mrs Bridges, “that the chessmen have been left, as they stand, for the duration of the contest?”
“Mr Lander desired that the match be played continuously and that this room be designated solely for that purpose. None but the contestants was to touch the chessmen, except of course for me, since I must dust and keep the room tidy.”
The sanctuary of the War Room intrigued me. It’s stillness seemed electrified by the tense confrontation of the chessmen. Sunlight ignited the ivory and warmed the rich colours of dark panelling. The grandfather clock ticked solemnly, though time seemed to hold its breath. “The disposition of Randolph Lander’s estate, Mr. Dubrovnian, is contingent upon the outcome of this game.”
“But Randolph Lander has been dead for over twenty years.”
“He was a powerful man,” Mrs Bridges smiled. “His decrees hold sway as effectively today as they did when he lived to enforce them.”
“Then,” I said, “if you would care to enlighten me, I would love to know how he succeeded in preserving his estate for so long without allowing it to pass into the hands of his heirs.”
“You can stay to lunch,” Mr Dubrovnian, and I shall tell you the story.” During our meal, Mrs Bridges related the following tale:
“Randolph Lander had been born into a wealthy family and during his life he extended his fortune by prudent investments. He was close to thirty before he married, but his wife, Margaret Nash, was not his first love. He had had an affair with a beautiful and gifted woman named Louise Amara, who bore him a son, Arthur. What became of Louise I never learned, but Randolph acknowledged that Arthur was his son, took him in and raised him with every advantage he could confer. Not long after, Randolph married widow Margaret Nash, and took her son, Richard, into his guardianship. Though he adopted Richard and Arthur, and they became his legitimate heirs, and though they were raised together as brothers, and shown every kindness by their parents, they developed a rivalry that became more pronounced as they grew. Richard was a handsome, clever social child. He was quick and pleasing, and easily attracted people by his self-confidence. Arthur shared many of his stepbrother’s virtues. He too was handsome and intelligent. But a slight defect of birth had rendered him lame, and he tended to be more introverted. Whether his handicap was the cause, or his subdued nature resulted independently we will never know. In any case, the two Landers diverged in attitudes and interests.