Jack brought a chair out from behind the counter and offered it to the woman. She sat down and blew her nose into a bright yellow handkerchief.
“Would you like a drink of water?”
“No, thank you, I’m fine.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Please forgive me.”
Jack smiled, a quick friendly smile, like he sometimes gave babies on the bus.
“I’m Celia Mitten.”
“Jack Susko.”
She slipped the bag from her shoulder and lowered it to the floor. Under the blue-tinged fluorescent light her face looked weary and Jack had an idea that Celia Mitten did not always feel as colourful as her clothing.
“I live with my father in Potts Point,” she said. “He’s old now, not very well. For the last twenty years he’s been trying to complete his final collection. His masterpiece. He still writes every day, from eight in the morning until noon. In the kitchen. It’s been quite stressful lately, because he’s not well.” She looked into her lap, picked something off her skirt. “He believes he’ll die before he completes his work.”
Jack imagined Kass in the kitchen. Eight until noon must have been a barrel of laughs in there. The poet and his burning brain.
“If he knew what Hammond Kasprowicz was doing,” said Celia, shaking her head. “My God …” Her neck flushed again.
Jack put his hands in his coat pockets. “How do you know Hammond Kasprowicz is burning his books?”
“Because he sent them to us, that’s how. A box of ashes in the mail. Luckily I was there when it arrived. Here” — she reached down into her bag — “you can read the note yourself.”
She found the note and held it up. “It’s typed,” she said. Then, defensively: “There’s no name. But I know it’s Hammond Kasprowicz.”
Jack took the small, cream envelope from her. To Mr Edward Kass was typed on the front. The letters were faded, punched through a ribbon that needed changing. Who used typewriters anymore? Jack slipped out the note. The paper was thick and grainy, the same colour as the envelope, and folded in half.
Soon it will be as if you never wrote anything at all.
“Sick, isn’t it?” said Celia.
No name, no signature. Jack read the note a couple more times. Would Kasprowicz have written it? It seemed a little indirect. Or a touch too poetic.
“Does your father have any —”
“Enemies?” interrupted Celia. “No. Apart from Hammond Kasprowicz.”
“Other poets?”
“I know what you’re thinking. Petty jealousies and warring factions, all that. The battle for grants and prizes. I know all about it.” She adjusted her cardigan. “But this? Burning another poet’s books? Some of them can be vindictive, Mr Susko, and believe me, they have been. But not to this degree.”
“Have you confronted Kasprowicz about it?”
Celia laughed. “Why? As if he would ever admit it.” Then she shook her head in disappointment and looked up at the ceiling. “And just when there’s interest in Dad’s work again.”
“What do you mean?”
“People have been calling lately, wanting to speak to my father about his poetry. And there have been some enquiries about buying his archive as well.”
“Who wanted to buy his archive?”
“There were three or four calls, I can’t remember exactly who now. University libraries, private collections, that sort of thing.”
Jack frowned, thinking.
Celia looked at him sadly. “Please don’t sell those books to Hammond Kasprowicz.”
“They’re already paid for.”
“Haven’t you been listening?”
“It’s a big call, Ms Mitten. I’d like to hear what Hammond Kasprowicz had to say about it all.”
Celia stood up. Her chair scraped over the floor. She picked up her bag and pulled out a large red purse. She unclipped it and handed Jack a card.
Celia’s Crystal Palace
Bridal Accessories
10b Macleay Street, Potts Point
tel. 93314411 fax. 93314423
email: [email protected]
“After you realise what kind of man Hammond Kasprowicz is,” she said stiffly, “please call me.” She put the purse back into her bag. She looked around the bookshelves and then at Jack. “I assume you must have some regard for the written word.”
“Sure,” he replied. “When I can sell it.”
“Well, if it’s just about the money —”
Jack held up his hand. “No need to be rude, Ms Mitten. All you’ve given me so far is a story. It’s not a bad story. In fact, it’s pretty good. But I’m sure Hammond Kasprowicz could give me one, too.”
“Are you saying that I’ve made all this up?”
“I’m saying family sagas have a tendency towards melodrama.”
Jack watched her neck warm up again, a patchy blue-red like blackberry juice. An old girlfriend once told him that it was a sign of energy blocked in the throat: not saying what you wanted to say. Jack’s ex had been interested in stuff like that.
“My father is at home, Mr Susko, quite ill and depressed,” said Celia Mitten firmly. “I have a package of his burnt books hidden under the laundry sink. You are more than welcome to come by and see for yourself. I would be happy to offer you some afternoon tea for your trouble.”