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When he finally returned to his typewriter, the first thing he did write was a letter to Theodore Green: Mr. Green, I believe you owe me something very significant: my art. I know that you stole my novel and that you are now taking credit for writing it. I think it would be best if we met to discuss how this situation could be resolved. A response came back a week later. Sir, Please do not write to Mr. Green again. Do not try and contact him in any other way. If you persist in bothering my client we will be forced to take official measures. Sincerely, Gunter Roddie Julian stayed up all night, thinking about how he could prove that far from being a stalker, he was an innocent victim. But he had worked alone for a year, on a typewriter, and there were no human or computer witnesses to show that the book was his. At the same time, Julian was tormented by the question of how Theodore Green had stolen his book. True, Julian’s apartment was light on security, but no one had ever broken in. Not that he’d noticed. The more he thought about it, the more agitated he grew. The next morning in the newspaper he saw an advertisement that seemed to him a portent. Theodore Green was going to be appearing at the local bookstore that afternoon to sign copies of the book. After a nervous lunch of sandwiches and black coffee, Julian packed his manuscript into a briefcase and left for the bookstore. He arrived to see a line of people extending out of the doors, every person clutching a copy of the best-selling novel. Julian took his place at the end of the queue and took a deep breath, mentally rehearsing how he would handle the meeting when he finally reached the front of the queue, and the desk where he supposed Theodore Green was sitting and signing copies of the book he had stolen. But as he reached the front door, he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and turned to see a police officer considering him. “Julian Anglish?” asked the policeman. “Yes,” stammered Julian. “I think we’d best go down to the station and talk,” said the officer as he guided Julian out of the line and over to a police car parked in front of the bookstore. Julian was too shocked to do anything but obey. At the police station, the officer took Julian into a bare interview room, offered him a cup of coffee, then explained that Theodore Green had filed a restraining order against him. Although the order only specified that he should keep a distance of 300 yards, the police thought it would be better all around if he left the city. Julian began to explain that he had written the book first and that Theodore Green was a thief. The officer looked into Julian’s eyes while he spoke, with the patience of total incredulity, until Julian understood that nothing he could say would make a difference. He began to stutter and stumble over the words. Finally he sat silent. The officer showed him to the door. On the way home from the police station he kept his eyes fixed on the pavement and breathed deeply, trying to control his rage. As he passed through the thin afternoon crowds he was tormented by the idea of inflicting violence on passing pedestrians. Finally he arrived at home and sat trembling on his bed. The injustice was almost unbearable, but one thought stopped his rage from overwhelming him -- whether or not his book had his name on the cover, it was his. Julian Anglish had written a book that the world was reading. Theodore Green may have stolen Julian’s writing, but he couldn’t steal his ability to write another bestseller. Julian could write again, and this time he would make certain that he would receive the credit he was due. Julian decided it would do just as well to take the advice of the police – leave town and find a place where he could write and where no one could steal his work. He left a forwarding address of a cousin who lived in a small town near the mountains, about two hours away from the city. Then he packed up his belongings and left. Julian spent a month with his cousin, getting to know the small town and hiking in the mountains. Walking on a remote trail one day, Julian found an abandoned shack an hour away from the nearest house. With the small amount of money he had, he bought provisions, organized for a weekly drop-off of food and other necessities and set out to make a new home. Within a week he was banging away at his typewriter again. First he worked at exercises to let out the bitterness he still felt about losing his first book. He meditated, trying to come to terms with the injustice that had been wrought on him, trying to let go of the visions of revenge that haunted him. As though he was cleaning a pipe blocked with poisonous sludge, Julian pushed the words and the sentiments through. Sometimes to save paper and ink, he removed the ribbon from the typewriter and closed his eyes and let his fingers play the black ballad that was lodged in his heart. Day after day the song went on. Winter arrived, the seasons in seeming sympathy with his soul. And when spring came, the ice warmed and cracked not just in the mountains around him, but inside him too. Walking on the trails, observing the opening up of nature, he felt his own nature respond. Tears ran down his face as he felt finally the absence of the hurt that had twisted inside him for months. He knew there was still a long way to go, but he saw the potential for love. With a mouth stuffed full of thanks to every god that had ever existed, he began to write his second book. It was glorious. The writing was as finely wrought as his first novel, but this time, his own heartbreak and eventual recovery worked its way into the book. The words flowed cleanly out of him. He continued to write with his eyes closed, sometimes for days at a time without stopping to rest or eat, only to reload the paper or replace the ribbon. And when, after another year, he had finished, he felt like a different person. It was as though he had transcended the goal of being a famous author. No matter what happened next, he had reached a new plateau of consciousness and existence. It was spring when he packed up his belongings and said goodbye to the simple shack with his manuscript under his arm. In the small town at the foot of the mountains, Julian passed the general store and noticed a rack of books out the front with a promotional sign “Theodore Green’s New Book”. He was pleased by the lack of resentment he felt and realized he didn’t care any more about what had happened to him. To prove it to himself he walked over to the stand, picked up the book and flipped over to the first page. Julian got through the first paragraph before losing consciousness and falling to the ground. As he lay in the warm spring sun, a small crowd began to gather. Julian woke up in the local hospital. He had been in a coma for almost a month and the doctors had begun to lose hope, despite the fact that their tests could not reveal what had happened. Julian knew, but said nothing. As soon as he felt strong enough he signed his own release papers and went back to his cabin. Soon he had set up his mountain home just like before. But this time he had a new plan. He knew what he was going to do was wrong, but he had fallen a long way and simply did not have the strength to forgive or forget again. He started a new book, but this time without any pretense of searching for redemption. Instead he took the maelstrom of emotions inside him and splattered it onto the page. He confused characters, he invented plotlines that went nowhere. But he did it methodically, striving to create the worst book he could. When he walked down to the mountain town exactly one year after his last breakdown, he didn’t bother taking his manuscript with him. He went directly to the general store fully expecting to find a new novel by Theodore Green on the rack. And sure enough, he did. The birds singing and the sun shining down on the town struck a bizarre counterpoint to the flame of revenge burning inside Julian. Each word he read from the page confirmed that Theodore Green had once again stolen his work, but this time, victor had become victim. Julian returned to his cabin, and without stopping for one day’s break began work on another novel. Over the next three years he wrote one novel a year, and each year they got worse. In the second year, the books no longer appeared in the general store of the small town. Julian had to search the book review columns of magazines to confirm that the books were still being published under Theodore Green’s name and that his reputation was being reduced to tatters. After the third year, the reviews stopped too. It took some research before Julian found the article he was looking for. After a series of commercial and critical failures, Theodore Green’s literary agent and publisher had both dropped him. Julian had by now understood something of the connection that existed between himself and Theodore Green. Whatever he wrote, Theodore would also write. And using this knowledge, he had destroyed Theodore’s reputation. But now there was only one thing he could do: stop writing altogether. And so, Julian made a vow to give up the only thing in life he had ever wanted to do. Remembering the things that had helped him through his first crisis, Julian looked to nature to provide consolation. He channeled his energy into the mountain, planted grains, vegetables, fruits, trees, and flower gardens. Although he didn’t write any more, the images and stories came unbidden. He was like the brook that dribbled down the side of the mountain, where he took his water. Despite the boulders, indeed the mass of the mountain itself, the water still flowed. So it was with his creative soul. Julian took these inspirations and spoke them out loud to the mountain air, to the birds that hung in the thermals and to trees, to insects, to lichens. And maybe it was because of this that his gardens thrived. The man who brought the weekly supplies by donkey began to bring two donkeys so that he was able to return to the small village with all the produce that grew in Julian’s garden. Without his connection with nature, Julian would have died. In the afternoons he sat at the edge of his lookout and listened to the gulf below whisper to him to come closer, to free himself and jump. Instead he spoke back to the void, weaved stories with it, told it about all of the work he had to do in his garden tomorrow. But no matter how much he let the words tumble out of his mouth, his body was still racked with a need to write. Compulsively he found himself scratching words with a stick in the dirt in front of his crops, words that threatened to transform into poetry. He stopped himself. At night he traced patterns on the wall next to his bed, waiting for sleep to come. Winter came again, and the snows, crack of ice and thaw, another turn of seasons. Then one evening when darkness was already setting in and Julian was inside his cabin preparing dinner there came a knock on the door. Julian swung it open to reveal the unfamiliar face of an elderly man. “Hello Julian, do you know who I am?” “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.” “I’m Theodore Green.” Five years before, such a visit may have induced another coma. But he had been through so much since then, and he was in his own home after all. There was a hearty vegetable stew on the boil and corn flour pancakes in the small oven. Enough for two. “Why don’t you come in and we can talk,” said Julian. Through the night they talked, Theodore telling the story of his career -- how it had flourished, and how, after his first heady successes, he had become arrogant. How the same arrogance had made him ignore all warnings about the weaknesses of his later works. Then he pulled out a yellowed, tattered piece of paper and placed it on the table. There was no need to open it. Julian knew it was the letter he had first sent many years before; an artifact from that lost time. Theodore explained that he had received and read that letter and had known even then that there was a bizarre truth in it. But with the success of his first book it was too easy to ignore. His agents and financial advisors told him cautionary tales about stalkers, about people who would try to steal his fame and his fortune. They were the ones who counseled him to file the restraining order against Julian. They had organized everything. Finally, Theodore revealed his reason for coming to the shack. “I want to make a proposal: that we work together.” Julian shook his head. In the candlelight his lips twisted in a sneer. “After all this time, you think you can just come here and offer me a deal and everything will be forgotten? How dare you offer me a ‘proposal’, after you stole my life?” “Please, Julian. Don’t pretend that you don’t understand our connection. You know that it’s as much out of my control as it is out of yours. You accuse me of stealing as if I have some choice in whether or not your words come flooding into my head. You played your part in this history as well,” said Theodore, gesturing to three neat manuscripts sitting on the desk in the corner of the room. “I’m sure you know what I mean.” Julian turned and stared into the fireplace on the other side of the room. “Of course we can just go on living like this,” said Theodore. “I have more than enough money from my first two books to live comfortably for the rest of my life, and I can see you’ve made a life of your own here. But don’t forget that I can still hear you, inside my head. I know that at the bottom of it all, you are living a life that is… unfulfilled.” Theodore paused and looked into the fire too. “I don’t expect you to come rushing into a partnership without reservations. But I do hope you’ll give the idea some thought. I’ll be in town for the next week. Come down and see me when you make up your mind.” Theodore stood up, pulled a flashlight out of his pocket, opened the door himself and walked off into the night. Julian continued staring at the fire. With his right hand he began running his finger up and down his thigh, as was his nightly habit, tracing the shapes of the words that wouldn’t leave him in peace. Julian felt odd returning to the typewriter after seven years. For one morning he ran his fingers over the keys like he was rediscovering the shape of an estranged lover. Then, once again, came the flow. In many ways, Julian was happier than he had been living on the mountain. His life in the city put him in contact with aspects of life he had never known. Even after the years of self-imposed exile he was still only in his early 30s. He was in his way an attractive man, and years of physical labor on the mountainside had built his muscles and perfected his physique. His charms were more than sufficient to give him access to a lover’s playground that he had never dreamt of, living alone in his shack. And the city offered other delights. He immersed himself in the music, art, dance, and food of the metropolis. The first novel in Theodore’s mansion took longer than expected. Julian’s new life in the city provided new ideas and stimulation, but it also interrupted what had been an exacting work routine. In his mountain shack he had been used to working for at least eight hours a day. In the city, it was difficult for him to get through four. The distractions were not the only problem; Julian’s writing had changed. He was aware of the pressure to produce and to succeed. A new caution emerged in his work. He knew that what he was writing was good enough. But he also knew that he could do better. After two years the first novel from the partnership was published under a pseudonym -- Theodore’s name had been irrevocably ruined by his earlier failure. Commercially, the new book was a success. In the two years after that, Julian wrote the sequel. It was duly published and confirmed the reputation that had been created by the first novel. Despite the success, Julian felt dissatisfied. He was writing, but nothing that compared with the novels he had written when he was younger. And just as he began writing the third novel of the new partnership, his life took another turn. Coming home late and drunk from a party, Theodore staggered into a part of the city he should have known to avoid and was mugged. The robbers took everything: his wallet, his phone, his watch, his clothes, his dignity, and finally his life. Julian, dazed and facing the police at the front door at 5 am made his decision quickly. It was after all a possibility he had considered for many years. Now he was finally and truly alone, there was no doubt in his mind of what he should do. He packed his things into the ugly rucksack that he had first brought up to the house when he had arrived in the city five years before, and caught the first train back to the mountains. It took a good six months of tending to the plants and telling them the stories that tumbled from his lips to get things back in order, but eventually the area regained its former beauty. During this time, Julian had no desire to write. He felt his memories like a million particles swirling through his head, a storm of experience that he was in no position to transcribe. He had no desire to write a bestseller either. Already he had more money in his bank account than he needed for a simple life in the mountains. But the money had its uses. With it, and the knowledge of aesthetics he had acquired in the city, Julian built a house in place of the old shack, a house in harmony with the natural world around it. He hung his walls with artworks from his favorite artists, and while he ate more plainly than he used to when he lived with Theodore, there were still some things that he felt enhanced his life and had brought in specially: coffee, cheese, cognac. Gone were the excesses of his life in the city, pared down to just the best things. After one year he still felt no closer to returning to the typewriter. Then one crisp autumn night he took a stroll under a full moon to a lookout that he had not visited since he had first lived at the mountain many years before. It was near the source of the brook that ran down the side of the mountain. Julian sat there in the chill night air feeling more jaded than he could ever remember. He considered his meager 35 years. The brook had been running for thousands of years, perhaps millions. Somehow it still sounded like a child, giggling and gurgling away. Julian let the sound cascade over his mind as he stared out across the long plane, the stars above, the village at the foot of the mountain and the city just over the horizon, throwing up its soft glow. Thirty-five years. He was nothing. His experience was a speck in the cosmos. He lay down on the mountain and felt the cold knobs of rock poking into his back. The mountain didn’t care about his discomfort. It was as insensible as the brook and the stars to the vacillations of fate he had suffered. And in a way, they were right: none of it mattered. With this thought, a smile unlocked itself from his jaw. Then he began to giggle, along with the brook. Soon Julian was convulsed by laughter, that surged from the bottom of his toes to the tip of his nose. He laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks and then he fell asleep and everything that had bothered him for the last 15 years bonded into something at once as small as an atom and as large as the universe. When he awoke, an hour later, he got up and went down to his house and began to type. Immediately the words burst forth onto the page with an energy that he thought he had lost with his youth. Inspiration crackled across his brain, and gone was the lethargy he had felt during his time of safety writing for Theodore. After six months, Julian was left with what he knew was the best thing he had ever written, and this time it was his. All his. He contacted some of his publishing friends in the city. One look at the manuscript convinced the first of them that they had uncovered a major new talent and they bought it and sent it off to print. It was spring again when Julian found himself repeating the walk down to the village, to the general store. He felt at once invigorated and ill with nerves. He knew that Theodore was dead but the years had left Julian nothing if not cautious of joy. There in the small book display of the general store was his book. And this time it had his name on it. Julian returned to his house in a state of serenity, the like of which he had never before known. He sat in his study, which looked out across the plains, and smiled as he sipped a coffee and began to open a stack of fan mail -- the first he had received in his life. It seemed a miracle that after so many years he had finally made a two-way connection between him and the readers. It was to be his final blessing. When a servant came into the room half an hour later, he found Julian’s chair rudely overturned near the fireplace and his body splayed out at the foot of the desk. Julian Anglish was dead. As the servant reached for the phone he saw a letter lying open on the desk. Mr. Anglish, I believe you owe me something very significant: my art. I know that you stole my novel and that you are now taking credit for writing it. I think it would be best if we met to discuss how this situation could be resolved. ©2003 by Mark Vender
Mark Vender is an Australian living in Bogota Colombia, putting the finishing touches on his first novel.
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