Lawrence Looks for Treasure

Part 2 - Chapter 37

37

As I paddled towards Snake Island, raindrops hit the river like a thousand tiny blows. My canoe tumbled over the waves. I was hungry—I hadn't yet eaten. I was scared—I was floating on a stormy river. But I was determined—I didn't think once of quitting.

Looking back, as I write to you, I think how crazy I was. I could've drowned. No one would have known, except Max. I certainly would never do it again. Reader, don't you try it either. Still, I have to admit, that sense of adventure remains with me. And, though I wouldn't canoe alone through a storm, I might do something else. In some way, I'll always be canoeing through one storm or another.

Finding Snake Island wasn't difficult, though I couldn't see much ahead. The route was fresh in my mind: just paddle up current. One direction, until a large island emerges. The challenge would be to retrace where I had previously found the treasure. I could picture the spot in my mind's eye. There was a small field of dirt, maybe ten feet round, enclosed by trees. Three big boulders were huddled right near the wooden box. But I was damned if I remembered how to get there.

After an hour of paddling, I landed on shore. I pulled my canoe across the beach and hid it in the woods. I didn't think anyone would be there, but who knew? Maybe Bella had arrived, looking for the treasure. Or maybe Max had ratted me out, and someone was coming to stop me. Secrecy was key in either case.

Once the canoe was hidden, I toured the perimeter of the island. Again, I wanted to ensure I was alone. From all appearances, I was, thanks to goodness. I was starving by the time I had finished my tour. I rummaged through my bag to see what I had left—marshmallows and a chocolate bar. I ate half the bar and a couple marshmallows, saving the rest for later. I was still hungry. Too weak to continue. It couldn't have been later than noon, but I'd been up since 5:30 am.

I decided I'd take a quick nap. The rain still poured, and I found shelter under a tree. Laying there, shivering, trying to fall sleep, I worried about what kind of animals were on the island. I wasn't turned off the adventure, however. If anything, I found it pretty funny. Though scared and uncomfortable, I knew if things got real bad, I could always go back the way I came. I could turn myself in. Get a warm bed and a hot plate. More than that, I knew I wasn't gonna turn myself in. I would persist. Instead of going back, I did what I had always done on this adventure when I needed a push forward. I turned to that great adventurer who came before me: Dmitri Waltz.

I opened The Grand Adventure of Dmitri Waltz and started reading. Raindrops dripped onto the book's pages. As the droplets expanded on the paper, the ink blotted. My book wouldn't make it through the day. Again, I didn't care. My journey wouldn't either. Besides, the book was all I had for inspiration, and inspiration was what I needed. So under that tree, cold and wet, I finished reading it:

Finding a publisher for my novel was a challenging task. By week's end, I had been rejected by twelve or so literary houses, which comprised the entirety of the literary economy of New York City. Yet I remained proud of my work, and confident it could capture the reading public. Where did I gain this confidence? I had already performed my market research, you see, on the ship to America. My manuscript held the interest of my cabin, male and female, young and old, top bunk and bottom. It passed hands quickly. It was read aloud at night. I was a bit of a literary celebrity, I must admit, amongst my fourty or so cabin mates.

Unfortunately, I came to learn, creative works are rarely judged by merit alone, even by so-called experts. Context is instead the driving factor—the who, what, where, when and why. The establishment, for instance, long considered impressionism a sloppy, second-rate style by a pack of painters too rebellious for the National Exhibition. Only later was its beauty fully recognized. Today, the style is embraced by all, and, as a result, an ugly bit of impressionism by an homme-célèbre is worth far more than the chef-d'oeuvre of a nameless master. Such is the reality of context when judging a creative work.

Alas, the context surrounding my manuscript was far less impressive than the work itself. I was foreign born, Jewish, and had no previous publications. Thus, the literary establishment paid as much attention to my writing as they would the musings of a ninny. Yet I was undeterred. Perhaps more importantly, I had no other way to pass my time. If I spent too much of it idly, I would dwell on Inès, which made me sick to my bones.

I wrote Inès little during this time, for I had become used to her absence. Still, I thought of her often. I felt my days without her were wasted, that life was not, well, life. When I did write Inès, I assured her I would find means to bring her to me, but, in truth, I could not figure how. Boarders were closing and voyage prices were rising.

Inès, for her part, assured me that she was safe and praying for us. I silently feared she had met someone new, someone like me, but more handsome, kinder and more dependable. To quell these fears, I wrote more of my Inspector Dmitri series. When I could write no more, I stalked the newspapers in search of someone to publish my work.

My paid job, performing magic for Mr. Ziegfeld's enterprise, was simple enough. Having perfected my craft at the circus and the Inn. I was good enough that, even without the passion I once had, I still managed to attract and retain crowds, and earn a steady enough income. I thought of becoming a career magician, but the shows of my sort were fast dying, replaced by moving pictures, a show with its own sort of magic. That suited me fine. I had observed that once a magician reaches a certain age, life often turns tragic, running itself to an early end by either drink, madness, sadness or a combination of the three. It is a strange profession, the magical performer. I had enjoyed my career, but it had served its purpose, and I was ready for something new.

From the newspaper, I learned of such a thing called a writer's group, and I started attending one. It was my first step into the inner circle of the American literati. The world was divided then as it is not divided now. The Protestant writing group allowed no Catholics; the Catholics allowed no Jews; and the Jews allowed no Coloureds. I later learned the open secret that the Coloured writers were strongest; however, I joined the Jews, and fit in well.

The group met on Saturday evenings, after the end of Sabbath. The first week I attended, they critiqued the work of a bespectacled girl, hardly handsome, but intelligent and soft-spoken. They were quite fond of her work. I did not myself have the opportunity to read it, as it was my first week attending. But, as I understood it, she wrote a story of a girl growing older, told through a pair of her spectacles. It was, if you would permit, a unique lens through which to observe a life.

They critiqued another's work, as well: A dystopian epic by a pompous man with whiskers and a cane. In his dystopian world, writing fiction was illegal, punishable by death. Stories were only told over the radio by state officials. Although the group was kind to him, it seemed to me that they disliked the work, but chose not to tell the old duck, who seemed to consider himself an intellectual shark.

I sat quietly, observing. A stack of my manuscripts was tucked in my bag. My focus was on the leader of the group, a young, bohemian man named James. James was tall, clear eyed and had thick, stylishly unkept hair. He was a handsome young man, but was more concerned with embodying the serious artist. James spoke knowingly, and, the more he spoke, the clearer it became he was well read. I suspected that he would consider beneath him my simple, detective novel. I also suspected that he had his own whiskers and cane, though he wore them on the inside. I suspected, in other words, that he was terribly pompous.

At the end of the meeting, James asked if anyone had a manuscript ready for critique the following week. I was eager to submit my manuscript, but I bit my cheeks, assuming there was a line ahead of me, assuming everyone in the room was eager to have theirs critiqued as well. That was not so. Most preferred critiquing to offering themselves up for it. There is a life lesson in there, but at the time I could not understand why. In any case, when no one proposed to have their work reviewed, I sheepishly proffered my own. The group was thankful to have me submit. So, there it was: Inspector Dmitri would be critiqued next. Soon enough, I would learn what literary fellows thought of my superficial work. It was great progress, indeed.

***

My book was soaked, on its last leg. But there was only one chapter now left. Dmitri was coming to the end of his journey, and I was coming to the end of mine. I decided to read it through to the end. And then see my journey to the end, too.