The Writer

  

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Story by Danya Ristić

Jean-Baptiste is being painted, in miniature. The image is to be reproduced on the back cover of each copy of his latest crime novel, The Bloodiest Rose. As he poses, pretending to be hard at work, he contemplates his successful career with something close to despair. He is living a bit of a lie. While the artist hums, and squints at him, he softly sinks into a cherished reverie, in which he stands at the centre of an admiring circle, the acclaimed and unabashed romance novelist who does not hide behind a nom de plume.

Detective Inspector Duchamp, JeanBap’s protagonist, is a loner, given to blunt, cryptic statements and the occasional moral stance. Men envy his insistent smoking and drinking, his lack of remorse and his silent suffering of chronic wind. Women, with no foundation, love him too. Each one believes that were he a real person – by the ultimate twist of fate, should he turn out to be real – she will be the one to break down his defences.

They have no basis for this conviction, that is, other than sixth sense, which if it came to it would turn out to be accurate. There is indeed a heart – warm and strongly beating – beneath both Duchamp and JeanBap’s impassive exterior.

As a child, secretly encouraged by the women in his family, JeanBap wrote little stories of love and tragedy, short-lived joy and untimely death.

‘Like Romeo and Juliet,’ his mother would sniff, putting down his latest offering.

‘Sadder!’ his aunt pronounced.

Or ‘Like that Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ his mother would chortle.

‘Funnier!’ his aunt proclaimed, dropping her knitting.

JeanBap would lower his head modestly and suck his pencil.

His father, involved not at all, exerted a powerful influence nevertheless. Should he have discovered his son’s favourite subject matter, there would have been hell to pay. Scorn would have dripped. JeanBap knew this without ever being told, and as he grew into the role of creator of the Duchamp cases – texts even his father admitted to enjoying on the rare occasion he had time to read – he, his mother and his aunt kept quiet as quiet can be. For his childhood yearning developed too, and over the years he has written copiously of the affairs of the lovely Dominique, former Duchesse de Deauville, under the pseudonym Jeanne Bécu. Which brings us to this day, and JeanBap’s despondence.

A fundamentally honest man, he is made tense by guilt. He wriggles in his seat, and yawns a great anxious yawn. The artist has to ask him to settle down.

‘Just relax,’ he tells the author. ‘Be yourself.’

Myself? JeanBap ponders. Do I know who that is?

But yes, he answers himself. It’s easy. You’ve always known.

So, he decides, one day, soon, I will stand up among my gathered devotees and say, I am Jeanne Bécu. I am the creator of your beloved romance series, les affaires de coeur de Domi.

It’s a decision he makes now for perhaps the fifth time in as many years, but it feels brand new.

A Literate Pachyderm

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Pachydella, Jungle Princess

Phrederick was in seventh heaven. The sun was shining. He had finished his chores. His back was against his favourite tree and, best of all, he had Pachydella, Jungle Princess in his trunk. Pachydella was his favourite heroine. She was his only heroine. When he wasn’t reading her latest adventure, he dreamed of her, and in his dreams he was hers. Usually timid and reluctant to get more than his toes wet, with Della he bashes down trees, leads the herd in a trumpet dance, wallows deliciously close to her in the cool river.

Yellowbeak-blueness, Phred’s friend of the bird variety, was also enjoying the book. He’d come across the ellie in this very place some time ago, and been intrigued by his specs and reading matter. His air of concentration and suppressed excitement. Blue had flown to the branch above Phred’s head and started to read as well. The two never spoke; they wouldn’t have understood each other. But each afternoon of rest and shade, each book, drew them closer in companionable quiet.
Phred would have been surprised, but then not, to learn that Blue loved Pachydella too. In his dreams, Blue and Della race through the veld, scattering everyone in their path. They dive-bomb the matriarch. They watch the sunset from the top of the hill and get tipsy on marula fruit. Sometimes, she lets him sleep in a fold of her ear.
To both boys, there was no other creature so wonderful. But would they survive this shared adoration? Who knows? One thing we do know, love transcends all, as their friendship shows.

(story by Danya Ristic - read her blog here)