Stoker's Manuscript

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

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Copyright © 2013 by Royce Prouty

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Published simultaneously in Canada

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Prouty, Royce.

Stoker’s manuscript / Royce Prouty.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-101-62116-5

1. Booksellers and bookselling—Fiction. 2. Vampires—Fiction. 3. Stroker, Bram, 1847–1912. Dracula—Fiction. 4. Romania—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3616.R687S76 2013 2013001636

813'.6—dc23

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To my wife, Marilyn.

I am my Beloved’s and my Beloved is Mine.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

No project such as this is created in a vacuum. Accordingly, I wish to place a spotlight on those who helped bring this from concept to hardcover, and beyond. First, I wish to thank my wife, Marilyn, for her wisdom and patience, forever keeping me on this side of the reality bridge. None of this would have happened, but for you.

To Ed Stackler of Stackler Editorial Agency, for his creative and technical genius, I can never repay you for all you have done. Yours is a unique talent. To Scott Miller, my agent at Trident Literary Group, thank you for taking a chance on an unknown. You are the best at what you do. To editors Rachel Kahan and Meaghan Wagner, and all the incredibly talented staff at G. P. Putnam’s Sons, thank you for all you have done, and continue to do.

To my sister, Christine, who helped during this story’s conceptual period, your knowledge of the mythical characters and genre was invaluable, and rather than just cheerlead you opted to help with constructive comments. For that, along with being so supportive, I will always be grateful.

As with any endeavor that spans much time and exacts great effort, there are those who lend encouraging words, prop up when down, give praise when none is warranted, and generally keep the interest of others above their own. In triumph, they celebrate with you, and in defeat they point toward the next triumph. By name these selfless souls are Bob, Taylor, Jack, David, Michael, Clifton, Dr. John, Sheila, Armando, and my stepchildren, Jason, Laurie, and Lisa.

To God, thank you for my gifts and your high expectations. I can only hope that my work is worthy to be on your bookshelf.

Lost in the night, somewhere, there is

all that once was and no more is,

what got lost, what was uprooted,

from living time to time that’s muted.

In Hades is—all that is passed.

From Acheron, the river vast,

all memories to us return.

In Hades is—all that is passed

the Aprils and loves we yearn.

—L
UCIAN
B
LAGA
R
OMANIAN POET

Winter 2012

To Whoever Finds This,

How to describe insanity in a modern world? Is there a line that, once crossed, spells no return? Or is it a continuum of wander toward an alluring place you were warned of but not shown? I have resolved to think of it as being led by temptation beyond the precincts of known science, far enough that you no longer hold the confidence to discern fact from fancy. Upon return, you bring back all the iniquities you picked up and hope no one asks you of your travels.

In this briefest account I shall attempt to describe events I endured, and continue to endure, en route to a fortune most can only dream of, a fortune measured not just in books of account but also in the slowing of the passage of time itself. Before you turn me out as addled, ask yourself the following: What if you could cheat death? What if you could recognize its approach, sidestep, and continue without concern? Would you do it?

Most of us would pause to ponder if it was a trick question. Once established as legitimate inquiry, an assenting answer would follow. After you read and shelve this volume, however, if your answer remains affirmative, then I pity you for foolishly heeding little and repeating my own missteps.

Before beginning my tale, I must beg forgiveness, for I scribe these events postnate, and some descriptions might lack the clarity or chronology of the original. Of one thing I can be certain: It all started with a particular phone call that arrived in the ordinary course of business as I tried to claw out a living, much as you do.

I lived in a place where the weather holds a grudge against humans. Winter in Chicago is winter defined, a corpse’s white shroud covering all in the grim hopes of warmer days, breeding both contempt and camaraderie in those who call the Great Lake city home. Just about when you might expect summer comes the insect plague, mosquitoes taking flight, the males and females each creating their own pitch, the latter more aggressive, of course. I have always been a mosquito magnet—a mystery since childhood, for they alight but only rarely draw my blood. For the first three decades of my life, I had no idea why. Now, finally, I do.

Joseph Barkeley

Transylvania

L
ike many events that define life’s hinges, this occurred as I sat minding my own business. Work in those days was my used bookstore. Not just your normal used bookstore, but one filled with first editions and other rarities. Even as a teenager I had a knack for spotting the rare edition in a pile of books, and developed the talent to sell in a way that made the buyer feel I was giving him a deal. My collection started in a basement until I found suitable warehouse space under the L tracks, where a computer screen and telephone allowed the world access to a guarded inventory, granting even a recluse such as myself a fair crack at capitalism. As a purveyor of old books and manuscripts, I had low volume and high margins, with handwriting- and document-authentication services supplementing my online sales.

Wed to my work, I tended to dine at counters, never a table for two. It’s not as if I sprayed on human repellent; it’s just that if you knew of my cloistered beginnings and limited opportunities, you’d understand why I tended to view strangers as always gathered in ranks. Ranks that were closed to the likes of me.

The call arrived on a typical late April day: The sun was promising a return from its annual three-week vacation, the temperature was trying to nudge fifty, and the Cubs were not too far out of first place. Yes, I freely admit to being a Cubs fan.

While I tended to the tedium of ledgers, the 800 line lit up. To track toll-free line traffic I had purchased an application that displays, stores, and prints incoming calls by geographic coordinates, rounded to a degree, plus the phone number. Like many calls, this one read
PRIVATE
, displayed
47N, 25E
, and emitted the familiar delay and hiss of international long distance. I punched my pocket GPS and matched the Eastern European accent to Romania, land of my maternal ancestors, the Petrescus. I opened my computer to a foreign currency conversion Web page.

“My name is Arthur Ardelean,” said the caller, “and I have been directed to you, Mr. Barkeley, on a professional matter.” He rolled his
r
’s and sounded my last name in three syllables.

“How can I be of service, Mr. Ardelean?”

“I represent a buyer who insists upon anonymity. Can you guarantee that?”

“I have made such arrangements before, yes. But I must tell you that anonymity is usually more difficult for the buyer to maintain than the seller.”

“I assure you, sir, the buyer will have no such problem.” He spoke with the cadence of a formal yet stern butler and pronounced
problem
the European way:
proh-BLEM
. He clearly conveyed there would be no further discussion of identity. This is not uncommon among my clients, as most buyers purchasing rare editions enjoy seeing them in their bookcases without the public knowing of the five- or sometimes six-figure treasure resting on their residential shelves. Planned, secured display cases of bulletproof glass often followed such purchases.

“Can you stipulate to anonymity and exclusivity in a contract, Mr. Barkeley?”

“I am a member in the highest standing of the American Appraisers and Authenticators Association, my next door neighbor does not even know what business I am in, and yes, I can stipulate to such in a contract.” It was true that my neighbor didn’t know my business, as I operated out of an environmentally enclosed and electronically surveilled warehouse. I had no storefront, since all my business was done online. “I use sealed boxes to ship via UPS’s special museum and treasures branch. For very high-end pieces, I make personal deliveries.”

“Good,” he said. “Personal delivery is essential in this matter.”

“Would this purchase be something that is currently on my website?”

“No, it is not. Presently the item is on display in a museum in Philadelphia.”

I assumed he meant the Rosenbach Museum and Library. Everyone who deals in rare manuscripts is familiar with the Rosenbach brothers, who, a century ago, played central roles in the building of America’s great libraries. They are recognized as the preeminent
fin de siècle
dealers of scribed collectibles and decorative art pieces, and their former residence on Delancey Place houses treasures that would astound any serious admirer and serves as first choice for anyone wishing to display priceless written wares.

“I have done authentication work in the past for the museum.”

“Very good. Are you currently under contract with the Rosenbach?”

“Not at this time. They inquired about my availability to examine a manuscript in anticipation of an auction at Christie’s. My contract will be through the auction house, and logistical arrangements coordinated with the Rosenbach. Perhaps we are speaking of the same manuscript?”

“Abraham Stoker’s original manuscript of
Dracula
and notes thereon.” He pronounced it
Drah-kyula
.

“The rarest of treasures,” I said.

“Indeed, sir, the rarest.” Mr. Ardelean paused. “Please hold a moment.”

“Of course.” I assumed he was speaking with his principal.

“My apologies, Mr. Barkeley. The buyer wishes to purchase the entire display without . . . unnecessary exposure to the auction and handling process.”

I happened to know that Christie’s expected the manuscript to start at a million dollars and escalate to roughly twice that. “But I am sure you are aware that the Stoker family has an expected starting price. To keep it from the gavel, the offering price would have to exceed even the most optimistic of bids.”

“The buyer is willing to pay whatever it takes to prevent the manuscript from seeing the light of day.”

“I see.”

“That is why it is essential that your buyer’s agreement is both exclusive and anonymous.”

“I understand.”

“You, of course, would be compensated
most
generously . . . an amount not to be discussed over a telephone line.”

“My fees are generally set on a per diem basis, plus expenses.”

“I assure you, Herr Barkeley, your compensation will exceed your per diem rate. Now, are you willing to discuss the details?”

“I am seated with pen and paper.”

“You are to make immediate arrangements with the Rosenbach to authenticate the manuscript and all accompanying documents. It is most important that the entire display, notes and all, are part of this purchase. If the family does not intend it to be part of the auction, make an ancillary purchase.”

I hesitated. “Are you asking me to authenticate
and
negotiate the purchase on behalf of the buyer?”

“That is correct. That is the only way to guarantee anonymity at this end.”

“I see.” I paused. I had traditionally prepared for auction as an independent third party. Being an agent would remove my independence and change the nature of my relations with the auction house.

“You are trying to decide, Mr. Barkeley.”

“Go ahead . . . I’m writing.”

“No copies are to be made of your work, not a single page, and no pages are to be removed for chemical testing.”

The normal course of authentication would include a page sampled at the lab in Chicago, but I have never had a lab test reverse any of my rulings. “That should not be a problem.”

“I must have your guarantee.”

“I’ll put it in writing.”

“The buyer has done extensive research on Mr. Stoker’s manuscript and is aware that the
original
manuscript included a prologue and an epilogue, and that neither was included in the printed editions.”

“I will note that as I examine the documents.”

“It is imperative that those two chapters be included in the purchase.”

“And if they are not?”

“Then it is not the original. In such case you shall be paid your usual fee, plus expenses of course.”

“And if it is the original?” I asked.

“Then you are to travel here to assist in the planning of its placement in the museum.”

“May I ask where
here
is?”

“Forgive me for not explaining in the beginning, but the buyer is donating the display to the new museum in Dracula’s Castle in Romania.”

“Transylvania.”

“Yes, Mr. Barkeley, you are familiar with it?”

“Yes.” An electric jolt, a zinger, traveled my body, one that would surely spike lie-detector needles, for I was born in Romania’s Transylvania region. “Do you have a curator for the museum?”

“Not yet. The castle renovation is in preparatory stages, and we will be relying on your expertise to determine how best to display such a treasure.”

“It will need to be under glass in a controlled and secure environment,” I said.

“We shall be converting the old wine cellar.”

“Normally a good place. I will be honored to assess its new habitat.”

“Arrangements will be made for your travel to Bucharest and connections north, and some local currency will be included in the envelope with your itinerary. I have prepared a contract for your execution with the details we have discussed and will e-mail it after our conversation.”

“I’ll review it immediately.”

“One more thing, Mr. Barkeley.”

“Yes?”

“I will be including something in the envelope from the buyer. It is for you to wear, a special gift, something to recognize you by. You are to wear it about your neck.”

My mind conjured an array of images from a string of garlic to an embroidered ascot. “Thank you,” I said uncertainly.

“Like the two missing chapters, this item is of vital importance. Do you have any questions?”

I thought of Christie’s. “I do. As part of my own due diligence, I will need to represent to the auction house, and ultimately to the Stoker family, that I can vouch for the buyer’s financial wherewithal.”

“The details are in the contract, including my e-mail address should you have further questions.”

“Do you have a cell phone number?”

“There is no cell phone service here.”

We closed the conversation and I sat back in my chair, elated . . . and a little stunned.