by Lori Lebow
“The coast is clear, Brendon,” she said in a lightly joking manner. “No spooky dudes here.” Brendon nodded. “Let’s go in and find our seats. And enjoy the evening, okay?”
Brendon nodded as he grabbed her hand and gave it a little squeeze. “You are right, Catriona,” he said by way of apology. They walked into the Victorian mansion and into another world.
CHAPTER 3
The main hallway at Seafarer’s House led past a number of sitting rooms where guests were eating hors’d’oeuvres and drinking. Each room was filled with Victoriana including photos and prints, vases, fire irons and screens, exotic rugs, hand-made tapestries and other eclectic bric-a-brac of which many people in the Victorian era were so fond. There were artefacts from every corner of the Empire, and a rich assortment of collectables including fine china and crystal that adorned the walls in display cabinets, which reached nearly to the ceilings. The dining area was spacious and made concessions to Twenty-First Century entertainment styles. The parquet dance floor was vast; a dance band was assembling on a raised stage. Acoustically effective ceiling and wall coverings kept the noise low so conversation was easy to pursue. Besides the bar, three walls opened into little gardens where tables and chairs were placed. It would have been hard imagine a more comfortably designed or attractive venue for entertaining.
In such an environment, Brendon forgot his worries and lost himself in the party. Catriona was among so many friends she never stopped laughing and swapping tales. The dinner was delicious, beautifully presented, efficiently served and included dishes that were unusual but complementary in a way that demonstrated the hosts’ culinary expertise. The party progressed in a series of pleasures and delights that created the stuff of which great memories are made.
Table Fourteen was located in the West corner nearest the servery and adjacent to the loud speakers. The guests assembled around its circumference were all older relatives or friends of the newlyweds’ extended families. They were quietly observing the party beyond their table as the main course was being served when a tall, bearded gentleman slipped into a vacant seat facing an oval mirror which was hanging in the corner. “Sorry I’m so late,” he exuded civility and goodwill. “My flight was delayed and then I couldn’t find this place, nor a parking spot.”
A swarthy, thin man facing him dabbed his lips on the linen napkin and gazed at the late arrival with dark eyes that seemed to be burning in a distant cavern. “Pity you missed the soup,” he said. “You are?”
The late arrival picked up his place card and read the name. “It says I’m ‘G. Eliot’. Sounds literary.”
“It’s not George Eliot,” the dark man observed. “It’s for Geoffrey: as in Chaucer.”
“That sounds literary, too,” the man smiled.
“You are in luck. It might have been Gina.”
“Are you literary?” the new comer asked.
The dark man considered briefly. “I enjoy good fictions.”
“Are you a writer?”
“I write as part of my job. What do you do?”
“I am a writer, too. I’ve written a novel.” With that, the man presented a copy that he had been carrying. Everyone at the table strained to see the book.
“Mr Dante, you have practiced on our credulity. You are not G. Eliot after all.”
“Dante is my pen-name,” he explained. “What kind of writing do you do?”
“My writing is far more lucrative than most novelists realise.”
“Are you an embezzler?”
“Certainly not. I am in law. Queen’s Council, in fact. I write letters to Corporation CEOs and tell them to pay vast sums of money to my clients so they can avoid paying vaster sums in legal fees, and / or go to jail. I am intrigued by your appearance at this wedding, Mr Dante, a.k.a G. Eliot. Perhaps you could explain how you are connected to the happy couple.”
“Through the DNA. I am a distant relative, as you are,” Marcel shrugged innocently.
“Indeed,” the dark man drawled. “So distant from the main trunk as to be a sucker. One that derives nourishment from the tap root but intends to produce its own trunk and branches.”
“Tell us about your book,” a kind-faced lady asked as she reached out to examine the cover.
“It’s really a collection of short stories. You can see the little titles on each page. The main plot concerns a couple who are staying in an isolated mansion converted into a hotel. The proprietor has written a book and he asks the couple to stay overnight as his guests. In return, they are to read the stories and tell him what they think.”
“‘Read for Your Life’,” the dark man intoned. “It sounds like a threat.”
“There is a Gothic element,” Marcel confessed. “The couple in the hotel feel they can not be sure they will be allowed to leave until they have read the book. They are tired from their journey. They do not really want to be reading, at least not a novel length narrative. But they feel they must. So they stay up all night reading the stories to each other. In that way, both will be able to tell the hotelier their response to the stories in the morning.”
“It sounds like an implausible means of creating a novel,” a bald-headed man across from the woman sniffed.
She disagreed. “I think it sounds quite original. But what kinds of stories are they?”
Marcel raised his eyebrows and leaned toward her. “You will just have to read the book to find out.”
“Can’t you give me a hint? We will be leaving tomorrow. There will be no time.”
“You could stay at my hotel tonight and read as many as you please,” Marcel suggested.
“Entrapment, deprivation of liberty, threat of inflicting bodily harm, impersonating a literary figure. These are serious criminal actions.” The lawyer sat back. “The stories are probably monstrous, too. There are laws against identity fraud.”
“A nom de plume is not identity fraud.”
“Taking the place of G. Eliot is.”
“G. Eliot is a nom de plume.”
“Tell us one of the stories,” the woman insisted.
“Well,” Marcel began, “there is a story about a woman who commits a murder. It is really an accident, but she is so disconnected from the victim, and she conceals the crime so effectively she is never even questioned by police.”
“That sounds good,” another of the distant relatives said.
“But,” Marcel continued, “the woman is so obsessed with her crime she can not resist alluding to it. Her desire to share her secret leads her to nearly confess her guilt in every conversation. She can’t stop herself from revealing little details of the crime. Even though she describes events as though they occurred to someone else, it is her desire to speak about the murder that finally catches her.”
“Close enough to what really happens. I have heard it said that criminals are often proud of their crimes and happy to expand on their reasons for committing serious breaches of the law when they are questioned by police. Your story sounds more like reality than fiction. Tell us another.” The dark-eyed lawyer seemed to be gathering evidence.
Marcel paused. “There is one about a film maker. The coming attractions and promotional film made about his movie are totally misleading. The out-takes from the film create from the same material a completely different story.”
“Another misbegotten fiction,” the lawyer drawled. “Promotional materials for films almost always mislead people. It is common practice to put into the promos the out-takes from the final cut.”
Marcel savoured a moment of self-adulation. “None the less, it makes an interesting tale. And I confess it was devilishly difficult to write. I had to plan two entirely different narratives based on the same basic facts.”
The lawyer glared at Marcel as he replied, “Exactly the same as your attendance here tonight.”
Marcel was studying the mirror reflection of the rest of the assembled diners behind him. He nodded at the lawyer without replying. Then he drew his cell phone from his pocket
and held it to his ear while covering his other ear. After a few syllables he smiled at the rest of the assembly around the table and rose, picking up his book. “I must go, unfortunately.” To the lawyer he said, “Your opinion of my book would greatly interest me. If you give me your address, I will send you a copy.”
“It is in the phone book,” the lawyer sniffed.
“What name is it under?”
“Bill. Bill Shakespeare, Attorney at Law. The only Shakespeare in the book.”
Marcel nodded and walked toward an exit. The bald-headed man addressed the lawyer. “Leonard, that was rather harsh. The fellow wasn’t hurting anyone.”
“A gatecrasher impersonating a great writer is a danger to literature. Besides, I was hoping to get a bit of his dessert.”
Marcel left the party through the door that led into one of the little alcoves. He found a group of smokers gathered just outside, along a raised garden bed. Some were sitting on the edge of the concrete retaining wall; others were leaning on pillars that supported the covered walkway. He soon found a young woman who was standing apart, sipping a glass of wine. She smiled at him and he launched into his usual conversation.
“I’ll read one of your stories,” she announced without much persuasion from the writer. “Which do your suggest?”
“Pick a short one, if you like,” Marcel offered. But the woman selected the following because she was intrigued by its title.
The Museum of Miracles
If economic conditions were good, Faith Snowden would be between jobs; if conditions were bad she would be unemployed. Her friends suggested she occupy herself as though she were a member of the idle rich, and avail herself of opportunities only dreamt of by the working masses. So, on a rather cold and drizzly Monday she found herself before the main entrance of the Museum of Miracles. It was close to the opening minute, but she was alone. A man in a top hat, long cane and short cloak rapidly ascended the stairs and began releasing the padlocked doors. He smiled at Faith in a genial manner. “Eager to go in?”
“I thought the Museum opened at nine o’clock,” she replied.
“On Mondays it opens at ten,” he pointed to the hours on the glass door. “But it is so chilly out here, you had better come inside.” He swung the door wide and gestured for her to enter.”
“Oh, I can wait,” she apologized. “I didn’t realize — “
“No problem. Have you been here before?” Faith shook her head. “Ah, then you will have a guided tour. I will take you around as I open up the displays.”
“Really?” Faith was excited. “Who are you?”
“I am Justin Mizmere: Director, Proprietor, Chief Curator and Archivist for the Museum. I also conduct private tours, keep the place tidy, and manage the Museum Shop and Cafeteria.”
“You do all of that?”
“And more!” he grinned. “It is my collection. But of course it is full of miracles, so my ability to perform work that would otherwise fall to twenty other people is not so very surprising. And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?” Faith gave him her name. “A lovely name,” he nodded. “One of my favourites.”
By now they had entered the circular foyer, which was under a domed ceiling. Four levels of exhibits could be glimpsed from the rotunda. Marble columns flanked each quadrant of the circular floor plan, inviting visitors to see the displays in each area according to directions over the arched porticos.
“I can escort you until the regular opening,” Justin told his guest. “Since this is your first visit, perhaps you should confine yourself to exhibits that interest you. There is so much to see you could probably spend as long here as you could spend in the British Museum or the Smithsonian Institute, and still not see everything.”
“I will be happy for you to show me what is convenient to you,” Faith told him.
“How is your emotional state?” Justin asked. He studied her critically. “There are some rather challenging exhibits in the basement, but they can be upsetting for anyone feeling delicate. The rock used to carve messages on the walls of the Prison at Chillon, for example. Very moving, but you have to be in the right mood.”
“I think I’ll miss them for now,” Faith decided.
They had entered the Hall of Coincidences and Justin switched on the lights. The first case had a large bluish block of ice. The sign under the glass read: THE ICE BERG THAT SANK THE TITANIC. Faith looked from the exhibit to Justin Mizmere and back. “It is a bona fide fragment of the Titanic’s Berg,” Justin assured her. “We have kept it refrigerated.” In the next case was an electric spark arcing between two electrodes. The placard next to the viewing window explained that the case contained: THE LIGHTENING FLASH THAT DESTROYED THE HINDENBERG. The case following held THE MILKPAIL UPSET BY THE COW THAT STARTED THE CHICAGO FIRE. Faith turned to comment and was amazed to see a large rock mounted on a pedestal in the corner. “That is a bit of the actual meteor rock that killed off the dinosaurs sixty-five million years ago.”
Faith’s eyes were full of wonder. “We studied about that,” she said. “But why is it a Coincidence?”
Justin’s voice grew soft. “Imagine if that meteor had missed the earth? And it could have missed, if it had passed a few hours or even minutes before or after the planet had moved in its orbit. We might never have evolved!”
In another display case was what appeared to be a small Stars-and-Stripes flag from the American Civil War era. The explanation card beside read: BECALMED WEATHER LEADING TO THE WRECK OF THE U. S. GRANT NEAR ANTARCTICA. “There is nothing happening in there,” Faith pointed.
“That is what ‘becalmed’ means. The U. S. Grant was a sailing ship. It was becalmed between New Zealand and the Southern Ocean in the Nineteenth Century. That meant that it could not be steered nor powered. It got caught in a current that drew it into a cave where it sank. The lifeboats could not be lowered because the walls of the cave were pressed against the sides of the ship, and its mast broke off against the roof of the cave. Fourteen people, including a woman opera singer, survived for two years as castaways on an island that was visited only by penguins and seals.”
“What a strange story!”
“One of New Zealand’s most remarkable sea sagas,” Justin nodded. “If you ever go to the museum in Christchurch, you can see the sealskin clothes the castaways wore. But the whole disaster was started when the ship was becalmed. And here you can see just what the windless conditions were. The exact windless moments are contained in this exhibit.”
They had reached the end of the gallery, and passed into a room called: Sounds Fantastic. Faith put on headphones to hear: COLUMBUS DROPPING ANCHOR IN THE NEW WORLD; THE KRAKATOA ERUPTION OF 1883 (AS IT WOULD HAVE SOUNDED TO PEOPLE IN BORNEO); and ONE OF THE VOICES THAT SPOKE TO JOAN OF ARC. In an elaborate case, there was a model of Nelson’s ship H. M. S. Victory in the middle of the action at the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805. The headphones played: AN ACTUAL CONVERSATION BETWEEN A GUNNER AND A MIDSHIPMAN AFTER THE BATTLE. Faith listened to the following comments:
Gunner: You’ll have to speak up. I’m a bit hard of hearing. The noise of the cannons and all.
Midshipman: Nelson’s last words were reported as ‘Kiss me, Hardy.’
Gunner: Eh? You’ll have to speak up. I’m a bit deaf from the cannons.
Midshipman: (Louder) Nelson’s last words were reported as ‘Kiss me, Hardy.’
Gunner: No! Did he say that? Why would he say that? That don’t make any sense.
Midshipman: That’s how they were reported. Nelson’s last words were: ‘Kiss me, Hardy.’
Gunner: Well I never. I believe they was having you on, son. I believe that is a porky pie. A lie. I bet he said: “Miss me, Hardy. ‘Miss me’ makes more sense. Was you there when he said it?
Midshipman: No. That was what was reported. I told you that.
Gunner: Some bloody stupid, deaf gunner might have said it “Kiss me”. You can be sure our Admiral Nelson would have made more sense, even if he was dying. “Miss me,
Hardy.” That’s what he would have said.
Midshipman: Well it’s reported now so history will record it as I told you.
Gunner: So old Nelson is dead. You know what I think? He was in so much strife with his missus, and him a-carrying on with Lady Hamilton, I reckon he got hisself shot on purpose so’s he wouldn’t have to face the music when he got back to jolly ol’ England. I think he concocted this whole Battle of Trafalgar so’s he could be shot by a French sharpshooter and end his worries.
Midshipman: What a terrible thing to say about our Nelson. He’s a great hero. He saved us from the Frogs. He saved Britain and he died for our country. I think the cannons have addled your brains as well as your ears.
Gunner: Eh? What did you say?
Midshipman: Nothing.
Faith removed the headphones and stared at Justin in wide-eyed disbelief. “How did you ever get these sounds recorded?” she finally blurted.
“It was difficult,” Justin agreed, “but we have mastered all kinds of cutting-edge technologies to gain exhibits for our collection. I still think this item is the most astonishing,” he said and handed her another headset. The label on the wall indicated: CONVERSATION BETWEEN A FAMILY IN ANCIENT GREECE EXTRACTED FROM THE CLAY POTS BEING THROWN AT THE TIME. THE POTS PRESERVED THE CONVERSATION IN THE SAME WAY THAT THOMAS EDISON RECORDED WORDS ON HIS FIRST PHONOGRAPH WITH WAX AND A STYLUS ON A TURNING CYLINDER.
Father: What did your mother say?
Son: She told me to clean my room first. Then I could go.
Father: So did you clean your room?
Son: Yes, Father. Can I go, now?
Mother: Do you think cleaning your room means to throw all of your clothes under the bed?
Son: (whines) Mother!
Father: You have to put your things away and tidy up. Then feed the goats and chickens.
Son: Then can I go?
Father: You’ll be home by sundown?
Son: Yes.
Mother: Who are you taking to the festival? Mona?
Son: Yes.
Mother: She is not good enough for you.