Albatross

by Terry Fallis

  I could feel myself nodding in agreement as I took notes.

  “Who else felt that way?” the professor asked.

  Several hands were lifted high.

  “You don’t have to raise your hand, too, Adam. It’s your story.”

  “Sorry, but what Stephen says actually makes sense to me.”

  “Okay, who’s next?”

  “I liked it. It made me think about life and happiness. But I had some issues, too,” Bethany said, taking the floor. “I know it’s a bit cliché to say this, but I thought there was a lot of telling going on in the story and not enough showing. Rather than just having the narrator tell us stuff, Adam could have made those points through dialogue, or action in the story. I think it would help the pacing and make the whole piece, I don’t know, more animated, more dynamic than it is right now.”

  “Wow, that’s awesome advice,” I said. “I see what you’re saying. Thanks for that.”

  Trudy shot me a puzzled look. “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “What? No, of course not,” I protested. “I mean it. I think your critique is sound and really helpful.”

  “Well, while we’re being so receptive with the constructive criticism, I have a thought on the dialogue that’s already there,” chimed in Kaz. “There are about six different characters who speak to the narrator in the story—old, young, men, women, rich, poor—all of them are different. But if you read the dialogue, they all kind of sound the same. I think you need to reflect how different the characters are by making them sound different in dialogue.”

  “Holy shit, you’re right,” I said, shaking my head as I thought about what she’d just said. “This is great stuff.”

  Kaz furrowed her brow.

  “I’m serious,” I pleaded. “As soon as you said it, I saw it. You’re right.”

  Then our friend Dick, who we had learned was actually named Brad, raised his hand and Professor Keller nodded his way.

  “I just don’t think it’s realistic that someone could have a birthmark that looks exactly like Elvis. It’s too far-fetched. You’re asking readers to suspend their disbelief so dramatically, so extremely. It just doesn’t fly for me.”

  “I hear you, Brad. And thanks for that,” I replied. “But I think of this story as more of a fable, or maybe a parable. The birthmark is symbolic, metaphorical, and I hope readers understand that.”

  “How many of you took it as metaphorical?” Professor K. asked.

  Everyone’s hand went up except Dick’s—I mean Brad’s.

  I was still taking notes when the class broke up. I’d taken in a lot of really good advice. I didn’t agree with all of it, but most was constructive and gave me a clear path to rework the story. When I looked up from my notes, only Professor K. and I were left in the room.

  “Well, I got to say, I have never in my teaching career seen anyone take a heap of criticism in such a warm, welcoming, and grateful fashion,” he started. “So that was really all on the up and up?”

  “Why does everyone think I was putting on an act? I thought the comments were extremely helpful, and most of them were rooted in sound analysis.”

  “Most writers don’t take criticism so well,” he replied. “I certainly don’t.”

  I thought for a moment before I responded.

  “I understand that, but let’s just say that in my earlier life, I never received thoughtful and constructive criticism from anyone, I suppose because I was pretty good at what I was doing. But I don’t have the same gift for writing. I have the desire and the drive and I hope the discipline to be a writer, but not the innate talent. So I desperately want to improve. The feedback will help me get better. I enjoyed the critique today because I need and want it so much so I can develop and improve. Does that make sense?”

  “Oh, it makes lots of sense, and I commend you for your enlightened view. I just don’t know many writers who can pull it off.”

  I worked most of the night revising the story based on the class’s feedback. It was wonderful. I loved it. The changes seemed so clear to me. I’d just needed a nudge in the right direction. My ability to critique my own writing was improved by the exercise. I started to see other minor issues, which I tweaked and hopefully resolved.

  The next night, Alli came over. We hugged when she came through the front door, but no kisses were exchanged. Perhaps she might have planted one on me had she not been immediately distracted by the condo and its amazing wraparound corner view to the south, right down to Lake Ontario.

  “Oh my gosh, this is beautiful,” she said, turning slowly on the spot. “And the furniture and the rugs and everything else are stunning!”

  I led her to a closed door next to the master bedroom. I waited till she was standing right next to me before I opened the door and ushered her in.

  She said nothing, but the look on her face sufficed. The library was not a large room. I didn’t want it to be large. I kind of wanted to feel as if I were wearing the room. The wall of glass faced west, where the sun was setting, turning the clouds and the sky a lovely shade of vermilion. Except for the door, dark wooden floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves made up the other three walls, and they were filled with the books I’d collected over the years. There was room for more books. A glass-topped desk, on which rested my laptop, abutted the window. A small wooden cabinet under the desk held my fountain pens. Finally, a deep, dark-brown leather chair rested next to the desk for when the need to write gave way to the need to read.

  “It’s perfect,” she whispered, taking in the whole room. “Perfect.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” I said.

  “I could write some serious prose in here.”

  “Anytime you wish.”

  I asked Alli to read my original version of “The Birthmark” and then the revised story. I watched her out of the corner of my eye while she read. I could tell before she opened her mouth that I’d made progress with the revisions. She nodded her head almost imperceptibly throughout the new and improved edition.

  “The second one is much better,” she said. “Please tell me it’s the revised version and not the original.”

  “Yes. The changes were driven by the great feedback I got from the rest of the class. Almost all of their comments made sense to me, and I just ignored those that didn’t. When I have a sound diagnosis, I think I can prescribe the right treatment and carry it out.”

  “This revised draft is strong. It’s more lyrical and literary than your earlier work. I really like it.”

  “I find the writing easier when I’m telling a story that means something to me,” I replied.

  “Well, it’s not hard to see how personal this story is,” she said. “This is what came out of that bizarre TV interview you did just before Tokyo, right?”

  “Guilty.”

  “Don’t say guilty, like it’s a bad thing. I think the best stories come from our own lives. That’s how we write with real authenticity and conviction. It’s a good thing.”

  “I’ve been thinking. I’ve only ever written short stories. Now that I understand just how difficult they are, I’m thinking I might like to try messing around with a novel,” I said. “What do you think?”

  “I think you should. In fact, I think the way you write, speak, and think might even be better suited to longer-form fiction,” she replied. “What’s the story?”

  “Well, it feels a little like the short story you just read, but it’s not the same. I had this idea to write in the voice of a youngish man who’s been blessed with an extraordinary singing voice. He sings beautifully and powerfully, and catches the attention of record executives. He soon finds himself at the top of the pop charts, on top of the world, living a life he’d never imagined. He is respected, revered, and brings joy to so many people around the world.”

  “But…” Alli prompted.

  “But he’s not happy. He’s not satisfied. He’s not fulfilled. It all leaves him strangely cold. And he has another calling.”

 
“Don’t tell me. He wants to write.”

  “Nope. He’s obsessed with astrophysics, and is proficient in that realm, though he falls somewhat short of gifted.”

  “So he’s torn between the fame, money, mansions, fast cars, and women that come with pop stardom, and the esoteric, monastic, often impoverished life of an astrophysicist studying the universe. Kind of like choosing between star or stars. I like it,” she said.

  “Star or stars,” I repeated. “Hmmmm, that might be good title.”

  “I have absolutely no idea where you could have picked up that storyline,” she said.

  “Me either.”

  Then she slipped her arm around my waist as we watched the western sky cycle through various shades of orange.

  Chapter 14

  OCTOBER 2020

  I WAS SPENDING quite a bit of time with Allison. It felt so good to be back in her orbit. I was careful not to make any assumptions or try to move too far, too fast. This was too important to me to mess it up. So we just took it slowly, which required all the self-restraint I could muster. When it felt right, I had one more card to play sitting in a wooden filing box on the floor of my bedroom closet.

  Late one afternoon in early October, Alli arrived at my door with a big smile and an even bigger envelope.

  “It’s finished,” she said, handing it to me. “I’m finished.”

  “What, your novel?”

  “No, I’ve been secretly building a Death Star all this time and I’m ready to blow up my first planet,” she replied. “Yes, Adam, my novel. I really think it’s done, or at least it feels like I’m done with it.”

  “That’s fantastic! Congratulations,” I said and, seizing any opportunity for bodily contact, went in for a hug. “When can I read it?”

  “You’re holding it in your hands right now,” she said, pointing to the envelope in my clutches. “Would you read it and tell me the truth about it? I’m so immersed in it, I don’t even know if it’s a novel anymore. I don’t know if the story hangs together, if the characters are believable, if the pacing is there. I just have this faint inkling that it’s finished.”

  “Of course,” I said. “If you could assume a low profile and keep the noise down, I’ll start right now.”

  “Thanks, Adam,” she said, and leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I just barely resisted the juvenile temptation to turn my head at the last second to take it on the lips. “I can’t stay. I’ve got my second-year American Lit marking to do. Be honest on the novel. I can’t hand it in if there’s something wrong with it, but I’m too close to see it right now.”

  “I promise honesty. Now, let me get to it.”

  I shooed her out the door, stealing a parting hug, and then ripped open the envelope. I put the stack of manuscript pages on the coffee table, stretched out on the couch, and started reading. It was 3:45 p.m.

  There was no title yet for the novel, but it was a ghost story. Or perhaps it wasn’t. You don’t know, even when you’ve finished it, whether there really is a ghost or if the narrator is not fully stable mentally. I looked up from the manuscript once at about 8:15 to go to the bathroom. At 2:30 the next morning I read the final page.

  There was no way I could have read her novel in anything other than one sitting. I had no choice. I was bowled over. My fingers could barely work my cellphone. It rang quite a few times before she answered. That’s when I realized it was nearly three in the morning.

  “Adam, is that you?” she asked in her groggy sleep voice. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m so sorry, Alli, I just realized what time it is.”

  “Well, when the little hand is almost on the three, and it’s dark outside, it’s sleepy time.”

  “I know. I know. I’m sorry. But I just finished your novel.”

  I’m pretty sure I actually heard her sit bolt upright.

  “What, you finished it? You read the whole thing. You’re done?”

  “Yes, all of those things,” I replied. “I just wish you were here right now so I could, I don’t know, maybe hold you while I told you how utterly spellbound I’ve been for the last nine hours or so. I loved it. To descend to cliché, I could not have put it down if our building were on fire. I’m so proud of you.”

  “Well, when you put it that way, I wish I were there, too.”

  “That novel is going to be an international bestseller. You heard it here first.”

  “Whoa, cowboy. Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves,” she replied. “My thesis supervisor hasn’t even seen it yet. And then there’s that minor obstacle of finding a publisher.”

  “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. This manuscript will soon be a published novel with a stunning and haunting cover, and it will fly off the shelves in staggering numbers.”

  We talked for an hour. I’d read her manuscript as a reader and as a writer. So I gave her chapter and verse about the novel’s many virtues so she knew my praise wasn’t just puffery.

  “I like having you around. You’re good for my confidence,” she said.

  “Oh, I’m good for more than that.”

  * * *

  —

  ONE MORNING ABOUT a week later I was on my way to my morning class, walking west along the south side of Bloor Street, when I noticed someone on the north side of the street taking my picture. The shooter was subtle about it, but I caught it. When you’ve seen it as often as I had in the previous five years, it’s easy to pick out. I didn’t let on that I’d seen him and his camera, but just carried on walking. Courtesy of shiny and clean store windows next to me, I could see that the photographer, still on the other side of the street, was following me. I had quite a good view of him in nearly every window I passed. I just looked like I was window-shopping when I was really tracking the shooter’s every movement as he tracked mine. I should have been a spy.

  One block later, the photographer got into a white car that pulled up beside him. They sped away down Bloor. I kept one eye on them as they pulled a U-turn at the end of the block and headed back towards me. The closer they came to me, the more clearly I could see the long lens of the camera poking out the passenger window. I casually cut down a side street and into a building filled with stores. It was futile. I saw the car four more times that day. I was pretty sure my cover was blown. In a way, it was somewhat of a relief. Anticipating discovery is almost as exhausting as avoiding it. And it really had been just a matter of time. It seemed my time was up. I turned off my cellphone.

  My suspicions were confirmed on my walk back from the university that afternoon. The white car was no longer tailing me. They’d probably already got what they needed. I’d avoided the Internet all day and didn’t know whether my photos were already circulating in cyberspace. I visited Laywine’s in Yorkville on my way home. I hadn’t been in for a while and wanted to see what fountain pens they had on sale, and maybe pick up some ink and notebooks. I was a little anxious about leaving the store so I ended up spending more time and money than I’d planned.

  I bought some more of my favourite paper, and a couple of Rhodia dotPads. I also stocked up on some ink, specifically Iroshizuku Ku-Jaku, which in technical terms is kind of bluey-greeny. When I finally came out of the store, a camera from Sportsnet was waiting for me. I’d been so focused on the white Chrysler that I had failed to notice the Sportsnet satellite truck. Well played.

  “Hi, Adam. I like the new look,” the reporter said. “Can I just ask what you’re doing now that you’ve left golf?”

  I really had only one option.

  “Um, I’ll be issuing a statement later this afternoon and I’ll make sure you get a copy. Thanks so much.”

  Then I bolted, trying very hard not to look like I was bolting. I headed in the wrong direction—away from my condo—cut through an underground public parking lot, walked back up into a neighbouring building, and after carefully scanning the area, slipped back to my building without being followed.

  Alli was waiting for me when I came thr
ough my front door. I’d given her a key the week before so she could write in my little library when I was in class.

  “I tried to call you,” she said. “I’m sorry, Adam, but you’re busted.”

  “I figured, so I turned off my phone.”

  I opened my laptop and typed my own name into Google. Several news sites had the shots, and everyone else piled on soon after. I looked like a desert island castaway in the photos, and at least one sportscaster tweeted that I must be living in my car.

  “Well, I guess in this day and age, staying undercover for five weeks ain’t too bad,” I said. “But now there’s really no point in carrying on this charade any longer.”

  “Does that mean you can shave?” Alli asked.

  “I thought you liked the beard.”

  “I do like the beard, but it kind of makes you look like the Unabomber living in the backwoods.”

  I shaved right then and there, and got a haircut next door after clandestinely exiting my building via the ramp from the parking garage. Susan issued a statement on my behalf over the wire explaining that I was now living in Toronto and enrolled in graduate studies in creative writing. She also managed the deluge of interview requests. We declined them all. The tabloid photos of me looking like a nineteenth-century homesteader would have to do.

  Later that evening, Alli and I were just lounging on the couch watching the lights of the city sprawled out below us. We didn’t dare turn on the TV.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I think so,” I replied. “I knew it wouldn’t last, but it was nice while it did.”

  “Yes, it was nice.”

  “Maybe it might have been better to have been open about my post-golf life right from the very beginning, rather than letting the media fascination bubble away until it eventually boiled over. If I’d been forthright from the outset, maybe it all would have blown over in a couple weeks and I would never have had to grow my beard.”