Serial Monogamy (9 page)

“I
t's not what I expected.” Bob Stanek's tone is not so much disappointed as it is threatening. He leans back. His big body is expansively arrayed behind an oversized wooden desk with a large leather pad to protect its highly polished surface. It's an antique desk, or at least made to look so, and it's unnaturally tidy—the only things sitting on the pad are one of those old-fashioned pen sets with the pens jutting out of silly little metal holders as though they still needed to be dipped in ink and a glossy white laptop with its lid closed. It strikes me as all wrong. He should either have a battered desk covered in stacks of paper and dictionaries that threaten to bury a clunky beige computer, like some veteran newsman of old, or the pristine laptop should be perched on something all sleek and modern to indicate he is a man of the new media moment. This awkward combination only makes him look like someone who is trying to ride two horses simultaneously, which
I suppose he is. Anyway, it looks pretentious and makes me doubt whether he actually does any work. Perhaps his assistant, the frosty lady who has summoned me to this meeting, tidies up all the paper for him every evening. “Not what I expected at all,” he repeats.

“What did you expect?” I ask, trying to sound nothing more than pleasantly inquisitive.

“Well, you said nineteenth century, and Dickens as a character, and that's all fine. That's a good idea, but I don't see why you have to concentrate on his personal life.”

“But what is there except personal life? Personal life, emotional life, is what novels are about.”

“Well, there are all his books, his literary achievements.”

“Yes, but there is no point writing a fictional story about his literary achievements. It wouldn't be interesting. I mean, you can write a novel about somebody's career, I suppose, or their political struggle, or something, but only if you talk about their emotional relationship to it. I mean, I'm not writing a biography of Dickens. Nor really of Ellen Ternan.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Well, I suppose I am trying to imagine what it would be like to be her, to be the mistress of the great man.”

Stanek puffs up a bit. I don't suppose he ever imagines what it might be like to be somebody else. He looks like the type who just concentrates on being himself and getting what that self wants. “But you don't make him
sound like a great man. He is about to use his fame and power to seduce a woman more than twenty years younger than him. You make him sound horrible.”

“I don't think he was horrible. I think he was human.”

“Of course he was human. What matters are his books. He was a great writer.”

“Yes, a great writer. But not a very good man. I find that interesting, don't you?”

“I don't think it's fair to use his personal life to disparage his—”

“But I'm not disparaging anything. I don't think we can demand that artists be more moral than the rest of us. But I also think their spouses and their children and their lovers are allowed to require as decent behaviour of them as of anyone else. I don't think you're allowed to say, ‘Well, I am a great writer so fuck your feelings, fuck your morality.' ”

Stanek bristles at the expletive. He is, I realize, unrelentingly old-fashioned. It's the glossy laptop that is pretentious, not the pen set. I don't care if I am offending him though; I'm warming to my subject.

“Dickens wanted freedom to write and he wanted freedom to love Nelly, and if that hurt his family he didn't care much. Or at least not enough to stop the hurt. He did respect morality though, the morality of his day, and that was what trapped him in the end. He was able to ditch his wife, but he never made an honest woman of Nelly.”

“Well, lots of men have kept mistresses.”

“Yes and it's obvious what's in it for the big guy, but what's in it for the young women?” I am sounding emotional now. “I want to know how she does it.”

There's a pause. He seems embarrassed.

“And that is what you are going to write about next?”

“Yes, that sort of thing.”

“Well, perhaps we should just stop the project where we are, then. We can pay you the rest of the fee but you can stop writing. I'll be honest with you. We haven't really seen the readership numbers I was hoping for and I am not sure your direction does credit to
The Telegram
…”

I feel fear creeping up on me. What am I going to write if I'm not writing the serial? I haven't been able to imagine any other stories for months. Dickens and Nelly, at least I know how it has to turn out. I've been having fun filling in the blanks, amusing myself. But of course, I want readers too. And I want Al to read it. I interrupt Stanek.

“No, no. Bob. Please.” I smile, keeping my tone lighthearted. I want to sound like his equal, the famed author condescending to write for him, not some cowed underling. “I think perhaps we need to hear from Dickens. I wonder if that might satisfy some of your reservations?”

“It would seem more fair. Give the guy his say.”

“Yes, more fair. It may take a bit of space…”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, what I've got planned next is a little longer and I'll need a bit more space in the paper.”

“You don't ask for much, do you?” Stanek seems pleased by my boldness; he's a bully and I've stood up to him. “Okay. Talk to Jonathan. If he can't accommodate you in print, he can just throw it up online.”

He rises to dismiss me but then hesitates, as though he suspects I've pulled a fast one on him. “What will Dickens say then?”

“I'll deliver it to Jonathan as soon as I can. You'll find out next week.”

“What do you like to read, my dear?”

“Oh. The other day I was reading, that is to say, I was rereading
Oliver Twist
…”

“No, no, I was not asking you to flatter me. What do you read besides me? Tennyson?”

“Oh, yes. Tennyson. And
Robinson Crusoe
. And—”

“
Robinson Crusoe
? A capital story. I devoured it when I was a boy. And the Brothers Grimm, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Did you ever read
The Arabian Nights
when you were a girl?”

“No, I don't believe—”

“How I loved those tales. My father had a copy. There was a small room at the top of our house in Chatham where he kept his books. Not a library by any stretch, a box room, to tell the truth of it. I had little proper schooling; a few years in a dame's school, nothing more. But my
father thought every gentleman should own books. I suppose later, in London, when he fell on hard times and I was sent out to work, all those books must have been sold to pay the debt collector who was forever at our door.”

“But how sad to have given up the books. When I was a girl we travelled so much we never really had the space to keep any in the first place.”

“Ah, the life of the travelling player. Our life became rather itinerant too once we left Chatham, but in that first home, the tiny attic room was my palace. I would sneak upstairs when I was supposed to be minding my younger sisters and spend many an hour with Grimm or
The Arabian Nights
. I was fascinated by the story of King Shahriyar, who marries a different bride every night and then dispatches her to his executioners the next morning…”

“He killed every wife?”

“Yes, so that no woman could ever betray him.”

“After only one night?”

“Well, it's a fairy story, my dear. He killed every bride until Scheherazade volunteered to be his wife.”

“Who was Scheherazade?”

“Why, she's the narrator of the tales. But she's no ordinary narrator. She has her own story. She was the daughter of the King's vizier and a princess of Samarkand, and she told Shahriyar such wondrous tales each night he had to keep her alive. My favourite was of the Prince of Persia, who escapes bandits and discovers a beautiful maiden trapped in a cave by an evil genie.”

“An evil genie?”

“Yes. Shall I tell you the story of the genie? I love telling it. There are different versions; let me see…Once upon a time…they don't actually start like that, the Arabian tales, but the situation seems to call for it. So, once upon a time, there lived a King of Persia. He was a wise and benevolent monarch who ruled his family as he did his people, with firmness, prudence and foresight, and he had assured that his eldest son and heir received a most thorough education. The King had brought to his court many a learned man to instruct the young Prince, and these tutors unveiled to their pupil the mysteries of mathematics, geometry and astronomy and taught him to speak five languages. The Prince, as handsome as he was capable, played several musical instruments, sang with a voice that his music master envied and was schooled in the art of rhetoric by the King's ministers themselves. So learned were his disputations that word of his intellect and grace spread beyond the borders of Persia to Hind, which is what you and I would call India, where his father's friend and ally, the King of Hind, heard such flattering tales of the Prince that he sent messengers to Persia inviting the young paragon to come and share his many talents with his royal court.

“The King of Persia was happy to let his son make the journey for he believed that travel could only serve to further elevate the Prince's fine mind and bold spirit. And too, the King was not insensible of the need to find the
Prince a royal bride. Believing that the young man should make his own selection—something that thus far the Prince had shown no inclination to do from among the many beautiful ladies of high and noble birth who frequented his father's court—the monarch secretly hoped the young man might fall in love with one of the King of Hind's three daughters, which would in turn further strengthen the friendship between their two lands.

“Providing for education, politics and affairs of the heart, the King's plan was well conceived, but it suffered from what was to prove a fateful weakness: the Persian Prince's route to the kingdom of Hind would force him to cross hostile lands in a country called Gandahara. The king of this land was the fiercest enemy of the King of Persia and taught his people to hate anyone or anything Persian. At the very least the Prince would require protection on his long travel east. Not wanting to give the bellicose Gandaharans any cause for making war, the King of Persia was reluctant to send one of his impressive armies to accompany his son on his travels. Instead, he determined that the Prince should travel incognito with only five horsemen to protect him on his way, counting on a light guard that could move with alacrity to ward off any troubles that the Prince might encounter.”

“That sounds inadvisable.”

“Yes, clever girl. It was inadvisable. But if every king always behaved sensibly, we storytellers would be a sorry lot. So, as you've guessed, as the Prince crossed
Gandahara, a band of robbers fell upon his party. Not wishing to identify himself as a hated Persian, the Prince called out, ‘Hold. We are messengers travelling to the King of Hind. Royal recompense will be yours if you spare our lives and our purses.'

“But the answer came back ‘Hind! Why, the King of Hind is almost as hated in these lands as the King of Persia.' And with that the wild band descended on the small party, swiftly dispatched the five guards, stole their horses and saddlebags, stripped the Prince of his clothes and his purse and left him for dead.

“Abandoned in an unknown land without friend or companion, the Prince wondered how he could possibly survive. As the night grew colder and the wind stronger, he was forced…perhaps here your storyteller will just skip ahead…”

“No, no I want to hear it all.”

“Yes, of course. All of it, but
The Arabian Nights
can sometimes be a little gruesome, I'm afraid. So, yes, eventually the Prince crept up to the bloodied corpses of his murdered guards and stole away with a burnoose to protect himself from the cold. The next morning, parched and half frozen, he crept back to their bodies to empty their pockets of the few dates they might have hidden there and whatever water or wine he could find in the skins they had slung over their shoulders.

“Thinking he must now surely be nearer to his destination than to his home, he journeyed onward on foot and,
the next morning, chilled and stiff, he sighted a sparkling city on the horizon. The Prince was desperately hungry and hoped he might find food there, but he approached with caution least he still find himself in the land of the vicious Gandaharans. He entered the city alongside many vendors and farmers and passed easily in their midst through the main gates. He followed them toward the centre of the city and, as they pressed on, hung back, considering how he should proceed. It was then he saw a little tailor, sitting sewing outside his shop. He performed a salam and the man courteously returned the greeting. ‘Tell me, my good man, what city do I find myself in?' the Prince asked.

“ ‘Why, stranger, everyone knows this is the city of Takshashila,' the tailor replied.

“ ‘And in what land is Takshashila?' the Prince asked, hoping that he now found himself in Hind.

“ ‘Why, stranger, everyone knows we are in the land of Gandahara,' the tailor, increasingly puzzled, replied. ‘What land do you come from?'

“The Prince, not wishing to identify himself as a Persian and knowing not what else he might say, only mumbled, ‘I come from far away.'

“ ‘Stranger,' said the tailor gently, for he was a kind man and saw the young man before him was tired and hungry, ‘come into my shop so that I may offer you a cup of mint tea.'

“Once inside the shop, he said to the Prince in a low voice: ‘Be careful, stranger. I think perhaps from your
accent and your odd dress that you come here from Persia, and you must know you are in a hostile land.'

“Disarmed by the man's sympathetic tone, the Prince confessed all. ‘I am not merely Persian, I am the Prince of Persia, travelling to the land of Hind to visit its King. But I have been set upon by bandits, lost my men, my horses, my rations and my purse, and I know not how I am to continue.'

“ ‘The King of Persia!' declared the tailor. ‘Why, the King of Gandahara hates him more than anyone in the world. You need to quickly disguise yourself if you want to survive here. I can give you food and drink, and I can sell you some clothes that will make you less conspicuous in these parts, but how will you pay me for them if you have lost your purse?'

“ ‘I can work,' replied the Prince. ‘I have many talents. I am particularly known for my disputations. Should you require a petition to be presented or a legal argument to be made, I can be the most convincing advocate for your cause.'

“ ‘I am a peaceable man. I have no need for disputations or petitions,' the tailor replied.

“ ‘I am also a renowned linguist. Perhaps you have documents written in foreign languages that you need translated into your native tongue,' said the Prince.

“ ‘I am a quiet man,' replied the tailor. ‘I have never travelled outside this city and have no need of foreign tongues.'

“ ‘I am also an accomplished musician. Perhaps I could teach you to play the tar?'

“ ‘I have no use for music,' the tailor answered.

“ ‘I know,' said the Prince, grasping finally at his one branch of learning that might be of use to a humble tailor. ‘I have studied mathematics. Perhaps I can do your account books for you.'

“ ‘I have the abacus for that,' replied the tailor.”

“So in the end, his learning is no use at all. He might just as well have had a year or two at a dame school.”

“My dear, you are teasing me. These are extraordinary circumstances the Prince finds himself in. He will have need of his learning again; you'll see. Shall I continue?”

“Oh, yes, please do.”

“So the tailor suggests he find work as a woodcutter. ‘Here on the steppes firewood is always in short supply, and the woodcutters travel far to the forests to the north to bring us what we need. My cousin is a woodcutter; I can lend you clothes and he can give you an axe and tomorrow you can go into the woods and earn the money to pay us back and feed yourself.'

“The Prince felt a wave of sorrow swamp his tired body. Was he, so full of learning, so bold of purpose, so graceful of posture, to put his back to the axe and keep no company but trees? Where was a father or friend who might know his worth and restore his dignity? Alas, he was alone in a strange land, so he resigned himself to accepting the kindly tailor's offer.

“And so the noble Prince of Persia set out the next day to become a lowly woodcutter. He worked long and hard in the forests to the north, first paying the tailor for food and clothing and the tailor's cousin for the axe, then carefully saving the few coins he made from selling the wood that he brought back each day to the city. He hoped in time to buy a new horse and continue on his journey, but he found the money was barely sufficient to do much more than pay his saviour for his bread and board.

“One day, after a few months of this labour, he had ventured deeper into the forest in hopes of finding stouter trees that would fetch a better price back in Takshashila and so hasten the day when he could leave. He picked a good thick one and swung his axe at its very base. A loud metallic clang reverberated through the forest. Clearing dead leaves and dirt away from the roots, the Prince discovered that his axe blade had hit a sturdy brass ring hidden in the ground beside the tree. He tugged at the ring and found it was attached to a heavy stone. By dint of tugging and pulling, he managed to shift the stone and slowly manoeuvre it to one side, and there was a hole large enough that a man might fit himself in it. When the Prince crouched down and peered into it, he saw that he had discovered a passageway with a stairway leading deep into the earth. Descending the stairs the Prince found himself in a lushly furnished chamber hung all about with drapery in a damask cloth of red and gold. Soft divans upholstered in yellow and purple velvet
invited one to linger, and underneath the sea of cushions that covered the floor one could glimpse multicoloured Turkey carpets made from the finest silk thread. As the Prince took in this luxurious scene, stunned to find such quarters hidden away in a cave in the depths of the dark forest, a voice spoke to him. It was a female voice, light and delicate and expressing mainly puzzlement at the sound of a visitor arriving in the room.

“ ‘Is that you, my lord?' it asked. The Prince looked about him, wondering for a moment where the owner of this sweet voice might be, when he realized the sound came from behind a richly carved ebony screen in one corner. He stepped forward and, not knowing how to answer but knowing himself to be a lord, he replied boldly, ‘Yes. It is I.'

“At that a figure emerged from behind the screen and said with a peevishness more charming than grating—and certainly quiet forgivable since the lady in question was confronted with a complete stranger in the midst of her boudoir: ‘No. It most certainly is not. Who are you?'

“At first all the Prince could do was to admire a beauty that left him with a certain breathlessness he had never experienced on meeting any of the many noble ladies at his father's court. This creature's figure was slim but shapely, wrapped in a silken robe; her jet-black hair fell to her waist; her skin was as white as porcelain and her lips were as pink as rose petals. But her dark brown eyes flashed warningly at the Prince.”

“Porcelain and rose petals? She sounds like a heroine in a lady's magazine.”