The Message

The receptionist told him he was two hours early for his meeting.

“If you’re looking for something to do while you’re waiting,” she added, “I can recommend a museum that’s nearby.”

Donal half-listened, too busy thinking about the message on his voicemail. His name had been suggested for a new ad campaign. They liked what they’d seen of his work, and wanted to meet him. He’d gotten the address right, but must have misheard the time.

Donal Lysaght: freelance copywriter, author of promotional bumf, leaflets and brochures. Tedious stuff that paid the bills. Speculative fiction was his true calling—where the familiar intersected the strange, and the incredible could be found in the ordinary. Instead of exploring his imagination, he churned out banal sales pap.

He had two hours to kill in a part of town he didn’t know. He left the building, and stopped, his neck muscles tensed. Someone was watching him. He had had the same sense earlier, but now it was much stronger. He turned around. There was nobody there, or no one he could see. A sign on a lamp-post read: Art Museum Next Left. The receptionist had mentioned something about a museum.

A second sign directed him to a three-storey building, the paintwork cracked and peeling. There was no name above the door or anything to suggest it was an art museum. The entrance led into a small foyer dominated by a painting of a bearded man in a tweed suit, two wolfhounds at his feet. Donal read the inscription: Sir Hugo Drouet, founder of the museum, and his beloved hunting dogs.

A thin woman with grey, spikey hair stood behind a counter. She handed him a visitor’s guide.

“The exhibits are through there,” she said, pointing to Donal’s left.

He entered the first room. Smallish squares hung on the walls; non-figurative panels. A philistine might have said a four-year-old could do better, but Donal was no philistine. He appreciated the artistic vision in all its forms.

Here were recognised artists, their creativity chosen for display. What had he to show? Three stories in obscure e-zines that garnered faint praise from a few editors and nothing from readers. Then there were the rejections. We’re going to pass on this. It’s not the right fit. While we enjoyed reading your story, it’s not for us. It’s not quite what we’re looking for.

He stopped at one of the abstractions, smudged grey with a thin red diagonal line. The entry in the guide read: View from the Bridge: CG, 1951-2008. How strange, he thought—only the artist’s initials were given.

The adjoining room contained work by a single painter. He paused to read the guide.

The artist, WV, was a troubled soul who hanged himself, aged thirty-four. WV tried to capture the effect produced by pinching both eyes between thumb and index finger. The light that is seen though no light enters the eye, what WV termed the memory of light. He represented this as an excess of black cut through with daubs and dribbles of white. From repeatedly squeezing his eyes, WV damaged his sight. His condition worsened, an extreme blephorspasm that forced his eyes permanently shut so he could no longer see to paint. This brought to an end his depiction of light without light. WV put a noose around his neck and shut out the light for good.

Donal inspected the monochrome paintings, searching for meaning and puzzled by the dismissive commentary in the guide. He continued, entering other rooms, taking his time over portraits with lollipop heads, misshapen and angular bodies, smeared and fragmented images. Larger rooms housed installations. Papier-mâché cubes and oblongs, murals with strobe lighting and dialogue playing on tape recorders, interspersed with cries and screams. Hanging breezeblocks. Mounds of grass and ugly weeds. A child’s paddling pool filled with razor blades.

The few visitors he passed looked away. It was a strange collection, off-kilter in a way that appealed to Donal.

Another room contained work by an artist whose name was given in full—Max Plunkett, born in 1949. A single painting commanded one wall: Picture of Winifred. A striking portrait of a young woman; alluring smile, jet black hair lying in ringlets on her shoulders. Close up, every blemish, every pore in her skin was revealed in magnified photographic detail. Donal moved closer to examine the crusty mucus in the corner of one eye, each flake of rheum painstakingly rendered.

Two smaller canvases, layers of sombre colours with grainy splotches, were titled Picture of Gwyneth and Picture of Isobel. Donal checked the guide.

Portraits by the young Plunkett were lauded for their attention to detail. The artist renounced this work as mere copying, with no creative merit. Instead, he paid more attention to the background than the sitter. In subsequent work, the figure was absent, painted over with background. Plunkett claimed he imbued the background with the spirit of the subject. Gwyneth and Isobel were understandably outraged when they saw themselves represented by muddy greys and browns. Plunkett soon returned to realism, producing portraits that flattered the subject.

At the end of a corridor, Donal came to a digital sign with scrolling text: New Acquisition Straight Ahead. A table under the sign was piled with envelopes and a notice that read: Please take one. Donal put an envelope in his pocket, intending to check what it contained once he’d viewed the ‘new acquisition’.

A sequence of arrows on the floor took him through an archway and into a room illuminated by light from a screen. He sat on a bench.

A black and white film was playing. A man appeared—clean cut, hair short and parted on one side. He wore a pale suit, thin dark tie, trousers tight at the ankles. Looking left and right, he walked down a street with houses on both sides. There was the sound of footsteps. The camera lost focus, then picked out arbitrary views. The gable end of a factory. A close-up of the underside of a bridge. An Indian take-away with an ambulance parked outside. A laundromat, someone seated at the window. Another street with different houses. In the distance, a figure approaching. Coming closer, footsteps louder. Closer, right up to the screen. The man in the pale suit.

A change of view, the camera trained on a house with a small garden. The man in the pale suit unlocked the front door. A shift to the interior. He placed a briefcase on a table, opened it with a loud click and took out some pages. He left the room and returned with an envelope, folded one of the pages and put it in the envelope.

The screen went cloudy. The noise of traffic, tyre on tarmac. Then, the view of a street corner. The man in the pale suit appeared and walked towards a building. Donal recognised the front of the museum.

Black screen, white letters appearing, one by one: The Message, a film by Sidney Katz.

The screen turned bright again. The same man with his neat haircut and pale suit going down a street. The sound of footsteps. The film ran in a loop. Donal stood up and searched for the exit. How long had he been there? He would be late for his meeting.

He arrived, sweating and out of breath. The client apologised profusely, but the meeting had to be postponed. Some confusion over missing documents and conflicting deadlines. They agreed to reschedule it for the following week. Before Donal left, the client handed him a business card.

Out on the street, he watched the traffic whoosh past. Another wasted day, chasing unfulfilling work to eke out a living. How he longed for the freedom and peace of mind to write, and release his imagination. Some evenings, he would open one of his stories on the computer and read passages. A sentence or phrase brought a rush of enthusiasm, the words singing in his ear.

The sky clouded over and an easterly wind nipped his cheeks. He buttoned his coat and felt something in his pocket—the envelope he had taken from that room. In his panic to make the meeting, he had forgotten about it. He opened the envelope and removed a page bearing a single typed sentence.

Leave this message behind The Collected Stories of Jorge Luis Borges on the second floor of the George Street Public Library.

He folded the page and put it back in the envelope. The library was on his way home. He would do it—out of frustration, the need to do something, however irrational. He didn’t want to be rational. But it was also the name, Borges, an author Donal admired, a writer of fantastical tales.

Two kids playing with their phones blocked the entrance to the library. Donal glared at them, but they took no notice. He went up the stairs to the second floor, then along the bookcases, past Joyce and Grabiński, past Dostoevsky and Bradbury. He spotted the Borges book, pulled it out and placed the envelope against the back wall. Before returning the book, he leafed through the pages and wondered what it would be like seeing his work in a library or a bookshop. The Collected Stories of Donal Lysaght. He scanned the books on the shelves, and imagined his book among them.

 

The following day, he worked on advertising copy for water filters. It was a referral from an earlier job, promoting photocopiers and office supplies. He drafted and redrafted slogans to best convey the client’s mission to personalise customers’ needs and sell filters.

Water that tastes the way water should taste. Don’t you deserve purity?

He thought about the film. The man in the suit, putting a page in an envelope, then going to the museum. It bothered Donal, the way he’d followed the instruction so blindly. Perhaps there had been something on the page that he missed, a possible explanation.

He returned to the library. The envelope wasn’t there. He pulled out other books but there was no sign of the envelope. He tried the Information desk.

“I left it behind the Borges short stories,” he said.

The librarian, red-cheeked and spectacles hanging from a chain, had no idea what he was talking about. Donal didn’t want to create a scene, and left.

He decided to go back to the museum—a quick visit before the rescheduled meeting.

 

Sir Hugo Drouet and his dogs were there to greet him. The spiky-haired woman handed him the visitor’s guide. He walked past the abstract panels without a second look and through the room with the blind suicide’s paintings. Rushing past one installation, he almost knocked over some bowls of rice arranged in a row. He slowed down and looked around. It was then he realised the museum didn’t have any guards. He checked the guide; the commentary read as he remembered, critical and disparaging. Paintings were lifeless. Installations lacked structure. One artist had no discipline or feeling for line or form, another had some ability but was misguided.

The digital sign still directed visitors to a new acquisition but there was no table with envelopes. In the screening room he watched images flick on and off, not the same sequence as the week before. A view down a street with parked cars. Then, the front of the museum. The sound of footsteps, growing louder. A figure came into view. The camera zoomed in. Donal’s face filled the screen.

A shift in perspective, Donal walking away from the camera. Two kids standing in the entrance to the library. Then, a view of bookshelves framing a narrow walkway. Donal bending down, taking a book from the shelf. The Collected Stories of Jorge Luis Borges. A close-up of his face, his yearning to see his own book on those shelves captured and magnified on the screen.

White words against a black background: The Message, a film by Sidney Katz. The room hummed in the eerie light.

He returned to the foyer. The spiky-haired woman waited behind the counter.

“What do you think you’re playing at?”

She looked up from her display of guides. “How can I help you?”

“What’s the meaning of that film? Who is responsible?”

She frowned and handed him a guide, which he pushed away.

“Who made that film? Who is Sidney Katz?”

“Everything is explained in the guide.”

Outside, he checked the entrance and adjoining buildings, lamp-posts and the buildings across the street. Nothing anywhere that looked like a camera. Surely it was against the law, an infringement of his privacy. Somehow Donal had known, his instinct had told him he was being watched.

He walked away from the museum, in no particular direction. The feeling of being watched wouldn’t go away. He crossed a street and went under a bridge, passing shops and parked cars. His thoughts chaotic, one ambiguity after another unravelled in his brain. He sidestepped shoppers and tripped on loose paving. A man in a suit inspected the menu outside a restaurant.

The meeting—it had slipped his mind, and it was too late to show up now.

 

Donal lay awake that night, replaying scenes from the film. In the morning, his face appeared gaunt in the bathroom mirror.

Not able to write another word about water filters, he googled the name, Sidney Katz. The first entry was a Wikipedia page for Sid Katz. Born in Philadelphia, son of Ukrainian immigrants, educated at Temple University. An actor, typecast as a heavy in TV westerns. A history of depression. Katz had died in 1962 after jumping from a bridge in San Diego. That ruled him out.

Another entry, Sidney B. Katz, Cook County Illinois, designer of hoods worn by prisoners in solitary confinement. The page included sinister images of calico head covers with square eye-holes.

Donal clicked on different links. Katz Deli, the best kielbasa sausage in Brooklyn. Katz Plumbing, call the best and flush the rest. Katz Music in Marylebone for rare classical recordings.

Hundreds of other entries, an impossible search, but Donal needed answers.

That afternoon, he watched the museum from across the street. He couldn’t face going inside. No one entered or left. Ten minutes, thirty minutes, an hour passed. Finally, a heavyset man in a sheepskin coat came out and made his way to a car parked near the entrance. Donal crossed the road in a running walk to intercept him.

“Excuse me,” he called, “can I ask what you were doing in there?”

The man fumbled with his keys, almost dropping them in his rush to open the car door. He kept his face averted, lunged into the seat and started the engine. Donal watched the car speed away.

Over the next hour, he accosted a younger man and an elderly couple leaving the building, but they refused to answer his questions. This wasn’t getting him anywhere.

He found a pub nearby where he could plan his next move. Four o’clock, the bar was empty. Was he being filmed at this moment? The barman paid him no heed as he stacked glasses on the shelves.

Searching his pockets for a pen and paper, Donal pulled out a card. It had an embossed logo, a quill and inkpot with the words, Realising your Ambition. In the corner, a name: Sidney Katz.

The client had given him the card when they rescheduled the meeting. Why hadn’t he noticed the name before? Donal tried to remember what the client looked like. He’d worn a suit, but all the clients wore suits. Hair, yes, he had hair, short and parted at one side. Tallish, no glasses. That described the man from the first film. Was that whom he’d met? Donal turned over the card. Printed on the back was a telephone number.

He made the call when he got home. The telephone was answered on the first ring.

“Who is Sidney Katz?” Donal asked.

His question was met with silence.

“Why did you make that film?”

“It’s better we discuss this in person,” came the reply. “We will contact you.”

Donal started to give his number.

“We have your details.”

 

A week passed. Donal stayed in his flat, only going out for food. He put in some desultory work on the water filter brochure.

At last, he received a text, setting up a meeting at an address in the business district.

He arrived on time and recognised the receptionist as the attendant from the museum. Gone were the grey spikes, her hair now coiffed and hennaed. She acted as though she had never seen him before, and took his name.

In the waiting room, Donal checked for anything that might be a camera. What was he doing there? What did he hope to achieve? He had no answers—helpless, not deciding his own actions, like a character in a story following a script. Donal had crossed an invisible line, watching events unfold and being watched.

The receptionist brought him into an office with bare white walls. A man sat behind a desk: pale suit, narrow lapels and thin dark tie. His hair was parted on one side.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Lysaght?”

“You seem to know a lot about me, but I know nothing about you.”

“I serve the interests of the Drouet Organisation.”

Donal knew that name. Sir Hugo, the painting with the wolfhounds.

“Are you Sidney Katz?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“I don’t want any of this, and I don’t want to be part of that film.”

“You mean The Message?”

“I want to be removed from it.”

“It’s not quite that simple.” Katz leaned back in his chair.

“You’ve done this without my approval. It’s unacceptable. It has to be illegal. I demand the film be destroyed.”

“There are cameras everywhere,” Katz said. “Video surveillance is part of modern life. Why does it bother you so much?”

“I refuse to be used like this.”

Katz pursed his lips.

“What do you want from me?”

“You shouldn’t upset yourself. Let’s forget the film for now. The important thing is that we have your attention.”

“What do you want?”

“You feel undermined and undervalued. We understand your plight.” Katz brushed some fluff from his sleeve. “You wish to be a writer and have your writing acknowledged as unique, compelling, and thought provoking. Your work has come to our attention and we see a great deal of promise.” Katz paused. “We can provide you with an admiring readership. Work with us and realise your ambition. A mutually beneficial collaboration. All that’s required is your cooperation. Only then can the film be removed and no others shown.” Katz leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk. “We are here to help you, Mr. Lysaght. Rest assured, you’re not alone.”

Donal took the lift to the ground floor, and dawdled at the entrance, going over everything Katz had said. An admiring readership. Collaboration and cooperation. The film, and not just one film—Katz had implied there were more.

He didn’t notice the woman until she stood in front of him. Middle-aged, tousled black hair flecked with grey, her face seemed familiar but he couldn’t place it.

“I must speak to you.” She turned abruptly as though hearing an unexpected sound. “But not here, follow me.”

She crossed the road and went down a side street, Donal two steps behind her. They entered a park and continued along a path, past a fountain and play area with swings. She sat on a bench by a pond, hands plunged deep in the pockets of her raincoat. Donal sat beside her.

“Who did you meet in that building?” she asked.

“A man named Sidney Katz.”

“Did he mention my husband?”

Her questions had an urgency that didn’t give Donal time to think.

“I don’t know your husband.”

“He’s an artist, Max Plunkett.”

Now Donal recognised her; when Plunkett had painted her she was much younger.

“You’re Winifred.”

She turned to face him. “Have we met before?”

“I’ve seen your portrait.”

She looked away, a nervous tic causing her mouth to twitch. “What do you know about that collection?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“It’s a vile purgatory. Don’t do what my husband did. They destroyed him.” She shifted in her seat. “They killed Willie Vine.”

“What do you mean, killed?”

“The poor man took his own life but they were responsible. He went blind because of them.”

Donal recalled the painting, the memory of light. “Willie Vine, you mean WV.”

“The artists who refuse to compromise are reduced to initials. They’re only given the skeleton of an identity, and their work is mocked. The collection is a punishment and a warning to others. The ones who cooperate are rewarded with success. Their work doesn’t appear there.” She took her hand from her pocket and squeezed his arm. “You must have nothing to do with them.”

Confused and moved by Winifred’s earnest warning, all Donal had were questions. “Why me? How did they find me?”

“Are you an artist?”

The question made him uncomfortable, but Katz must have read his e-zine stories. “I write.”

“My husband surrendered and it wasn’t enough. They gave him back his name but he’s still paying the price.”

Donal remembered the room dedicated to Plunkett’s work. “His paintings are on display.”

“It’s not an art gallery. I told you, the collection is a punishment. They own everything and control the artists. It’s too difficult to explain here.”

“Who’s behind this?” He moved closer, their legs touching. “What are they looking for?”

“They pander to popular taste, exploiting talented artists to give the public what it wants.” She raised her hand to brush away some stray hair. “They abort art that is difficult and uncomfortable. The public doesn’t want to be threatened or feel insecure. They punish any defiance. The artists who don’t compromise are destroyed.”

Donal struggled for a response, not wanting to appear incredulous. She turned, suddenly, and he followed her gaze. A man stood on the other side of the pond, dark suit, trousers tight at the ankles.

“I must go,” she whispered.

He watched her rush away. The man in the suit followed her out of the park.

Donal remained sitting. Everything Winifred had said seemed far-fetched, but he wanted to believe her. All that effort, the film, the meetings, and the message just to get his attention. It meant someone saw something in what he wrote. There was Katz’ threat, but was it really a threat and not a ploy? Part of the negotiation—unconventional, but so much the better.

Katz had offered him readers. What was the good of writing that went unread? Every writer wanted a reader. If you wanted one, why not ten or a hundred or a thousand?

A collaboration, Katz had said. Donal came to a decision. No more brochures selling water filters and no more excuses. He would write a story about an unfulfilled protagonist, his visit to an art museum and what he found there. A story to disturb and disorientate. He would give it to Katz to read. A test, not a compromise.

Donal refused to compromise.

 

Three months later, he sat across from Katz in his office.

“Much more work is required to knock this into shape.”

Katz shook his head at the pages, which were covered in red ink with comments and question marks. Words, lines, entire paragraphs crossed out. The sixth draft, and Katz still demanded wholescale changes.

“The reader doesn’t like being told everything. Show more and tell less.”

He leafed through the pages before pushing them across the table to Donal.

“One more iteration.” Katz smiled.

Donal straightened the pages. Katz had given him the space to write and provided an advance to cover his bills. He had a dedicated reader now, but Katz was never satisfied. Days spent writing, deleting, revising, weighing each word, striving to convey an authentic sense of alienation. In return, inflexible criticism. Katz saw everything in the simplest terms, with no appreciation of contradiction or absurdity or nuance. He seemed to take pleasure in finding fault.

“Have you visited the Drouet Collection recently?”

Katz was referring to the latest acquisition. The film showing Donal walking down different streets, past shops and houses and under bridges. Donal sitting at a computer, his words on the screen, the cursor stationary. Then, a view of Katz from behind, reading pages of text, crossing out lines, shaking his head and sighing loudly. In the final scene, the camera panned from shelves lined with books to Donal, staring at the pages.

“Are the films necessary?”

“I’m afraid so, but we still recognise your potential.” Katz examined his fingernails, in no apparent hurry. Normally he ended the meeting once he returned his corrections.

“Potential based on three e-zine pieces?” It was the first time Donal had mentioned his stories.

“Not those.” Katz waved his hand. “What really impressed us was your commercial work. Anyone who can bring to life something as lifeless as photocopiers and stationery has talent worth investing in.”

Donal felt his guts shrivel at this casual disregard—his stories had meant nothing to Katz.

“What you call speculative fiction is just reporting life as it is. All that stuff about disquiet and hidden threats. It’s indulgent. What’s more, it’s lazy. Those brochures, now there we could see your powers of imagination.” Katz tapped the desk for emphasis. “Where’s the creativity in your stories? There’s nothing to grip the reader and raise him from the humdrum of his daily routine. No, it certainly wasn’t those e-zine pieces.”

Katz laughed. Donal had never heard him laugh before.

“Getting people to buy paperclips requires true creativity. Why waste your talent writing about what is? Write about what could be. Utilise your imagination. Don’t limit yourself to drab brown and grey. Turn to fantasy. The sky’s the limit with fantasy, a bigger palette to explore greater themes.” Katz brought his fingertips together in a steeple. “What’s more, the potential in terms of readership is enormous. Feed the readers’ hunger for exotic worlds, heroes and villains, good overcoming evil. Do that and you’ll find an appreciative readership.”

Katz opened a notebook and began writing.

“I believe we’ve made real progress today. Do you know what I suggest?” Katz didn’t wait for a reply. “A deadline for your first novel—nothing too pressing, say six months. Now you know what’s needed. Less indulgence and more adventure. I will look into preparing a contract. One that protects both our interests. How does that sound?”

Donal looked down at the pages covered in red ink. He thought of Willie Vine and Max Plunkett and Winifred.

“It’s time to unleash your creativity. Your audience is out there, waiting for you. All we ask is your cooperation. If you choose not to cooperate, The Message must continue.”

Audience, the word danced in Donal’s head. But he was driven to write even if no one wanted to read his words. He did not see himself as a martyr, though there was integrity in standing alone and facing down rejection.

“The Message.” He looked up, and held Katz’ questioning gaze. “Why did you choose that title?”

“Various reasons—take your pick. We reached out to you, sent you a message.” Katz paused. “Then, of course, there is the ‘message’ in the sense of meaning. What exactly is the message?” Katz smiled. “Achieve success and bring pleasure and entertainment to others. Alternatively, wallow in failure and feed your selfish indulgence.”