“Best hope! God save us! Best hope of what?”
“Of a lasting reputation.”
“Sir, my written work will ensure my reputation.”
“Without wishing to be offensive, it has not achieved much for you thus far.”
Poe sighed. “I grant you that. The Raven is the most popular poem ever written and I remain in penury.”
Nolz spread his palms. “You were a fool to yourself, publishing in a newspaper without the protection of copyright. Any cheapjack publisher was free to reprint without redress.”
“And has, a thousand times over.” Poe put his hand to his mouth and yawned. “Put me out of my suspense. How will you improve my prospects?”
“Materially, not at all,” Nolz said. “I am a journalist, not a businessman. I spoke just now of your reputation.”
“It doesn’t have need of you,” Poe said on the impulse. “It’s second to none.” Yet both knew the statement was untrue. He’d acceded all too eagerly to the request for an interview. He needed shoring up if it wasn’t too late already.
Nolz was looking at him with pity. The man had the power to unnerve, as if he knew things yet to be revealed. The world might be — ought to be — aware that the writer of “The Gold-Bug” and The Raven was a genius, but this dislikeable old hack seated across the table was behaving as if he was the recording angel.
“Who are you?” Poe cried out. “Why should I submit to your churlish questions?”
“I told you who I am,” Nolz said. “And as to the questions, most of them have come from you.”
“There you go, maligning me, twisting my words. Why should I trust you?”
“Because I have a care for the truth above everything. You have enemies masquerading as friends, Mr Poe. They seek to destroy your reputation. They may succeed.”
Much of what the man was saying was true.
“You keep speaking of this reputation of mine as if it matters. My work is all that matters and it will endure. Poor Edgar Poe the man is a lost cause, a soul beyond hope of redemption.”
“With a well-known flair for self-abasement. Coming from you, this is of no consequence. But when others damn you to kingdom come, as they will, you are going to have need of me.”
“As my protector? You are not a young man, Rainer Nolz.”
“Ray.” He extended his fat hand across the table. “Address me as Ray. My fellow writers do.”
Poe reached for the hand and felt revulsion at the flabby contact. “So, Ray...”
“Yes?”
“Are there any other failings of mine you wish to address?”
Nolz raised a shaggy eyebrow. “Are there any, Edgar, that you care to confess?”
“Plenty, I should think! When I drink, I drink to oblivion. One or two glasses are usually enough. I am a fool with women, writing love letters to one whilst pursuing another. I am hopeless with money. Are you writing this down?”
“It’s too well known. Let’s address some of the misinformation you have unleashed on the world.”
“Must we?”
Nolz gave a penetrating look with his brown, unsparing eyes. “If I am to be of service, yes.”
The examination that followed was uncomfortable, depressing, shaming, a ledger of Poe’s falsehoods and exaggerations. Why did he endure it? Because Nolz, like the Ancient Mariner, was possessed of a mysterious power to detain. He dissected more of the myths blithely confided to Griswold and given substance in The Poets and Poetry of America. The myth that as a young man Poe had run away from home to fight for the liberty of the Greeks in their War of Independence against the Turks. The myth of a trip to St Petersburg where he got into difficulties and was supposedly rescued by Henry Middleton, the American Consul. All this in an attempt to gloss over two years in the ranks, of which Poe was not proud.
Nolz had said he knew the curriculum vitae, and so he did, in mortifying detail. He must have gone to infinite trouble to find out so much.
Finally he said, “Was that good for your soul?”
“Against all expectation, yes,” Poe admitted. “I am tempted, almost, to ask you to absolve me of my sins.”
Nolz laughed. “That would be exceeding my duties.”
“I feel shriven, nonetheless, and I thank you for that.”
“No need, Edgar. Instead of absolution I will offer a piece of advice. Beware of Rufus Griswold. He is not your friend.”
“Ha! I don’t need telling,” Poe said. “After all his blandishments how many of my poems appeared in his book? Three. One Charles Fenno Hoffman had forty-five. I counted them. Forty-five. A man whose name means little to me or the public.”
“I saw.”
Poe was warming to his theme. “And who was offered and accepted my job after I was dismissed as editor at Graham’s? Griswold.”
“And the magazine suffered as a result,” Nolz said, beginning to show some sympathy.
“He even shoulders me aside when I show affection for a lady. There is a certain poetess—”
“Fanny Osgood?”
“You know everything. The first I heard of it was that she had dedicated her collection of poems to him — ‘a souvenir of admiration for his genius’.”
“Why then, Edgar, do you continue to have any truck with a man who treats you with contempt?”
Poe rolled his eyes and eased his finger around his stock. All this was making him sweat. How could he explain without damning himself? “Griswold has influence. That wretched book of his must have gone through ten editions. Oh, I’ve tried cutting free of him more than once, but he’ll remind me that I have need of him. Since you know so much, you must be aware that he put together another anthology, The Prose Writers of America.”
“And invited you to contribute. To which you responded that he was an honourable friend you had lost through your own folly — your own folly.”
Now Poe flushed with embarrassment. “Swallowing my pride. He included several of my tales.”
“He continues to tell his own tales about you to all that will listen, shocking scurrilous stories.”
“I know.”
“Griswold will bring you nothing but discredit.”
He nodded. He knew it, of course. He was destined for the sewers. But surely the work would keep its dignity, whatever was said of its creator?
“And you, Ray? What may I expect from you after this interrogation? Should I be nervous of what you will write in your newspaper?”
“The truth.”
“Exposing the lies?”
“Oh, no. We disposed of them this evening. I needed to make certain. I am now confident that what I write has the force of verified fact. It will not be to your detriment.”
“And when may I look forward to reading it?”
“Never.”
Poe frowned, and played the word over in his brain. “I don’t understand.”
“You will never read it because you will be dead.”
The statement was like a physical blow. His brain reeled. Deep inside himself, he’d feared this from the moment he admitted the stranger to his room. Nolz was not of this world, but an agent of destruction.
“You’ve turned pale,” Nolz said. “I must apologize. It was wrong of me to speak of this.”
“Tell me,” Poe whispered, eyes wide. “Tell me all you know.”
“Edgar, I know only what I have confirmed with you this evening.”
“You spoke of my imminent death.”
“No. I said you will never read what I write because you will be dead. I am a writer of obituaries.”
A shocked silence ensued.
“You are my obituary writer?”
“It’s my occupation. I was commissioned to prepare yours.”