Lawrence Looks for Treasure

Part 2 - Chapter 35

35

The cabin was small and bare: Max's things on one end and a bathroom on the other. A bit of furniture—his bed and two lawn chairs—were in between. First thing, I took off my clothes and hopped in the shower. It was the first shower I'd taken since Ema's Aunt's house. That was only two days ago, but it felt like a lifetime.

The hot water was therapeutic and the soap and shampoo luxurious. Afterwards, I felt a new man. I dried myself using Max's spare towel, and changed into his spare pajamas. Then I washed my dirty clothes in the sink, and hung them over the shower railing to dry. Rain clacked on the cabin's tin roof. Lightning flashed in the windows. Thunder drummed in the sky. I worried about Chris. I hoped he was safe. It had been a long day, but I had made it through.

Alone, with time to kill, I settled into a chair. Between my hands was The Grand Adventure of Dmitri Waltz. Dmitri was now on a passenger ship to America. Contentedly, I started reading:

I lay on my cot, not a penny in my pocket. Strangers lay in cots to my left and cots to my right, cots above me and cots below me. I could hear them breath and smell them sweat. The world was piled on me, yet I felt utterly alone. I had been through much in my years on Earth, through it all, I believed. But this was new. I missed Inès unimaginably. As a child, leaving my village to work in the circus, I left nothing behind; now, leaving France to work in America, I had left everything behind—my Inès.

I read for comfort. It was the same strategy I employed as a lonely boy in the circus. The cancer of habit, as they say, is too slight to detect until it is too large to cure. I lost myself in the world of books, and felt a little less lonely for it.

In between chapters, I wrote. I wrote Inès one letter, and then two, and then three and four. I didn't send them—I had no way—but I dated them, sorted them and stored them, rather carefully I might add. Thus, when I landed in New York, two months hence, I would deluge Inès with letters, and she would know I loved her.

After I had read every book on the steamship, two or three times, and I had run out of moments in my journey to relay to Inès, well, that was when I decided to try something more imaginative: writing a little book of my own. There was chain of books—the Inspector Billings series—that a cabinmate had lent me. Inspector Billings was a Brit who got lost in Arabia and used his time there to solve murders. They were fun little adventures that I determined to imitate. I simply changed Arabia to Vienna, murder to theft, and Inspector Billings to Inspector Dmitri, and away I wrote.

I had such fun doing it. Much of my material was lifted from the Inspector Billings books. On occasion, I had a shiny idea of my own, which sprung from my head like Athena from Zeus, and I would roll in my chair, laughing at my own cleverness. I scrutinized each word until I knew the page by heart. Only then did I turn to the next one. Just like that, one page begot two, two begot four, and four begot a chapter. I passed each chapter to mates in my cabin, but never quick enough. They loved the work and were mad for more. Kind women turned brutish, ensuring their children held my latest pages. Brutish men turned downright feminine, ensuring they got their turn too. I supposed none of them had read the Inspector Billings series as closely as I had. They puzzled that I could invent such lively material.

The demand fueled me. I stayed up late writing, not out of obligation, simply from a sense of fun. It was the most productive period since I had trained for magic over a decade ago. This time, however, I trained not for professional achievement, but for psychic satisfaction. I loved to read and I respected writers. I never thought I could be one; I knew I was not clever enough. Yet on that steamship I could pretend. It was all I needed to keep my spirits high and the ink flowing. By the end of the twelve-week journey, I had written one full novel, and was halfway to a second.

I would bring it to a publisher as soon as I landed in New York, I resolved. Although I had not written to be a writer, I was poor enough to squeeze a nickel out of every tube I could twist. I had passed many a night writing, and given the passengers a good time doing it. Maybe I could trick some of those thick-skulled Americans to pay my rent for it, too.

That was it. My eureka moment. Sitting alone in that cabin on a stormy summer night, reading my favourite book, I decided what I would do next year instead of university. I would write a book. I loved books. They meant the world to me. To give back in that way, to give to readers what books gave to me, to write something I'd always wanted but never found—that would a worthy way to pass the year. Maybe I could even become a writer. But if not, who cares. Tons of people wished they'd written a book at some point in their lives. I certainly did. At least, I could check that off my list.

Of course, I would probably have to get a real job, too. My parents wouldn't be thrilled if I told them I was just gonna take a year to write a book. But if I worked during the day, I could write at night. How hard could it be? I mean, I'd written some pretty good short stories, If I do say so, and I could knock those out in a few days. Dmitri wrote a book. If he did, I could too.

What would I write about, though? My favourite stories are the ones like the Grand Adventure, books about action and exploration and making something special. Except Grand Adventure is a little too, well, grand. As much as I enjoy the book, it's all very unrelatable. Phony, even. Where's the action and exploration for average people, people just trying to get by, people like me?

That's when I had my second eureka moment. I'd write a book about this very adventure. It'd be embarrassing. All my friends might read it and know all my thoughts and feelings. But It'd be for the greater good. For the reading public! For kids like me. Besides, while writing it, I didn't have to tell my friends a thing. It would by my secret. Only if the book became a big hit would they learn about it. And if it was a hit, then who cares what they thought. I'd be outta Kinnard so fast, they wouldn't even get a chance to say bye.

I felt good about my idea, at ease, like the universe had spoken. I also felt a new resolve to complete my journey. I'd get to the treasure tomorrow morning, come rain or shine. Snake Island and the treasure was just a canoe ride away. There was no quitting now. Whatever I did would be immortalized in the pages of my book. I had to finish. That's all there was to it.