Since he was staying in an apartment belonging to friends, Armstrong paid little attention to the telephone, as he knew he’d just be taking messages for his absent hosts. Anything desperately important that needed to be passed on to them would be left on the answerphone machine. When he got around to checking it, there were three messages, two for Enrique and María, and one for him. It was left by Juan San Isidro:
“Oye,¿qué onda? Man, don’t fuck me over. Have you read los cuentos? I think not. Otherwise you’d be chasing my ass like a puto. You don’t leave Mexico until I hear from you, ¿te queda claro?”
Despite his reluctance, Armstrong didn’t see any alternative but to look the stories over. He took them out onto the little balcony overlooking the privada in which the apartment was situated. It was pleasantly warm outside in the evening, being October, and since the only traffic passing below consisted of pedestrians it was easy to concentrate. He sat down on the chair he’d moved out there, put the papers that he’d retrieved from his suitcase on his lap, and looked them over.
San Isidro had given him four stories, the longest of which was the third at around forty thousand words.
Armstrong had seen this type of story on dozens of occasions in the past, usually sent for his consideration by “fan authors” who were obsessed with the life and works of H. P. Lovecraft. Most of these pastiches contained long lists of clichéd forbidden books and names of unpronounceable entities to be incorporated into the so-called “Cthulhu Mythos”. As he turned the pages of the first of López’s tales though, he was surprised to discover that they did not also contain the other feature associated with Lovecraft fan pastiches: there were no obvious grammatical, spelling or common textual errors. The work had already been gone over by an author with a keen eye for copyediting. Additionally, it had to be the case that Felipe López was fluent in English to the degree of being able to pass completely for a native. The text contained no trace of any Spanish language idioms indicating his Mexican nationality. Indeed, López even favoured the British spelling of certain words, rather than that used in the United States, in exactly the same fashion as Lovecraft had done himself.
Despite his disdain for pastiche, Armstrong kept reading. Eventually, to his surprise, he found that López’s mimetic skills were so expert that he could almost believe that he was reading a previously undiscovered work written by Lovecraft himself. The story had the exact same sense of nightmarish authenticity as the best of the Providence author’s tales. By the time he’d finished reading the first story, Armstrong was in a state of dazed wonder. Of course he realised, on a professional level, that the thing had no commercial potential. It smacked far too much of an in-joke, or a hoax, but it was nevertheless profoundly impressive in its own right. He began to wonder what this López person might be able to achieve were he to wean himself from the Lovecraft influence and produce fiction utilising a distinct authorial voice. It might result in another modern-day writer of the order of Thomas Ligotti.
Armstrong was dimly aware of the telephone ringing in the background. He ignored the sound, allowing the answer-machine to deal with whoever it was. He supposed that it could be San Isidro again and that it might have been better to pick up, but he was too eager to discover whether the story he’d just read was a fluke or not. Since the mosquitoes were now busy in the night air, he took the manuscripts inside and carried on reading.
* * *
Whoever had left the weird message on Enrique and María’s answer-machine was obviously some crank, thought Armstrong. He played it back again the morning after it was recorded.
There was click on the line and the sound of unintelligible voices conferring amongst themselves and then a jarring, discordant muttering in English. The voice had a Mexican accent but was unknown to Armstrong. It said:
“He belongs to us. His products belong to us. No-one will take him from us.”
That was all.
After listening to the message one more time, Armstrong wondered if it were not simply San Isidro playing a joke on him, pretending to be another rival party involved with the works of Felipe López. Perhaps he thought the idea of some competition might spur Armstrong to a quick decision. If so, it was an unnecessary ploy.
After having read the second of López’s tales he was convinced that the author had unmatched imagination and ability, despite being almost ruinously handicapped by his slavish mimicry of Lovecraft’s style and themes. However, there was more than enough pure genius in there to convince Armstrong to take the matter further. If he could meet with López in person, he was determined to press upon him the necessity of a last revision of the texts: one that removed entirely the Cthulhu Mythos elements and replaced the florid, adjective-ridden prose with a minimalist approach.
When he telephoned Juan San Isidro it was no surprise that the poet-turned-agent was deeply suspicious about Armstrong’s insistence that he must meet López alone.
“You want to cut me out of the deal, ¡estás loco! Forget it, man. Now you know que es un maestro, lo quieres todo para ti.”
“I only want to suggest a few changes to the texts, Juan. Nothing sinister in that, really. You’ll get your commission, I’ll not cheat you, believe me.”
Their conversation went round in circles for ten minutes before Armstrong eventually convinced San Isidro that he had no underhand motive with regards to López’s work. Even so, Armstrong realised that there was something more going on between the two of them than the usual protective relationship between an agent and his client. Nevertheless he successfully elicited a promise from San Isidro that he would ensure López met with him alone in the Café la Habana on La Calle de Bucareli at 2:00 pm that same afternoon.
* * *
The Café la Habana was a haunt for distinguished old men who came to play chess, smoke their pipes or cigars and spend the better part of the afternoon dreaming over coffee or beer. It had a high ceiling and was decorated with framed photographs of Havana from the time before Castro’s revolution. Many communist exiles from Batista Cuba came here, having fled persecution, and its fame dated from that period. The number of exiles had dwindled as the years passed, but it still had a reputation amongst all those who championed leftist defiance. The place had a long pedigree, having been a favourite meeting place, in even earlier decades, of those Spanish Republican refugees who’d settled in D.F. after escaping the wrath of General Franco’s regime.
Armstrong sat in a corner, lingering over a glass of tequila with lime, when López walked in. He was half-an-hour late. His lean form was framed in the doorway by the brilliant sunshine outside. López cast his glance around the place before spotting Armstrong and making for the table at which he sat.
López had changed his dark grey suit for a cream-coloured one, and this time he was wearing a matching panama hat. He gave a nod of recognition towards Armstrong as he approached.
Before he sat down he shook Armstrong’s hand and apologised in English:
“I hope that you will excuse my tardiness, Mr. Armstrong, but the truth is that I was distracted by a particularly fascinating example of 18th Century colonial architecture whilst making my way over here.”
Armstrong did not reply at once. He was taken aback by López’s accent. Unless he was mistaken, it was pure, authentic New England Yankee. There was not a trace of Mexican in it.
“No need to apologise,” Armstrong finally said, “can I get you a drink; some beer or tequila perhaps?”