A Secret I Couldn't Share

I saw him walking through the A.B.C. shop while I was having lunch. His usual puzzled look filled his face as he searched for a seat. Spotting me, he nodded, and I gestured to the empty chair across from me. As he settled in, I noticed a crumb in his brown beard, just like there was a year ago when we last met.

"It's been a while since we caught up," I said, genuinely happy to see him. Despite his tendency to be vague, he was a truly lovable person.

"Yeah, um... let me think...

"Just about a year,'" I said.

He stared at me, lost in thought, as if I were invisible. His brows furrowed intensely, giving the impression they were glued on, and I couldn't help but picture his confusion if one were to plop into his soup. Yet, beneath those fierce brows, his eyes were warm and bright, his face exuding tenderness and kindness. When he smiled, he seemed thirty instead of fifty.

"Is it a year?" he mused before shifting his attention to the waitress standing by to take his order. The process seemed agonizingly slow. I marveled at the waitress's unwavering patience in her worn black dress, knowing she'd likely never receive a tip. He glanced back and forth between me and her, then at the complex menu, and back to me once more.

"Have a coffee and a slice of cake," I urged, feeling a hint of desperation. He paused, one eyebrow arched while the other remained motionless. I struggled to suppress a laugh bubbling up inside me.

"Alright," he murmured to the waitress, "coffee and a slice of that lunch cake." She walked away, visibly weary. "And a bit of butter," he whispered, but mistakenly directed his gaze at the wrong waitress. Then, catching sight of another waitress, he added, "And a portion of strawberry jam."

Turning back to me, he exclaimed, "Oh no," glancing at the cluster of waitresses near the counter, "not the jam. I forgot I ordered the lunch cake."

Once more, he swiveled in his chair, always perched on the edge like a bird, and attempted to engage in conversation. I anticipated what was coming next. He was perpetually writing books, sending them out to publishers, and often losing track of their whereabouts.

"How have you been?" he inquired. I gave him an update.

"Working on anything lately?" I asked boldly.

The eyebrows twitched. "Well, truth be told, I've just wrapped up a book."

"Did you send it anywhere?"

"It's been dispatched, indeed. Let me think... it's on its way to... um..." The waitress brought the coffee and lunch cake, but no butter, instead offering two servings of strawberry jam. "I'll pass on the jam, thank you. Could you bring some butter, please?" he muttered to the girl. Then, turning back to me, he continued, "Oh, it slipped my mind for a moment. It's quite a compelling story, I believe." Surprisingly, his novels were consistently excellent, which added to the peculiarity of the situation.

"It's about a woman, you know, who—" He launched into outlining the story. Once he navigated past the muddled beginnings of his speech, he became captivating. However, it dragged on and was so convoluted that I recalled past encounters and interjected with a stroke of luck.

"Don't spoil it for me by divulging the plot. I won't enjoy it as much when it's published."

He chuckled, his eyebrows dropping to conceal his eyes. Focusing on his cake and butter, he inadvertently added a second crumb to the first. I couldn't help but think of golf balls in sand traps and burst into laughter. The conversation hit a lull, and I sensed a mysterious aura surrounding him. He seemed preoccupied with something beyond the novel—something he wanted to discuss but had likely forgotten "for the moment." It was as if he were searching the cluttered recesses of his mind for the right cue.

"Are you working on something else now?" I dared to ask.

The question hit the mark perfectly. His eyebrows shot up as if they might disappear on strings and ascend into the wings any moment. The cake in his hand seemed poised to follow suit, and finally, he himself might vanish. The image of a children's pantomime sprang to mind. Was he a fictional character on his way to a rehearsal?

"I am," he replied, "but it's a closely guarded secret. I've stumbled upon a magnificent idea!"

"I won't breathe a word. I'm as silent as the grave. Tell me."

He focused his warm, radiant eyes on my face and smiled charmingly.

"It's a play," he whispered, pausing for dramatic effect, searching his plate for cake where there was none.

"Another slice of that lunch cake, please," he suddenly exclaimed, addressing the waitresses in a loud voice. "I had a brilliant idea the other day at the London Library—um—quite a remarkable one."

"Is it something truly original?"

"Well, I believe so, perhaps." The cake arrived with a clatter of plates, but he pushed it aside as if he had forgotten about it, leaning forward across the table. "I'll share it with you. But you must promise not to breathe a word. I don't want this idea spreading. There's money to be made from a successful play—and people are notorious for stealing, aren't they?"

I gestured, silently conveying, "Do I seem like someone who would spread rumors?" Encouraged, he dove into the tale with gusto.

Oh, the narrative of that play! And those animated eyebrows! The moments he forgot parts of the plot and circled back for them! The chaotic jumble of names, scenes, and curtains! His voice rising and falling like a leaf carried by the wind! The anticipation of a revelation that never materialized!

"The woman, you see,"—all his stories commenced in this manner,—"is a modern woman who... and when she's on her deathbed, she confesses how she always knew that Anna—”

"Is she the main character?" I asked eagerly, after enduring ten minutes of exposition, praying that my guess was accurate.

"No, no, she's the widow, remember? The clergyman's widow who left him for a Roman Catholic priest to avoid marrying her sister—in the first act—did I forget to mention that?"

"You did mention it, I believe, but the explanation—"

"Well, you see, the Anglican clergyman—initially Anglican in the first act—always suspected that Miriam didn't die by suicide but was poisoned. He discovers the incriminating letter in the gas pipe and recognizes the handwriting—"

"Oh, he finds the letter?"

"Exactly. He discovers the letter, you see? He compares it with the others, forms his conclusion about the author, and promptly goes to Colonel Middleton with his findings."

"So naturally, Middleton refuses to believe—"

"Refuses to believe that the clergyman's second wife—oh, I neglected to mention that he remarried in his own Church; wedded a woman who turns out to be Anna's—no, sorry, I mean Miriam's—half-sister, educated abroad in a convent—refuses to believe, you see, that his wife had any involvement. Then Middleton has a remarkable scene. He and the clergyman share the stage. Wyndham's the perfect fit for Middleton, naturally. Well, he asserts he has irrefutable evidence—evidence that will persuade everyone, and just as he brandishes it in the air, Miriam enters, sleepwalking from her sickbed. They listen. She speaks in her sleep. Good Lord, don't you see it? She's discussing the crime! She practically confesses before their very eyes."

"Brilliant!"

"And she doesn't wake up—I mean, not during that scene. She returns to bed and remains oblivious the next day to what she said and did."

"And the clergyman's reputation is preserved?" I ventured, astonished at my boldness.

"No. Anna is saved. You see, I neglected to mention that in the second act, Miriam's brother, Sir John, had—"

The waitress brought the small paper bills.

"Let's step outside and settle this. It's getting terribly stuffy in here," I proposed urgently, picking up the bills.

We exited together, he continuing to chatter feverishly, with an unimaginable jumble of names, plots, and scenes. He collided with anyone in his path. Crumbs littered his beard. His eyebrows twitched with excitement—I was now certain they were false—and his voice fluctuated like a buzz-saw slicing through a sturdy board.

"Goodness, old chap, that's quite a play!"

He looked at me with pure joy on his face.

"But please, don't breathe a word of it. I need to secure a copyright performance first before it's truly safe."

"Not a word, I swear."

"It's strictly confidential—until I've completed it, that is—then I'll reveal the climax to you. The final scene is truly spectacular. You see, Middleton never—"

"I won't breathe a word to anyone," I exclaimed, rushing to catch a bus. "It's our secret—yours and mine!"

And the bus whisked me away to the West.

Meanwhile, the play remains a "dead secret" to this day, known solely to the man who believes he divulged it and the other man who knows he listened to the tale.