“He knows enough, right?”
“Maybe he knows too much. He might be paralyzed by his own standards.” She shook her head. “In some ways he’s an absolute nut about Hemingway. Obsessed, I mean. It’s not good for him.”
“Maybe writing this stuff would get it out of his system.”
She smiled at him. “You’ve got more angles than a protractor.”
“Sorry; I didn’t mean to—”
“No.” She raised both hands. “Don’t be sorry; I like it. I like you, Castle. John’s a good man but sometimes he’s too good.”
He poured them both more wine. “Nobody ever accused me of that.”
“I suspect not.” She paused. “Have you ever been in trouble with the police? Just curious.”
“Why?”
“Just curious.”
He laughed. “Nickel and dime stuff, when I was a kid. You know, jus’ to see what you can get away with.” He turned serious. “Then I pulled two months’ hard time for somethin’ I didn’t do. Wasn’t even in town when it happened.”
“What was it?”
“Armed robbery. Then the guy came back an’ hit the same god-damned store! I mean, he was one sharp cookie. He confessed to the first one and they let me go.”
“Why did they accuse you in the first place?”
“Used to think it was somebody had it in for me. Like the clerk who fingered me.” He took a sip of wine. “But hell. It was just dumb luck. And dumb cops. The guy was about my height, same color hair, we both lived in the neighborhood. Cops didn’t want to waste a lot of time on it. Jus’ chuck me in jail.”
“So you do have a police record?”
“Huh uh. Girl from the ACLU made sure they wiped it clean. She wanted me to go after ’em for what, false arrest an’ wrongful imprisonment. I just wanted to get out of town.”
“It wasn’t here?”
“Nah. Dayton, Ohio. Been here eight, nine years.”
“That’s good.”
“Why the third degree?”
She leaned forward and patted the back of his hand. “Call it a job interview, Castle. I have a feeling we may be working together.”
“Okay.” He gave her a slow smile. “Anything else you want to know?”
5. The Doctor And The Doctor’s Wife
John trudged into the kitchen the next morning, ignored the coffeepot, and pulled a green bottle of beer out of the fridge. He looked up at the skylight. Four scorpions, none of them moving. Have to call the bug man today.
Red wine hangover, the worst kind. He was too old for this. Cheap red wine hangover. He eased himself into a soft chair and carefully poured the beer down the side of the glass. Not too much noise, please.
When you drink too much, you ought to take a couple of aspirin, and some vitamins, and all the water you can hold, before retiring. If you drink too much, of course, you don’t remember to do that.
The shower turned off with a bass clunk of plumbing. John winced and took a long drink, which helped a little. When he heard the bathroom door open he called for Lena to bring the aspirin when she came out.
After a few minutes she brought it out and handed it to him. “And how is Dr. Baird today?”
“Dr. Baird needs a doctor. Or an undertaker.” He shook out two aspirin and washed them down with the last of the beer. “Like your outfit.”
She was wearing only a towel around her head. She simpered and struck a dancer’s pose and spun daintily around. “Think it’ll catch on?”
“Oh my yes.” At thirty-five, she still had the trim model’s figure that had caught his eye in the classroom, fifteen years before. A safe, light tan was uniform all over her body, thanks to liberal sunblock and the private sunbathing area on top of the house—private except for the helicopter that came low overhead every weekday at 1:15. She always tried to be there in time to wave at it. The pilot had such white teeth. She wondered how many sunbathers were on his route.
She undid the towel and rubbed her long blonde hair vigorously. “Thought I’d cool off for a few minutes before I got dressed. Too much wine, eh?”
“Couldn’t you tell from my sparkling repartee last night?” He leaned back, eyes closed, and rolled the cool glass back and forth on his forehead.
“Want another beer?”
“Yeah. Coffee’d be smarter, though.”
“It’s been sitting all night.”
“Pay for my sins.” He watched her swivel lightly into the kitchen and, more than ever before, felt the difference in their ages. Seventeen years; he was half again as old as she. A young man would say the hell with the hangover, go grab that luscious thing and carry her back to bed. The organ that responded to this meditation was his stomach, though, and it responded very audibly.
“Some toast, too. Or do you want something fancier?”
“Toast would be fine.” Why was she being so nice? Usually if he drank too much, he reaped the whirlwind in the morning.
“Ugh.” She saw the scorpions. “Five of them now.”
“I wonder how many it will hold before it comes crashing down. Scorpions everywhere, stunned. Then angry.”
“I’m sure the bug man knows how to get rid of them.”
“In Africa they claimed that if you light a ring of fire around them with gasoline or lighter fluid, they go crazy, run amok, stinging themselves to death in their frenzies. Maybe the bug man could do that.”
“Castle and I came up with a plan last night. It’s kinda screwy but it might just work.”
“Read that in a book called Jungle Ways. I was eight years old and believed every word of it.”
“We figured out a way that it would be legal. Are you listening?”
“Uh huh. Let me have real sugar and some milk.”
She poured some milk in a cup and put it in the microwave to warm. “Maybe we should talk about it later.”
“Oh no. Hemingway forgery. You figured out a way to make it legal. Go ahead. I’m all ears.”
“See, you tell the publisher first off what it is, that you wrote it and then had it typed up to look authentic.”
“Sure, be a big market for that.”
“In fact, there could be. You’d have to generate it, but it could happen.” The toast sprang up and she brought it and two cups of coffee into the living room on a tray. “See, the bogus manuscript is only one part of a book.”
“I don’t get it.” He tore the toast into strips, to dunk in the strong Cuban coffee.
“The rest of the book is in the nature of an exegesis of your own text.”
“If that con man knows what exegesis is, then I can crack a safe.”
“That part’s my idea. You’re really writing a book about Hemingway. You use your own text to illustrate various points—‘I wrote it this way instead of that way because.…’”
“It would be different,” he conceded. “Perhaps the second most egotistical piece of Hemingway scholarship in history. A dubious distinction.”
“You could write it tongue-in-cheek, though. It could be really amusing, as well as scholarly.”
“God, we’d have to get an unlisted number, publishers calling us night and day. Movie producers. Might sell ten copies, if I bought nine.”
“You really aren’t getting it, John. You don’t have a particle of larceny in your heart.”
He put a hand on his heart and looked down. “Ventricles, auricles. My undying love for you, a little heartburn. No particles.”
“See, you tell the publisher the truth … but the publisher doesn’t have to tell the truth. Not until publication day.”
“Okay. I still don’t get it.”
She took a delicate nibble of toast. “It goes like this. They print the bogus Hemingway up into a few copies of bogus bound galleys. Top secret.”
“My exegesis carefully left off.”
“That’s the ticket. They send it out to a few selected scholars, along with Xeroxes of a few sample manuscript pages. All they say, in effect, is ‘Does thi
s seem authentic to you? Please keep it under your hat, for obvious reasons.’ Then they sit back and collect blurbs.”
“I can see the kind of blurbs they’d get from Scott or Mike or Jack, for instance. Some variation of ‘What kind of idiot do you think I am?’”
“Those aren’t the kind of people you send it to, dope! You send it to people who think they’re experts, but aren’t. Castle says this is how the Hitler thing almost worked—they knew better than to show it to historians in general. They showed it to a few people and didn’t quote the ones who thought it was a fake. Surely you can come up with a list of people who would be easy to fool.”
“Any scholar could. Be a different list for each one; I’d be on some of them.”
“So they bring it out on April Fool’s Day. You get the front page of the New York Times Book Review. Publishers Weekly does a story. Everybody wants to be in on the joke. Bestseller list, here we come.”
“Yeah, sure, but you haven’t thought it through.” He leaned back, balancing the coffee cup on his slight pot belly. “What about the guys who give us the blurbs, those second-rate scholars? They’re going to look pretty bad.”
“We did think of that. No way they could sue, not if the letter accompanying the galleys is carefully written. It doesn’t have to say—”
“I don’t mean getting sued. I mean I don’t want to be responsible for hurting other people’s careers—maybe wrecking a career, if the person was too extravagant in his endorsement, and had people looking for things to use against him. You know departmental politics. People go down the chute for less serious crimes than making an ass of yourself and your institution in print.”
She put her cup down with a clatter. “You’re always thinking about other people. Why don’t you think about yourself for a change?” She was on the verge of tears. “Think about us.”
“All right, let’s do that. What do you think would happen to my career at BU if I pissed off the wrong people with this exercise? How long do you think it would take me to make full professor? Do you think BU would make a full professor out of a man who uses his specialty to pull vicious practical jokes?”
“Just do me the favor of thinking about it. Cool down and weigh the pluses and minuses. If you did it with the right touch, your department would love it—and God, Harry wants to get rid of the chairmanship so bad he’d give it to an axe murderer. You know you’ll make full professor about thirty seconds before Harry hands you the keys to the office and runs.”
“True enough.” He finished the coffee and stood up in a slow creak. “I’ll give it some thought. Horizontally.” He turned toward the bedroom.
“Want some company?”
He looked at her for a moment. “Indeed I do.”
6. in our time
Back already?
Need to find a meta-causal. One guy seems to be generating the danger flag in various timelines. John Baird, who’s a scholar in some of them, a soldier in some, and a rich playboy in a few. He’s always a Hemingway nut, though. He does something that starts off the ripples in ’95, ’96, ’97; depending on which timeline you’re in—but I can’t seem to get close to it. There’s something odd about him, and it doesn’t have to do with Hemingway specifically.
But he’s definitely causing the eddy?
Has to be him.
All right. Find a meta-causal that all the doom lines have in common, and forget about the others. Then go talk to him.
There’ll be resonance—
But who cares? Moot after A.D. 2006.
That’s true. I’ll hit all the doom lines at once, then: neutralize the meta-causal, then jump ahead and do some spot checks.
Good. And no killing this time.
I understand. But—
You’re too close to 2006. Kill the wrong person and the whole thing could unravel.
Well, there are differences of opinion. We would certainly feel it if the world failed to come to an end in those lines.
As you say, differences of opinion. My opinion is that you better not kill anybody or I’ll send you back to patrol the fourteenth century again.
Understood. But I can’t guarantee that I can neutralize the metacausal without eliminating John Baird.
Fourteenth century. Some people love it. Others think it was nasty, brutish, and long.
7. A Clean, Well-Lighted Place
Most of the sleuthing that makes up literary scholarship takes place in settings either neutral or unpleasant. Libraries’ old stacks, attics metaphorical and actual; dust and silverfish, yellowed paper and fading ink. Books and letters that appear in card files but not on shelves.
Hemingway researchers have a haven outside of Boston, the Hemingway Collection at the University of Massachusetts’s John F. Kennedy Library. It’s a triangular room with one wall dominated by a picture window that looks over Boston Harbor to the sea. Comfortable easy chairs surround a coffee table, but John had never seen them in use; work tables under the picture window provided realistic room for computer and clutter. Skins from animals the Hemingways had dispatched in Africa snarled up from the floor, and one wall was dominated by Hemingway memorabilia and photographs. What made the room Nirvana, though, was row upon row of boxes containing tens of thousands of Xerox pages of Hemingway correspondence, manuscripts, clippings—everything from a boyhood shopping list to all extant versions of every short story and poem and novel.
John liked to get there early so he could claim one of the three computers. He snapped it on, inserted a CD, and typed in his code number. Then he keyed in the database index and started searching.
The more commonly requested items would appear on screen if you asked for them—whenever someone requested a physical copy of an item, an electronic copy automatically was sent into the database—but most of the things John needed were obscure, and he had to haul down the letter boxes and physically flip through them, just like some poor scholar inhabiting the first nine tenths of the twentieth century.
Time disappeared for him as he abandoned his notes and followed lines of instinct, leaping from letter to manuscript to note to interview, doing what was in essence the opposite of the scholar’s job: a scholar would normally be trying to find out what these stories had been about. John instead was trying to track down every reference that might restrict what he himself could write about, simulating the stories.
The most confining restriction was the one he’d first remembered, walking away from the bar where he’d met Castle. The one-paragraph answer that Hadley had given to Carlos Baker about the unfinished novel; that it was a Nick Adams story about hunting and fishing up in Michigan. John didn’t know anything about hunting and most of his fishing experience was limited to watching a bobber and hoping it wouldn’t go down and break his train of thought.
There was the one story that Hemingway had left unpublished, “Boys and Girls Together,” mostly clumsy self-parody. It covered the right period and the right activities, but using it as a source would be sensitive business, tiptoeing through a minefield. Anyone looking for a fake would go straight there. Of course John could go up to the Michigan woods and camp out, see things for himself and try to recreate them in the Hemingway style. Later, though. First order of business was to make sure there was nothing in this huge collection that would torpedo the whole project—some postcard where Hemingway said “You’re going to like this novel because it has a big scene about cleaning fish.”
The short stories would be less restricted in subject matter. According to Hemingway, they’d been about growing up in Oak Park and Michigan and the battlefields of Italy.
That made him stop and think. The one dramatic experience he shared with Hemingway was combat—fifty years later, to be sure, in Vietnam, but the basic situations couldn’t have changed that much. Terror, heroism, cowardice. The guns and grenades were a little more streamlined, but they did the same things to people. Maybe do a World War I story as a finger exercise, see whether it would be realistic to try a longer growing-
up-in-Michigan pastiche.
He made a note to himself about that on the computer, oblique enough not to be damning, and continued the eyestraining job of searching through Hadley’s correspondence, trying to find some further reference to the lost novel—damn!
Writing to Ernest’s mother, Hadley noted that “the taxi driver broke his typewriter” on the way to the Constantinople conference—did he get it fixed, or just chuck it? A quick check showed that the typeface of his manuscripts did indeed change after July 1924. So they’d never be able to find it. There were typewriters in Hemingway shrines in Key West, Billings, Schruns; the initial plan had been to find which was the old Corona, then locate an identical one and have Castle arrange a swap.
So they would fall back on Plan B. Castle had claimed to be good with mechanical things, and thought if they could find a 1921 Corona, he could tweak the keys around so they would produce a convincing manuscript—lower-case “s” a hair low, “e” a hair high, and so forth.
How he could be so sure of success without ever having seen the inside of a manual typewriter, John did not know. Nor did he have much confidence.
But it wouldn’t have to be a perfect simulation, since they weren’t out to fool the whole world, but just a few reviewers who would only see two or three Xeroxed pages. He could probably do a close enough job. John put it out of his mind and moved on to the next letter.
But it was an odd coincidence for him to think about Castle at that instant, since Castle was thinking about him. Or at least asking.
8. The Coming Man
“How was he when he was younger?”
“He never was younger.” She laughed and rolled around inside the compass of his arms to face him. “Than you, I mean. He was in his mid-thirties when we met. You can’t be much over twenty-five.”
He kissed the end of her nose. “Thirty this year. But I still get carded sometimes.”
“I’m a year older than you are. So you have to do anything I say.”
“So far so good.” He’d checked her wallet when she’d gone into the bathroom to insert the diaphragm, and knew she was thirty-five. “Break out the whips and chains now?”
“Not till next week. Work up to it slowly.” She pulled away from him and mopped her front with the sheet. “You’re good at being slow.”
The Year's Best SF 08 # 1990 Page 77
