+1+
It was every writer’s dream
I clutched the emerald green leather bound hardcover and traced the pressed gold foil borders and the dashing embossed calligraphy that when one ran a finger through the looping text read:
Progress of the Soul
In the privacy of my darkened suite I shameless took in the scent of rich leather, dark ink and freshly printed paper. I savored the satisfying crack of the spine.
I always cracked the spine.
Whenever I had the compulsion to take a trip down memory lane I’d simply grab a copy off of the towering, and every growing, stack of green hardcover books and immerse myself in the pages. As if I’d expected something to change since I last wrote them. I’d flip past the obtuse forward and re-read and re-live some of my favorite interviews from the opulent bars, swank lounges, designer suites, glittering pools and rooftops of The Shangri-La Highline. I’d re-acquaint myself with the souls who I had interviewed. Souls who were no longer in this very unusual afterlife.
The Unsettling of Betsy Demur (Chapter 5, page 98) was a tearjerker for me. She said she felt an unsettling deep down…knowing that the husband who’d buried her under the house he still lived in had gotten away with her murder. She’d thought if she could go back…she could reveal him for who he was.
“What if you can’t?” I had asked during our interview, “Then what? What do you do next? You’d be stuck …there.”
“I heard you just…fade.” She’d said, “I heard after a while you fade. I can see the world and just…fade.”
“From who?” I’d asked like I’d asked so many souls during my interviews.
“What?” Betsy said sipping her delicate martini.
“Who told you you fade?” I ask.
“I…I must have read it somewhere.”
It’s what the all said. They had all heard something somewhere but no one knew the truth. Not that I ever let such questions into my book. I just stored them up and hoarded the rumors.
“Only Specters really die…”
“….It’s much better than being here.”
“You can get a second chance if you do it right…maybe a third.”
“Specters are really angels, you know.”
“It’s euphoria…that’s what I’ve heard.”
“It’s better than being forgotten.”
“It’s a choice everyone will have to make.”
I peeled myself out of bed and pushed open the curtains to my room, the sun burst into the dark room and as if on cue I could hear the high-pitched energetic music echoing from 990 stories below. I stepped close to the window and looked down at the mass of souls dancing and lounging in the Grande Courtyard of the Shangri-La Highline. They drunk in the sun and dived into the crystal blue pool; twirling, floating and wafting eternity away. I could have easily dragged myself down or up a few floors to find a drink or bit of entertainment.
I was slowly getting the hang of The Shangri-La Highline’s bastardized culture that combined 1920’s flair with 80’s excess. It had seemed like a prime place to be four years ago. Hell, even two years ago when I was interviewing residents for The Progress of the Soul. Now it felt like a cage.
I tucked in for another drink, deciding to sleep the day away when there was a knock at the door. I knew eviction was close. The funny thing was it wasn’t about money. The Shangri-La didn’t like having a mopey writer bringing down the vibe. I was one of thousands of residents but…they could tell I wasn’t feeling it and that meant I had to go.
The knock sounded again and I discarded my drink and headed for the door. If it was that pompous manager I’d have a few choice words for him. I opened the door ready for a fight but I froze. Then I stared.
The man at the door easily filled the frame, he was in a well fitted dark black suit with a dark green brocade vest over a trim waist and solid shoulders, he looked up and over the brim of a garish black hat and I caught sight of a man with light blue eyes and chalky pale white skin, pulled taut over hard cheekbones, which were defined by the cold set of his mouth. He removed his hat and pushed back his long slightly waved white hair and fixed his gaze on me. What was most interesting about him, in a place like The Shangri-La Highline anyway, was the deep sadness lurking beneath his eyes.
“Something tells me you aren’t here from the eviction committee.” I said, but I wasn’t that invested.
“Are you Emile?” He asks carefully moving a strand of hair from his eyes in a way that felt oddly intimate. His voice is smooth and stoic. A bit of a cultured American accent with just a tiny hint of shyness. It’s that shyness that pulled me in, observant men always did.
“Who is asking?” I said giving his imposing figure a second look.
Then.
Then he held up a copy of my book. Fuck this.
“I can’t refund you. Take it up with the merchant.” I said ready to close to the door then added, “…like the others.”
“I don’t want a refund.” the man said sticking a well shined loafer in the door before I could close it, “I’d like you to sign it.”
“What?”
I pushed the door open wider and watched the man…the decidedly young man…compose his features back into that stoic façade.
“The premise of your book”, He said, “Isn’t what intrigued me …it was the content. Granted there are a few points I highly disagree with, but you have a tapped into something... Mr. Emile."
There was a thick silence and he seemed prepared to weather it. Wordlessly I went to look for a pen.
“What is all this”, he asked looking at the stacks and stepping inside the room. Usually I liked handsome men with no boundaries but this was different. Everything was different there.
“Remainders”, I admitted “Well…that is….these are the books that didn’t sell, the ones that were returned.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The book did very …poorly. The Bordeaux family wasn’t happy about me interviewing people who were…well…traversing to the other side. People found it to be distasteful and the Bordeaux’s made sure it stayed that way.”
“Of course they didn’t want to read about people leaving the afterlife to become Specters? It Humanizes the situation doesn’t It.”, he observed, “To know real people are suffering. “
“You are so blunt. Most people won’t even talk about it.”, I told him.
“They should discuss it more. It’s vile isn’t it? Unnatural.” He asked.
“I don’t know. Ghost or Specters have been around for centuries. Clearly it’s always been a practice.”
“My wife”, he began, “My wife choose that life.”
“I’m sorry. Did I interview her?”
“No”, he said and it came out like a relief, “It was last year but…I am certain. I know she’s suffering. I should be with her but—“
“Scared?” I asked
There was a flicker of indignation. This man had a bit of fire to him.
“What good will it do for both of us to suffer? I pray in time I can get her back… but this practice must stop. If those…Sanctuaries were gone I would have been able to love my wife for an eternity instead of from across some meaningless macabre celestial void”
“Well…” I said partially perturbed, “Good luck with that.”
He held himself in the door even when I tried to close it.
“I need your help”, He said.
“I’m just a writer.”
“Yes, a good writer with potential.”
“Potential?”
“Distraction is the key to happiness here you know. Your book didn’t do well because you interviewed real people. Fiction is the preferred choice of residents. If it was fiction…people would listen. Mr. Emile I want to commission you to write a novel that will change public opinion of this practice. If we remove Sanctuaries this will be a truly peaceful afterlife.”
“A commission?”
“I’d be your patron”, he said. His intense blue eyes concentrated on me, “I’ll spare no expense. I need you Mr. Emile. We can handle everything through the post. We may need to be discreet incase the Bordeaux family becomes suspicious. They won’t like the endeavor and I’d rather not catch their ire.”
“The post? How far have you come?”
“Far enough. At the moment I’m very committed to my neighborhood and truth be told I haven’t left my house in a year, but your book moved me.”
“Where do you live?”
“Litany Village.”
“I…started off there. I was told Shangri-La was more my speed.”
“Is it?”
“It was.” I said opening the window and watching the frivolity down below. I turned back to see the man had shielded his eyes from the bright sunlight. In the natural light I could make out the fine lines of his high cheek bones, everything down from his hair to his clothes were perfectly polished and posh. Everything about him looked daunting, to perfect...it looked like a mask
“I can make room for you in Litany Village if you are looking for a new place to stay. I have two houses. You may stay with me until I get the second one settled.”
I looked over the stacks of books and picked up one that had yet to be opened and stuffed it into an overnight bag along with my typewriter.
“Let’s go.” I said.
“Now? Are you certain?”
“I have a good feeling about this….what did you say your name was?”
“Fierro”, he said quietly
“Well, Fierro I feel like this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
He cleared his throat, “This is a political business arrangement, Mr. Emile.”
“It’s from a---I---I’m feeling a little punchy. Also…you can just call me Emile.”
12 Years Later
Yvelines, France
+2+
I’ve been quiet for much too long.
My eye dart quickly around the room, where I can once again confirm I am technically technically the youngest person here. Which, at the ripe age of 46 felt like a novelty.
Right, where was I?
I consider the question I’d been asked just a few moments again and turn back to my conversation partner.
Mrs. Olivia Olchek looks at me rather expectantly, both her hands were laid dowager style on top of her cane, her brilliant silver hair cascaded down her shoulders onto the very becoming dark blue suit she wore.
They were all in suits. The lot of them.
I should have known better than to show up in khakis and a green polo. Some of the newer attendees had most likely thought I was the help at first, but what could one expect when it came to the D’Harcourt County Residential Society meeting, which roughly translated to a dodgy old homeowner’s association. D’Harcourt County spanned nearly 34 miles and within those carefully carved miles were 43 historical and extravagant manses owned by some of Europe’s wealthiest families.
Chateau Mercier, off the serene and secluded Monet Drive was no exception. The abandoned mansion had for decades been ignored by the D’Harcourt County Residential Society. The eye sore property was state owned and the most isolated. There had been talks of tearing it down but there were rumors that the place was haunted (Which of course it was).
Chateau Mercier had been purchased and beautifully renovated by the charminf American heiress Clara DeLune and her mysterious partner Addison Fierro, who on a good day I now called my patrons and on a bad day called my family.
Nevertheless as a new (tax-paying) resident of Chateau Mercier, I now had the honorable task of attending the D’Harcourt County Residential Society Meetings. They were riveting affairs! Before the long speeches on tax codes, building regulations and statues; the mature host like to engage in good old-fashion parlor games. Today the meeting was being sponsored at the house of Mr. and Mrs. Dubious
The last meeting had attendees “sing-for-their-meals, do a little performance or whatnot before they served the catered lunch. Fierro had admirably played Mrs. Riberski’s grand piano, I’d considered going in with Denzel Washington’s Gettysburg monologue from Remember The Titans that I’d memorized for the 3 months I’d wanted to become and actor in the early 2000s, but after some consideration I trotted out a monologue for Othello I’d memorized for occasion such as these.
Stuffy, uptight, dull, pretentious occasions. Which, in my life as an academic, I’d had more than I could count.
Still, an evening spent with a deck antique of 1930’s conversation cards should have been easier.
“The question is”, Madam Olchek repeats the question, “Which member of the royal family would you most like to have dinner with.”
“Well”, I say thinking outside the box, “I will say Anne Boleyn sounds like a riot.”
“Well… she’s not really a part of the royal family, dear.”
“Her daughter bought along the Golden Age of the British Empire pulling it out of the middle ages with style, and not to mention how her actions reformed the church. I like to think her rule is directly responsible for the role of monarchy today. She took them down a peg. Anne walked so Diana could run I guess.”
“That is quite a bold statement, it’s very progressive that you like to read up on such subjects”, she nods proudly and takes a sip of her Shiraz
“Well”, I say reaching for my own Shiraz, “It was my doctoral thesis and I spent so much time lecturing on the subject during my summer lecturing at Oxford.”
“Oh, my”, she says.
“Oh. My””, I say quietly and offer her a conspiratorial smile.
I looked over to where Fierro was sitting. I figured anything involving conversation would have him at all sort of odds, but no. He looked quite comfortable and content at his usual table on the side sitting next to Ms. Bisset.
Travel had been their topic and he’d listened so intently while she went on rather poetically about her writing retreat on an Alaskan cruise and I caught bits of conversation as Fierro spoke highly of his trip to Argentina in the spring. Purposely leaving out his clandestine trip to Romania, he’d been back less than a month, evident by the growing length of his previously shorn hair.
He and Ms. Bisset got along rather well at the meetings. She, like most women, thought highly of his politeness and old-fashioned sensibility. They were both religious, in search of a quieter life and spoke fondly about history, the environment, old films and how they were well and over all the new gadgets and electronics.
I spent the next ten minutes fending off questions from Mrs. Olchek About my schooling, parentage and where I was from.
I gave her the usual spiel
Yale, Oxford, Boston State College, Yale (again) Oxford (again) and Thames College. Parents were professors from Louisiana and I was from Connecticut…I guess.
I didn’t tell her my parents were professors and activist. Or that by the time I was seven my Father had trail blazed his way into joining Harvard faculty while my mother tried not to make waves as a provost at a small women’s college outside of Boston. They were dedicated to opening doors and bringing seats to table, so much so that having me in their 40’s had been quite a shock.
There had been a lot of love, lessons and unspoken truths that reduced our relationship to phone calls and holiday cards even though I was barely a state away most of my adult life.
As of five years ago they had both passed, finally getting some rest was how I choose to see it. I’d accompanied their coffins individually from the lives they’d created in New England all the way back down to the warm soil of West Coally, Louisiana sun where their dreams began.
Taking my parents home to rest was always journey I felt I needed to make alone. I even begged off Rodger, my fiancé at the time. But sure enough when the train pulled into Baton Rouge and I followed behind the hearse to West Coally Baptist, Addison Fierro was there at the church to quite literally catch me when my legs gave out beneath me at the church doors.
I’ve gotten away from myself.
I didn’t tell Mrs. Olchek any of that, but she nodded with great interest before she could inquire more about how I ended up friends with the “enigmatic” and “quite wonderful” Mr. Fierro. Luckily the bell rang and the official meeting began.
It was two hours of listening to the elderly bicker before children, nurses and chauffeurs (read: not drivers) were called to escort everyone home. Those who could still drive made a big deal of it, graciously offering rides to those waiting patiently under the canopy porch of Mr. and Mrs. DuBois’s revivalist home. The sun hurt my eyes but I was glad there was still daylight to behold after that snoozefest of a meeting.
I waited by the curb while Fierro helped Ms. Bisset into her car, her chauffeur was getting impatient as they stood and talked for a bit before the woman rolled up her window and the car sped away. He certainly had a way with genteel older women.
“Finally”, I say as he approached me in graceful strides, the way the man wore bespoke white oxford and blue tailor pants should have been illegal. Perhaps we'd been friends so long I sometimes forgot maybe wasn't his sensibilities that drew people in.
“Emile you don’t have to come to the meetings.”
“Of course I do”, I say, “Old people are great for inspiration---er, no offense. And it’s better than sitting alone all day staring at my ol’ typewriter.”
I fished out my key and undid my bike lock, Fierro hadn’t even bothered to lock his so I let him get a head start. I took my time mounting my cheap Bluetooth speaker to the handlebars and turning on some upbeat pop.Carly Rae Jepson (Hey, the kids like it) blared through the silence of the French countryside. I pedaled towards the main road humming along, we had about 4 miles to cover which usually took no more than 45 minutes at a leisurely pace.
I was getting into the second song when the speaker went silent followed by the cheery new ringtone I’d downloaded while procrastinating. Stopping on the side of the road I jabbed at the speaker until it connected the call.
“Emile?” a voice calls
“Yes, my dear girl.” I say between gulps of air and water. Getting. Old. Sucked.
“I’d like to speak to Papa”, Rose says sounding very polite, but I felt a storm brewing behind her demands.
I sighed. He must have once again abandoned his phone somewhere.
“What’s wrong, darling?”
“I want to come home”, she says and I can practically see Rose with her delicate hands crossed having a very sophisticated huff in front of her phone. She hated to hold it and usually put it on speaker and set it as far away as she could
“Rose, you just go to camp.”
Camp was not quite the word for the exclusive summer art program Rose’s art teacher had insisted she enroll in. The program was a gateway for admission to a prestigious art college, so off she went. Rose had been opened to the idea at first and seeing as it was in a high end boutique hotel in an artsy Luxemburg village it was hardly camp at all. I’d secretly been worried about sending her away for the summer but Clara had insisted it was a good learning experience and wrote a check on the spot.
“I don’t like it here”, she insists. At twelve Rose was an old soul but her voice remained soft and childlike in a way that sometimes made it difficult to take her seriously, “I’m very bored and I’m the youngest one here. I want to come home. I’m not learning anything. I’m not allowed to do watercolor or free hand, it’s just hours of nonsense sketching and maths. It’s very…conforming.”
“Your mother said you had to stay”, I said because Rose knew by now that her father never crossed her mother, “This is a good opportunity”
“Emile...”, she whined in that way she only whined to me, because she knew it could just maybe get her what she wanted. Maybe.
“I’ll talk to your mother, but make the best of it for me darling. Now I’ve got two miles and a hill to pedal up, so wish me luck and remember me as I was.”
“Emile—“
“Rose. This is an amazing experience. I know your probably scared but just jump in, Rose. Jump into what scares you. Take a chance. You are young and talented. Show them what you can do, darling. Do it for me.”
“…I…I…alright then.”
“You can call me if you ever get lonely, alright? Off I go. And off you go.”
“Honestly”, she said and hung up.
I turned up the music and rode into the sunlight until I saw Chateau Mercier in the distance. I sailed triumphantly through main gates lifting my hands heroically (and momentarily) off the hand rails. I dismounted and walked my bike to the detached garage. I came in through the backdoor and took the kitchen staircase to the third floor to the guest suite.
I showered in the god-like rain shower faucet and got into a writerly mindset. After showering I picked up my MacBook and typewriter and ambled down the stairs to the open concept kitchen. Sunlight streamed in from the floor to ceiling French doors that lead to the garden and Fierro’s glasshouse.
I sat down at the typewriter hoping the inspiration my flow. I’d had the typewriter since 1991, it had been a great find at a Boston yard sale and a gift from my father. I often hoped it was somehow infused with the magic of the great American writers. Hmm, suddenly that was the story I wanted to write.
With the typewriter I wrote with intention, I couldn’t waste the very expensive ink ribbons I had to import from a specialty craft store. That was what made the device so grand. No wasted words.
I shook off the plot bunny and focused on the two titles I was working on. I’d been placed on a 24 month sabbatical to start my book on Early Etruscans. At the same time I also had an agent friend who was interested in shopping my currently unwritten novel based on the murders committed by Victor Bordeaux. Murders that had happened in this very house decades ago.
Fiction was not entirely new to me, but in a way writing about Victor felt like the final page in my story. In this very strange story that had given me a new beginning.
I stretched my fingers and considered all the words in front of me.
I had two fucking books to write.
There was no shutting me up now.
Author's Note
I hope I didn't get anyone hopes up that this entire thing would be a flashback to Litany Lane, though I am very interested in digging into how Fierro became who he was....
Also I need a new picspiration for Emile. Michael Ealy is the right age but I imagine less pretty and specifically with glasses and some gray and facial hair, but like super smiley.
