Chapter One
It started with the funeral.
Well, of course, it didn't really; but at least the funeral I can still remember
clearly, something more than a series of fragmented images tumbling against
each other. There are a few cracks in the scene I hold in my head; fault-lines, where
someone's quiet words have slipped away, or a fleeting expression of some
faltering sentiment washed away by the smoothing touch of time. I will try
to recreate those, if there is an important gap, as best I can.
The floor was, let me see, carpeted, I think. Yes, it was carpeted in
something thick and red and expensive, soft stuff that smelled musty and
old, a little strange against the rest of the parlor, which stank of anti-septic.
Some mark of the past, no doubt; I still don't know who Alex's parents
were. He always shied away from the subject like a nervous horse. An old,
aristocratic family, probably, one marked with old money and older blood.
Alex was the dead man. Before, at the service, I had only been able to
stand a glimpse of his corpse. They had done up his face with too much
makeup, so that his lips were a little too red against a face that was a little
too pink, and lying in the black lacquered box, hands folded neatly on his
chest and face frozen in a disturbing smile, I remember he reminded me
most of a costly china doll. I stayed away from it during the rest of the
mass, and was quite relieved when they closed the casket.
Anyway; I was standing in the parlor, the high dark ceiling arching
above me, shadowed in such a way I couldn't quite make out the designs
carved into the smooth wood, though something about the angles and
edges that were highlighted by the low-hanging chandeliers suggested
rather gruesome countenances.
There was something distinctly awkward - more awkward, in any case -
about that reception. It's always awkward, of course, standing around
talking to those who are much sadder than you are [and someone always
is] for an hour while eating tiny sandwiches. But this particular one was
worse, partly because most of us didn't have a lot to say about him. When
you haven't seen a fellow for five years, it's hard to think of some suitable
story to tell.
Alex was never a sociable man. I had only been a school friend he kept in
contact with after our graduation, but even I had been invited, probably
more out of a need to fill a seat than anything. Most of the people there
were of the same breed, or else they were blond and angular aunts and
uncles and the queer swarthy cousins who hovered and buzzed like flies
around the other guests.
Guests: what a god-awful name for it. Guests want to be where they are,
or they did originally in any case, and there could hardly be a less
appropriate word to apply to these unfortunate souls, as they stood around
with small pale grimaces of embarrassment. It was absurd, watching them,
each moment a caricature of a theatrical funeral scene, and I would have
thought it immensely boring if it weren't for the stabs of guilt I felt every
time the thought flitted through my head.
It was near the end of the reception that his brother, Frank sidled up to me,
holding his bowler hat in his hands with an expression on his face that could
only be called gleeful.
'I understand you're open to the possibility of writing another book, Mr.
Grayson.'
I said something non-committal. Frank and I never got along well, even
before - well, that comes later. He was too much the rich kid then, a grown man at
forty, and still is, though he's used up most of his father's money
now, Lord knows.
He wasn't discouraged by my lack of enthusiasm, however.
'I have a proposition for you,' he barreled on, talking faster. 'I want you to
write a book about Alex's life.'
He had my full attention then.
'You want me to what?'
'Write a biography for him. Trust me, it'll be worthwhile.'
There was something quite greedy in his expression that made me suspect,
even then, that there was rather more to it than that. He took my silence
as a good sign, and continued, his voice high and tight with agitation.
'You would have full access to his possessions, his will, legal documents,
history, everything. But I want a complete and thorough biography in
exchange.'
What a project! I saw then how wonderful such a book could be, for
Alex was not an insignificant man, and there were
shady edges to the straight and narrow course of his life. Temptation stayed
my tongue, though I had intended to say no directly on principle. Instead, [and
indeed, I remember afterwards I was a little shocked] I blurted out two
unexpected words.
'Why not?'
Frank smiled smugly then, and that worried me a little, but I buried the
feeling under thoughts of getting a chance to poke around his old manor
and brushing off the vague shapes of his past.
In any case. He set a date - April 29th - for us to meet and settle the terms
of the contract. I shook his hand. His palm was slimy with sweat, and I remember
wiping my hand vigorously on a napkin to get the feel of it off as soon as he
was out of sight.
-
The next few days were insignificant. It was the meeting where events
were set into motion. April 29th: a grey day, with weather that was more limp
and damp than anything else.
I had intended to already be in my office when Frank arrived, but it was my
misfortune that the housekeeper, Millie, had caught a nasty bug and was taking
the day off, so I was swearing at my crumpled tie when the doorbell rang.
Giving up, I removed the tie entirely and answered the door. I must have looked
quite disheveled, without a necktie and the top button of my shirt undone and
no proper coat. Frank made no comment, but gave my attire a disdainful
look as he followed me up to the study.
As soon as I'd closed the door behind him, he started fiddling with the lock of
that ratty old briefcase of his. I think he still has it, even now. He had his oddities.
At length, he had out a sheaf of papers, which he laid on my big old roll-top
with a satisfied sigh.
'Sit, please,' I said as he settled down into my favorite chintz armchair
without so much as a glance in my direction. He must have sensed my annoyance then,
as he gave me a guilty sort of grin.
'Well, Edward. Let us attend to the matter at hand, hmm?'
'Quite.' Still disgruntled, I remember sitting in the lower visitor's chair and thinking
it a bad omen, somehow, that Frank, who was a good three inches shorter than
me, was starting the business meeting by staring down at me over his
spectacles.
There was little of note about the contract he had drawn up. The sum offered
as payment, however, was practically unheard of. A thousand crowns for a
new manuscript was quite ridiculous. Obviously, brotherly love was not the
motivation for this commission.
