The Rabbit Back Literature Society (6 page)

People were starting to wonder at the absence of the hostess.

Martti Winter assured those who asked him that Ms White would be joining them very soon. The night was still young. She had simply lost herself in writing the much-anticipated book that was to appear next fall—which according to the publisher’s press release was to be titled
The Return of Emperor Rat
.

Ah! the people sighed, casting a look of enchantment up the stairs.

It was said that
The Return of Emperor Rat
would be Laura White’s last book in the Creatureville series. Winter had asked the authoress about it a few days earlier at a party thrown by the mayor. White had smiled and said,
Martti, dear, we should never talk about what we’re writing, or our writing might turn into nothing but talk
.

One of the caterers came up to Winter and tugged on his sleeve.

“Ms White has a terrible headache,” she whispered. “Do you know where I might find something she can take for it?”

“I doubt that headache medicine will be much use for one of her migraines,” Winter said. “She should lie down in a dark room. And she shouldn’t be disturbed unless she specifically requests it.”

“But she was sitting in her office and getting ready to come downstairs just moments ago, and she is the hostess of the party, so perhaps I should take her some painkillers…”

Winter broke away and moved clumsily among the crowd, accidentally elbowing and shoving some of the guests—he was attempting out of old habit to slip through gaps that were much too narrow for his present shape.

He drank some wine for the sake of form, then ate that much more intently. As he did he was dimly aware of meeting teachers, journalists, local politicians, theatre people, members of book clubs and amateur authors who were very excited about him and his literary career.

As always in these situations, he was also approached by those who thought of him as some sort of messiah, who tried
desperately
to make an impression upon meeting the One True Writer.
They quoted aphorisms to him, recited homespun poetry, and performed lines from plays they had in desk drawers at home.

Winter strove to be the humble, grateful, polite author and take his admirers seriously, but he couldn’t stay focused on anyone for more than a moment.
Ah, you’re writing a play? Wonderful. I hope you finish it. By the way, do you think that’s sachertorte or just ordinary cake? Are the chocolate-covered almonds all gone?

A couple of times he almost ran into another Society member, but an imperceptible course correction on both sides always saved the situation.

Then he noticed Ingrid Katz.

She kept flashing into view all over the room, and Winter became nervous when he realized that there was no point in trying to escape her. Her top knot kept coming closer, slicing across the room like a shark’s fin.

Winter filled his plate and left the drawing room. He found a quiet place in a back room where he might continue
enjoying
the party.

Ingrid Katz appeared in the doorway.

“Have you seen the new demigod anywhere?” she asked.

Winter waved his cake spoon and grunted as some icing fell on his expensive necktie.

“Ella Milana? Isn’t she somewhere in the crowd? I just met her a moment ago.”

“What about Laura White? I haven’t seen her once today.”

He touched his temple. “Migraine.”

“Ouch,” Katz said.

Then she walked over to the fireplace and stooped to dig around in her bag. “Does my fellow author happen to have a match?” she asked at last.

“Your fellow author doesn’t smoke anymore,” Winter said.

“Ah. That’s something new. We’ll have to talk about that. But I should find a match so I can burn these books.”

Winter glanced at her. She had a bundle of books in her hand and a meaningful look in her eye. He didn’t feel like interpreting what it might mean, however. He took another bite of cake and smiled a little.

“Children’s book author and librarian Ingrid Katz burning books, again,” he said.

Katz clicked her tongue. “I’ve already burned four this week. You know, some people might take an interest in the whole thing.”

“True,” Winter said, “some people might.”

“But not you.”

“Well, I could, but I don’t feel like it. Everyone has their own interests. Some collect butterflies, you burn library books. Look on the mantel.”

“Why?”

“Matches. Listen, Ingrid, do you know anything about animal psychology?”

“What?”

“Dogs, to be precise.”

She snorted and started piling the books in the fireplace. Soon the fire was blazing happily.

As she left, she said with a pinch of regret, “Martti, if you were any less interested in what was happening around you, you’d be indistinguishable from a leather sofa.”

Winter enjoyed his solitude, quiet and cake, which contained a particularly well-made layer of marzipan. Then he noticed that Ella Milana had appeared in the chair beside him.

“Oh! Evening,” he said.

“Evening yourself,” Ella Milana answered.

Winter smiled encouragingly at the girl and made a note of the lovely curve of her lips. He thought that he might fit them onto the main female character of the novel he was working on, if he ever bothered to finish it.

“Exciting night. For you, anyway, I assume. Congratulations again, both for your story, and for the status it’s brought you.”

“Thanks,” Ella Milana said.

Winter continued eating his cake, supposing that she would return to join the other guests. She was beginning to make him nervous.

“Have you played any interesting games lately, Mr Winter?”

“Uh, I think the young lady is overestimating my athletic condition,” he answered. “Or are you thinking more of
something
like chess or checkers? Noble games both. Unfortunately I can never remember which piece goes where.”

Ella Milana’s expression told him immediately that she wasn’t referring to any such commonly played game, but rather to The Game.

“Ah, you mean The Game,” he said finally, reluctantly. “Who told you about it?”

He stood up slowly and with some difficulty and set his plate on an antique bureau. The girl looked at him excitedly. He turned with his side to her and wished she would go away. But instead she came closer, her dress rustling, an impudent smile on her face, veiled in strawberry-scented perfume, slightly drunk.

In his comic novel Hidden
Agendas Winter
had called such an attitude “the tenacity of a small animal”. In the same book, it was said that the only way to fight “the tenacity of a small animal” was by cultivating a well-practised “old barge” approach.

“A woman named Arne Ahlqvist mentioned it,” she said. “She welcomed me into the Society and asked if I was ready to play a couple of rounds of The Game with her, and some other nonsense. Then she saw someone she knew and left before I could ask her to explain. I asked Ingrid Katz about it, but she said that although she could answer me, I ought to ask you if I wanted a proper answer. She said you ‘take a great interest in people and the things people do’ and would be happy to initiate me into the procedures of the Society.”

Winter made an indistinct noise and then started humming to himself. He closed his eyes. Then he smiled as if he’d just remembered an amusing anecdote. He turned, wagged a finger at Ella Milana, and stiffened where he stood. For a moment it looked like he was about to tell some hilarious story.

Then he let his face darken and his finger fall and turned away, as if he’d just remembered something extremely worrisome.

His next manoeuvre would have been to walk away shaking his head, sad-faced, but Ella Milana appeared in front of him.

“My dear Mr Winter, everything you’ve written, I’ve read. I read
Hidden Agendas
twice, so I recognize the ‘old barge’ trick very well when I see it. What was it Douglas Dogson said about how to fend off ‘the tenacity of a small animal’?”

“I haven’t the faintest,” Winter said. “I don’t read my own books or think about them after I’ve written them. I’ve never learned to quote books by heart, not even my own.”

“Is that so?”

“Besides, I don’t understand people who read a book for pleasure and then ruminate on the book’s ideas. Paper was invented so we wouldn’t have to keep all those thoughts in our heads.”

“Be that as it may, the Douglas Dogson strategy isn’t going to work on me. I know your books better than you do.”

Winter shrugged. “I didn’t think it would work. I’ve never tried it in real life. It worked in the book. Listen, could we talk about this some other time? There’s so much going on, and it’s almost time for you to go and meet Laura White. It seems to me that Ms White would want to tell you herself what The Game is. She’s the one who thought it up. It’s not exactly simple. In fact we have a rule book for it. You’ll no doubt have your own copy soon.”

Ella Milana’s eyes widened. “A rule book? What kind of rule book?”

Winter took pleasure in her impatience and started to feel more warmly towards her.

He’d noticed before that people in their twenties, whenever they were with someone middle-aged, seemed to feel it necessary to find some way to point out the difference in age every five minutes or so. If they didn’t mention it outright, they managed it by means of a polite distance. Unlike others her age, however, Ella Milana seemed to think that they were both originally from the same planet and century.

Winter decided to like her.

“This kind,” he said.

He showed her his worn copy. He’d been carrying it with him for thirty years—out of mere habit these days.

“Can I look at it?” the girl breathed, groping for the book.

The palm-sized volume was covered in brown leather. The spine had small, gilded lettering that read
RABBIT BACK LITERATURE SOCIETY: GAME RULES. NOT FOR NON-MEMBERS!

“Remember, you can’t show it to anyone or talk about The Game to non-members,” Winter said. “You’ll understand why
once you’ve read the rules. The Game is a way for the Society to exchange useful information which would otherwise be difficult to obtain. There’s nothing wrong in it, but some of it might be a bit bewildering to ordinary people.”

Ella Milana looked past him, squinted and walked over to the fireplace.

“Has someone been burning books?” she asked. “It looks like there were books in here.”

This upset Winter. He didn’t want to have that bothersome conversation.

“Ask Ingrid Katz. From what I can tell, she’s keen to talk about it.”

The woman from catering appeared in the doorway, cleared her throat, shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and announced that the hostess was finally about to make an appearance.

Winter walked through the doorway into the drawing-room without waiting for Ella Milana.

The orchestra had started to play again. Conversation stopped. Expectation quickened into silence. All eyes were directed towards the top of the stairs.

Laura White was standing there.

She looked down at the expectant faces, and they looked back.