Dreams of the Quill

by Flak

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"Welcome, Yamano-sensei."

That’s what was written on the sign. Those three words were the only indication that this indeed was the correct place. I almost didn’t want to disturb the sign and knock on the door for fear that everything would crumble away. There I stood, alone, in the cool gray evening of a Nantucket autumn, before a large, foreboding gray shingled mansion. Everything was gray.

The road was gray, the one car that passed by me on it was gray, the scenery was gray. The grass surrounding the building was gray, the stone beneath my feet was gray, the door before me was gray. The fog hung down on me, and just passing through it on my way walking here had dampened my hair and clothes. I, too, was most likely just a blurry mass of gray, indiscernible from the air around me.

Here, where nothing stood out from anything else, where even one so unusual as I blended right into the mist, those words cut through the dreariness of what I could see. I’d finally arrived here. A place of welcome.

I shifted the weight of my duffle bag and solidified my grip on the handle of my suitcase. Running a hand through my hair to at least get it out of my eyes, I wondered how I’d look to the man who would answer the door. A homeless vagrant, most likely, perhaps some pariah at the end of his rope. I sighed, and even that, too, was gray. I’m sorry, sign. I reached out and took the knocker in my hand. This is it for you. I pulled back and then let go, a hearty clap ringing out in response. The sign, its positioning precarious to begin with, fell with a clatter to the stone steps.

I heard hurried footsteps, a kind, elderly sounding voice- "No, no, I’ll get it."

The door opened, and even as warm light from within poured out to greet me, I heard the first words the man directed my way. Those words, a tad clumsy in their pronunciation, brought three questions to mind. The first thing I wondered, to my own surprise, was whether the poor pronunciation was a matter of nervousness or incompetence. The second thing I wondered was what they meant. Then, knowing something was wrong, an immediate third: why don’t I know?

"Hajime mashite, Yamano-sensei."

I stared at him blankly for a moment, watched as his enthusiasm turned to embarrassment.

"Sorry, did I say the wrong thing?" he asked, apologetically. "I-I heard that you guys really appreciate it when foreigners try to speak your language, and I-"

"Huh?"

"Oh, don’t mind me. What am I saying? What a way to greet a guest… come in, come in, Mr. Yamano…" He stepped back from the door, holding it wide for me. Standing behind him was a graying man in a black suit- some sort of butler?

"May I take your coat, sir?" he asked. "And your bags?" I gave them up with a smile of gratitude, but I felt uncomfortable. I was not used to being waited on.

"It’s really a pleasure to meet you Mr. Yamano," the old man said again, rubbing his hands together and seemingly bubbling with joy once more, but something felt off. I wondered how long he’d fake that smile before we sorted out what had just happened, and contemplating the matter did not help the unsettling feeling I had that maybe, just maybe, I was supposed to have understood what he said.

"Kaze’s fine," I replied, inclining my head to indicate that likewise, it was a pleasure.

"Hohoho," the man chuckled. "Well then, you can call me Robert." He extended his hand. I took a look at it. I no longer took hands from other people without some consideration. There were too many hands I would never shake twice. Robert’s hand… it was an old, worn hand, but it still had life in it. Content, I grasped it firmly, trying my best to smile.

"This is an honor," I said.

"Would you care for tea?" the butler interjected.

"I’d love some tea, and you Kaze? Oh, of course you would," Robert didn’t even pause for breath. The butler strode from the room silently, and I stood there wondering why on Earth I’d never picked up on the whole tea drinking thing. "Oh, how rude of me! You must be tired! Come on, let’s go to the living room." Tired? Well, yes, but a good deal of the current wear on my mind came from this man’s busy manner. Would there ever be peace in this house?

The truth was, no matter his manner, I wasn’t even entitled to thinking that it was unbearable. He was, after all, Robert Zimmers, a billionaire who’d gotten rich by chance at nineteen when he won the lottery… and somehow made the best possible choices when it came to the investment of his comparatively meager jackpot. By twenty-three, he was already a multi-millionaire, and his wealth has only increased in the last fifty-two years of his life. Yes, I was here as the guest of a man who surely had better things to do than entertain a penniless author. He was a man who had been made great by his wealth, and he owned hundreds of companies and buildings along the East Coast. Whether he had any talent or gift was unknown and insignificant. I’d learned this myself seven years prior- in this world run by manpower and cash, an individual is meaningless unless he harnesses these two forces.

When I’d received the call to come out here to Nantucket, I’d been surprised. Everyone knew Zimmers’ name, but no one knew Zimmers. In his late thirties, having never worked a day in his life, he retreated to this old gray house and has lived here, separated from the world, ever since. However, surprise was not the only feeling that surfaced. More than that, there was hope. Perhaps someone had seen something in my writing, perhaps I was finally going to be recognized. If there was one single person whose notice meant national renown, then that one person was surely Robert Zimmers.

I had wondered all the way here what Zimmers could possibly want from me, and the first encounter on his door step left me unable to grasp exactly who he expected me to be. I scratched the back of my head, and then followed the old man across the carpeted hall and into a nice sitting room with two sofas and a coffee table. In the corner, there was a television atop a cabinet. Judging by the plug and cord running from behind it to just short of the outlet three feet away, Zimmers wasn’t exactly into watching TV. He spread his hands as I entered behind him, indicating that I might sit anywhere.

"If you want," he added, "I can bring some cushions for the floor."

I was taken aback by this comment. Cushions for the floor? When there were sofas to be had? I guess he could read my startled face, and he tried to explain.

"You know, like in your country? Seizei? Seiza?"

I blinked slowly, and tried hard not to let this new confusion show. I decided it would be best to just show my gratitude but also inform him that I’d prefer sitting on one of the two sofas. As I did, I noticed that familiar look of embarrassment on his face. It might have been my imagination, but I swore I heard him muttering, "Did I mess up?"

I took a seat and slumped back heavily into the soft fabric lining. After so much walking, this really was the best. Zimmers plopped down on the other sofa and sat facing me, his elbows on his knees and his fingers intertwined beneath his chin.

"So Kaze… how was the ride here? Isn’t the scenery simply astounding?"

He must have been trying to make small talk while we waited for the tea, but I turned that on its head immediately, without second though.

"I didn’t ride."

"Excuse me?" Zimmers asked, and it was his turn to look confused.

"I walked," I elaborated. "Taxis and all that are too expensive."

"Why didn’t you tell me?" Zimmers looked genuinely concerned. "I would have paid one for you, gladly! You must really be worn out, then!"

"I sort of am."

"Well, there’s no way you’re walking back tonight. You can spend the night here." Just as well. I didn’t have a place to walk back to. Then a realization:

"I shouldn’t impose myself on you," I said firmly.

"Well, if you don’t plan on staying the night and being here tomorrow morning, I guess I’ll have to put forth my proposal right now."

"Proposal?" I asked. What did that have to do with my decision? Hadn’t he called me here for business in the first place?

"Yes, I would like to ask that you take up residence in this house."

I stood up hurriedly.

"What? What do you mean? I-"

"I mean that in return for your services, I will pay you with room and board. Is it no good?"

"No- I mean, yes, it’s plenty good- but I can’t do that! What did I do to deserve this kindness? I barely know you, and you’re," I paused. "Mr. Zimmers, some bum like me can’t just pop up and live here, it’s impossible, none of this makes sense-"

"Shh, Kaze. What do you mean? Are you telling me the Swedish Academy has no taste? Are you telling me I’m stupid?" He didn’t sound angered, but the wrong word any time now, and he’d probably show me the door. I, on the other hand, was seething. He’d hit a sore spot.

"I never wrote for a reward," I growled, surprised that I was capable of sounding the way I did. "You know what I did with the prize money? I donated it to a charity program that sent aid to France. You know how much I care for any of this? Do you?!" My voice was already beyond raised, and I’d probably overstepped a boundary or two. Sooner or later, the butler would come in and drag me off. I kept at it. "I wrote those books for two things- the feelings I had myself, and those I shared with others. You think I care about the will of some old man with too much money? I-"

"Please, leave," Zimmers was looking up at me through tearing eyes. He was not offended, not shocked… just hurt. "Even if you’re speaking of Alfred Nobel like that… it cuts me, you know? I’m sorry, Kaze, but it looks like we can’t work together after all."

I stepped back, and my calf made contact with the sofa. I stumbled clumsily back into it. Muttering an apology, I stood again, and was about to show myself the door when a firm hand stopped me. The old butler was smiling gently as he explained to me that his employer hadn’t meant to offend me in any way.

"I understand that," I sighed. "but the effect’s the same. I’m alright, I suppose. Farewell."

"No, sir, it’s not alright. Mr. Zimmers was trying to assure you of your worth, not indicate that you care for wealth or renown. He is awed by the works you produce, your stories spellbind him. Please, sir, please consider his offer. You’re his last hope."

"There’s no way I can be that important to anyone. May I have my coat and belongings back, please?"

"Is there no way I can convince you to stay?"

"He said it himself, there’s no way we can work together. If he’s already given up, why should you try? He isn’t pursuing me and telling me to stay."

"He’s a broken man," the butler pleaded. "He’s in a lot of pain."

"We all are," I replied snappily. This man was starting to test my patience. "Look, I want my stuff back-" I was cut off by a weak cough and an even weaker voice, one I could barely recognize, issuing from the room I’d just stormed out of.

"Onegai, Kaze…"

I understood that well enough. The tone said more than the words, anyway. Please. But once more, that other language… it must be something I’d learned a few words of a ways back, it sounded so hauntingly familiar. It was mainly curiosity that made me hold my ground. And so it was, that, with that one word, Mr. Robert Zimmers convinced me to take up residence in his gray shingled Nantucket mansion.

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