Once a Writer Paid Me a Visit

Once a writer paid me a visit. Yes, indeed, a real writer. So at least his name card reads with which he had presented me. "Ivan Bronevoy, a writer."

He called me before his visit.

"How much vodka should I bring?"

"I'm not much of a drinker," said I.

"Then it's clear. Two bottles will be enough for us."

And so he is in my home, a robust young fellow of around thirty plus years. We made ourselves comfortable in the kitchen, a place of heart-to-heart talks in any Russian house. I quickly boiled potatoes, sliced sausage and ham. Added something from the fridge. The writer had brought meat dumplings, which my wife swiftly prepared for us.

As we had the first shot, he stated:

"You don't know how to write, and what you write is bullshit."

"Why?" I protested humbly.

"Because nobody needs your scribbles. First off, why do you always write from the first person?"

I pondered. Why, really?

"Probably, because I have put it all through myself. It's very personal."

"Leave your personal stuff to your wife," advised the writer. "Second, what a style you've got!

Why do you turn out such short and stumpy sentences?"

"I just try not to use unwanted words," I replied.

"What do you mean by "unwanted words? What is written must be juicy and luscious so it would make the reader's mouth water." The writer flourished the fork over the plates, looking for the leanest piece of ham, found it and delivered to his mouth. "And now the third point, also critical. Why haven't you got sex?"

I became rather embarrassed.

"Well, I do have sex, but only in a few stories. And it's presented in a somewhat covert fashion. Naked sex doesn't appeal to me."

"You, bumpkin!" the writer shook his head reproachfully. "Sex can't be other than naked. Only this type of it is pleasing and appealing. Mind you, books and movies without sex are like ham without mustard. Dull and boring. I, for one, wrote a novel last year, entitled "The first Amazon". It's a pretty erotic thing. By now it's fully sold out. True, the book cover helped a lot. One good painter did it for me. Well, and you? Have you got anything published?"

"Just one essay, so far. Accepted for a memory album of a local actor."

"An obituary, then?"

"Yes, in a sense."

"Well, what should I tell you about your obituaries?" said the writer, pouring more vodka into our cups. "People have no need for them. But, meantime, with your life experience you ought to write and publish highly popular things. Look at me. Just a school and college as a background. And then a couple of business trips to the Caucasus. Plus a tourist travel across Bulgaria. That's all! But for all I have written ever so much!"

"How much?" I inquired.

"Eight published volumes. Add to them two sacks of unpublished manuscripts in the shed".

"When did find time for that?"

"Ah, there were times.." the writer fished out a couple of dumplings from the pan and laid them down on the plate before himself. "As the Soviet Union collapsed, many foreign cheats rushed over here. All sorts of tricksters, fraudsters, brokers, dealers and other swindlers of all shades and hues with their funds and foundations. I kept my eyes open and grabbed a couple of grants. Lived several years comfortably, writing all the way.

"Writing what?"

"Fantasies."

"What's that? Fantastic?"

"Nope. Fantastic is about flights into space on mechanical gadgets. But fantasy is a flight of the author's thought. It's a new genre. Before hitting the sack I watch some adventure channel and in the morning, as I get up, I have several chapters of the next book nicely ready in my brain. To this end I took an apt pen name for myself. John Brown. For who would be tempted in the bookshop by an obscure Ivan Bronevoy from the back of beyond?

Here, I suppose, the writer is right. Even I, an old booklover, swallowed once his bait in the form of a book. It was published in a series publication. Exactly in one where the best books of my childhood had been published, such as "Robinson Crusoe" by Defoe, "The Mysterious island" by Jules Verne, "Treasure island" by Robert Stevenson. And now this, "The Last Magellan" (don't mix it up with "The Last of the Mohicans" by Cooper).

At home, I tried to read it but couldn't. Either hogwash or pigswill. Or, perhaps, the hallucination of a drug addict under the influence. Frogs (or were they apes?) can't fairly share something between themselves.

Here I recalled doing a stint in a solitary confinement cell in the army. It's a very trying experience for the human psyche. Time seems to have stopped and from utter solitariness you forget words and may take leave of your senses. Obviously knowing about this problem, the guards supply the inmate, in addition to the ration, with booklets entitled "Political Self-Education", "The Party's Life", "The Problems of Peace and Socialism" and suchlike stuff which nobody, not even political functionaries, bothers to read outside the penal facilities. But I did read that political pulp. However, if instead of them I were then offered the opuses of John Brown, I would have rejected them in order to preserve the remnants of reason.

"Once I gained strength and popularity, I reverted to my normal name," the writer says.

I know it. One day I typed his name in an Internet search engine. It came up with a lot of links. And even Wikipedia offered his photograph, biography and description of works as those of an outstanding author of modern Russia.

"It's time I should go transnational," says Bronevoy. "Will you help me?'

"How can I?"

"I need some of my things translated into English. Can you do it?"

"No problem".

"Not for free, of course," the writer says warningly. "I don't promise the royalties of Joan Rowling, but something will come your way, too. Also, I plan to write a dissertation."

"On the subject of what?"

"Antique mythology and its links with modern fantasy fiction. Nobody understands here a damn thing (because there's nothing to understand). I can knock out any opponent here. But I need some American sources to be translated. Will you cope?"

"Why not?" I replied.

Getting ahead of my story, I must tell that Ivan did produce the dissertation, and defended it brilliantly. I attended the defense and it was an unforgettable show. Ivan was magnificent. Tall and imposing, he looked like a hero of ancient myths, only not in a suit of armor but in an elegant three-piece suit of clothing, the jacket of which was unbuttoned. He fought like Caesar's legionary, adroitly and with a dogged determination. When one of the opponents voiced an objection against his argumentation, Ivan made a pause and, stretching his arm out in my direction, declared:

"Dear opponent! I consider your doubts absolutely groundless since I base myself on the information provided to me by Mr. Yeliseyev himself who has honored us all here by his presence. Hope I don't need to explain to you who this man is and what contribution to modern literary study he has made.

Dozens of eyes turned to me. I felt ill at ease. I shrank in fear. My knowledge in the field of mythology did not go beyond the school curriculum. However, the members of the board and others present nodded respectfully, probably not wishing to demonstrate their ignorance through not knowing me personally.

On completion of the defense, there was a banquet in the institute's canteen. Following the first toasts, lecturers and professors approached me to inquire after the trends of my scientific research, to which I evasively replied that I specialize in the folklore of Kwakwaka'wakw, an extinct tribe of American Indianans. After about the fourth toast the interest in me was lost.

Yes, so it was....And now the writer thrusts an empty bottle under the table and brings out a new one.

"Haven't we had enough?" I ask hesitantly.

"I know how much is enough," the writer says "We don't see much of each other, so let's at least have a good drink. Tell me, which publishers did you address?"

"Different ones, both central and local."

"Succeeded?"

"Nope. The centrals ones didn't bother even to respond. Only one magazine replied saying to pay them two hundred bucks per page in which case they would publish whatever stuff I might come with. As for the local newspapers they told me I write what doesn't suit them."

"And they told you the truth," the writer agreed. "Why should the newspaper publish you? What does it want? It wants its circulation sold and money fetched. Therefore it publishes what interests and excites the public. For instance, who killed whom, where, what for and what with. Indication of a kill tool is a must. That's why cut body stories are readily accepted. Sex crimes, too, are good stuff. And what are you writing about? I read some of your stories, the remembrances of your serene childhood. Who cares for them? And then you write about dogs....tne man's dog died and he started to snivel. Pooh!"

So our talk flows, cup after cup.

"What literary get-togethers do you attend?" asks Ivan.

"None. I don't like this sort of thing."

"Wrong policy, that. No one will spot you so. And you will remain in obscurity to the end of your days. You must enter into society, feature in mass media and do whatever you can for promotion. Without it you are just dead meat, no matter how gifted?

Parting time came. Not at all sober, I walk the writer to the gate. For the departure he patted me on the shoulder, thought for a few seconds and said:

"Well, generally, there is something in your writings. They even appeal to me. Old fashioned realism, of course, but this too has the right to exist. Seek a sponsor, brother. Your things must be published."

Saying that, the writer vigorously swept around and stalked off, almost steadily, towards the bus stop.