The Beginning of the End

The End of the Beginning?

Alright, when I started this Substack the goal was to write at least weekly in it. It didn’t really work out so far. Also, if you've subscribed to it, there’s a good chance you’re coming from one of my blogs, and my blogging activities haven’t been that intense either lately, right?

There are plenty of reasons.

The usual ones: busy, no time, too many distractions, kids to raise.
Some less usual ones: my energy level has been very low lately, I can’t pinpoint why. It couldn’t be that I’m just not that young anymore (I turned 50 this year), could be something else (none of my recent health checks have found anything unusual, but yes, my stress level has been regularly high). I’m still trying to figure it out.

Concerning my blog about Japan, as a lot of you are also subscribers of that blog, it’s been very quiet because I’m thinking about taking a new direction with it, but I’m not sure which one yet (probably more about that in a separate post).

BUT…

The fact that I haven’t been writing as much as I used to online doesn’t mean that I’m writing less. I’m just publishing less online.

And one thing I’ve been trying (and roughly succeeding?) is to write more fiction again. In a past post, I talked about my history with fiction a little bit, and during the past year, when time and energy allowed me to do it, I have been writing some fiction.

I have one short story in the making, an idea for a second one, two ideas for longer format texts, and… that infamous story I started writing 20 years ago.

Well, I’ve been rewriting the first chapters in English, I’ve been writing two more original chapters, and… I feel like starting to publish it already!

Maybe it’s unwise as edits will definitely be necessary, not to mention that English is not my native language and I probably need a native proofreader that I don’t have at hand right now (I do have one, he’s been busier than me). And what if the story brings me in some directions that force me to rewrite some earlier chapters?

Well, we’ll see. When my former (and hopefully future) co-author and I decided to write that thing, the idea was to publish it online in a serial format. So let’s do just that. And if one day I actually finish the story, and if it needs big changes, why not republish it then as an ebook or something?

This is where we are right now.

I published the first episode on its website last week. It’s called “Another time, another place.” You can read it by clicking on the link, but how about I also publish it below?

Yes, I think I’ll publish each new episode here, possibly with a small intro every time.

I have to warn you, some parts will be confusing and I will not often explain them (you can still ask questions in the comments, but I don’t promise to answer them). What I’m more interested in explaining is the writing process and similar things.

What do you think?

Let’s give it a try.

In (almost) exclusivity, here is the beginning of The End! Yes, the story is called The End.

Enjoy…

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Another time, another place

(Chapter 1 – Part 1)

It was the last day. The lecture hall was full. The students weren’t dying to say a final goodbye to their teacher. He hadn’t left them much choice. He had demanded a farewell gift in the form of a few sheets of scribbled paper.

In a few minutes, their time was going to be up. They would soon be free for a few months. The quickest ones were already leaving.

Three hours in, the large auditorium had acquired a subtle student smell. It was quite warm too — no air conditioning in these old buildings. The teacher was a bit drowsy. He always was when he had to proctor an exam. Yet, nobody ever cheated under his watch. He had a certain reputation. There were talks of a secret technique that he had developed for keeping a close eye on would-be cheaters. It involved displaying a blatant lack of care for what was happening. Some thought that he was staging the whole thing – even the dozing – in order to trick them. It was an ambush. A predator who was waiting for the second of inattention from its prey and then pounced.

Indeed, he would sometimes come out of his torpor, always at the exact moment when a courageous (or reckless) student tried to sneak a cheat sheet out. He wouldn’t say a word. He would only stare at the student with a blank face. And the wannabe scoundrel would put the small piece of paper back where it came from.

These little episodes reinforced the ambush theory. The truth was a bit different. Every single time he noticed suspicious behavior, it was pure luck. It never ceased to surprise him. Of course, he never deemed it necessary to dispel the conspiracy theories running around campus about him. He had come to like this reputation of stealth hunter that the student body had given him over the years.

This teacher is… Me… Guillaume Trabarel, 48 years old, associate professor of contemporary literature at the Sorbonne. You may also know me for my bestselling novels, and I’m not exactly sure why I started talking about myself in the third person.

The chime rang. About time, I was starting to actually fall asleep. Most students barely acknowledged me as they handed in their essays. A few wished me the most wonderful things in the world. Not unusual this time of the year, when I’m about to decide their final grades. A handful actually meant these nice words. Yes, sometimes it happens.

I started to pack when I noticed one final student in the room. I didn’t remember seeing her before. And I pride myself on knowing my students’ faces. Yes, even the ones who only grace me with their presence a few times a semester.

She walked down the stairs in my direction, not in any sort of rush. As she came closer, I noticed, not the purple ends of her dark hair, but her chest. Uh. Sorry, it didn’t come out right. I meant the small badge on the lapel of her jacket. Round, black, with no inscription on it whatsoever. I was still looking at it when she put her exam on the desk. She then walked through the door, but not before a wink and a smile.

“Er… Thanks…”

*****

Spring was coming to an end, and the sun was finally here. In the Luxembourg Gardens, flowers were blooming, children returning from school were running after one another, lovers were cuddling on public benches, and the birds were singing. They almost made you forget the crowded and loud city that spread all around the park. Back home, rue de Fleurus, I left my things on the kitchen counter, poured some orange juice, and opened the mail. My publisher confirmed that A Long Rest, my upcoming novel, would be released in September. He also informed me of the sales figures of The End, the previous book, which just came out in paperback. My bank statement confirmed his words.

Marie would soon return with the kids. If I wanted to take a look at the exams in a calm environment, the apartment was not going to be the best location. I swore to spend the entire weekend with them to make up for this escapade.

Down the street, I ran into an old British rock star. He was quite famous in the ’90s before leaving the limelight and moving to the neighborhood. We met at a party at Fred’s. Unfortunately, we never became more than vague acquaintances. We nodded at each other and went our merry ways without starting a conversation. I’d like to get to know him better one of these days. I was a bit of a fan back then.

At the Café de Flore, I ordered an espresso and opened the newspaper. A minute later, François, my favorite waiter, brought the coffee along with some chocolate.

“Anything important? I haven’t had the time to read it yet,” he asked.
“Nothing new, it’s all about the presidential election.”
“Do you think Schmidt is going to be reelected?”
“Do you have any doubts about this?”
“No, not really. I got my nice raise three months ago as promised. He’s getting my vote. You’d have to be insane not wanting to keep him in power. Have things ever been better? I wasn’t even born the last time nobody had to worry about unemployment in Europe!”
“You’re right, I don’t remember such a time either. I wouldn’t be surprised if he won without a runoff. Even most of Britain is ready to vote for him and not Taylor.”
“What a crazy, that one! Building his whole political career on pushing his country to secede from the Union, and then running for President of the Union? What is that nonsense?”
“Well, you know, the election is always a good occasion for some fringe idiot to get more visibility.”
“Right. Anything in international news?”
“Hmm… Let’s see… – I flipped through a few pages. – China has signed the reform allowing several political parties and greater regional autonomy into law. Some people are starting to talk about a ‘Great Leap Forward to Democracy’.”
“In the US?”
“Nothing special. President Ramos has announced that her second term will focus on greater cooperation with the international community. She was even talking about reparations to many of the countries that America has wronged in the past.”
“Does it sound realistic to you?”
“Could be. She’s already fixed a lot of her country’s structural problems during her first term. And Republicans are caught in so much infighting that they’ve basically been neutered.”
“Who would have thought that the US could still surprise us, eh? OK, I gotta go, some new customers arrived.”
“Talk soon.”
“Yep.”

I sometimes wondered if I was the only one not completely used to only hearing good news these days. I doubted it. Nobody complained.

Once the newspaper was read and closed, it was time to start looking at these exams. I wasn’t going to actually grade them before a few days. I like to peek at their content first when the ink was barely dry. Not sure why. It was a way to prepare myself for this vastly unpleasant endeavor that final essay grading is.

The paper of the girl with the purple hair was on top of the stack. It was written in purple ink. There was no name and no student number. Usually, those get graded separately for administrative reasons, but I was curious to know who she was, or at least what she had to say.

The first page blew me away. Her phrasing! Her argumentation! Her style! She even included sources, in an in-class essay! She was one of the best students I have ever had! Well, I still wasn’t sure if she actually was my student.

On the second page, one big single sentence ran across the sheet of paper:

I AM BECOME DEATH

THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS

I sat up in my chair and put the sheet of paper down on the pile. A shiver ran through my entire body.

How long had it been? Fifteen years? Twenty? More? No idea.

I never thought I’d see this sentence again.

I had done everything I could to make sure I never saw it again.

Something must have really screwed up somewhere.

(to be continued)

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So? Any first impressions? What do you think?

Picture Sources : Sorbonne, Café de Flore