by Ferrel D. Moore

Chirac was a dangerous man, but at least he was civilized.  Alvin Jester wore his best writing jacket to the meeting.  It was the kind of jacket that Papa Hemingway would have appreciated.  Manly.  Thick tweed.  Twisted threads the color of scuffed bark. 

They discussed Proust, Dostoyevsky, Goethe, and Norman Mailer.  Alvin attempted to bring up Truman Capote, but Chirac fixed him with a grim stair and told him that he would prefer to sweeten his tea with lye soap than discuss aa writer who believed that failure was the condiment that gives success its flavor.  Embarrassed, Alvin took a quick sip of bitter, but expensive wine and returned to the topic of the chair. 

“You are obsessed,” Chirac had observed, and ran the tip of his left index finger across the edges of his moustache.  “But I understand obsession.  I respect obsession.  You wish to sit on the same chair that Papa did.  You dream of closing your eyes and imagine that you share thoughts with the great writer himself the way a lover breathes in the aroma of his beloved.  Yes, I understand obsession, my friend, but it is always an expensive habit.” 

“I have the money,” Alvin had said, taking another sip of wine.   

Perhaps he shouldn’t have had so much to drink.  Alcohol affected his judgment, making him prone to blurt things out without thinking, as though he were desperate.   

“But are you sure that you have enough?” asked Chirac with a smile that revealed only the edges of his tiny white teeth. 

Alvin stepped back and bit the inside of his lip.   

“How much?” he asked.  “You haven’t told me how much.” 

“Ah, then you must not have too little.  But I understand your concern.” 

“What?  I don’t know what you mean.” 

With a single stride, Chirac closed the distance between them.  He straightened to his full height and looked down at Alvin.  Like a father speaking to a son who has disappointed him, Chirac placed his hands on Alvin’s shoulders. 

“You doubt.  That’s it, isn’t it?  Will it work?  You would do it if you knew for certain when you sit in Papa’s chair his spirit would inspire you, even for only the briefest of moments.  If you believed that to be true, if you knew for certain that you, too, could write the words that could make a man feel like a man, then you would not even consider the cost.  If your belief burned as bright as your obsession, you would reach into your pocket and give me your entire billfold this very moment.” 

Alvin’s left hand moved to his jacket pocket to do just that. 

“To tell stories the way that Papa did,” continued Chirac, ignoring his guest’s intention.  “Think of it— how would it feel to know that when a woman read your stories she truly felt the earth itself move beneath her feet? 

“To be strong like Papa.  How much do you want that?  How much do you need that?  How much would you pay for that?” 

“I—” began Alvin 

“Be careful, you spill wine on my carpet,” said Chirac. 

“I’m so sorry,” said Alvin. 

His hands were shaking.  He looked down. 

“No, it’s all right,” he brightened.  “It’s only on my shoe.” 

“You poor man,” said Chirac.  “Look at yourself.  Go ahead.  Walk to the mirror over there.  Tell me what you see.  Tell me if you see a man of obsession, his eyes on fire, his heart pumping strength and confidence through his veins.  Is that what you see, my friend?  Or do you see an accountant, his hands shaking because he has forgotten to bring his calculator?” 

Alvin walked over to the mirror and did not like what he saw. 

Over his left shoulder, he could see Chirac appraising him.  Chirac with his tailored gray suit and light pink shirt and a tie that could have been designed by Matisse.  Chirac with his perfectly trimmed hair black and lustrous as shoe cream.  Sideburns tapered to a wicked point matched by the slight sharpness at the apex of his ears. His moustache was tightly trimmed, his eyebrows arched as though he were always amused.  He had a forehead wide and tall enough to write on but angled back like a tilted white-board.  His skin was pale, but his eyes were dark colored and disturbing.  He was a slender, formidable and polished man.   

Alvin looked at his own reflection, at his ill-defined chin and the fold of flesh that ringed it.  A double chin.  Perhaps a triple chin.   

My posture makes me seem shorter than I am, he thought. 

“The chair,” said Chirac, “will be the bridge to bring his spirit back from the other side.  It will allow him to step out from the shadows of death and into your mind.  Not many have the courage to give over their own body to a departed spirit.  I will understand, Alvin, if the man you see reflected before you pales before the task.” 

Alvin Jester reached for his checkbook.