The longest story ever told (Part 3)

marie-jay (61)in #freewrite • 5 years ago (edited)

Winston always took the best armchair in the room, the one with many pillows on it, by the fake fireplace and, in time, Ruben took to spending his evenings on a chair, as far away as the small study allowed.
It hadn’t always been like that. Decades ago, the man who called himself Winston was his mentor, protector or, to put it bluntly, his ticket to fame. The many hours they had spent in that room with Winston telling stories of old, his fabulous meetings with kings, philosophers or saints. He knew all their secrets, what made them tick, what spiteful thoughts they harbored in their noble heads, how many wrong decisions had been made because some venerable leader had a terrible hangover one day or a bad case of crabs. Small things that no one else knew or even if they did, who’d want to put down in history books that a glorious battle was won just because the commander of the enemy’s troupes was so drunk he could barely hold himself in the saddle. There would be no glory in such a victory, would it? But Winston knew everything and he needed Ruben Mallhour to put it down.
‘You see, my friend, for you history is just a collection of paintings and bronze statues - stern looks, bold eyes, a grandeur that mostly existed only in the artists’ imagination. You view your ancestors as you’d like them to be. Every small piece of land you call country has its own history books full of heroes and brave statesmen. You are a great scholar, in your own limited human way, you’ve read a lot. Tell me do you know of any people that speak of their ancestors as a bunch of drunks, ignorant men, driven by petty ambitions? That’s why you need me….’

In those early days, Ruben scribbled furiously while Winston spoke for hours, only pausing to wet his tongue with a bit of red wine. Some of the stories he found so incredible he needed to stop Winston and press for details, like some sort of proof. His partner did not mind the interruption. Ruben listened gratefully, a bit ashamed of doubting his benefactor. He shouldn’t have, he knew that now, his protector was always happy to oblige. The more he talked about his old friends - for many had called him friend in their time - the clearer it became what part he had played. The whore he’d pushed in some notable man’s bed, the devious plan he’d suggested to another, the ironies and malice he used to drive a great general crazy with rage. It was all his doing and he needed Ruben to write the true history.

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‘Good grief, look at your hands, man! Soon enough those dry bones of yours won’t be able to hold a pen anymore!’
There was no real concern in Winston’ voice. Ruben had known him for too long, he could feel the sarcasm, but he did not dare speak. He just shrugged and made as if he was about to pick up the phrase from where he had been interrupted by his tormentor’s unexpected visit. Like he had so much more to write about, although he had made it to the present, ‘the later years’ which the master, himself that is, spent among his beloved books. He had learned a trick or two from Winston and knew how to sell his own story.
‘How much time do you need then? One week, two?’
Spoken like a businessman asking about a shipment.
Ruben shook his head violently, he could not accept Vanessa would die in a week or two. Winston had promised he’d keep her alive as long as it took for him to write his autobiography. Not a day more. The moment he wrote ‘The End’ it will be the end for his beloved.
The cockroach in the armchair looked at him with inquisitive eyes, waiting for understanding to finally dawn on his poor scribe.
He knew. He knew that in all the thousand pages written so far Ruben had not once mentioned him, Winston. How could he? He could never let the world know his terrible secret, that he was not the brilliant thinker they all considered him, but only a lowly scribe of…
The devil dressed as a man nodded encouragingly.
‘Come, Ruben, you know it’s the only way. We’ve been through so much together, from our first meeting in that cafe where you pretended to write the definitive history of the Roman empire to all the nights we spent in this very room. Remember that day when they gave you that medal and I sneaked inside the Academy, sat there in the first row. I thought you were going to have a stroke when you saw me there. So much fun we had together, you could spend months writing all this, Months, Vanessa would have many more months to live and listen to music and look at the flowers you put in her room.’
The bastard knew he would take the deal, even if it meant ruining his reputation.
He wrote for months, till he could barely move what was left of his hand. The last chapters were mostly scrawlings, words you could only guess at. Whole paragraphs cut out and rewritten, desperate efforts to salvage at least part of his honor. But Winston visited often and looked over his shoulder, pointing out the half-truths and the facts he had omitted. Ruben apologized and blamed his old age and his constant worry over Vanessa. Winston smiled understandingly and waited patiently until the truth was restored.

And then it happened. There was nothing left to write. It was all there and Winston seemed pleased with his portrait. No need to put in his real name, the readers will understand. Ruben was desperately trying to come up with something which he could add, but his benefactor would have none of it.
‘It’s time, Ruben’.
At least he’ll have the time to say goodbye, to hold her hand while she drew her last breath, one more kiss on her sunken cheeks. He’d spent so many hours in that damn chair he could barely climb upstairs. Winston had to held his arm, gently steadying him as he made his terrible way to the room where Vanessa was waiting for her sentence.
‘I’d like to be alone with her. Please’, he said as he pushed the door open. The room was cold. She must be freezing, poor darling, he thought. Only the lamp on the nightstand cast a shadowy light into the room. The music had stopped. He drew close to the bed and gasped in horror. It could not be. But it was. The beautiful Vanessa he remembered was gone, her place taken by a disgusting sad mummy, with clumps of hair barely clinging to her skull. Empty sockets where her loving eyes used to be.
He turned in a rage to confront the liar waiting by the door.
Winston watched him with cold eyes and spoke in a voice dripping with disgust.
‘Don’t blame this on me, old fool. You forgot about her years ago. All you ever cared was your name, your reputation. She’s been dead for years and you didn’t even notice. The great love story. Went so well with your portrait, didn’t it?’

The devil who no longer needed to call himself Winston made his way downstairs, grabbed the manuscript and left without looking back. He was done with Ruben Mallhour, but there were many others willing to call him friend and put all their hopes in him.