Mammoth Book of Best New Horror (53 page)

    Since he was staying in an apartment belonging to friends, Armstrong paid little attention to the telephone, as he knew he'd just be taking messages for his absent hosts. Anything desperately important that needed to be passed on to them would be left on the answering machine. When he got around to checking it, there were three messages, two for Enrique and Maria, and one for him. It was left by Juan San Isidro.

    
"Oye, que onda?
Man, don't fuck me over. Have you read
los cuentos?
I think not. Otherwise you'd be chasing my ass like a
puto.
You don't leave Mexico until I hear from you,
te queda claro?"

    Despite his reluctance, Armstrong didn't see any alternative but to look the stories over. He took them out onto the little balcony overlooking the
privada
in which the apartment was situated. It was pleasantly warm outside in the evening, being October, and since the only traffic passing below consisted of pedestrians it was easy to concentrate. He sat down on the chair he'd moved out there, put the papers that he'd retrieved from his suitcase on his lap, and looked them over.

    San Isidro had given him four stories, the longest of which was the third at around 40,000 words.

    Armstrong had seen this type of story on dozens of occasions in the past, usually sent for his consideration by "fan authors" who were obsessed with the life and works of H. P. Lovecraft. Most of these pastiches contained long lists of cliched forbidden books and names of unpronounceable entities to be incorporated into the so-called "Cthulhu Mythos". As he turned the pages of the first of Lopez's tales though, he was surprised to discover that they did not also contain the other feature associated with Lovecraft fan pastiches -there were no obvious grammatical, spelling or common textual errors. The work had already been gone over by an author with a keen eye for copy-editing.

    Additionally, it had to be the case that Felipe Lopez was fluent in English to the degree of being able to pass completely for a native. The text contained no trace of any Spanish language idioms indicating his Mexican nationality. Indeed, Lopez even favoured the British spelling of certain words, rather than that used in the United States, in exactly the same fashion as Lovecraft himself had done.

    Despite his disdain for pastiche, Armstrong kept reading. Eventually, to his surprise, he found that Lopez's mimetic skills were so expert that he could almost believe that he was reading a previously undiscovered work written by Lovecraft himself. The story had the exact same sense of nightmarish authenticity as the best of the Providence author's tales. By the time he'd finished reading the first story, Armstrong was in a state of dazed wonder. Of course he realized, on a professional level, that the thing had no commercial potential. It smacked far too much of an in-joke, or a hoax, but it was nevertheless profoundly impressive in its own right.

    He began to wonder what this Lopez person might be able to achieve were he to wean himself from the Lovecraft influence and produce fiction utilizing a distinct authorial voice. It might result in another modern-day writer of the order of Thomas Ligotti.

    Armstrong was dimly aware of the telephone ringing in the background. He ignored the sound, allowing the answering machine to deal with whoever it was. He supposed that it could be San Isidro again and that it might have been better to pick up, but he was too eager to discover whether the story he'd just read was a fluke or not. Since the mosquitoes were now busy in the night air, he took the manuscripts inside and carried on reading.

***

    Whoever had left the weird message on Enrique and Maria's answering machine was obviously some crank, thought Armstrong. He played it back again the morning after it was recorded.

    There was click on the line and the sound of unintelligible voices conferring amongst themselves and then a jarring, discordant muttering in English. The voice had a Mexican accent but was unknown to Armstrong. It said,
"He belongs to us. His products belong to us. No one will take him from us."

    That was all.

    After listening to the message one more time, Armstrong wondered if it were not simply San Isidro playing a joke on him, pretending to be another rival party involved with the works of Felipe Lopez. Perhaps he thought the idea of some competition might spur Armstrong to a quick decision. If so, it was an unnecessary ploy.

    After having read the second of Lopez's tales he was convinced that the author had unmatched imagination and ability, despite being almost ruinously handicapped by his slavish mimicry of Love-craft's style and themes. However, there was more than enough pure genius in there to convince Armstrong to take the matter further. If he could meet with Lopez in person, he was determined to press upon him the necessity of a last revision of the texts - one that removed entirely the Cthulhu Mythos elements and replaced the florid, adjective-ridden prose with a minimalist approach.

    When he telephoned Juan San Isidro it was no surprise that the poet-turned-agent was deeply suspicious about Armstrong's insistence that he must meet Lopez alone.

    "You want to cut me out of the deal,
estds loco!
Forget it, man. Now you know
que es un maestro, lo quieres todo para ti."

    "I only want to suggest a few changes to the texts, Juan. Nothing sinister in that, really. You'll get your commission, I'll not cheat you, believe me."

    Their conversation went round in circles for ten minutes before Armstrong eventually convinced San Isidro that he had no underhand motive with regards to Lopez's work. Even so, Armstrong realized that there was something more going on between the two of them than the usual protective relationship between an agent and his client. Nevertheless, he successfully elicited a promise from San Isidro that he would ensure Lopez met with him alone in the Cafe la Habana on La Calle de Bucareli at 2:00 p.m. that same afternoon.

    The Cafe la Habana was a haunt for distinguished old men who came to play chess, smoke their pipes or cigars and spend the better part of the afternoon dreaming over coffee or beer. It had a high ceiling and was decorated with framed photographs of Havana from the time before Castro's revolution. Many Communist exiles from Batista Cuba came here, having fled persecution, and its fame dated from that period. The number of exiles had dwindled as the years passed, but it still had a reputation amongst all those who championed leftist defiance. The place had a long pedigree, having been a favourite meeting place, in even earlier decades, of those Spanish Republican refugees who'd settled in D. F. after escaping the wrath of General Franco's regime.

    Armstrong sat in a corner, lingering over a glass of tequila with lime, when Lopez walked in. He was half an hour late. His lean form was framed in the doorway by the brilliant sunshine outside. Lopez cast his glance around the place before spotting Armstrong and making for the table at which he sat.

    Lopez had changed his dark grey suit for a cream-coloured one, and this time he was wearing a matching Panama hat. He gave a nod of recognition towards Armstrong as he approached.

    Before he sat down he shook Armstrong's hand and apologised in English. "I hope that you will excuse my tardiness Mr Armstrong, but the truth is that I was distracted by a particularly fascinating example of eighteenth-century colonial architecture whilst making my way over here."

    Armstrong did not reply at once. He was taken aback by Lopez's accent. Unless he was mistaken, it was pure, authentic New England Yankee. There was not a trace of Mexican in it.

    "No need to apologise," Armstrong finally said, "can I get you a drink; some beer or tequila perhaps?"

    "Thank you but no. I never partake of alcoholic beverages, even for the purposes of refreshment. However, a cup of coffee, perhaps a double espresso, would be most welcome."

    Armstrong ordered Lopez's coffee and asked for another tequila with lime to be brought to their table.

    "I liked your tales very much, it was quite an experience reading through them I can tell you. Of course they're overly derivative, but I imagine that you could easily tone down all the Lovecraftian elements…"

    "I'm afraid, Mr Armstrong," Lopez said, with a chill tone entering his voice, "that alterations of any sort are completely out of the question. The stories must be printed as written, down to the last detail, otherwise this conversation is simply a waste of my time and your own."

    The drinks arrived. Lopez calmly began to shovel spoonful after spoonful of sugar into his cup, turning the coffee into treacly, caffeine-rich syrup. Armstrong looked at him incredulously. Now he understood what was going on. San Isidro was definitely having a joke at his expense. He must have coached this Lopez character, telling him all about H. P. Lovecraft's mannerisms and… to what end?

    "Why are you persisting with this absurd Lovecraft impersonation?" Armstrong blurted out, "It's ridiculous. San Isidro put you up to it I suppose. But what I can't figure out is why, so let me in on the joke."

    Lopez looked up from his coffee and his eyes were deadly serious. And here it comes, boy and girls, thought Armstrong; here comes the line we've all been waiting for:

    
This is no joke Mr Armstrong, far from it, for I am in reality Howard Phillips Lovecraft of Providence, Rhode Island.

    "Surely the only rational answer has already suggested itself," Lopez replied, very calmly and without any melodrama, "you are in fact sitting across the table from a certifiable lunatic."

    Armstrong leaned back in his seat and very carefully considered the man opposite. His manner betrayed no sign of humour and he spoke as if what he'd suggested was an established truism.

    "Then despite your behaviour, you know that you're not really Lovecraft?" Armstrong said.

    "Howard Phillips Lovecraft died in agony on the morning of Monday 15 March 1937 in Providence's Jane Brown Memorial Hospital. I cannot be him. However, since Tuesday 15 March 2003, I have been subject to a delusion whereby the identity of Lovecraft completely supplanted my own. I currently have no memories whatsoever of having once been Felipe Lopez of Mexico City. His family and friends are complete strangers to me. Meanwhile everyone Lovecraft knew is dead. I have become an outsider in this country and in this time. Unless one accepts the existence of the supernatural, which I emphatically do not, then only the explanation I have advanced has any credence."

    Armstrong was taken aback by these remarks. This was like no madman he'd heard of - one who was not only able to recognize his derangement, but who also was totally a slave to it. It was more like some bizarre variant of a multiple personality disorder.

    "What did the doctors here have to say?" Armstrong asked.

    "They did their best, but with no appreciable effect, let alone any amelioration, upon my malady. They tended to agree with my analysis of the situation." Lopez said, after taking a sip of his coffee.

    "What about Lopez before this happened? Did he have any interest in Lovecraft prior to your - umm - alteration? I can't believe something like that would come out of nowhere."

    It was annoying, but Armstrong found himself questioning Lopez as if he were actually addressing Lovecraft inhabiting another body.

    "Quite so. I have discovered that Lopez was a fanatical devotee of Lovecraft's life and work. Moreover, he was one of that rather contemptible breed of freaks who adhere to the outlandish belief that, rather than writing fiction, Lovecraft had unconscious access to ultra-mundane dimensions. The group to which he belonged, who styled themselves "The Sodality of the Black Sun", advocated the piteous theory that Lovecraft was an occult prophet instead of a mere scribbler. This indicates to me a brain already on the brink of a potential collapse into total chaos. You see before you the inevitable consequence."

    There are a lot of sad crazies out there, thought Armstrong, who believe in nothing except the power of their own imaginations to create whatever they want to create from a supposedly malleable reality. A whole bunch of them had doubtless fastened upon Love-craft's mythos for inspiration, but he doubted that any others had wound up like Felipe Lopez.

    "Well," Armstrong said, "I don't know what to make of all this. But surely one consideration has occurred to you already? If you really were Lovecraft, you'd know certain things that only he could possibly have known."

    "An ingenious point," said Lopez, "but with all his contemporaries in the grave, how then to verify that information? Mr Armstrong, I must remind you that the idea of Lovecraft's consciousness not only surviving the death of his physical form, but also transferring itself to another body, is patently ridiculous. I make no such claim."

    Lopez stared at him wordlessly and then, having finished the dregs of his coffee, got up and left.

    When Armstrong arrived back at Enrique and Maria's apartment, he found the door already ajar. Someone had broken in, forcing their entrance with a crowbar or similar tool judging by the splintered wound in the side of the door's frame. He was relieved to find that the intruders had not torn the place apart and seemed to have scarcely disturbed anything. When he examined his own room however, he noted at once that the Lopez manuscripts were missing.