The Curse of Pharaohs. A novel

FIGARO. Pooh, our Comic Opera-Makers are not so nice now a Days.

FIGARO. Hem! Hem! When this is set to Music, properly accompanied, we shall see, Gentleman Critics, whether or no, I know what I am about.

“He put away his Browning FN Model 1910, sat in the chair in front of the man and began a conversation. “Mr. Butler, I am not employed by Scotland Yard and came here as a private individual. However, I actually represent His Majesty’s Secret Service at this time. So, I request you to tell me everything. My interest is not in your financial and trading activities or scientific endeavors in Egypt, per se. Rather, they are of interest only insofar as they related to the murder of the Count.”

“Why do you think it was a murder, Mr. Johnson?”

“I have conducted my own investigation and I am now convinced that it was a murder. My belief is that the motives of such should be sought within the Egyptian enterprise of the Count, which you managed, Mr. Butler. I will keep your confession confidential under two conditions: first, if you are personally not involved in this murder, and secondly, if you will be entirely honest with me, completely! For my part, I can assure you that I will only use the information that I receive from you for the purpose of investigating the murder, and will not harm your business interests.”

“Do you give me your word as a gentleman?”

“Unfortunately, I cannot give my word as a gentleman, as I am not the one. However, if I give a word, I keep it.”

“I am not a murderer – do you believe me?”

“I will believe you, if you provide me with sufficient evidence to do so.”

“In fact, I greatly admired that old eccentric and became attached to him. We could say that we became friends, if such a relationship between a Count and the ordinary person was possible at all. Indeed, we had a recent disagreement, and he even asked for my forgiveness. The count himself! Indeed, he was lonely and needed my assistance.… So, what do you wish to know from me?”

“Everything! What was the core business your company? How was it related to the politics? What commitments did the Count undertake and to whom specifically? What was the cause of your recent quarrel with the Count? Why was he murdered? What role did the young lady and the Countess play in all of this? What does Mr. Lucas hide? Which items was the murderer after? Finally, the most significant question: Who is the perpetrator?”

“I am not aware of the identity of the killer. Nor do I possess all the information. However, I will provide a detailed report of our company, and you may draw your own conclusions from this. I hope that my report will dispel any suspicions regarding my involvement in the crime. However, please promise to forget my confession, as the interests of numerous powerful individuals are at stake, in addition to my own. Allow me to elaborate…”

The editor threw back a stack of disheveled sheets with blurred typewritten text, an excerpt from which he had just read, onto a table littered with papers. Then he chewed on his bloodless lips, took off his tiny round glasses and stared sadly at Gregson:

“Yes, I read your manuscript and reflected my opinion about it in my review. Personally, this reading was very interesting and entertaining for me, but we will not publish it!”

“Why?” Gregson asked in an outwardly calm tone, although inside he was roaring with anger.

“I just read you an excerpt from your book as an example, Mr. Gregson.” The Editor ran his hand over the rejected manuscript with painful expression on his face. “I thought you would understand everything yourself. Is it still not clear to you?”

“I admit, no, it’s not clear!” Gregson was still outwardly calm, but his heart was pounding inside.

The Editor leaned back in his chair, picked up his pipe from the table, slowly lit it and blew a stream of tobacco smoke into the ceiling. “This is no good! You are not a writer yet, Mr. Gregson. You still have to study and study. I don’t see this Butler of yours right now. Give me a vivid artistic image! Then maybe I’ll believe in him.”

“What exactly is wrong with my book?”

“We usually do not honor the authors with explanations.” The Editor forced a wry smile. “But only out of respect for your military past, I will try to convey our reasons to you.”

Gregson’s lips curled slightly in an answering smile. “I would highly appreciate your clarification.”

The Editor nodded with satisfaction, covered himself in a fresh cloud of blue smoke and said. “You have almost nothing besides dialogues in your book! This is not the way we do it. Contrary to the unspoken rules, you even started right away with a dialogue!”

Gregson objected. “But Plato also wrote in the form of a dialogue. Dialogue allows you to identify contradictions much better than a simple narrative…”

“First of all, you are not Plato!” The Editor sternly raised his finger. “Be a little more modest! And secondly, Plato is currently being read by only a few bookworms, and we need a circulation!”

Gregson opened his notebook, made a note in it with a pencil, and looked up at the Editor again. “Do you have any other objections besides the form of the dialogue?”

The Editor, looking wistfully at the ceiling, blew out a smoke ring again. “Too dry. Too lifeless. You don’t have any epithets at all. Some nouns and verbs: ‘he said, they met, she passed, he fired’.”

“It seemed to me that this way the narrative would become more dynamic and capture attention… It’s a detective story!”

“You’re wrong! This is a novel, not a newspaper report. It assumes a certain artistic level. The ability to draw a picture with a word. Description of nature, personal experiences of the characters, feelings… Beautiful comparisons, epithets, tropes…”

“Do you think the reader needs all this?” Gregson chuckled. “What kind of reader needs descriptions of nature and other verbal husks?”

“He doesn’t need it.” The Editor nodded. “But he’s used to it. He would feel deprived if he does not grasp the difference in artistic level between himself and the writer. Therefore, you, being a writer, would lose his respect, the charm of mystery surrounding any artist and separating him from the crowd of nonprofessionals. Yes, the reader wants to read detective and police story, yes, he will prefer Nick Carter and the killers of Michigan Avenue to many great novels of the past – Dickens, Flaubert and Tolstoy. Nevertheless, even the story about Nick Carter, he certainly wants to read in the style of Dickens, Flaubert or Tolstoy. Our reader is a snob, even if he doesn’t always realize it.”

Gregson made a note in his notebook and, without taking his eyes off his sheet, nodded. “Any other comments?”

The Editor seemed pleased: he rarely had such an attentive listener. “Do not call the main character by only one name in the text. This causes irritation. Then, why so many numbers, dates and technical details? They distract from artistic images…”

“Please continue.” Gregson nodded, quickly making another note in his notebook.

“Add some jokes. The reader wants to relax.”

A nod, a note in a notebook, an attentive, expectant look.

Perhaps such a grateful listener deserves some encouragement. After another puff of smoke, the Editor generously decided to reward the upset author with a little candy of praise. “You have some positive points. For example, a Lord and an Earl are very good! The average reader loves books about high society. He doesn’t know it at all and therefore loves it madly. Therefore, do not dispel his misconceptions and legends! The aristocracy is our sacred cow! The reader dreams to be a part of it and such dream comes true imaginary while reading! You are on the right track here.”

Gregson made another note and looked up expectantly.

“Writing a book with epigraphs nowadays is very pretentious. Remove them!”

An entry in a notebook, a nod of the willingness to heed the age-old wisdom.

Perhaps enough of the encouragement! The Editor became serious. “But please don’t mention ! Even among the aristocrats! This would disgust a significant part of the readers.”

Gregson, having made another entry, nodded, inviting further criticism.

Another puff of smoke at the ceiling. “Next. Special terminology. For example, the reader does not know and may get confused about who TG is?”

Gregson explained patiently. “TG means a temporary gentleman, that is, a person who was not an aristocrat by birth and received an officer’s rank during the war due to extraordinary circumstances.”

“But the average uninformed reader cannot be expected to know this at all! This also applies to information about other countries or scientific facts. We are not an encyclopedia and cannot afford to publish a commented edition. The reader does not like to be distracted by footnotes, he would not bother finding out all the facts and terms, thus, at the end he would get confused and angry. And whom will he be mad at? Of course, you, the author!”

“Next?” Gregson nodded, without taking his pencil off his notebook.

“I praised you for the aristocrats. However, listen to another good advice: do not have any Jews! No way!”

Gregson looked up from his notes and stared at the Editor in surprise. “I’ve heard the opinion that there should be no Chinese in a detective story, but…”

“Jews are even worse than Chinese.” The Editor waved his hand. “Believe me. No decent publishing company would take a book with Jews from you, unless they are ancient Jews.”

“Do you hate Jews to such an extent?” Gregson’s lips twitched in a barely perceptible smile.

“I just love them.” The Editor sighed heavily. “But even one Shylock is quite enough for us. We don’t need another one. You’re not Shakespeare, are you? Keep in mind: they won’t tolerate a second Shakespeare here either! This place is already occupied!”

A note in a notebook, a nod. “Next?”

“Punishment, Gregson!” The Editor raised a pointing finger and shook it in the air. “If there is a crime, then there must be a punishment too! This is the ‘iron rule’ of the detective story, stemming from the ‘golden rule’ of ethics!”

“It seems to me that solving a crime will be quite enough for a detective story, and the punishment can be left outside the framework of the narrative.…”

“Then the reader would feel dissatisfied. People want a triumph of justice here and now and speedy retribution for the sins of the villains. This is actually the main reason why the detectives are created, bought and read. Punishment should be inevitable in the finale.”

A note in a notebook, a nod. “Next?”

“Remember: the first chapter should be stunning right away. If the reader doesn’t like it, he won’t read on. And in your novel, it’s kind of… sluggish… The first three paragraphs of the first chapter are especially important.”

A note in a notebook, a nod. “Anything else?”

It suddenly seemed to the Editor that Gregson was playing a waiter taking an order in a restaurant. For a moment it seemed the cooperative author would leave the office right now, only to return a moment later with a new novel, prepared this time in full accordance with the tastes and preferences of the client: “with blood’, “medium’ or “well done’. No, it is a detective story, so it should be definitely with blood! However, isn’t it too cheap for the sophisticated Editor to give away such a precious experience to a layman? Perhaps that’s enough. Let him first appreciate the boon done to him! “We can continue for a very, very long time, but let’s stop here for now.”

Gregson nodded and put the notebook in his pocket. “Now here’s the thing. I’m not going to make the first chapter stunning. There must be a certain logic in the narrative, even if the dummies cannot comprehend it.”

What? How could this be? Even if fresh asparagus was not delivered today, but where is the ostentatious grief of the servile waiter about this? “The average reader rarely knows even simple logic.” The Editor shook his head and put down his pipe. “He needs strong feelings and vivid images from you, not logic at all!”

Gregson stood up quickly and with a quick movement picked up his manuscript from the table. “And I will have logic! And there will certainly be long dialogues, scientific facts and even Jews!”

“It’s a pity.” The Editor spread his hands. “Then we’ll never print your novel!”

“So be it. But I will be able to tell an entertaining and very educational story, which according to your patterns is not worth doing. Besides this, in entertaining stories, you seem to understand as much as a pig understands in oranges! So long!” Gregson nodded curtly and headed for the exit. Being at the door, he turned around and said. “I just added a joke, as you asked.”

The door slammed shut behind him. The Editor shuddered, and remained sitting in thought. Then he shook his head, sighed heavily, put on his glasses, picked up from the table a new stack of typewritten sheets with blurred font and then began to write another internal review.