Lawrence Looks for Treasure

Part 2 - Chapter 38

The following morning, I attended James' office. I arrived two hours before it opened and waited patiently on a bench across the street. I was eager to firm things up. Once the doors opened, I waited in the reception, talking excitedly with the secretary; she had expected me. Finally, James arrived. We talked lightly for a minute at most, and then he brought the contract. I signed without reading it, and he handed me a cheque for $4,000. I left in hurry, worried someone would walk in and call the whole operation off, citing some horrible mistake.

In the afternoon, I skipped the meeting I had at the publishing house of the whiskered man. My novel would be published instead by James, and I used this newly freed time to attend the bank and cash my cheque. A wave of euphoria passed when the cheque cleared. I took a small amount from it, and I telegraphed Inès eight pages of good news, which could be summarized more briefly for the reader as follows: 'We're rich; come to New York.'

I received her reply two weeks later. She informed me that it would take some time to arrange the journey, and that she hoped to arrive in six months. In the meantime, I set up a home to which she could arrive. I bought a quiet little Georgian home in a quiet little Connecticut town. The house had a yard in the back, trees in the front, and not much inside. I left the home mostly unfurnished so that Inès could decorate as she pleased. Of course, I could not afford to furnish it, even if I desired to, as I had spent all my earnings on the house.

I also worked frenetically on my unfinished second novel, hoping to have it ready before she arrived. I also passed more time with Ruth, I am ashamed to admit. I had James hire her to edit my books. It turned out to be a smart decision professionally. Ruth was the literary counterpart to a good washing: by running my work through her, it came out much cleaner than it went in.

After about two months, my first book was set to print. James, Ruth and I had high hopes for it, but low expectations. It was a first novel; those rarely do well. Yet James had the publisher put considerable resources behind it. I had an ad placed in the Times; I travelled across Pennsylvania and Massachusetts to promote it; and I gave advanced copies to any critic who would take it. All that trouble was worthwhile, it turned out. The book was a top seller. Americans, new ones especially, took to the story. Their lives needed more fun and Inspector Dmitri gave it to them. Overnight, it seemed, I had found myself. Or, I should say, Americans found me. The book was the most popular novel of the year, and, as the weather warmed, the public spent even more cents on a summer read. I was happy to oblige.

Ruth, James and I celebrated with the writers group. Ruth and I got along all too well, so well I forget about Inès, lost instead in Ruth's presence. I loved Inès like I could not love anyone else. She was there when no one else was, believed in me through difficult times, when easy ones were nowhere in sight. If only Inès and I were together—I would care little for Ruth, I knew. But I hadn't seen Inès in nearly two years. Although Inès said she would soon arrive, her person seemed more a work of fiction than anything I had written. Ruth, however, was real, as real as my stirring libido. Thankfully, nothing passed between me and Ruth that night, or ever. Still, the guilt remains today.

At last, Inès arrived, and not a moment later than she said she would. I cried when I saw her. She was make believe come to life. I wore trousers, cut to fit, a smart jacket, and had a buggy ready to drive us home. The buggy had been rented by James and the publishing house as a gift for a job well done. Inès could not believe the man she saw; it was make believe come to life for her too. I put Inès' bags in the buggy, and we sat in the back as the horseman drove us home.

Inès cried when she saw our house. Our dreams had come true. By now, I had begun furnishing the home. I could afford it, and then some, as the sales from my book continued to surpass expectations. Yet the place was furnished simply, and I assured her she could change it as she liked. Inès, for her part, assured me she wouldn't change a thing: it was perfect just the way it was.

Once she had bathed and eaten and toured the place from top to bottom, lying in bed after a long day, she cried once more. This cry was painful. I had made quite a life without her. I had wealth she never knew, friends she never knew, and skills she never knew. Had I become a person she never knew? What place, if any, would she have in my life?

I assured her that she took up all my life, that she would be mine forever. I meant it. I assured her that she need not worry about a thing, not my loyalty, nor money, nor comfort. I told her we would set out immediately for children. I bade her goodnight, and I left, crying privately outside her door. My tears were joyous. All was well, just as I imagined it. What an incredible stroke of luck! I simply had to take care not to let it fall.

In the coming months, I finished my second novel. I saw little of Inès during the day, locking myself in the office until I had written the pen dry. To have my own office was a treat and a thrill. Working there was as pleasurable as work could be. I walked into the place every morning like I was trespassing on the property of a statesman. But as soon as I settled in, I made the place my own—papers thrown this way, pillows thrown that. Feet up, shoes off, anyway I could get comfortable. I worked until my fingers were numb and my brain was raw. Sometimes Inès would leave food outside my door; Most times she would not. We carried on like this until the novel left my hands, and were transferred to those of the publisher.

My second novel involved Inspector Dmitri too, but it was more ambitious than the first. For one, the plot was complex, turning this way, then that, looping around and around until I damn near strangled myself in it. For another, the characters were three dimensional, not the good or evil cut-outs of my first book. Indeed, the first book I wrote for myself, and was surprised by its success. The second I wrote for the public, and expected success.

When I handed the work to James and Ruth, they agreed it was good, but spent more time dwelling on the bad. The main character, James opined, spoke too formally; the heroine, Ruth assured me, was a laughable male idealization. I could not understand how two individuals so excited about my first work could be so critical of my second. Nothing had changed between them. The prose sprung from the same mind, did they not?

Again, Ruth edited the work. Her suggestions were, as always, right and helpful. Every problem she identified was accompanied by an elegant solution. I spent time with her outside the office, too. Her company pleased me in a way Inès' did not, but I came to realize, that was just fine. Inès was mine; I was hers. As long as Inès remained close, Ruth would never jeopardize our relationship. She never did, although she remained a dear friend always.

My second novel released to the public a year later. It sold well, better than the first. Yet the critics were harsher. I thought hard on why, and I decided that the world is eager for a fresh face, but turns quickly on that face once it gets too pretty.

My second novel did not result the way I had hoped, but my life had been tough enough not to pay it much mind. The fact was my books were selling, I had a house that was my own, and a wife whom I adored. My life was not at all what it should have been, and I mean that in the best way. Besides, I had more important pressures to consider: Inès was pregnant, after months of trying. The wandering portion of my life was finally over; I had arrived in Canaan.

The following year I took to myself. I had worked hard and established myself as an author. I had a readership, a steady income, and a book contract to last four more novels. During my time off, I tended to my wife, who was expecting and in constant need. I read many of the books I should have read before becoming an author. I considered what I should write next. The critics, it seemed, had tired of Inspector Dmitri, thinking me a one trick pony. So I decided to tell another story, the most compelling, most fantastical story I knew. The story of a farm boy from Austria, who dreamt of drinking coffee in Vienna, who ran from home to become a magician, who met the love of his life in France, and who ended up a novelist in America, rich and happy. Hard to believe, to be sure. But one that I knew just well enough to bring to life. I knew it because it did in fact happen. It happened to me.

THE END