He turned around. Her mouth was turned down into an amusing inverted U U like many of the indeterminate b.u.mps that made Jacobean secretary hand so confusing. It looked like the start of another wailing session. But she continued in the same strangled voice: "I never see anyone. I haven't got a life. The only person I've talked to in years is Sidney, and he just wants to be like my like many of the indeterminate b.u.mps that made Jacobean secretary hand so confusing. It looked like the start of another wailing session. But she continued in the same strangled voice: "I never see anyone. I haven't got a life. The only person I've talked to in years is Sidney, and he just wants to be like my mentor mentor, which means mainly he gets to paw me and...."

"Sidney paws?"

"Oh, he's harmless. He thinks he's some kind of big-time rake, but all he does is take me to expensive lunches and squeeze my leg under the tablecloth and sometimes in the shop, if we make a big sale he'll grab my a.s.s and hold on for a little too long, and he'll kiss me semi-quasi-paternally on the mouth. He's the last man in New York who chews SenSens. That's the extent of my wh.o.r.edom. I need the job and the food. You're the only one I ever told this to. Talk about pathetic. I have no friends, no money, no place to live...."

"You live here."

"Illegally, as you guessed. This building is condemned for human habitation. They used to store DDT here and it's totally contaminated. The guy who owns the building thinks I just work here. He'd like to paw me too. You're the first person my own age I've been with in, I don't know...years."

Who is also dying to paw you, thought Crosetti, but said only, "Gosh, that's sad."

"Yes, pitiable. And you're decent to me and I treat you like s.h.i.+t. So typical! If you were a complete s.h.i.+thead I'd probably be slavering at your feet."

"I could try try to be a s.h.i.+thead, Carolyn. I could write away to the Famous s.h.i.+theads School and take a course." to be a s.h.i.+thead, Carolyn. I could write away to the Famous s.h.i.+theads School and take a course."

She stared at him and after a moment laughed. It was an odd barking sound not too distant from a sob. "But you hate me now, right?"

"No, I don't," said Crosetti with as much sincerity as he could cram into the phrase. He was thinking about why she should have chosen to isolate herself so. She was not a fatty, not disfigured, presentable, "cla.s.sy" as his mother had observed, no reason for someone like that to skulk in the shadows of the city. And she was, if not actually a beauty, a...what was the word? A fetching woman. When her face was together, as now, when she was not scowling or scarily vacant, she could have fetched him from Zanzibar.

"On the contrary," he added. "Really."

"No? But I've treated you so badly."

"Yes, and now I'll give you a minute to think how you're going to make it up to me." He hummed and looked at his watch, and tapped his foot.

"I know what I'll do," she said after a moment. "I will introduce you to a real real expert on Jacobean ma.n.u.scripts, one of the best in the world. I'll call him and set it up. And you can come with me on my errands and be bored stiff while I talk about split calf and marbled endpapers and then we'll go see Andrew." expert on Jacobean ma.n.u.scripts, one of the best in the world. I'll call him and set it up. And you can come with me on my errands and be bored stiff while I talk about split calf and marbled endpapers and then we'll go see Andrew."

"Andrew?"

"Yes. Andrew Bulstrode. Sidney introduced us. That was who I took that course on English ma.n.u.scripts and incunabula from."

"Does he want to feel you up too?"

"No. You, maybe."

"I can't wait."

"You'll have to, a little. I need to visit the bathroom and then I'll make the call. Why don't you wait for me downstairs?"

THE B BRACEGIRDLE L LETTER (4) (4).

Despyte his unseemlie lyfe Mr Matthews workes did prosper mightilie for he knew his art welle, better they sayde than any iron-maistre in the Weald of Suss.e.x. He had contract with the Royal Ordnance & that wase oure chief labour: makeyng of iron & casting gonnes. I was first put to loading & hauling & such donkey-taskes being as I was ignorant of all arte & if I grieved for my lost ease & tyme to studie that which I loved, still I balked not for as G.o.d speaketh: whatsoever thy hande findeth to do, do it with thy might: for there is no worke nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdome in the grave whither thou goest.

Now you can onlie caste iron from winter through springe: for in summer you have not the flow of water to werke the mills that empouwer the bellowes that maketh the blaste for the furnaces & the hammers for the forging of your bar-iron: & in summer must you bryng ironstone & charcoal & tayke away what you have mayde, before the roades myre. Soe they muste werke us like dogges in those few moneths: & in every werke we did whether hoisting pigges or carrying iron-stone & charcoales to feed the furnace, or clayeyng the mandrel, or layyng the mould, or heavinge the coolled peeces from the pitte, or knockyng off the sprues, or fileing smoothe, the maistre poynted out mee for being the moste laxe or a blockheade or clumsy withal & maney a harde blow I got from his hande or staffe, & called Sloppy d.i.c.k & Malhand d.i.c.k & other like naymes or worser. Yet I rebelled not & turned the othere cheeke, as commanded by oure Lord Jesu Christ & I vowed I would learne the worke, all though it went hard gainst my graine, so that he would have no cause for despising mee or but a little. And in the heate & smoakes of that place which wase the nearest I ever came to what we trust shalbe the fate of all sinners (& that is h.e.l.l) to my surprize I found some delight. For it wase a joy to see the blazyng iron spoute from the mouth of the furnace into the mould tossyng up sparkes like the stars in the skye & to thinke that it was, if only in littel, lyke the work of G.o.d in the makeyng of our worlde: for if I loved not the werke it self still I loved the werkes done. For these gonnes would be a sheeld against the enemies of England & the reformed religion: as all men acknowledge Englishe gonnes have no equal in the world, & oure shotte as well, soe let Spaine lament.

In this wise a year pa.s.sed & two & cometh then Ladye Day in the Yeare Three as I stoode before Maistre Matthew to get my wage he sayde well Richard think you I have used you harde? And being honeste I sayde yes Mr that you have. He laughed & sayde still you have grown two span & waxed more than a stone o' weight & no more art thou the clerkely puling thynge thou wast but a true foundry-man: for you know wee pound on iron not because wee despise it but to mayke it stronge.

After that he used me more kindly & beggan to instruct me in all the mysteries of the founders art, viz. how to tell good iron-stone, that there wase enough sh.e.l.l in it else addyng more sh.e.l.lstone & when to tap heats & controll the bellowes its ayre so that the heat did not sicken the iron & what divers heats were goode for as: the first mere pigge iron, the seconde, bar & firebacks, the third tooles, the fourth smalle gonnes, as sakers & falcons & the last alone for the greate gonnes, viz. culverines, demicannon & cannon royal, &c. Also how to prepare the mandrel with corde & clay & how to packe the mould so it cracke not nor leake & how to rigge cordes & pulleys for the liftyng of heavie weightes. Soe another yeare pa.s.sed, me growing in craft & art & size too for he sate me at his own tabel & fed me welle. Then at the ende of this yeare he shewed me how to loade & fyre the gonnes.

Hard it may be for you to understand Nan being but a woman, but when first I heard the cannones roare I wase a lost man I had a l.u.s.te beyond alle tellyng to heare it again & see the flyte of the balle, it wase a drunkenesse of pouwer & might. Soe my cozzen sees this & of his goodnesse says-and this wase nowe sommertyme of the Yeare Fyve me being aged fifteen yeares & a littel-lad, I must stay & over-see the mending of the mill-race & wheel, do you goe along with oure brace of culverines to the Tower & see them a.s.sayed by the Ordnance. I was verey eager to do so having not seen my mother & father alle this tyme, so off I went in two cartes the gonnes bedded in strawes, six oxen to each & men hyred to drive & keep, from t.i.tchfield to Portsmouth, thence by lugger to Gravesende & changed to barge up river to the Tower, me never ben on boat before now & lyked it well, nor was I sea-sick lyke some others that were aboard.

The gonnes delivered to the Tower without mishap for which I thanked G.o.d most heartilie for the moveing of two loades of 48 cwt each is no smalle thynge with the roades as they were in those daies & the drovers much given to drinke & the common perills of the sea. I repaired to Fish Street & wase welcomed with all friendlinesse bye my family who were much surprized at my mans appearance & kept me late with telling of what had befallen in the yeares since I last had seen them. But my fathere wished to uze me as he once hadde which I could hardlie stande, beinge now a man not a boy, yet I did beare it for my motheres sake & for the peece of the house & in accord with the commandment honor thy father &c. We had a new servante mayde Margaret Ames a sour canting creature if a goode Christian who for what raison I never descryed lyked me not.

Then the nexte morn earlie I made to the Tower for the a.s.saye. The officer of the Ordnance Peter Hastynges by name wase amazed at my youth as he had expected my cozzen as in times before. So both culverin were double-charged to see if they brake but thank G.o.d did not. Aftewarde I sat at mete with Mr Hastynges & some other officers, the talk very merrie but bawdy as many of the companie were cannon-maistres lately come from the Dutch warres. Such talk lyked me well for I yearned to be familiar with these artes & pressed them to answer my questions viz. how to site a gonne for best advauntage in the field, how to best aim to strake your marke, the divers sortes & qualities of poudre, how to mix & preserve it, & how to know how farre distant be your marke. This laste put them at a stande for they contended amongst them, one sayde by truste of eye another sayde nay by tryal of fire, looking close where the ball fell at everie shotte adding or taking away of poudre & also changing this according to the heate of the gonne as the day spent, for a hot gonne will throw farther of the same charge.

So I asked why they did not use the methode of triangles & sines & at this they were amazed haveing not heard aught of this beforre. Soe I drew a little picture shewing how a gonners quadrant, a square & a yard-sticke could be soe used to take the distance from one point to another far offe. They had to see & trye this methode without delay & I arranged all & tried to a distant tree & wee paced it out after & they were greately pleazed thereby how it accorded with my figures. Then a bigge heartie man Thomas Keane clapped my shoulder saying lad I would make a true gonner of you, be you ever wearie of making gonnes you can come with mee as matrosse to the warre & shoote them at Spaniardes, for a matrosse you know is a gonneres holpe. Soe I thanked hym kindlie but sayde I had no thought of warre then, how little we know Lord of youre devizynges or youre werkes.

5.

To my credit, I suppose, I did not immediately race back to the office after the two detectives left. I finished my normal routine at the gym and took a shower and had a steam before returning. In the car, I admit I was not as engaged as I usually am with Omar's conversation. Omar worries a little obsessively about our involvement in Iraq and in general about the relations between his adopted nation and the Islamic world. His experience in this city after 9/11 has not been pleasant. This particular morning, as the radio murmured the latest bad news, and Omar put in his comments, the only atrocity that engaged me was the grim fate of my late client, Bulstrode. Could he actually have found a doc.u.ment that led to an invaluable ma.n.u.script? And had someone killed him to find out where said doc.u.ment was? There followed the even less pleasant thought: torture meant a desire for information, and what information did Bulstrode have to give out but the name of the person to whom he had given his ma.n.u.script, which was me? I did not really know the man, but I did not consider for one second the possibility that when they put the pain on him he would be able to conceal the location of that fat envelope.

Again, as with the cops, the feeling of unreality, the slipping into the forms established by fiction. Shortly after I graduated from college, that being still the era of the draft, and not being the resistant type, I yielded to the inevitable and volunteered myself (virtually alone among my graduating cla.s.s I believe) as a draftee. They made me into a medic rather than an infantryman, and I ended up in the Twelfth Evac Hospital in Cu Chi, in South Vietnam. Unlike my S.S. grandfather, I was an entirely undistinguished soldier, being what was then known as a rear-area-motherf.u.c.ker, or white mouse, but I did see an ammo dump spectacularly explode after being hit by an enemy rocket, and I recall all the witnesses thereto, in order to validate the experience, repeatedly using the phrase "it was just like the movies." Thus, although life is by and large unthrilling, when we do find ourselves in the sort of situation upon which thrillers dote we cannot really experience it, because our imaginations are occupied by the familiar tropes of popular fiction. And the result of this is a kind of dull bafflement, and the sense that whatever it is cannot really really be happening. We actually think that phrase: this be happening. We actually think that phrase: this can't can't be happening to be happening to me me.

Back at the office, I obtained the safe-deposit box key from the place where Ms. Maldonado keeps it, having waited for her to be away from her desk. I retreived the Bulstrode envelope and took it back to my office. Ms. Maldonado looked at me inquiringly when I returned her key, but I did not offer to explain, nor did she ask. I said I wanted to be undisturbed until further notice and locked my office door.

I am no expert, but the papers from the envelope looked genuinely old. Of course, they would, if forgeries, but clearly someone someone believed in their validity, a.s.suming Bulstrode had been tortured to reveal their whereabouts. There were two separate series of papers, both clearly in English, although using a style of handwriting I could not easily read, except for the shortest of words. One was marked up in what looked like soft pencil. believed in their validity, a.s.suming Bulstrode had been tortured to reveal their whereabouts. There were two separate series of papers, both clearly in English, although using a style of handwriting I could not easily read, except for the shortest of words. One was marked up in what looked like soft pencil.

I put the papers into a fresh manila envelope and shredded the old one, after which I returned them to the bank. Then back to business for the rest of the afternoon. The next day, my diary tells me, I had lunch with Mickey Haas. We do, or did this, on average once a month or so, with him usually making the call, as he did this time as well. He suggested Sorrentino's near my place, and I said I would send Omar to pick him up. This is our usual practice when he comes downtown. Sorrentino's is one of a large number of nearly interchangeable Italianoid restaurants that dot the side streets of midtown on the East Side of Manhattan, and which live by serving somewhat overpriced lunches to people like me. The more prosperous denizens of this great ma.s.s of Manhattan office s.p.a.ce each have a favorite Sorrentino's; it is much like being at home, but with no domestic stress. They all smell the same, they all have a maitre d' who knows you, and what you like to eat and drink, and at lunch they all seat at least two interesting-looking women upon which the solitary middle-aged diner can rest his eyes and exercise his imagination.

Marco (the maitre d' who knows me in particular) seated me in my usual table in the right rear and brought me, unbidden, a bottle of his private rosso di Montalcino rosso di Montalcino, a bottle of San P., and a plate of anchovy bruschetta for nibbles while I waited. After about half a gla.s.s of the delicious wine, Mickey walked in. He has gained a good deal of ma.s.s over the years, as I have, although I am afraid that his consists almost entirely of fat cells. His chin has clearly doubled, where mine retains something of its former line. His hair, however, is still thick and curling, unlike mine, and his mien confident. On this occasion I recall that he appeared uncharacteristically haggard, or maybe haunted would be a better word. The skin under his eyes was bruised looking, and the eyes were bloodshot and pinched. He was not exactly twitching, but there was something wrong. I've known the man for years and he was not right.

We shook, he sat down and immediately poured himself a gla.s.s of wine, of which he drank half in one go. I asked him whether anything was wrong and he stared at me. Wrong? I just had a colleague murdered, he said, and asked me hadn't I heard and I told him I had.

Reading this over, I just decided that from now on I'm going to concoct dialogue, like journalists seem to do with impunity nowadays, because it is a pain in the a.s.s to paraphrase what people say. The fellow who invented the quotation mark was no fool; if only he had established the copyright! Thus:

I asked, "When did you hear about it?" did you hear about it?"

"My secretary called me in Austin," he said. "I'd just given my paper at the morning session, and of course, I had my cell off and as soon as I turned it on there was Karen's message. I flew back right away." He drank off his gla.s.s and poured another. "Can I have a real drink? I'm turning into an alcoholic behind this."

I gestured to Paul, our waiter, who was there in an instant. Mickey ordered a gimlet.

"And then when I got back, chaos, needless to say. The university was going ballistic, with the implication from my chairman, that a.s.shole, that somehow it was my fault for obtaining the appointment for someone of dubious moral status."

"Was he?"

Mickey flushed at this and snapped back, "The point point is that he was also one of the great Shakespeare scholars of his generation. Our generation. And his only crime was that he was duped by a swindler, which could have happened to any one of the people who now condemn him, including my f.u.c.king chairman. Do you know this story?" is that he was also one of the great Shakespeare scholars of his generation. Our generation. And his only crime was that he was duped by a swindler, which could have happened to any one of the people who now condemn him, including my f.u.c.king chairman. Do you know this story?"

I a.s.sured him that I had perused the available material on the Web.

"Right, a f.u.c.king catastrophe. But that wasn't what the police were interested in. They had the nerve to imply that he was living, how did they delicately put it? An irregular lifestyle. By which they meant to imply that he was queer, and that his being queer had something to do with his death." He drank down the remains of his gimlet. Paul floated over and asked if he wanted a refill and also presented him with a menu nearly the size of a subway billboard. He glanced at it without interest, which confirmed my earlier impression that he was seriously distraught: Mickey loves food; he loves to eat it, and talk about it, and cook it, and recall it.

"What are you having?" he asked.

"What am I having, Paul?" I inquired of the waiter. It has been years since I ordered anything off the menu here.

"Carciofialla giudia, gnocchi gnocchi alla romana, alla romana, os...o...b..co. The os...o...b..co is very good today." os...o...b..co. The os...o...b..co is very good today."

Mickey handed back the menu. "I'll have that too."

When Paul left, Mickey continued, "They had some theory he got involved in rough trade. I mean the police imagination, right? They see Brit and gay and it's some rent boy he hired to tie him up and it went too far."

"Not possible?"

"Well of course anything's anything's possible, but I happen to know that Andy had a discreet long-term relations.h.i.+p with a fellow don at Oxford. His tastes did not run that way." possible, but I happen to know that Andy had a discreet long-term relations.h.i.+p with a fellow don at Oxford. His tastes did not run that way."

"He might have changed. One never can tell."

"One can, in this case. Jake, I have known the man for over twenty years." He took a drink from his second gimlet. "I mean it'd be like finding out you you were chasing boys." were chasing boys."

"Or you," I said, and after a moment we both laughed.

He said, "Oh, G.o.d, we shouldn't be laughing. The poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Only I'm d.a.m.n glad I was a thousand miles away when it happened. The cops were looking at me with uncomfortable interest, sniffing me for the telltale signs of perverted inversion."

"The cops were Murray and Fernandez?"

He stared at me, his smile gone. "Yeah, how did you know?"

"They came to see me, to see if I could shed light."

"Why would they do that?"

"Because he was my client. He came to me with some story about a ma.n.u.script he'd turned up. I a.s.sumed that you sent him."

Mickey gaped at me. Paul appeared and laid down our Jewish artichokes. When we were alone again, Mickey leaned toward me and, with lowered voice, said, "I didn't send him. No, wait a second-he did ask me once if I knew an intellectual property lawyer and I said my best friend was one, and mentioned your name. I asked him why he was interested and he told me he'd come across some ma.n.u.scripts that might be publishable and wanted to know their status under law. And he actually came to see you?"

"Yes," I said. "He told me he had a ma.n.u.script that revealed the whereabouts of an unknown Shakespeare ma.n.u.script...." I was beginning to relate what I had told Bulstrode when Mickey swallowed a half of an artichoke heart and coughed violently and had to wash it down with San Pellegrino before he could speak.

"No, no, he had a ma.n.u.script that mentioned mentioned Shakespeare. Or so he claimed. I never saw the thing myself. Because of what happened with Pascoe, he was more than a little paranoid. He made a trip to England about that time-it was last summer-and when he came back he was, I don't know, not himself. Nervous. Irritable. He refused to talk about what he had, except that it was a completely unknown mention of William Shakespeare in a genuine contemporary ma.n.u.script. He didn't tell me where he'd found it, by the way. I bet that's some story!" Shakespeare. Or so he claimed. I never saw the thing myself. Because of what happened with Pascoe, he was more than a little paranoid. He made a trip to England about that time-it was last summer-and when he came back he was, I don't know, not himself. Nervous. Irritable. He refused to talk about what he had, except that it was a completely unknown mention of William Shakespeare in a genuine contemporary ma.n.u.script. He didn't tell me where he'd found it, by the way. I bet that's some story!"

"You mean somebody just mentioning mentioning Shakespeare in a ma.n.u.script, that would make it valuable per se?" Shakespeare in a ma.n.u.script, that would make it valuable per se?"

He stopped mopping sauce with his bread: another gape here and an incredulous laugh.

"Valuable? Christ, yes! Cosmically important. Epochally significant. I thought I explained this to you any number of times, but obviously not enough."

"Then once more, please."

Mickey cleared his throat and held his fork up like a cla.s.sroom pointer. "Okay. Aside from his work, the single greatest literary achievement by an individual human being in all of history, William Shakespeare left practically no physical trace in the world. You can just about write down everything we know for sure about him on a wallet card. He was born, christened, got married, had three kids, wrote a will, signed a few legal doc.u.ments, composed an epitaph, and died. The only physical evidence of his existence besides those records and his grave is a suspect sample of what looks like his handwriting on a ma.n.u.script of a play called The Book of Sir Thomas More The Book of Sir Thomas More. Not a single letter, or inscription, not a book with his name in it. Okay, the guy was a luminary of the London theater for nearly twenty years, so there are a whole bunch of references to him, but they're pretty thin soup. The first one is an attack on someone called 'Shake-scene' by an a.s.shole called Robert Greene, and an apology for printing it by a guy named Chettle. Francis Mere wrote a book called Palladis Tamia, Wit's Treasury Palladis Tamia, Wit's Treasury, which would have been justly forgotten except that he mentions Shakespeare as the best English dramatist. He's mentioned by William Camden, the headmaster of Westminster, and by Webster in the preface to The White Devil The White Devil, and there's a mention by Beaumont in The Knight of the Burning Pestle The Knight of the Burning Pestle. And there's a bunch of legal stuff, contracts, lawsuits, leases, plus various theater references, plus, of course, the central fact of the First Folio. His pals thought enough of him to publish all his plays in one book after he died, and name him as author. That's basically it-what is that, a couple dozen or so substantive contemporary references. And on this has been built an absolutely enormous scholars.h.i.+p, mining the plays and poems for suggestions about the man, completely speculative, of course, because we just don't know. It drives us crazy because the guy was smoke. I mean there's nothing nothing there." there."

"It was a long time ago."

"Yes, but we know s.h.i.+tloads more about Leonardo, just to name an obvious example, and he he lived a century earlier. For the sake of comparison-just one example-we have an actual letter from Edmund Spenser to Walter Raleigh explaining some of the allegories in lived a century earlier. For the sake of comparison-just one example-we have an actual letter from Edmund Spenser to Walter Raleigh explaining some of the allegories in The Faerie Queene The Faerie Queene. We know a lot lot about Ben Jonson. Michelangelo-there are nearly about Ben Jonson. Michelangelo-there are nearly five hundred five hundred of his letters surviving, notebooks, f.u.c.king of his letters surviving, notebooks, f.u.c.king menus menus, and from Shakespeare, the greatest writer writer of all time, and an important theatrical entrepreneur besides, not a single letter. And the problem is that the vacuum sucks fake stuff in. There was a vast Shakespeare forgery industry back in the eighteenth, nineteenth centuries, and there's even some today, which is how Bulstrode got caught. Not to mention the cottage industry represented by the so-called authors.h.i.+p question: we haven't got anything from him except the work, ergo someone else did the work-Southampton, Bacon, of all time, and an important theatrical entrepreneur besides, not a single letter. And the problem is that the vacuum sucks fake stuff in. There was a vast Shakespeare forgery industry back in the eighteenth, nineteenth centuries, and there's even some today, which is how Bulstrode got caught. Not to mention the cottage industry represented by the so-called authors.h.i.+p question: we haven't got anything from him except the work, ergo someone else did the work-Southampton, Bacon, extraterrestrials extraterrestrials.... I mean I can't express to you how intense the desire is to find out stuff about the son of a b.i.t.c.h. If Bulstrode actually did find a contemporary ma.n.u.script that mentions Shakespeare, especially if it contained substantive information-why it would absolutely resurrect him in the field."

When Mickey talks about his work he drops twenty years and resembles more than he usually does now the youth I met in that scabby apartment on 113th Street. I confess that I can't imagine such a transformation in my case, should I wish to expatiate on the intricacies of, say, the Digital Millennium Copyright Act. He loves his profession, and I admire him for it. And am a little envious too, I suppose. But now, as he mentioned Bulstrode, his eyes clouded. And was that moisture? It was hard to tell in the friendly gloom of the restaurant.

"Well," he resumed, "not anymore, obviously. I would have given a lot to take a look at those papers though. G.o.d knows what happened to them."

Here I thought he looked at me in a somewhat disingenuous fas.h.i.+on. All decent lawyers are close-mouthed about their clients' affairs, nor does mere death spring open their lips, but they are casual gossips compared to us IP lawyers. So I did not rise to the bait, if bait there was, but asked, "Is there something wrong?"

He said, "You mean besides Bulstrode getting killed? Isn't that enough?"

"You look like you're carrying more than that, pal," I said. "I've been noticing it the last couple of times too. You're not sick or anything?"

"No, aside from the fact that I'm fat as a hog and get no exercise, I'm a horse. Arteries like shotguns according to my doc. No, what you're observing is the physical stigmata of the current market."

Here I should mention that Mickey and I have different att.i.tudes toward investment. My pile is with a mutual fund started in 1927 that has never paid much more or much less than 7 percent per annum. Mickey calls this irresponsible conservatism, or did when the market was roaring some years ago. He is a hedge fund guy, and he used to regale me with tales of his fantastic returns; no longer. I said, "Well, you still have the industrial fasteners," at which he barked a laugh.

"Yeah, if I didn't have to share them with the two dozen cousins. My family suffers from an excess of heirs."

I sensed he wished not to pursue this subject so I said, "Speaking of which, do you know if the late professor had any heirs? I take it there were no children."

"There's a niece: Madeleine or something like that. Picture on his desk. His late sister's kid, and he doted on her. I expect she'll inherit whatever he had. Or the longtime companion."

"Has she been notified?"

"Yeah. She's coming down this week."

"From England?"

"No, from Toronto. The sister emigrated years ago, married a Canadian, had the one kid. Ah, here's our gnocchi. You know, I think I'm getting my appet.i.te back."

As we dug into the meltingly tender dumplings, I said, "So the ma.n.u.script doesn't actually lead any further-it's not a clue to something even bigger?"

Through gnocchi Mickey responded, "Bigger than a contemporary reference to Shakespeare? I can't imagine what that would be. Did he tell you that?"

"He suggested that his ma.n.u.script mentioned another ma.n.u.script actually by Shakespeare."

"Oh, right! Pure fantasy would be my guess. As I said, Andrew was utterly desperate to get back in the game. With good reason. When the will is cleared up and what's-her-name has possession, we'll take a look at it and see if it's anything. Although, given the man's desperation to recoup his career, I rather think it'll be nothing much."

We spoke no more of Bulstrode during this meal (in which Mickey actually did get his appet.i.te back and joked about the garbage they had to eat in Texas) or his mysterious ma.n.u.script, or even more mysterious demise.

As far as I recall, that is, since the above is a complete fabrication. I have eaten those dishes and drunk such wine at Sorrentino's, perhaps with Mickey Haas in attendance, and there is a Marco and a Paul, but I am in no position to attest that we ate those things on that day, many months ago. I can hardly recall what I had for lunch last Tuesday, nor can anyone else. I did garner some facts about Shakespeare, but whether on that occasion or later, I could not say. I recall that he was upset, and I recall that it was the first occasion at which I learned of the existence of that young woman. Miranda, not Madeleine, as it happens. Aside from that it is fiction, but even as I wrote it, it became the truth, because in point of fact we have virtually no real memories. We make it all up. Proust made it up, Boswell made it up, Pepys...I have actually a great deal of sympathy for the increasingly common sort of person, often one with a high position, who is caught fabricating. You mean I didn't didn't go to Harvard Med School? I did not have s.e.x with that woman.... It's not the collapse of morality (for I think there has never been truth based on memory) but rather the triumph of intellectual property, that blizzard of invented realities-artificial lives, Photoshopped photos, ghosted novels, lip-synched rock bands, fabricated reality shows, American foreign policy-through which we daily slog. Everyone, from the president on down, is a novelist now. go to Harvard Med School? I did not have s.e.x with that woman.... It's not the collapse of morality (for I think there has never been truth based on memory) but rather the triumph of intellectual property, that blizzard of invented realities-artificial lives, Photoshopped photos, ghosted novels, lip-synched rock bands, fabricated reality shows, American foreign policy-through which we daily slog. Everyone, from the president on down, is a novelist now.

I suppose we can blame Shakespeare himself for starting it, because he made up people who were more more real, though false, than the people one knew. d.i.c.k Bracegirdle understood this, which was why he set out to smash Shakespeare and all his works. I took a history course at Columbia-Haas will recall it too, because I took it on his recommendation-a man named Charlton taught it. It was English medieval history, and although I have expunged the Domesday Book and all the kings and queens from my mind, I recall very well his take on history in general. He said there are three kinds of history. The first is what really happened, and that is forever lost. The second is what most people thought happened, and we can recover that with a.s.siduous effort. The third is what the people in power wanted the future to think happened, and that is 90 percent of the history in books. real, though false, than the people one knew. d.i.c.k Bracegirdle understood this, which was why he set out to smash Shakespeare and all his works. I took a history course at Columbia-Haas will recall it too, because I took it on his recommendation-a man named Charlton taught it. It was English medieval history, and although I have expunged the Domesday Book and all the kings and queens from my mind, I recall very well his take on history in general. He said there are three kinds of history. The first is what really happened, and that is forever lost. The second is what most people thought happened, and we can recover that with a.s.siduous effort. The third is what the people in power wanted the future to think happened, and that is 90 percent of the history in books.