by Paul Auster
“How many years did he spend in prison?”
“Three and a half. Then he moved to San Francisco and started painting again. Without much success, I’m sorry to report. He kept himself together by giving private drawing lessons, an odd temp job here and there, and then he fell for a man who lives in New York. That’s why he’s in the city now. He left San Francisco and moved in with him early last month.”
“Someone with money, I suppose.”
“I don’t know all the details. But I think he earns enough to support them both.”
“Lucky Gordon.”
“Not so lucky. Not really, when you think of all he’s been through. And besides, I’m the one he loves. He’s very attached to his friend, but I’m the one he loves. And I love him back.”
“I don’t mean to dig into your private life, but what about Rufus?”
“Rufus is my heart, but our relations are strictly platonic. In all the years I’ve known him, we haven’t spent a single night together.”
“But Gordon is different.”
“Very different. He’s not young anymore, but he’s still a beautiful man. I can’t tell you how kind he is to me. We don’t get to see each other often, but you know what secret affairs are like. So many lies to be told, so many arrangements to be made. But whenever it happens, the old spark is still there. I’d thought I was finished with all that, over the hill, but Gordon’s rejuvenated me. Bare skin, Nathan. It’s the only thing worth living for.”
“One thing anyway, I’ll grant you that.”
“If you can think of a better one, let me know.”
“I thought we came here to discuss business.”
“That’s precisely what we’re doing. Gordon’s a part of it, you see. We’re in it together.”
“Again?”
“It’s a tremendous plan. So brilliant, I get goose bumps every time I think about it.”
“Why do I have this crazy feeling you’re about to tell me you’re involved in another fraud? Is the business legal or illegal?”
“Illegal, of course. Where’s the fun if there’s no risk?”
“You’re incorrigible, Harry. After all that’s happened to you, I’d think you’d want to toe the straight and narrow for the rest of your life.”
“I’ve tried. For nine long years I’ve tried, but it’s no use. There’s an imp inside me, and if I don’t let him out to make some mischief now and then, the world just gets too damned dull. I hate feeling grumpy and bored. I’m an enthusiast, and the more dangerous my life becomes, the happier I am. Some people gamble at cards. Other people climb mountains or jump out of airplanes. I like tricking people. I like seeing how much I can get away with. Even as a kid, one of my dreams was to publish an encyclopedia in which all the information was false. Wrong dates for every historical event, wrong locations for every river, biographies of people who never existed. What kind of person imagines doing a thing like that? A crazy person, I suppose, but Christ, how that idea used to make me laugh. When I was in the navy, I was almost court-martialed for mislabeling a set of nautical maps. I did it on purpose. I don’t know why, but the urge came over me, and I couldn’t stop myself. I talked my commanding officer into believing it was an honest mistake, but it wasn’t. That’s who I am, Nathan. I’m generous, I’m kind, I’m loyal, but I’m also a born prankster. A couple of months ago, Tom mentioned a theory someone had come up with about classical literature. It was all a hoax, he said. Aeschylus, Homer, Sophocles, Plato, the whole lot of them. Invented by some clever Italian poets during the Renaissance. Isn’t that just the most wonderful thing you’ve ever heard? The great pillars of Western civilization, and every one of them a fake. Ha! How I would have loved to have taken part in that little gag.”
“So what is it this time? More forged paintings?”
“No, a forged manuscript. I’m in the book business now, remember?”
“Gordon’s idea, no doubt.”
“Well, yes. He’s extremely smart, you know, and he understands my weaknesses.”
“Are you sure you want to tell me about it? How do you know I can be trusted?”
“Because you’re a man of honor and discretion.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because you’re Tom’s uncle. And he’s a man of honor and discretion as well.”
“Then why not tell Tom?”
“Because Tom is too pure. He’s too good, and he doesn’t have a head for business. You’ve been around the block, Nathan, and I’m relying on your experience for some intelligent counsel.”
“My advice would be to drop the whole thing.”
“I can’t do that. The venture is too far along for me to back out now. And besides, I don’t want to.”
“All right. But when this thing blows up in your face, don’t forget that I warned you.”
“The Scarlet Letter. You’re familiar with the title, yes?”
“I read it in English class my junior year. Miss O’Flaherty, fourth period.”
“We all had to read it in high school, didn’t we? An American classic. One of the most famous books ever written.”
“Are you telling me that you and Gordon are going to forge a manuscript of The Scarlet Letter? What about Hawthorne’s original?”
“That’s the beauty of it. Hawthorne’s manuscript disappeared. Except for the title page – which is sitting in a vault at the Morgan Library as we speak. But no one knows what happened to the rest of the book. Some people think it was burned, either by Hawthorne himself or in a warehouse fire. Others say the printers simply threw the sheets in the garbage – or else used them to light their pipes. That’s my favorite version. A ragtag crew of Boston print-shop workers lighting their corncobs with The Scarlet Letter. But whatever the real story is, there’s enough uncertainty to the business to imagine that the manuscript was never lost. Just misplaced, so to speak. What if Hawthorne’s publisher, James T. Fields, took it home with him and put it in a box somewhere with a pile of other papers? Eventually, the box is moved to the attic. Years later, the box is inherited by one of Fields’s children, or else it’s left in the house, and when the house is sold, the box becomes the property of the new owners. Do you see what I’m talking about? There are enough doubts and mysteries to lay the groundwork for a miraculous discovery. It happened with a stash of Melville letters and manuscripts just a few years ago in a house in upstate New York. If Melville papers can be found, why not Hawthorne?”
“Who’s forging the manuscript? Gordon isn’t qualified to do something like that, is he?”
“No. He’s going to be the person who finds it, but the actual work is being done by a man named Ian Metropolis. Gordon heard about him from someone he met in prison, and apparently he’s the best there is, an out-and-out genius. He’s forged Lincoln, Poe, Washington Irving, Henry James, Gertrude Stein, and God knows who else, but in all the years he’s been at it, he hasn’t been caught once. No record, no suspicions hovering around him. A shadow-man lurking in the dark. It’s a complex and demanding job, Nathan. First of all, there’s the matter of finding the right paper – mid-nineteenth-century paper that will hold up to X-rays and ultraviolet exams. Then you have to study all of Hawthorne’s extant manuscripts and learn how to imitate his handwriting – which was quite sloppy, by the way, almost illegible at times. But mastering the physical technique is only a small part of it. It’s not as if you just sit down with a printed version of The Scarlet Letter and copy it out by hand. You have to know every one of Hawthorne’s private tics, the errors he made, his idiosyncratic use of hyphens, his inability to spell certain words correctly. Ceiling was always cieling; steadfast was always stedfast; subtle was always subtile. Whenever Hawthorne wrote Oh, the typesetters would change it to O. And so on and so on. It takes a lot of preparation and hard work. But well worth it, my friend. A complete manuscript will probably go for three to four million dollars. Gordon’s offered me twenty-five percent for my services, which means that we’re looking at som
ething close to a million bucks. Not too shabby, is it?”
“And what are you supposed to do for your twenty-five percent?”
“Sell the manuscript. I’m the humble but respected purveyor of rare books, autographs, and literary curios. It lends legitimacy to the project.”
“Have you come up with a buyer yet?”
“That’s the part that worries me. I suggested that we sell it directly to one of the libraries in town – the Berg Collection, the Morgan, Columbia University – or else put it up for auction at Sotheby’s. But Gordon has his heart set on a private collector. He says it’s safer to keep the business from going public, and I suppose I see his point. Still, it makes me wonder if he has real confidence in Metropolis’s work.”
“What does Metropolis say?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never met him.”
“You’re involved in a four-million-dollar swindle with a man you’ve never met?”
“He doesn’t allow anyone to see his face. Not even Gordon. All their contacts have been by phone.”
“I don’t like the sound of this, Harry.”
“Yes, I know. A little too cloak-and-daggery for my taste as well. Nevertheless, things seem to be moving forward now. We’ve found our buyer, and two weeks ago we let him have a sample page. Believe it or not, he’s taken it around to a number of experts, and they’ve all confirmed that it’s genuine. I just got a check from him for ten thousand dollars. As a down payment, so we won’t offer the manuscript to anyone else. We’re supposed to conclude the sale after he comes back from Europe next Friday.”
“Who is he?”
“A stocks-and-bonds man named Myron Trumbell. I’ve looked him up. A Park Avenue blueblood, positively rolling in money.”
“Where did Gordon find him?”
“He’s a friend of his friend, the man he’s living with now.”
“Whom you haven’t met either.”
“No. Nor do I want to. Gordon and I are secret lovers. Why would I want to meet my rival?”
“I think you’re walking into a trap, old man. They’re setting you up.”
“Setting me up? What are you talking about?”
“How many pages of the manuscript have you seen?”
“Just the one. The page I handed over to Trumbell two weeks ago.”
“What if it’s the only one, Harry? What if there is no Ian Metropolis? What if Gordon’s new friend turns out to be none other than Myron Trumbell himself?”
“Impossible. Why would anyone go to such lengths… “
“Revenge. One bad turn deserves another. Tit for tat. All those wonderful qualities human beings are so renowned for. I’m afraid your Gordon isn’t what you think he is.”
“That’s too dark, Nathan. I refuse to believe it.”
“Have you deposited Trumbell’s check?”
“I put it in the bank three days ago. As a matter of fact, I’ve already spent half of it on a pile of new clothes.”
“Send the money back.”
“I don’t want to.”
“If you don’t have enough in your account, you can borrow the rest from me to make up the difference.”
“Thank you, Nathan, but I don’t need your charity.”
“They’ve got you by the balls, Harry, and you don’t even know it.”
“Think what you like, but I’m not bowing out now. I’m marching ahead, come hail, sleet, or flood. If you’re right about Gordon, then my life’s finished anyway. So what difference does it make? And if you’re wrong – which I know you are – then I’ll invite you to another dinner and you can toast my success.”
A KNOCK ON THE DOOR
Saturdays and Sundays, Tom slept in. Harry’s store was open on the weekends, but Tom didn’t have to go to work, and since there was no school on those days, rising early would have been pointless. He wouldn’t have found the B.P.M. on the front steps of her house waiting for the bus to pick up her children, and without that lure to pull him from the warm sheets of his bed, he didn’t bother to set his alarm clock. Shades drawn, his body enveloped in the womblike dark of his tiny home, he would sleep until his eyes opened of their own accord – or, as often happened, a noise from somewhere in the building jolted him awake. On Sunday, June fourth (three days after my disastrous run-in with Roberto Gonzalez, which was also the day of my disconcerting talk with Harry Brightman), it was a noise that tore my nephew from the depths of slumber – in this case, the noise of a small hand knocking softly and tentatively on his door. It was a few minutes past nine, and once Tom managed to register the sound, once he roused himself from his bed and stumbled across the room to open the door, his life took a new and startling turn. To put it bluntly, everything changed for him, and it is only now, after much laborious preparation, after much raking and hoeing of the ground, that my chronicle of Tom’s adventures begins to take flight.
It was Lucy. A silent, nine-and-a-half-year-old Lucy with short dark hair and her mother’s round hazel eyes, a tall, preadolescent girl dressed in ragged red jeans, scuffed white Keds, and a Kansas City Royals T-shirt. No bag, no jacket or sweater slung over her arm, nothing but the clothes on her back. Tom hadn’t seen her in six years, but he recognized her at once. Altogether different somehow, and yet exactly as she’d been – in spite of a full new set of adult teeth, in spite of the longer, thinner look to her face, in spite of the many inches she had grown. There she stood at the door, smiling up at her disheveled, sleep-worn uncle, studying him with the rapt, unblinking eyes he remembered so well from the old days in Michigan. Where was her mother? Where was her mother’s husband? Why was she alone? How had she gotten there? Tom paused after each question, but not a single word came from Lucy’s mouth. For a few moments, he wondered if she hadn’t gone deaf, but then he asked her if she remembered who he was, and she nodded her head. Tom opened his arms, and she walked readily into his embrace, pressing her forehead against his chest and hugging him back as tightly as she could. “You must be starving,” Tom said at last, and then he opened the door wide and let her into the dismal coffin he called his room.
He fixed her a bowl of Cheerios, poured her a glass of orange juice, and by the time he’d finished making a pot of coffee for himself, both the glass and the bowl were empty. He asked if she wanted something more, and when she nodded yes and smiled, he set about preparing a couple of pieces of French toast for her, which she doused in a puddle of maple syrup and scarfed down in a minute and a half. At first, Tom attributed her silence to exhaustion, to anxiety, to hunger, to any one of several possible causes, but the fact was that Lucy didn’t look tired, appeared to be perfectly comfortable in her surroundings, and now that she had polished off the food, hunger had been scratched from the list as well. And yet she continued to say nothing in response to his questions. A few nods and shakes of the head, but no words, no sounds, no effort to use her tongue at all.
“Have you forgotten how to talk, Lucy?” Tom asked.
A shake of the head.
“What about the T-shirt. Does it mean you came here from Kansas City?”
No response.
“What do you want me to do with you? I can’t send you back to your mother if you don’t tell me where she lives.”
No response.
“Would you like me to give you a pencil and a pad of paper? If you don’t want to talk, then maybe you could write down your answers for me.”
A shake of the head.
“Have you stopped talking forever?”
Another shake of the head.
“Good. I’m glad to hear it. And when are you allowed to start talking again?”
Lucy thought for a moment, then held two fingers up to Tom.
“Two. But two what? Two hours? Two days? Two months? Tell me, Lucy.”
No response.
“Is your mother all right?”
A nod.
“Is she still married to David Minor?”
Another nod.
“Why did you run away, then
? Don’t they treat you well?”
No response.
“How did you get to New York? By bus?”
A nod.
“Do you still have your ticket receipt?”
No response.
“Let’s see what’s in your pockets. Maybe we’ll find some answers there.”
Lucy obliged by digging her hands into all four pockets of her jeans and yanking out the contents, but nothing of significance was found. A hundred and fifty-seven dollars in cash, three sticks of chewing gum, six quarters, two dimes, four pennies, and a piece of paper with Tom’s name, address, and phone number written on it – but no bus ticket, no clue to tell him where her trip had begun.
“All right, Lucy,” Tom said. “Now that you’re here, what are you planning to do? Where are you going to live?”
Lucy pointed her finger at her uncle.
Tom let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Take a good look at where you are,” he said. “There’s barely enough room for one person here. Where do you think you’re going to sleep, little girl?”
A shrug, followed by a large, ever more beautiful smile – as if to say, We’ll figure it out.
But there was no figuring it out, at least not in Tom’s mind. He knew nothing about children, and even if he’d been living in a twelve-room mansion with a full staff of servants, he still wouldn’t have had the faintest interest in becoming his niece’s substitute parent. A normal child would have been challenging enough, but a child who refused to talk and stubbornly resisted giving out any information about herself was a simple impossibility. And yet what was he going to do? For the time being he was stuck with her, and unless he could force her to tell him where her mother was, there would be no getting rid of her. That didn’t mean he wasn’t fond of Lucy or felt indifferent to her welfare, but he knew she had come to the wrong person. Of all the people even remotely connected to her, he was the worst man for the job.
