‘It must have felt good?’
‘For a minute, perhaps, or for an hour. I don’t know. Maybe I believed in it all for a whole day? But it wasn’t real. None of it was.’
‘You weren’t dreaming. I can vouch for that. And now it’s been reprinted in paperback.’
‘You should have seen those first few copies that I received,’ he said, meditatively. ‘The books lit up the room, glowing with a supernatural brilliance against the grey world that I normally inhabited. I told myself that if I were to suddenly have a heart attack at that very moment then I should die happy. In fact, what could have been better for my reputation than an untimely death on the eve of the publication of my great work? Everyone would have had to imagine the even greater novels I would have gone on to write.’
‘It received excellent reviews.’
‘Exactly. All was as I’d dreamed it might be. And I was going to be flown to London; there were launch parties organised…’
‘But it didn’t seem real to you? Well, I suppose it was all a little unexpected.’
‘You don’t understand. This novel was not really any different from my previous attempts and they had always been rejected. So, why this one? How was it any different?’
‘Well, surely that’s a good thing? All the time and effort you put into those won’t have been wasted. You could let us have a look at them as well?’
‘No, I can’t, because I did discover the difference between those earlier efforts and my sudden, unexpected triumph.’
‘And that was?’
‘Simply that I didn’t write the book that everyone is raving about.’
‘Rubbish! I work alongside your editor and I saw some of your correspondence.’
‘Ah yes, Joanne Reed. So you work with her, do you? And do you know how Joanne Reed changed my book?’
‘How?’
‘Subtly…but enough to make it somebody else’s work…her work, not mine. I entered into a contract with the devil herself.’
There was a horrible groaning noise from his mother’s bedroom.
‘Let me check on the old cow, and then I will come back and explain’
‘I had sent the manuscript to Weber’s believing that the time and effort was completely wasted, but I had a large enough ego to think that maybe, just maybe, they’d consider it publishable. I was resigned to waiting a couple of months before the standard letter arrived telling me that they had no interest. I can’t really afford tosend off the same manuscript simultaneously to several publishers, especially in foreign countries. The very evening that Miss Reed appeared I was preparing another copy for posting to what I thought was a more realistic hope. It was to a company in Minnesota who seem to publish any kind of crap as long as they can put some lurid artwork on the cover. Well, I was writing the covering letter when the bell rang and I answered it to a smart-looking young woman who asked for me by name. She was Joanne Reed, from Weber’s, and that she was making a detour en route to a convention. She was there to say that she wanted her company to accept my manuscript.
‘Well, I would’ve invited her inside, but my flat didn’t seem at all the place to entertain an elegant publisher who had flown all the way from London. So I took her to the smart wine bar in the adjacent street. I hoped it would impress her, and I knew that none of my boorish friends would be there at that hour to interrupt.
‘We shared a bottle of sparkling white wine and I sat there while she made me feel like the great author I’d always wanted to be. She loved my characters and my descriptions, and said that they had already decided that they would offer it to their American partners after it had been published in Britain. I splashed out on another bottle of wine.
‘She did have a few suggestions to make, however. She was an editor, after all, and pointed out that any changes would be made in consultation with me, and nothing would be altered without my agreement. She explained that great editors are only appreciated by their authors; nobody else ever knows they exist. I rather liked this, because I had already realised that there were a few infelicities that needed addressing, and if somebody else was happy to tidy those up for me, then all well and good. English is not my first language…’
‘Your English is exceptional, let me tell you.’
‘Thank you. People have always been very complimentary. But I know that my written English is not always correct. But that was no problem; I would receive the credit for the work of a professional. I asked for an example of what she wanted working on.
‘She did not mention problems with my English after all. She explained that one of my failings was pacing. There were occasions, she said, when the novel would benefit from me taking more time to describe certain events; usually to tease the reader and create suspense. She would point out to me, she said, where a paragraph, even a few pages could be inserted. If I agreed I would simply have to add a little padding, perhaps with direction from her. I agreed to this quite readily, and asked if there was anything else.
‘She did not want to go into specifics there and then, but she suggested that there could quite easily be a little more development of my main character. She liked the whole concept of the anti-hero I had created, but wondered if he couldn’t actually appear to be sympathetic at the beginning of the book. A few tweaks here and there would make the indignities that he suffers appear to be the fault of his enemies. It would cause the reader to question all of their assumptions if the one person in the book they naturally identify with was to turn out to be morally repugnant.
‘I liked the idea, but I was horrified that I’d have to take the book back and start re-writing it. Her first comments had led me to believe that proofs would be in the post shortly, and after a few typesetting errors had been corrected publication would naturally follow in a few weeks. When I looked worried she assured me that in most instances one or two changes of emphasis in a sentence was all that was required. She said that she could easily effect these; in fact, she was happy to do this for me and send the changes to me for my approval.
‘Other than this, she said that there was the routine editorial work. There was no shame in having your grammar and punctuation tidied up. And I have the habit, apparently, of repeating the same words and phrases just a little too often. All it needed was a thesaurus, she explained.
‘Well, what was I to say? I agreed to everything. I saw her go off to her hotel in a taxi and I went back to my flat. I was impressed that she wrote to me the next day from her office in London. I was flattered. I know flights are cheap at the moment, but you’re the second person from your office who has bothered to fly all the way out here just to see me.’
‘We have great hopes for your next novel, and your career,’ I pointed out.
‘But before publication things did not go as I expected.’
‘In what way?’
‘Miss Reed asked me to write a little more. It was mainly descriptive pieces she wanted; a paragraph here and there describing the thoughts of my characters. Sometimes she wanted me to describe how my character had moved from one location to another. I thought many of these a waste of time, but I did as she asked.’
‘She is one of our best editors. And you can’t fault the finished book.’
‘Then she wrote and asked for excisions.’
‘Were there many?’
‘No, not many, but they were important. The main one explained the whole philosophical idea behind the book. And so I refused.’
‘Maybe she felt that the central philosophy came through without explanation?’
‘That’s exactly what she said. And she told me that unless I changed it the book would not be published.’
‘Oh.’
‘Exactly, “Oh”,’ he repeated annoyed. ‘But what could I do? Would I risk publication by such an important company as Webers, just for the sake of a few paragraphs? I agreed, with very bad grace, and told her not to delete another single word.’
‘And how did she take that?’
‘
Ha! She said that all she wanted to do was to make it perfect. She asked me to add a couple of sentences which made it clear that my main character, rather than simply observing the horror at the heart of the book, was himself one of the monsters that so disgusted him!’
‘Oh.’
‘You keep saying “Oh”!’ Krasicki had slowly worked himself up into a rage. ‘You say it like you understand!’
‘I apologise.’
‘You don’t understand at all, do you?’
‘I must admit that I don’t. You see, the whole book is a wonderful exploration of the idea of the monster in modern culture.’
‘That’s what all the damned critics say! But that’s not what I intended. It is NOT meant to happen that the character of the book turns into the horror that he observes around him!’
‘No, he doesn’t realise it… That’s why it’s so clever, so subtle, so…’
‘But my book was not clever, or subtle, or anything else. Miss Reed did that to it.’
I stopped myself from saying ‘Oh’ again. There was very little that I could say. I understood exactly what had happened. Joanne Reed had seen that there could be something great in a book where it did not yet exist. It had not taken much work to include it, but it had been at the expense of the author’s original, second-rate intention for it. No wonder the man felt humiliated. I shrugged:
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘There is nothing that you can say.’
‘All you can do, I suppose, is accept the glory, and move on to your next book.’
‘There is no next book. I have realised what a poor author I am. I have not written a word since then.’
‘But that’s nonsense. Even if the central idea of the book has been changed from your original intention, it contains great ideas and images, wonderful scenes and characters…’
‘No, it doesn’t! I happen to have put together ideas from books I’ve read and films I’ve seen, and I am so poor at writing that you would find it hard to recognise the source material!’
‘I refuse to believe that. For a start, you write so beautifully!’
‘Do I? Well, I went back to my original manuscript and compared it to the published book. There is not a sentence that has not been altered, sometimes quite unnoticeably, often less so. Your Miss Reed has re-written my book.’
There was a noise from his mother’s bedroom again. Krasicki shouted something at her as he stood up, and then he swept the books from the table beside him as he left the room. The bottle wobbled but regained its balance.
I composed myself, hoping that he would be calmer when he returned, but I could hear him actually shouting at his mother, and she was making odd, shrill noises herself. I wanted to stand up, and decided that when he returned it would be best if I looked concerned, but relaxed. When he came back he came over and stood before me. He glared at me, too close, and I said, carefully:
‘I’m so sorry that you feel this way. But at worst your book is a collaboration.’
‘Ha! That is one way of looking at it, I suppose. I concede that the great lump of clay that she used to sculpt my book was supplied by me.’
‘But apart from you and her, nobody else knows this. Well, I do now, but I won’t say anything.’
‘Don’t they know? Doesn’t the whole literary world know?’
‘Honestly, I don’t think that they do.’
‘But that’s not good enough. That woman has destroyed me.’
‘Well, what do you want to do about it?’
‘What do Iwant to do about it? Shouldn’t you be asking what you are going to do about it?’
‘Me? I’m afraid that I’m just a publicity officer in the firm. I have little influence.’
‘But you are a representative of the publisher.’
‘Not really.’
‘Oh yes you are. And I will have my revenge. I’ve had to come back and live in this stinking hell-hole to care for that thing back there that my mother has become. I’ve no friends, no dignity.’
I did not know how to take his comments. I was in no doubt of his anger, but what form would his revenge take? I was tired and had hoped to meet an author who would be pleased to receive copies of his new book. I had gone well out of my way to find him, and expected some gratitude, but Krasicki was far from grateful.
At length he smiled and said: ‘Get up.’
I did so, cautiously.
‘Now, in there,’ he pointed to his mother’s bedroom.
‘No, I’d rather not,’ I told him, not believing what was happening. I should have left then and there, but I stupidly watched as he looked in a box under the table. He stood up and there was a hammer in his hand.
‘In there,’ he snarled now, and only then did I realise what trouble I was in. He lifted the hammer, threateningly, and I did as I was told. I went into the darkened room and heard the door shut behind me.
‘Now,’ he said from behind the door. ‘It is your turn to stay here and look after her. If I stay here I will end up like her.’
I could make out nothing at all in the room, apart from some very heavy breathing in the corner. I heard Krasicki moving around in the living room and then, unmistakably the front door opened and closed.
When I was sure that he was no longer inside I opened the door a little and looked out. The place appeared to be empty. Behind me, in the borrowed light from the front room, I could see the massive form of something in the bed. There was the framework of a large, complicated piece of machinery around it.
I shut the door behind me and crossed the apartment quietly, letting myself out of their front door having first checked that there was nobody waiting outside in the hallway. I then opened the main door and looked out into the empty night. At any moment I expected Krasicki to loom up out of the darkness, hammer in hand.
I shut the door behind me and hurried down the path, having no idea of where I was going. I just had to leave. The pathway forked before me and the route I chose came to an abrupt end. I ran over some rough ground, and then I was passing alongside another of the barrack buildings. There were stars visible, so I decided to keep heading towards the brightest one that was low in the sky, but I must have miscalculated because as I jogged past yet another of the buildings I had a premonition that it was one that I had seen before. Of course, they all looked alike, but I checked the numbers and letters with those on my hand and it was the Krasicki’s.
Twice this was repeated, and finally, exhausted, I regained my courage and re-entered the building. With the greatest care I opened the door to their rooms; Krasicki himself did not appear to be inside, but his mother was calling.
I waited until morning and tried to leave again by daylight, but it was impossible. I had tried my mobile phone a number of times but there was no signal. I attempted to talk to the neighbours, but they could not understand me. Those who were willing to let me in to their rooms did not have telephones. Now in daylight I tried walking away from the Krasicki’s building in one direction, with the sun before me, but I always managed to become disorientated and end up where I had started. At midday, as the same barrack appeared before me yet again I returned to Krasicki’s rooms.
His mother was crying, pleading, and I went in to her. Really, she is a trying old woman. At first her appearance scared me, repulsed me, made me physically sick, but I’ve become used to her now. I’ve been here for what seems like weeks and she always appears to want something. We have a kind of system so that I can understand when she is hungry, thirsty, needs moving in her bed, or when the sheets need changing. I hate her, but I cannot discover any means of getting away. I don’t know what’s wrong with her but I have a suspicion that Krasicki will have to return here one day and then I will be able to make my escape.
LOUP-GAROU
I first saw the film, Loup-garou, in 1989, in a little arts cinema in the centre of Birmingham. I had driven there for a job interview and, as usual, I had allowed far more time for the journey than was required.
I had reasoned that it should take me two hours to travel there, to park, and to find the offices of the firm of accountants where I desperately wanted a position. The interview was at two thirty, so I intended to leave home at midday. I had worked it all out the night before, but then became concerned that the traffic might be against me, and I decided to allow another half-hour for the journey. That morning I checked my map, but no car parks were marked on it and so I added yet another half hour to the time I would allow myself. Leaving at eleven o’clock seemed prudent, but I was ready by half-ten and, rather than sit around the house worrying, I decided to set out.
I know my nervousness about travelling is a failing, but I’ve always lived and worked in this small provincial town and it is not a day-to-day problem. On this occasion it was made very obvious to me just how irrational my fear of being late for appointments really was; the traffic was light and the roads clear and I was in the centre of Birmingham by a quarter to twelve. I found a car park with ease and was immediately passed a ticket by a motorist who was already leaving, despite paying to stay the whole day. I parked, and as I walked out on to the street I could see the very offices that I wanted directly opposite. I had two and a half hours to kill.
For no reason other than to pass the time I looked into the foyer of the cinema which was immediately adjacent to the car park. Pegged up on a board was the information that a film called Loupgarou was about to start, and that it would be finished by two o’clock. It seemed the perfect solution to my problem.
I doubt if there were more than five or six people in the cinema. It was small and modern and the seat into which I settled myself was not too uncomfortable. I was in time to watch the opening credits slowly unfold. The sun was rising over a pretty, flat countryside, and the names of the actors, all French, slowly faded in and out as the light came up over fields and trees. It was beautifully shot, and a simple, haunting piano piece repeated quietly as the small cast were introduced, and finally the writer and director, Alain Legrand. I noted the name carefully from the information in the foyer when I left the cinema two hours later.
Literary Remains Page 10
