A Moment's Indiscretion

Van Sotten was from Sweden, and had once been a world class financier. But that had been some many years ago. After his retirement, he made a business out of his passion for very old, very fine books, and now traded in some of the most rare and valuable volumes in the world.

    Everywhere he went, he carried a book bag containing a few samples of his wares. Though he always pretended otherwise, it was a tool he used to open discussion about his business, and possibly generate a transaction.

     Nevermere was just as every bit as old as Van Sotten, but not at all from Sweden. For twenty two generations, his family had dwelled in the Cardiganshire region of Wales. In all those generations, there were many things the Nevermere family had never done. Potato farming was not one of them, but both crossing the ocean, and becoming even remotely noteworthy, most certainly were. That is, until this current Nevermere who, against all expectations, had done both.

    This Nevermere was an author, and had written many books. Some few of these books were now very old, and some fewer still were regarded as very fine. But none of Nevermere’s books had found it’s way into Van Sotten’s collection.

    Both men knew that this was the reason for many years of chilly relations between them, even though they had never openly discussed the matter. Nowadays, they discussed nothing at all, and it is well that they did not. Only their conversations could have been more awkward than the silences.

    It was hot and humid in the Fifty-Fifty Club. It was hot and humid everywhere in Argentina this day. No amount of air conditioning or open windows could even begin to change that. The serving boys in the Fifty-Fifty Club also had the unfortunate habit of standing just a little too close, and the heat radiating off them only compounded the matter.

    It was pure chance that both Van Sotten and Nevermere crossed paths in the Fifty-Fifty Club that afternoon. To pass the time, they sat across from each other, hunched over a playing board of “Nopoly“, the Argentinean knock off of the popular game, “Monopoly“. In almost all respects, the game was identical to it‘s famous cousin. But, in order to simulate that even the banks are poor in Argentina, Nopoly comes with a lot less money than Monopoly. This leads to greatly reduced game times. For this reason, Nopoly is sometimes regarded as the superior version in certain circles. It may or may not need to be said that those circles are primarily Argentinean.

    On a side table, Van Sotten’s book bag lay tipped over. It’s contents had partially slid out, like a case of stairs. The titles were all quite visible and quite deserving of comment, and any person of knowledge was certain to be intrigued if they happened to pass by.

    But, to Van Sotten’s dismay, no person of knowledge appeared. No one even came close to their table, aside from the serving boys. And they knew as little about books as they did about personal space.

    Not even Nevermere glanced at them. There was no reason to expect him to. He never did. And yet, on this day, this was the fact that irritated Van Sotten the most. He slipped his books back into the bag, one by one. It wouldn’t do to leave them exposed to the humidity for too long. The motion also drew Nevermere’s eyes towards them, where they hovered briefly on the last one.

    “You saw what was there?” Van Sotten asked.

    “Only the scribbling of no greater a person than Hambone Artois.” Nevermere replied.

    “No less a person, either.”

    “I wasn’t aware there were any.”

    Hambone Artois was a somewhat famous figure, known for being not only a founding father of rhythm and blues music, but also for imbuing his lyrics with Kantian philosophy. Nevermere had occasion to meet Artois, at an event in Louisiana called Assembly of the Dwarf Stars. Here, persons of small repute gathered and demonstrated the skills that made them not very famous.

    Quite understandably, it was Nevermere’s intention to read a few passages from one of his books. He had only just begun when the soulful strumming of Hambone’s guitar emanated  from the next room, luring his audience away before they’d hardly heard a word.

    At the bar where the dwarf stars gathered afterwards, a drunken Nevermere, feeling slighted, and possessed of the racism that was fashionable in the day, attempted to humiliate the musician. A week went by before he was he informed it was less his barbed wit that inspired the other star's laughter, and more his stumbling about and indecipherable mutterings.

    Months later, Nevermere returned to his home one night, only to discover the door wide open and his dog, Secretary, nowhere to be found. This was a deep and personal wound to Nevermere. He could conceive of only one person could that would stoop to such undignified behaviour. It had to be the work of Hambone Artois.

    Secretary was an Arboreal Chamois, a rare French breed of dog, bred to keep birds out of orchardist’s trees. Although capable of living their entire lives in the trees, these canines were quite terrible at judging which branches could carry their weight, and many accidents occurred before the breed fell into disfavour. Furthermore, those few individuals who excelled at life among the leaves seldom obeyed commands. Many bounded away from tree to tree, never to be seen by their masters again. Instead, they spent the rest of their days barking at passers-by, who couldn‘t figure out where the noise was coming from. Thus the folklore about barking trees began, which is obviously stupid, but that’s the peasantry for you.

Ignatieff the Barking Tree, courtesy of TVParis

    “Such vehemence over a lost dog.”  Van Sotten chided.

    “Then I shall add his understanding of Kantian ethics is rudimentary at best. You won’t disagree if you have read that book.”

    “I haven’t read a word that was published in the past twenty five years, and even that is only because twenty five years ago, my tastes were not so discerning.”

    They returned their attention to the Nopoly board. One more round played out before the money was exhausted. Everything was tallied up.

    “I win.” announced Van Sotten.

    He was referring to more than the game. Hambone Artois had not stolen Secretary. He had already been beaten to death in a prison riot by that time. It was Van Sotten who had taken the dog. He had done it because he felt Nevermere had become pompous and insufferable.

    It wasn’t mere pompousness that Van Sotten couldn‘t tolerate. He tolerated it in himself and in many others with ease. It was pompousness unsubstantiated by achievement, that he could not abide. And in Van Sotten's eyes, Nevernmere had achieved very little.

    It barely registered with Nevermere that he’d lost at Nopoly. He was dwelling on the past, again, and it was about the past on which he spoke.

    “I liked that dog. Finest dog I ever owned. I loved that dog.”

    Van Sotten might have said something then, but Nevermere motioned for him to remain silent.

    “Haven’t you…? Haven’t you ever lost something that you loved? Some precious book, perhaps? No, not likely. They don’t tend to wander away, do they?”

    Van Sotten did know something about lost love. Having stolen Secretary, he kept the dog secure in his house for many weeks. He was quickly charmed by her exuberant nonsense and taste in champagne. Of course he was curious to see her in her habitat, so it was only a matter of time before he took her outside, where everything would occur in the blink of an eye.

    Immediately, Secretary shot straight up the nearest tree, one by the river. Almost equally immediately, a branch snapped under her weight, and she plummeted towards the earth. Like lightning, an alligator surged out of the water. It’s jaws gaped wide, like a bent, pink ironing board. Both animals met an unenviable demise in the quicksand beneath the branches.

    Van Sotten’s conscience sometimes came to visit him when he was drunk, and he was deep in his cups on this day. Being an experienced drinker, he was equally experienced in banishing such emotions. This time, though, confessional feelings overwhelmed him, and he began to speak.

    “I…I…” he stuttered.

    Van Sotten would be found stabbed to death in his hotel room later that evening. Within a day, Edaph, the sail-backed lady boy, would be charged with the crime. Among locals, this would be regarded with much suspicion, as it was well known that the authorities wanted Edaph out of the picture, by whatever means necessary. That is not to suggest there was any public sympathy for Edaph.

    None of that is particularly relevant right now, except maybe to Nevermere. But he could never have imagined that Van Sotten was about to stammer out the only opportunity he would ever have to learn the truth.

    “I…” said Van Sotten again.

    “Shut the fuck up.” said Nevermere.