The most important item in the writer’s warehouse – the journal.
Quite often, the journal could be mistaken for a diary. A lot of people keep diaries; in fact, it’s a staple plot item in a lot of movies, that when a character needs to have their life fleshed out, a diary will be found, and read, giving a detailed view of the life and times.
A lot of people keep a diary to write down significant things that happen, sometimes who they met, and if something or someone had an influence on their life.
I know I used to keep one that detailed the stories I was writing, or hoped to write one day, with progress, characters, plot lines and generally how the day worked out.
When I found I did not have an hour to spare that day to write it up, it went by the wayside. I used to have a series of diaries for about ten years, back in the old days when time was not at a premium, but they seemed to have got lost in the moves from before to just after I got married, and yes, became a father and lost all sense of time and perspective.
But..
The journal.
Yes, I have about five or six, one for each project I’m currently working on, and they often receive an update at the end of the day. With children grown up and grandchildren almost past their teens, and in retirement, I have been able to go back to where I started 50 years ago.
If you want an opinion, start and maintain a journal. It helps.
Day 119 – The relevance of A Confederation of Dunces to downtrodden writers
…
The Patron Saint of the Misunderstood: Why A Confederation of Dunces Still Resonates with Downtrodden Writers
If you are a writer, you have undoubtedly wrestled with the feeling of belonging to a world that doesn’t quite fit your internal architecture. You have likely experienced the sting of rejection, the absurdity of the “literary establishment,” and the creeping suspicion that your work is being ignored by people who lack the intellectual rigour to appreciate it.
No character embodies this specific, agonising brand of isolation quite like Ignatius J. Reilly, the gargantuan protagonist of John Kennedy Toole’s posthumous masterpiece, A Confederation of Dunces.
For the downtrodden writer—the one working a soul-crushing day job while drafting a manuscript in a cramped apartment—Ignatius is both a cautionary tale and a dark, twisted mirror.
“I Mingle with My Peers or No One”
The defining line of Ignatius’s worldview is his famous declaration: “I mingle with my peers or no one, and since I have no peers, I mingle with no-one.”
On the surface, this is the ultimate expression of solipsistic arrogance. It is the peak of the “tortured genius” trope, where the ego becomes a barricade. However, for the writer who feels alienated, this sentiment hits differently. It speaks to the exhausting search for a creative community.
When you spend your life refining your voice and obsessing over the nuance of a sentence, the standard chatter of the world can feel like a profound waste of time. You don’t want to talk about the weather or the weekend; you want to talk about the collapse of modern morality, the structure of a perfect paragraph, or the decaying state of culture. When you can’t find that depth in others, the instinct is to retreat.
But there is a trap here. Ignatius uses this philosophy to justify his own inertia. He uses his “lack of peers” as a shield to avoid the vulnerability of being judged by the real world. For the rest of us, the lesson is clear: If you wait for your perfect peer group to emerge, you will be waiting forever.
The Tragedy of the Unfinished Manuscript
The irony of A Confederation of Dunces is that Ignatius is a writer—or, at least, he claims to be. He carries around his Big Chief writing tablet, filling it with philosophical rants and incoherent grievances against the “geometrical, theological, and geographical” decline of the twentieth century.
He is a writer who refuses to publish. He is a writer who spends more time correcting the perceived failures of others than completing his own work.
This is the great peril of the downtrodden writer. It is easy to become bitter, to develop a “Reilly-esque” disdain for the marketplace, and to convince yourself that your work is too “advanced” or “pure” for a public that prefers mindless pulp. We often use our high standards as a way to hide from the terrifying possibility that our work might be published and—far worse—dismissed.
Finding Solidarity in the Absurd
So, why read (or re-read) A Confederation of Dunces if you are currently feeling like a failure in the literary arts?
It’s a Reminder of the Danger of Ego: Toole’s novel is a comedy, not a biography, but it serves as a warning. Isolation is a creative desert. You need the grit of the real world—the very thing Ignatius scorns—to breathe life into your writing.
It Validates the Struggle: Toole himself struggled immensely to get his work published. His own tragic story adds a layer of poignancy to the book. He knew better than anyone what it felt like to be a genius without a seat at the table.
The Satire is Necessary: Sometimes, you have to laugh at the absurdity of it all. The world is full of “dunce” establishments, superficial trends, and people who will never understand the blood you pour into your pages. Acknowledging that and laughing at it, rather than letting it turn you into a recluse, is the only way to survive.
The Verdict
Ignatius J. Reilly’s tragedy is that he chose “no one” over the messiness of human connection. He chose the safety of his own mind over the risk of being misunderstood by the masses.
As a writer, your greatest work won’t come from sitting in a room alone, sneering at the world for not being up to your standards. It will come from acknowledging that while you may never find the “perfect” peer who understands every shade of your intent, there is a community of other writers just as broken, just as confused, and just as hopeful as you are.
Don’t be the person who mingles with “no one.” Find your fellow dunces. Share your stories. And for heaven’s sake, finish the manuscript.
It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you?
John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.
So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?
That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.
What should have been solace after disappointment turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.
He suddenly realises his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.
The story paints the characters, cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times, taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice, where, in those back streets, I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.
All in all, a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.
Day 119 – The relevance of A Confederation of Dunces to downtrodden writers
…
The Patron Saint of the Misunderstood: Why A Confederation of Dunces Still Resonates with Downtrodden Writers
If you are a writer, you have undoubtedly wrestled with the feeling of belonging to a world that doesn’t quite fit your internal architecture. You have likely experienced the sting of rejection, the absurdity of the “literary establishment,” and the creeping suspicion that your work is being ignored by people who lack the intellectual rigour to appreciate it.
No character embodies this specific, agonising brand of isolation quite like Ignatius J. Reilly, the gargantuan protagonist of John Kennedy Toole’s posthumous masterpiece, A Confederation of Dunces.
For the downtrodden writer—the one working a soul-crushing day job while drafting a manuscript in a cramped apartment—Ignatius is both a cautionary tale and a dark, twisted mirror.
“I Mingle with My Peers or No One”
The defining line of Ignatius’s worldview is his famous declaration: “I mingle with my peers or no one, and since I have no peers, I mingle with no-one.”
On the surface, this is the ultimate expression of solipsistic arrogance. It is the peak of the “tortured genius” trope, where the ego becomes a barricade. However, for the writer who feels alienated, this sentiment hits differently. It speaks to the exhausting search for a creative community.
When you spend your life refining your voice and obsessing over the nuance of a sentence, the standard chatter of the world can feel like a profound waste of time. You don’t want to talk about the weather or the weekend; you want to talk about the collapse of modern morality, the structure of a perfect paragraph, or the decaying state of culture. When you can’t find that depth in others, the instinct is to retreat.
But there is a trap here. Ignatius uses this philosophy to justify his own inertia. He uses his “lack of peers” as a shield to avoid the vulnerability of being judged by the real world. For the rest of us, the lesson is clear: If you wait for your perfect peer group to emerge, you will be waiting forever.
The Tragedy of the Unfinished Manuscript
The irony of A Confederation of Dunces is that Ignatius is a writer—or, at least, he claims to be. He carries around his Big Chief writing tablet, filling it with philosophical rants and incoherent grievances against the “geometrical, theological, and geographical” decline of the twentieth century.
He is a writer who refuses to publish. He is a writer who spends more time correcting the perceived failures of others than completing his own work.
This is the great peril of the downtrodden writer. It is easy to become bitter, to develop a “Reilly-esque” disdain for the marketplace, and to convince yourself that your work is too “advanced” or “pure” for a public that prefers mindless pulp. We often use our high standards as a way to hide from the terrifying possibility that our work might be published and—far worse—dismissed.
Finding Solidarity in the Absurd
So, why read (or re-read) A Confederation of Dunces if you are currently feeling like a failure in the literary arts?
It’s a Reminder of the Danger of Ego: Toole’s novel is a comedy, not a biography, but it serves as a warning. Isolation is a creative desert. You need the grit of the real world—the very thing Ignatius scorns—to breathe life into your writing.
It Validates the Struggle: Toole himself struggled immensely to get his work published. His own tragic story adds a layer of poignancy to the book. He knew better than anyone what it felt like to be a genius without a seat at the table.
The Satire is Necessary: Sometimes, you have to laugh at the absurdity of it all. The world is full of “dunce” establishments, superficial trends, and people who will never understand the blood you pour into your pages. Acknowledging that and laughing at it, rather than letting it turn you into a recluse, is the only way to survive.
The Verdict
Ignatius J. Reilly’s tragedy is that he chose “no one” over the messiness of human connection. He chose the safety of his own mind over the risk of being misunderstood by the masses.
As a writer, your greatest work won’t come from sitting in a room alone, sneering at the world for not being up to your standards. It will come from acknowledging that while you may never find the “perfect” peer who understands every shade of your intent, there is a community of other writers just as broken, just as confused, and just as hopeful as you are.
Don’t be the person who mingles with “no one.” Find your fellow dunces. Share your stories. And for heaven’s sake, finish the manuscript.
This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 72 this year.
Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.
Why, you might ask.
Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne
At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.
I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.
Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them
Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.
I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.
Damn!
So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years
I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.
It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey. Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.
Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.
So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.
Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.
It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there. She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.
And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions. Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.
Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.
But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.
As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life
If only I’d come from such a background!
And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.
I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.
One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.
Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.
It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife. Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.
It’s still a battle of wits, but our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because the enemy if it is the enemy, doesn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Nor does it help when his old mentor walks through the door.
I don’t like surprises. This dislike had started with a surprise birthday party about 10 years ago and since then I’ve assiduously tried to avoid them.
Of course, there are also surprises you have no control over, and I liked them even less.
Bluff and bravado would only carry me so far. These people whoever they were would not accept that I knew nothing about what had just happened.
Which I didn’t.
It was not the A interrogation team with a chest full of torture tools and dressed in hazmat suits, but when the harbinger of my fate walked into the room, it was something a lot scarier.
A man I knew well or thought I did until he walked in the door, I had the utmost respected for.
Colonel Bamfield. My first Commanding Officer, the man who cut me some slack, and made me into a soldier.
Now, all I had was questions, but I was on the wrong side of the table.
The first, what the hell was going on here?
My first inclination was to stand and salute a superior officer, but he was not wearing the uniform, not the proper uniform I was used to seeing him in. My second inclination was to ask him what he was doing in that room with me, but I didn’t.
Speak when spoken to, and don’t volunteer information.
He too tried the silent treatment, or maybe it was that he was as surprised to see me as I was to see him.
Then, still standing behind the table, looking down on me, he said, “That was some jump you made from a moving helicopter.” Was there a touch of admiration in his tone?
“Life or death. Anyone one else is that situation would do the same.”
“Less than you’d think.”
Establishing camaraderie. Or trying to. I waited for the next question.
It wasn’t a question but a statement, “We have a problem Alan, and it’s not just with you.”
Williams’ Restaurant, East 65th Street, New York, Saturday, 8:00 p.m.
We met the Blaines at Williams’, a rather upmarket restaurant that the Blaines frequently visited and had recommended.
Of course, during the taxi ride there, Alison reminded me that with my new job, we would be able to go to many more places like Williams’. It was, at worst, more emotional blackmail, because as far as Alison was concerned, we were well on our way to posh restaurants, the Trump Tower Apartments, and the trappings of the ‘executive set’.
It would be a miracle if I didn’t strangle Elaine before the night was over. It was she who had filled Alison’s head with all this stuff and nonsense.
Aside from the half-frown, half-smile, Alison was looking stunning. It had been months since she had last dressed up, and she was especially wearing the dress I’d bought her for our 5th anniversary that cost a month’s salary. On her, it was worth it, and I would have paid more if I had to. She had adored it and me, for a week or so after.
For tonight, I think I was close to getting back on that pedestal.
She had the looks and figure to draw attention, the sort movie stars get on the red carpet, and when we walked into the restaurant, I swear there were at least five seconds of silence, and many more gasps.
I even had a sudden loss of breath earlier in the evening when she came out of the dressing room. Once more, I was reminded of how lucky I was that she had agreed to marry me. Amid all those self-doubts, I couldn’t believe she had loved me when there were so many others out there who were more appealing.
Elaine was out of her seat and came over just as the Head Waiter hovered into sight. She personally escorted Alison to the table, allowing me to follow like the Queen’s consort, while she and Alison basked in the admiring glances of the other patrons.
More than once, I heard the muted question, “Who is she?”
Jimmy stood, we shook hands, and then we sat together. It was not the usual boy, girl, boy, girl seating arrangement. Jimmy and I on one side and Elaine and Alison on the other.
The battle lines were drawn.
Jimmy was looking fashionable, with a permanent blade one beard, unkempt hair, and a designer dinner suit that looked like he’d slept in it. Alison insisted I wear a tuxedo, and I looked like the proverbial penguin or just a thinner version of Alfred Hitchcock.
The bow tie had been slightly crooked, but just before we stepped out, she had straightened it. And took the moment to look deeply into my soul. It was one of those moments when words were not necessary.
Then it was gone.
I relived it briefly as I sat and she looked at me. A penetrating look that told me to ‘behave’.
When we were settled, Elaine said, in that breathless, enthusiastic manner of hers when she was excited, “So, Harry, you are finally moving up.” It was not a question, but a statement.
I was not sure what she meant by ‘finally’, but I accepted it with good grace. Sometimes, Elaine was prone to using figures of speech I didn’t understand. I guessed she was talking about the new job. “It was supposed to be a secret.”
She smiled widely. “There are no secrets between Al and me, are there, Al?”
I looked at ‘Al’ and saw a brief look of consternation.
I was not sure Alison liked the idea of being called Al. I tried it once and was admonished. But it was interesting that her ‘best friend forever’ was allowed that distinction when I was not. It was, perhaps, another indicator of how far I’d slipped in her estimation.
Perhaps, I thought, it was a necessary evil. As I understood it, the Blaines were our mentors at the Trump Tower, because they didn’t just let ‘anyone’ in. I didn’t ask if the Blaines thought we were just ‘anyone’ before I got the job offer.
And then there was that look between Alison and Elaine, quickly stolen before Alison realised I was looking at both of them. I was out of my depth, in a place I didn’t belong, with people I didn’t understand. And yet, apparently, Alison did. I must have missed the memo.
“No,” Alison said softly, stealing a glance in my direction, “No secrets between friends.”
No secrets. Her look conveyed something else entirely.
The waiter brought champagne, Krug, and poured glasses for each of us. It was not the cheap stuff, and I was glad I brought a couple of thousand dollars with me. We were going to need it.
Then, a toast.
To a new job and a new life.
“When did you decide?” Elaine was effusive at the best of times, but with the champagne, it was worse.
Alison had a strange expression on her face. It was obvious she had told Elaine it was a done deal, even before I’d made up my mind. Perhaps she’d assumed I might be ‘refreshingly honest’ in front of Elaine, but it could also mean she didn’t really care what I might say or do.
Instead of consternation, she looked happy, and I realised it would be churlish, even silly, if I made a scene. I knew what I wanted to say. I also knew that it would serve little purpose provoking Elaine or upsetting Alison. This was not the time or the place. Alison had been looking forward to coming here, and I was not going to spoil it.
Instead, I said, smiling, “When I woke up this morning and found Alison missing. If she had been there, I would not have noticed the water stain on the roof above our bed, and decided there and then how much I hated the place.” I used my reassuring smile, the one I used with the customers when all hell was breaking loose, and the forest fire was out of control. “It’s the little things. They all add up until one day …” I shrugged. “I guess that one day was today.”
I saw an incredulous look pass between Elaine and Alison, a non-verbal question; perhaps, is he for real? Or, I told you he’d come around.
I had no idea the two were so close.
“How quaint,” Elaine said, which just about summed up her feelings towards me. I think, at that moment, I lost some brownie points. It was all I could come up with at short notice.
“Yes,” I added, with a little more emphasis than I wanted. “Alison was off to get some studying in with one of her friends.”
“Weren’t the two of you off to the Hamptons, a weekend with some friends?” Jimmy piped up and immediately got the ‘shut up, you fool’ look that cut that line of conversation dead. Someone forgot to feed Jimmy his lines.
It was followed by the condescending smile from Elaine, and “I need to powder my nose. Care to join me, Al?”
A frown, then a forced smile for her new best friend. “Yes.”
I watched them leave the table and head in the direction of the restroom, looking like they were in earnest conversation. I thought ‘Al’ looked annoyed, but I could be wrong.
I had to say Jimmy looked more surprised than I did.
There was that odd moment of silence between us, Jimmy still smarting from his death stare, and for me, the Alison and Elaine show. I was quite literally gob-smacked.
I drained my champagne glass, gathering some courage and turned to him. “By the way, we were going to have a weekend away, but this legal tutorial thing came up. You know Alison is doing her law degree.”
He looked startled when he realised I had spoken. He was looking intently at a woman several tables over from us, one who’d obviously forgotten some basic garments when getting dressed. Or perhaps it was deliberate. She’d definitely had some enhancements done.
He dragged his eyes back to me. “Yes. Elaine said something or other about it. But I thought she said the tutor was out of town and it had been postponed until next week. Perhaps I got it wrong. I usually do.”
“Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.” I shrugged as the dark thoughts started swirling in my head again. “This week or next, what does it matter?”
Of course, it mattered to me, and I digested what he said with a sinking heart. It showed there was another problem between Alison and me; she might have been telling me lies. If what he said was true and I had no reason to doubt him, where was she going tomorrow morning, and had she really been with a friend studying today?
We poured some more champagne, had a drink, then he asked, “This promotion thing, what’s it worth?”
“Trouble, I suspect. Definitely more money, but less time at home.”
“Oh,” raised eyebrows. Obviously, the women had not talked about the job in front of him, or, at least, not all the details. “You sure you want to do that?”
At last, the voice of reason. “Me? No.”
“Yet you accepted the job.”
I sucked in a breath or two while I considered whether I could trust him. Even if I couldn’t, I could see my ship was sinking, so it wouldn’t matter what I told him, or what Elaine might find out from him. “Jimmy, between you and me, I haven’t as yet decided one way or another. To be honest, I won’t know until I go up to Barclay’s office and he asks me the question.”
“Barclay?”
“My boss.”
“Elaine’s doing a job for a Barclay who recently moved into the tower a block down from us. I thought I recognised the name.”
“How did Elaine get the job?”
“Oh, Alison put him onto her.”
“When?”
“A couple of months ago. Why?”
I shrugged and tried to keep a straight face, while my insides were churning up like the wake of a supertanker. I felt sick, faint, and wanted to die all at the same moment. “Perhaps she said something about it, but it didn’t connect at the time. Too busy with work, I expect. I think I seriously need to get away for a while.”
I could hardly breathe, my throat was constricted, and I knew I had to keep it together. I could see Elaine and Alison coming back, so I had to calm down. I sucked in some deep breaths and put my ‘manage a complete and utter disaster’ look on my face.
And I had to change the subject, quickly, so I said, “Jimmy, Elaine told Alison, who told me, you were something of a guru of the cause and effects of the global economic meltdown. Now, I have a couple of friends who have been expounding this theory …”
Like flicking a switch, I launched into the well-worn practice of ‘running a distraction’, like at work when we needed to keep the customer from discovering the truth. It was one of the things I was good at, taking over a conversation and pushing it in a different direction. It was salvaging a good result from an utter disaster, and if ever there was a time that it was required, it was right here, right now.
When Alison sat down and looked at me, she knew something had happened between Jimmy and me. I might have looked pale or red-faced, or angry or disappointed, but it didn’t matter. If that didn’t seal the deal for her, the fact that I took over the dining engagement did. She knew well enough that the only time I did that was when everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket. She’d seen me in action before and had been suitably astonished.
But I got into gear, kept the champagne flowing and steered the conversation, as much as one could from a seasoned professional like Elaine, and, I think, in Jimmy’s eyes, he saw the battle lines and knew who took the crown on points. Neither Elaine nor Jimmy suspected anything, and if the truth be told, I had improved my stocks with Elaine. She was at times both surprised and interested, even willing to take a back seat.
Alison, on the other hand, tried poking around the edges, and, once when Elaine and Jimmy had got up to have a cigarette outside, questioned me directly. I chose to ignore her and pretend nothing had happened, rather than tell her how much I was enjoying the evening.
She had her ‘secrets’. I had mine.
At the end of the evening, when I got up to go to the bathroom, I was physically sick from the pent-up tension and the implications of what Jimmy had told me. It took a while for me to pull myself together; so long, in fact, that Jimmy came looking for me. I told him I’d drunk too much champagne, and he seemed satisfied with that excuse. When I returned, both Alison and Elaine noticed how pale I was, but neither made any comment.
It was a sad way to end what was supposed to be a delightful evening, which, to a large degree, it was for the other three. But I had achieved what I set out to do: to play them at their own game, watching the deception once I knew there was one, as warily as a cat watches its prey.
I had also discovered Jimmy’s real calling; a professor of economics at the same University Alison was doing her law degree. It was no surprise in the end, on a night where surprises abounded, that the world could really be that small.
We parted in the early hours of the morning, a taxi whisking us back to the Lower East Side, another taking the Blaines back to the Upper West Side. But, in our case, as Alison reminded me, it would not be for much longer. She showed concern for my health and asked me what was wrong. It took all the courage I could muster to tell her it was most likely something I ate and the champagne, and that I would be fine in the morning.
She could see quite plainly it was anything other than what I told her, but she didn’t pursue it. Perhaps she just didn’t care what I was playing at.
And yet, after everything that had happened, once inside our ‘palace’, the events of the evening were discarded, like her clothing, and she again reminded me of what we had together in the early years before the problems had set in.
It left me confused and lost.
I couldn’t sleep because my mind had now gone down that irreversible path that told me I was losing her, that she had found someone else, and that our marriage was in its last death throes.
And now I knew it had something to do with Barclay.
He paused by the front counter to talk to the manager who was running the desk now. Perhaps realising trouble was about to erupt in her hotel, trouble a hotel of this sort didn’t need.
She got a key from the office she came out of earlier and accompanied us to the mezzanine floor, unlocked a door to what was a small conference room and ushered us in. She didn’t follow us in but closed the door behind us. I did notice that Alessandro had two security staff follow us at a discreet distance.
In the time it took to get from the restaurant to the conference room, he had time to compose himself, and no doubt working on a story that I might believe.
He sat and gestured for me to do the same. I thought about standing, it would nominally give me an advantage over him, but decided against it.
He gave me a hard stare, then said, “You tell me you are only called when the situation is serious. Who are you? I don’t believe for a moment you are a Detective Inspector. They do not confront foreign natials at their table in a restaurant.”
“Believe it or not I am. From time to time. Who I am is irrelevant. What is, is the whereabouts of your sister-in-law. You were at the hotel when she arrived back from the Opera. A matter of hours later she disappears. Why were you here to see your sister-in-law?”
“If I tell you that is none of your business?”
“Let me tell you what I know about your business. Firstly, you are associating with a woman by the name of Vittoria, who is allegedly responsible for two attempts in the countess’s life. Secondly, the terms of the Count’s will pass the who of his possessions to you if the countess does not arrive at the law offices to sign the official inheritance documents. Thirdly, you are on record saying quite vehemently that the countess should not, and will not if you have anything to do with it, inherit the family business. Fourthly, had Vittoria told you that she had a daughter to the Count, and was blackmailing him until he died, culminating in the last attempt on the countess’s life. Allegedly.”
Always, it was interesting to watch the expressions and responses of people when telling there a story that has a mixture of truth, supposition, and outright lies. Alessandro was no different. He started the story expressionless and was most likely going to stay that way.
The first response was when I mentioned Vittoria, with a look that wasn’t complete contempt, but a very deep dislike, though that might be for me mentioning her name. I purposely didn’t say he was dating her, just associating, and it might also be at the mention of her name.
“Vittoria is, by the way, in London at the moment, and she is a person of interest in my investigation. We know you have seen her several times in the last few days, so I will be talking to her at some point.”
The second response came when I mentioned the will, and that look was of surprise, whether he thought anyone know of the provisions other than family would be interesting.
“Am I under surveillance?”
“When reviewing the CCTV tapes during the time we estimate the countess went missing, and only via the CCTV in the hotel, in case the disappearance of the countess is not part of a wider attack on the Bernhardt family. I notice you have your own security outside.”
“I would prefer they not accompany me everywhere, but it is necessary.”
“The countess’s security detail? Are they still in the hotel.”
“Gone, with the countess, which is why I don’t think there is anything to worry about.”
“And if she doesn’t make it to the signing in five days?”
“Do you have any reason to believe she will not.”
“You have motive, and you had opportunity. In my book that’s enough for me to have you arrested until you tell us what we need to know. It’s the old story, if you have nothing to hide, you’d answer the question. Stalling, dodging, and obfuscation only indicate guilt. So, I will ask one more time. What were do doing here after she returned to the hotel on the night of the opera, and where is she now?”
Another withering look in my direction, and he stood.
“I do not have to answer your questions. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”
He headed towards the door.
“Fine. You will not be leaving the hotel, and I suggest you call your legal representative.” /I pulled out my phone and pressed speed dial. When one of the two men below answered, I said, “Pick him up. You know where to take him.”
There is more going on in the story front, and just to keep my mind active, or tortured, as the case may be, there are several other stories I’m working on.
In the first instance, there is the story with the tag line –
“What happens after an action-packed start…”
Quite a lot.
In part one, the protagonist is shot out of the sky, captured, and interrogated – but for what reason
In part two, the protagonist and a select team of misfits are flown into northern Nigeria, before crossing into the Democratic Republic of the Congo, in search of two men being held to ransom.
Previous attempts to rescue them had failed; this one had to succeed. It’s a matter of dealing with local militias who are tricky to deal with, and then getting out of the country after effecting the rescue.
At times, while writing it, looking at a map and using Google Earth to see what it is like, I felt like I was there looking down the barrel of a gun, and then, in the helter-skelter of getting to the evacuation point, I’m sure my heart rate had lifted considerably, particularly when the battered DC3 was about to be shot at with air to air missiles.
Just imagine this …
A DC3 versus a very maneuverable helicopter.
I was on the edge of my seat.
Next is the surveillance story where nothing is as it seems, which in the espionage business is nothing unusual. Nor is the fact that you cannot trust anyone.
It starts out as a routine surveillance operation until a shop front explodes a moment or two after the target passes it. In the ensuing mayhem, the target reappears, now in fear for his life, and our main character tracks him to an alley where he is murdered before his eyes.
Soon after, the two men whom the protagonist is working for appear and start asking questions that make our main character think that they had perpetrated a hit on the victim, and he decides that something is not right.
From there, the deeper he probes, the more interesting the characters and developments. Who was the target? What was he doing that got him killed? What does he have that everyone wants?
I’m about to start on the next phase of this story…
Then there is what I like to call comic light relief, the writing of stories inspired by photographs I’ve taken. Some, however, have exceeded the 1,000-word limit that I’ve set, only because I want to explore the story more, and some are spread over several stories.
They are titled: A picture is worth a thousand words … more or less
The first book of stories, 1 to 50, is to be published soon. Currently, I’m working on number 148 of the third volume of stories, but number 88 is my favourite so far, simply because it involves a starship.
But the overarching point to all of this is that ideas and stories can come in swarms, and unless you can focus on one, which I cannot, it is a juggling act, and one that I love being in the middle of.
And, you guessed it, I just saw an article on my news feed about how lifelike robots are getting, and an idea for a story just popped into my head.
What if you couldn’t tell the difference and … gotta run.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 