THE LOST REVOLUTION A NOVEL BY TOM ULICNY

Transcription

1 THE LOST REVOLUTION A NOVEL BY TOM ULICNY SAMPLE PAGES CHAPTER ONE It was the forty-fourth year of the reign of Queen Victoria. It was the year of the British defeat by the Boers at Majuba Hill and of the assassination of Czar Alexander II. It was 1881, and it was at roughly the mid-point of that year that Julian North, a file clerk for the London Times, rode a carriage down Bristol Lane in London s north-end, beginning a journey that would make his mark on history and change his life forever. From the rear of the carriage he shaded his eyes and watched his destination slowly pass by. The driver tugged at the reins and shouted but his team continued on, pulling past a butcher s shop before clopping to a halt in a shady spot under a large tree. The driver sighed then twisted around to face his only passenger. They have a mind of their own, these two. Three-twenty-one Bristol Lane, just back there, sir. Your horses are smart to stay out of the sun on such a hot day, said Julian, paying the fare and stepping down onto the cobblestones where he could feel the heat radiating up. A few flies buzzed in the branches overhead. An older woman with a cane was just coming out of the butcher s shop, a small parcel in her hand. The street was otherwise deserted. We ll be staying here for a bit if you need me to wait, said the driver. Thanks, but that shouldn t be necessary. Julian didn t want to bear the extra expense. He dragged his wrist over his forehead and adjusted his bowler, then walked past the woman back to three-twenty-one where he looked up at the green sign with gold letters that spanned the building: Hunter and McCall s Antiquities. The store was tightly sandwiched between the butcher s shop and a clock repair: twostory, green shutters, red trim. In its display window a cranberry upholstered, wingbacked chair stood beside a finely carved wooden desk; the chair askew as if someone had just gotten up from it. Atop the desk sat a blue and white porcelain tea service, an orange and red feathered turban and a glass inkwell with a writing quill. Julian wondered what other oddities might be inside the store then noticed the closed sign on the door. He tried the door anyway and, finding it unlocked, went inside. A bell overhead jingled.

2 He removed his hat and raked his sandy hair back off his ears, drying his hand on the back of his trousers. He ran a finger behind his red bow-tie and tugged his brown suit straight, It was cooler in the store, the air thick with the smells of furniture polish and tobacco. Paintings, lamps, brightly colored urns, and furniture of all types stretched in neat rows back into the dimly lit store. Here and there, bookshelves leaned heavily against the walls. Seeing no one, Julian called out: Hello? Hello, Mr. Karmonov? There was no reply and Julian was about to leave when he heard a sniff and a grunt. Half-way back, a man in a vest and shirtsleeves appeared from behind a tall dresser. Julian guessed him to be in his mid-fifties as his unkempt hair was mostly gray. His bushy eyebrows were angled down. We are closed, come back later. His accent was unmistakably Russian. Julian swallowed and forced himself to take a few steps closer. I m not a customer, Mr. Karmonov. I m here to see you. Why would you want to see me? Who are you? How do you know my name? I m Julian North. I m a friend of Harry Woodhouse from the Times. The Russian spread his feet slightly apart and put a hand in his pocket, fingering some loose coins. And how do you know Mr. Woodhouse? I work with him. He said you might have a job opening for a translator. At this, Karmonov seemed to relax a little. I might. Do you know French? Say something in French. Je suis heureux de vous rencontrer Monsieur Karmonov. Comment ça va? said Julian. Karmonov rubbed his chin. That sounded French, I suppose. He scanned Julian, once up, once down, still wary. He sniffed again. All right, come with me. Julian followed him deeper into the store where the aisle narrowed and the mounted heads of jungle animals gazed passively down from both walls. In a back office, Karmonov motioned Julian into a chair that creaked when he sat. A spring poking through the worn cushion jabbed his thigh and he shifted to one side as the Russian sat down behind the bare wooden desk in front of him. Why do you want to work for me? I need money. You said you work with Harry. You already have a job. Why do you need money? Julian stiffened at the question then winced as the spring got him again. Sorry, I must fix that, said Karmonov with a thin smile.

3 I ve been working as a file clerk for a year. I want something better. Something that will bring you more money. Yes. You don t like being a clerk? No, I don t. How do you know French? My mother was French. I learned it from her, growing up in America. The brows went up. You are American? Born there. My parents died when I was young. Why did you come to England? My uncle s with the Times. He arranged the clerk s position for me. Karmonov tapped a finger over his closed mouth then pinched his lower lip. He slouched sideways in his chair and stared at the wall as if looking somewhere beyond it. Julian uncrossed his legs. Harry said you needed someone fluent in French. I know French and I need a position. He paused. How much will you pay? The Russian consulted his watch then straightened. Almost time to open. I expect a busy day. He slid a sheet of paper across the desk. Write down your name and address. I will give some thought to you, Mr. North. You may hear from me in a few days or maybe never. Probably never, thought Julian as he wrote down the information. This had been a complete waste of time. He thanked Karmonov then left, relieved to see the carriage still waiting in the shade. Julian climbed aboard, unbuttoned his collar and an hour later trudged up three flights to his desk at Printing House Square, home office of the London Times. The heat was stifling and his desktop was littered with papers and folders needing to be filed. For a moment he just stared at the mess wanting to quit then and there, but he knew he had no choice. He couldn t leave the paper without having a place to go. He d been looking for work for six months now with nothing to show for it. Hunter & McCall s was just the latest disappointment. So, did you get the job? It was Harry who d come up behind him. I don t think so, said Julian, turning. Karmonov said he might let me know, or he might not. He s a strange man. I told you he was eccentric. Harry adjusted his black-rimmed glasses and cleared a few congealed strands of black hair from his forehead. Julian picked up some folders and began putting them in order.

4 Sorry it didn t work out, said Harry. Maybe it s for the best. I ve heard he sometimes operates on the shady side of the law. You waited until now to tell me that? I don t know if it s true. It s just what I heard, but it would explain why he pays so well. I ve done work for him here and there and never had a problem. What kind of things did you do for him? Harry hesitated but then turned his head abruptly and lowered his voice. Here comes Hawthorne. Better get busy. He hurried off for the row of tall wooden file cabinets that lined the back wall. Julian picked up more folders as bug-eyed Hawthorne, the floor manager, approached. He gave Julian a long stare but said nothing as he brushed by like the angel of death. Julian got busy and stayed late catching up on the work he d missed. It was dark by the time he returned to the townhouse a few blocks away where he lived with his Uncle Emory. As was their routine, he and his uncle had a quiet dinner, each seated at opposite ends of a long table with George, his uncle s butler and gentleman, on station at the doorway to the kitchen, ready with each course. Uncle Emory was a round-faced man in his late forties who never dined without being properly dressed. Part way through the meal he dabbed his lips with his napkin and brushed a few crumbs off his tie and vest. Mr. Hawthorne tells me you took the morning off. Julian put down his fork. His uncle was the managing editor of the London Times. For God s sake, didn t he have more important things to worry about? I stayed late to make up for it. So where were you this morning? I had a few errands to run. None of my business, I suppose. Uncle Emory made everything his business. Julian decided that he might as well come out with it. I m looking for other work. Uncle Emory remained still for a moment but his eyes darkened. He took a sip of wine. You re damned lucky to have a job, Julian. I know you re not happy being a clerk, but that seems to be all you re qualified for right now. We ve tried you as a journalist and you know it didn t work out. You might be passable at writing those made-up stories of yours but writing for a newspaper is much different. A journalist has to search out information and piece things together in a way that s understandable and makes sense. You have to work fast, keep your facts straight and you have to meet deadlines. When we first brought you on, you demonstrated a remarkable inability to do any of that. But that was a year ago. I suppose I could arrange a second trial for you.

5 Julian shook his head. I appreciate your help Uncle Emory, but I don t think I m cut out to be a newspaper man either as a clerk or as a journalist. Your father worked for a newspaper and I ve worked for the Times all my life. If you won t be a newspaper man, what will you be? That was the frustrating question Julian had been asking himself for months. He stabbed a slice of carrot, talking as he chewed. I don t know yet. He stabbed another. You really have no idea? No, I really don t. Julian finished his plate and Uncle Emory leaned back in his chair with a long sigh. This wasn t the first time they d had this conversation. In the silence, George picked up the dishes and came back with a pudding dessert and tea. I should just go back to America, said Julian after a few spoonfuls. You ve already tried to make a go of it there. If you ask me, a file clerk with the Times is a big step up from farm work. The comment brought back memories of Julian s tough life in America with his ageing foster parents. He remembered the day he d come in from the fields and opened the letter that had come for him from England. Uncle Emory, his only living relative, had evidently been stricken with pangs of guilt at having neglected his dead brother s son for so long. He wanted Julian to come and live with him. In truth, it had been a kind and generous offer and he d jumped at the chance to leave LaPorte County Indiana for London. Uncle Emory was right, working at the Times had been a big step up, but now Julian needed to take another step he had to get out on his own. Uncle Emory drummed his fingers then lit a cigar and puffed it into life as he got up from the table. Let s give things a few more months. Maybe you should go back to school learn a profession. You need credentials to get anywhere these days, Julian. The university would give you the training you need. But schooling is expensive and if you don t even know what you want out of life... Uncle Emory s voice trailed off and he didn t wait for a response. He loosened his belt and, in a cloud of white smoke, headed off into the great room. Julian remained seated for a while. He glanced at George who kept his best butler face steady as if he hadn t heard a word of the dinner conversation. Good pudding, said Julian. George blinked. Thank you, sir. It s an old family recipe. The note from Karmonov came two weeks later.