The Gullible

(A short story by Neven Mrgan)

When Harold Raymond, a household name among fans of mystery novels, told his friend Lou Davis that he needed to see him about a legal matter, it did not escape Davis’s attention that his author friend was nearing his sixtieth birthday. He thus prepared himself for the making of a will, and this gave him a crack of guilt. Raymond had, after all, said nothing about a will, but it was also true that to Davis’s knowledge, one had never been put together.

What Raymond said in Davis’s office was, “I’ve written a bit of a masterpiece and I’d like you to hold it for me until my death.” He placed a box of writing paper on the desk and opened its lid to uncover a few hundred pages of copy. The first page read, THE GULLIBLE by Harold Raymond, August 1972 – September 1991.

Davis stared at the dates. “Nineteen years?” he said. Raymond chuckled.

“I tell you I’ve penned a masterpiece and you’re surprised it took nineteen years to write?”

“No, I mean… This is a surprise, Ray. What do you want me to do, publish this?”

“Not until I’m dead.” Raymond put the lid back on the box. “I want your firm to be in charge of this manuscript, and find a publisher who’ll print it in accordance with my terms. Those are in the box also. All of this after I die.”

Davis raised his hands. “I don’t see why you don’t take this down to Barnell right now. Did they refuse to publish it?”

“No”, Raymond said, “No one’s seen this until now. You may choose to take it to Barnell when… the time comes. I don’t really care. I trust your judgment in picking a publisher. But this can’t come out while I’m alive, Davis. It’s the best thing I’ve ever written and there’s simply no way I can show it to the world. I write mystery novels – pulp, schlock. This is not one. This is… I can’t quite tell you what it is, but it’s a work of art, and having spent a third of my life writing it, I can’t be modest about it. I love this book.”

Raymond placed his hands on the box with the manuscript. Davis said, “Well, I believe you. This is not like you and either you’re crazy, or that’s a masterpiece. So… Then why don’t you want it published in your lifetime? Who cares what you ordinarily write.”

Raymond pulled out another 8.5 x 11 box from the duffel bag in his lap and placed it on the desk. He opened it and the first page read, PANIC FOG by Harold Raymond – a Todd Hayley mystery – July 1991. He said, “Because I love this one also.”

“Twenty years ago I decided to write a book, and here it is, The Gullible. It took me five years to come up with the basic structure, followed by fifteen years of merciless editing, and now there’s not a word in it I would touch. This was not easy, Lou. It was painful at times. I started writing my mysteries to relax from the effort of laboring on this monster. I’m still somewhat ashamed that the writing of my first two books was therapy of sorts.”

“But today it’s different. The Gullible eventually became something unlike a book. It was a personal endeavor and I felt like the writer in me wasn’t even present when I worked on the text. It was just Harold Raymond, the boy I was and the man I am… It was almost too easy. But it had to be perfect, so I knew it would take time. It was like… like building a model airplane. Relaxing. I could just switch my brain off.”

“I started to challenge myself with the schlock I wrote, and, Lou, today I love the schlock. This new book – I love the whole series. You can’t imagine how much fun these damn things are. And if I published this…” - he pointed to the The Gullible - “…then how could I go back to writing this…? You don’t follow a personal masterpiece with a story about an ex-cop and his detective agency. They’d never let me have fun with a book again. And I have more stories in me, more silly, contrived, crazy little stories, and I won’t let them be sentenced to death by this… this magnum opus here. I either write schlock or I write semi-autobiographical novels. And I can’t write another one of those.”

Davis nodded his head and said, “Are you sure about this, Ray? Maybe they’d let you go back to the mystery novels?” He smiled, and Raymond smiled.

“No, I don’t think they would. I don’t need the ruckus that’ll follow this book. I just need my name on it when I’m dead, and no sooner.”

*  *  *

Davis walked briskly down the hallways of Barnell Publishing. He carried a copy of Raymond’s manuscript; the original was stored safely at the law offices of Davis & Shuttles.

Harold Raymond had died that week, two and a half years after he’d given up his life’s work to Davis. He published three books in that period, all of them bestsellers and favorites of critics fond of guilty pleasures done tastefully. Davis was now going to put an end to Raymond’s fame and make him a genius.

Bruno Mahon of Barnell had a hard time believing his ears when Davis told him about the manuscript. Davis had mentioned it was “different”, but that was quickly forgotten in Mahon’s outburst of jubilation. He smiled at the box in Davis’s hands, eager and afraid to touch it.

“Tell me everything, Mr. Davis - you don’t know how excited I am. You said you wouldn’t mind if we publicized this whole deal with Harold’s request, right? Right! It’s just such a marvelous story. I don’t mean to sound crass – I know we’re just back from his funeral – but this is magnificent, it’s an amazing idea. Tell me – what do you have there and what did Harold want us to do with it?”

Davis opened the box and took out the script. It was now covered with pages of legal forms. He’d gone through Raymond’s letter accompanying the box, and Mahon would have to agree with all the terms and conditions in writing before he could handle the manuscript. Davis mentioned the most arguable point first: that the script would have to be published as-is, unedited, unabridged, and with no preamble or addendum of any sort.

Mahon said, “Nothing? Punctuation, grammar, spelling, fact-checking?”  Davis shook his head.

“Well, no worry.” Said Mahon. “Harold was a masterful writer. It took him – nineteen years you said it took him? I can’t imagine there being any typos in this one!” He laughed. Davis smiled.

“He loved this book, Mr. Mahon. And he wanted it to be his final word. He stayed with your house for years and I saw no reason to stray from his decision. I have to ask you a small favor on Ray’s account, something you won’t find in the forms.”

“Of course, Mr. Davis.” Mahon said.

“Give the book the respect it deserves. When it comes to the marketing and all.”

“Of course, Mr. Davis.”

He pushed the box across the table.

*  *  *

Next time they met, Davis had recovered somewhat from his friend’s death and was now impatient to see how Mahon had liked the book. Davis wanted a copy in his hands and thousands on shelves everywhere in the country as soon as possible. He had decided not to romanticize the encounter that put the book in his care. He’d present it as a charming move of a quiet artist.

Mahon seemed in good spirits, though less chatty than before. He offered Davis a drink and pulled out the manuscript along with some notes.

“I’ve had the pleasure of being the first to read Harold’s manuscripts, all thirty-four of them. It was clear to me after his fifth or sixth book that I’d have very little to suggest or correct. He could have been an editor himself, really – he seemed to know what we want or don’t want.”

Mahon looked around his oaky office.

“Yes, he was one hell of a writer.”

He leafed through some pages and said, “You… haven’t read this, right?” Davis shook his head.

“No, Raymond never said I should… or could.”

“Did he tell you anything about the book? The plot, the characters, what kind of a novel it was?”

“No, not really. He said it was about him… I think he mentioned it was autobiographical in a way. Is that what it is?”

“In a way, yes. I don’t know that much about Harold’s personal life, but the book is about a kid from Miami who wants to be a writer. His family is poor and his father is very strict and unsupportive of Mike’s – that’s the kid – of Mike’s writing. So the kid ends up in crummy jobs all his life, and wakes up one day to realize he’s twenty-seven and hasn’t written anything in years.”

“It doesn’t sound like much the way I tell it, but the characters are all excellent. There are a number of great scenes with the father, and the kid is clumsy and indecisive and just a pushover basically, but he doesn’t sound like a loser. He eventually starts going through a transformation and there’s, of course, a love story that helps make that happen.”

Mahon paused for a bit and Davis said, “Does he become a writer?”

Mahon waited another few moments.

“He does. He starts writing, at least.” He got up to get another drink. Davis turned around in his chair.

“So, what happens?”

Mahon mixed a drink and sipped it.

“He writes a bit… but the story focuses on a romance at that point, and there’s a subplot that’s building up at the same time. He might be writing, but you’re really not sure because there are too many other things developing.”

Davis frowned and Mahon continued, “But then the subplot is resolved and we are back to writing. The love interest develops into a disagreeable character and that falls through. In the end, Mike starts taking his writing seriously and finds ways of being happy without having to depend on others; see, he relies on other characters in the book until then.”

“I really like the ending. It makes perfect sense in contrast to the opening, and it makes the character and the whole book grow and evolve. It seems sincere, also. It manages to convey a genuine message about art, work, life… About what it really means to know who you are and how to live with that knowledge. It’s not preachy; it’s like good advice from an old friend.”

Standing by the window, Mahon put his drink down. Behind his back, Davis opened the boxed manuscript and looked over the first chapter. He read the first paragraph and put the papers on the table.

“You like the ending?” he said.

“Yes, I love it.”

“But there’s a problem.”

“Yes.”

“The middle?”

“There are five chapters. The fourth chapter is where the subplot is introduced. It’s not really the middle, but yes, that’s the problem.”

“That’s where you’re not sure if the kid is writing or not?”

“Yes.”

Both men stayed silent for a while. Mahon looked at the sunset. The lights went on in the office. Davis said, “Mahon, is it a masterpiece?”

“I don’t know.”

Davis chuckled and Mahon turned around.

“A bit of a masterpiece, is it?”

Mahon said, “Yes, that describes it I guess. I’m sorry if I seem disrespectful. Harold was my friend also, and this is really a wonderful book. I just wish… I wish that fourth chapter were different. I can’t really put my finger on what should be changed. The subplot is distracting, but it’s necessary, or the ending wouldn’t make sense. The romance is almost unavoidable, but it seems to change the flow of the book too much. Some of the dialogue is just… unpolished. That chapter seems to slice the book in half somehow, instead of connecting the two halves.”

Davis said, “Well, maybe that was the point. If the ending makes up for it, maybe he wanted the middle to be… challenging. Or maybe it’s an… intermezzo of sorts. The book is long, isn’t it? It might need that pause.”

Mahon sat down, shaking his head.

“No, what you’re saying sounds good, but that’s not how this reads. I wouldn’t call the book disappointing, but it’s… it’s three quarters of a masterpiece is what it is.”

Davis said, “It might grow on you. I wouldn’t worry about it.” He picked up the manuscript and leafed through it. Lines of dialogue made him pause and read every now and then.

“Do you mind if I take this copy home to read? I’ll have it back for you in two days.” He opened his briefcase and started to make room in it for the papers.

“It could be fixed up, Mr. Davis.” Mahon said.

Davis stopped for a second, then put the manuscript in the briefcase.

“If I read through it again I’ll know what to change. I’m not sure right now, but I know I could do it.”

Davis got up and said, “No, Mr. Mahon. You know what Raymond wanted.”

“It could be made… spotless. Look, all books need editing. I’ve worked with Harold for years. I know what he would’ve wanted me to do and I know how to edit his work.”

“He said he didn’t want it touched. We can’t have a contract any other way.”

Mahon rubbed his forehead. Davis said, “You said yourself his books needed no editing.”

“This one is different.”

“It’s better.”

Mahon put the empty box that had held the manuscript back in his desk. He looked up and said, “How do you know that, Mr. Davis?”

*  *  *

Davis tried to stay calm on his way home. He hadn’t expected this, and as much as he was desperate to believe some easy explanation – some personal reason Mahon may have wanted to put down Raymond’s final book – he felt that he was being sincere. Which left the possibility that Mahon was also simply wrong; he was just an editor, and the book he described was nothing like what regularly passed through his hands.

Davis was not qualified to edit a book. This was to be the first unpublished work he would read. He sat down on the sofa that night armed with great respect for Raymond’s writing and he spent a few minutes pondering the best way to read a book for the first time. Slowly and carefully? Quickly and emotionally? Whether to dissect or just to let himself go? He found he couldn’t resist letting go anyway.

The book drew him in immediately and proceeded to get better, every page punchier and bolder than the previous. Davis found himself chuckling at Mahon’s apparent overlooking of this aspect of Raymond’s style. This was not like the mysteries, that was clear: but it was unlike them in subject matter and finesse only. It still featured Raymond’s delicious wit and way with language.

Davis was up to chapter three now, meeting Mike’s love interest, as Mahon had called her. The story slowed down somewhat, but it was still engrossing. Dialogue took center stage as the lovers shared clichés and then iced them over with poignant confessions. As the chapter ended, Davis’s doubts about what would come next in the book vanished  – and he now hated to admit there had been any doubts at all. He turned the page bravely, confident in his old friend’s skill and imagination.

Two hours later he’d stare at the sunrise with a blank expression on his face, trying frantically to hold on to a thought not about disenchantment.

*  *  *

Mahon called around noon and apologized about his behavior in the office. He was just trying to help Harold’s writing, as always, and he did feel strongly about that fourth chapter. Davis didn’t say anything. Mahon said, “This has put me in a really awkward position. I don’t know how to refuse Harold’s last book, but I also can’t stand the thought of publishing it as he left it. Last night I tried to recall it all… I was wondering if maybe I’d missed something, if my reading was faulty. It’s an asinine idea, but I’d like to try it… in any case, I have to read it again to get a better idea of what could be changed.”

Both men were quiet for a few seconds.

“I know it won’t get published any way but Harold’s. I’d just like to know for myself. Would it be possible for me to get another copy?”

Davis didn’t answer.

“Mr. Davis, you can count on my professional ethics. I do not intend to publish the book in breach of the contract I signed.”

Davis said, “I read it.”

Mahon said, “The contract?”

“The book.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Mahon sighed and said, “Raymond never said you couldn’t read it.”

“Yeah.”

Mahon waited.

“So… what did you think?”

Davis put the phone down and looked out the window. When he came back he said, “I’m not sure how to agree with you, Mahon. I’d love not to have to.”

“You didn’t like the fourth chapter?”

“No, I didn’t. I disliked it. The finale made it even more painful. That stupid chapter just does not belong in the book.”

Mahon said, “I know.”

Davis told him about his reading of the book. He loved the language, and the characters were fleshed out well. But everything seemed to deteriorate after chapter three. It wasn’t just the plot; people acted inconsistently and their motives became very shallow all of a sudden. Even the language suffered. It sounded like it was trying to climax along with the story, but the result was ultimately aggravating.

And then, in just a few pages, Raymond reverted to his original style. This was a welcome change, but it was infuriating at the same time. Why didn’t he stick to it all the way through?

Mahon thought it had to do with Raymond’s ideas about “fine art”.

“He was always fond of stylistic devices that mirror the content. He normally managed to restrain his use of this, however. Or maybe the entire concept for the book, along with that departure, was shaped nineteen years ago, when he first started working on it. He didn’t know as much about writing back then, of course.”

Davis said, “Wouldn’t he have realized that later on?”

“Maybe. You’d think so. I guess that’s the problem with these carefully planned masterpieces – you lose sight of the book as a whole. Maybe he honestly did not notice the ungainly way in which his chapters flowed together.”

It had been on Davis’s mind all night: “Mahon, is this bad writing? Is it that one blunder all artists make at some point?”

Mahon said, “Not all of them do. But even so, no, this is not a blunder. I think we both agree that most of this book is excellent. That’s actually what’s so frustrating – it can be made into the masterpiece Harold thought he had. I understand he worked on this for years and put all he knew into it, but books need editing – they just do. I guess it is, in retrospect, a very bad idea to legally prevent your books from being edited.”

“Then you don’t think anyone can self-edit? I don’t mean to insult your profession, but do you think the editor is always better informed than the writer?” Davis said.

“No, certainly not. Many books are published intact, just as the authors submit them. But it is ultimately up to the editor to decide if that’s the case or not. I just don’t think this book is spotless. It’s flawed, and it could be fixed up.”

Davis sighed. Mahon said, “Yeah, my thoughts exactly.”

Lying down on the sofa, Davis picked up the manuscript from the table and opened it to the beginning of the fourth chapter. He glanced over the next few pages and said, “Mahon, what exactly would you change here?”

“If I could, you mean?”

“You can, in your head. You said you would do it anyway. What would save this book?”

Mahon said, “This manuscript. God, I wish I could make it into a book.”

*  *  *

Mahon took it as a sign of resentment when Davis didn’t reply to his calls and letters for months. Years passed, and the book was still unpublished and unknown to anyone but the two men. Mahon would occasionally ask around, and it didn’t look like any other publishers had been offered the script. Changed or unchanged, it was still a secret to the world. Eventually, Mahon moved on with his life and work. Some weeks before his death he started to think that Davis was doing the right thing in protecting the faulty text from the scrutiny of the public.

Bruno Mahon’s death came five years after Harold Raymond’s. Davis, now the sole keeper of the unpublished book, went to the funeral. No one seemed to recognize him, since he had only met Mahon once, and under secretive circumstances. He had been hoping for two things ever since their conversation over the phone: that Mahon dies first, and that when he does, he takes with him all knowledge of Raymond’s request. Davis’s hands had been tied until he witnessed dirt hitting harshly the wood on Bruno Mahon’s coffin.

The original script of The Gullible was still locked inside the law office, but now dozens of new copies were on the desk of Davis’s study. Next to them lay a package of red pens, scissors, several notepads, and a cardboard box filled with Harold Raymond’s other thirty-four books. In each book, numerous pages were marked.

It had been impossible for Davis to embark wholeheartedly on the task of editing The Gullible before Mahon’s death. It certainly couldn’t have been published in its edited version before then; Mahon would have raised hell over it. Now, with himself being the only living person to have read the manuscript, Davis was free to edit it to perfection. The attempts he’d made during the five years following Raymond’s death were an education, but now he would tackle the fourth chapter with force and inspiration.

He had doubts about his undertaking, but they grew weaker every day. A thesis eventually emerged: that chapter four was so removed from other chapters of The Gullible - and other books of Raymond’s - that it seemed like it had been written by someone else anyway. Davis would now simply make it Raymond’s back again through meticulous research of Raymond’s writing style. Comments Mahon had made when they had talked on the phone helped shape the chapter and weed out the idiosyncrasies, but now, every word would have to be judged individually.

Davis entered the study and took off his jacket, fixed himself a drink, and sat at the desk. He would start reading and writing soon enough; for now, he wanted to bring back another forgotten memory of Raymond. Every night he’d search for one, hoping to amass all he could about what it was that made Raymond write like Raymond. And presently one memory came to him; a bittersweet recollection of a time they’d spent together, the lawyer and the writer.

Now Davis started to write, and he wrote every day, sometimes for an hour, sometimes for three or four, weighing words and emotions, measuring each against all others in the book. He read and wrote and wrote and read, crossed things out and put them back in, copied from other books - always wary of adding too much of his own writing - and always went back to chapter three and forward to chapter five, making sure they all blended in perfectly. He wrote restlessly for weeks and months and felt like it would become his own life’s work, he wrote and wrote working himself into a fury, wrote until he could no longer remember which words were his and which were Raymond’s.

THE END