The Countertenor Wore Garlic (The Liturgical Mysteries)

The Countertenor Wore Garlic

A Liturgical Mystery

Copyright ©2011 by Mark Schweizer

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published by

SJMP
^books

P.O. Box 249

Tryon, NC 28782

ISBN 978-0-9844846-2-1

Acknowledgements

Nancy Cooper, Jay and Betsy Goree, Marty and Randy Hatteberg, Kristen Linduff, Beth McCoy, Mary J. Miller, Patricia Nakamura, Donis Schweizer, Liz Schweizer, Richard Shephard, and Holly D. Wallace

Prelude

In 1936, the Underwood Typewriter Company began construction of a giant-sized working replica of the Underwood Master typewriter for the World's Fair in New York. The enormous machine would take three years to construct and, when completed, would be eighteen feet tall and weigh fourteen tons. The carriage alone would come in at 3500 pounds. When unveiled, it would be billed as "The World's Largest Typewriter." The paper it used would measure nine feet by twelve feet, and the ribbon would be five inches wide and one hundred feet long. After the World's Fair, the huge machine would be moved to the Garden Pier in Atlantic City, New Jersey, where it would attract large crowds who came to view the bathing beauties that Underwood hired to tap-dance on each of the large keys.

Late in 1938, a struggling Los Angeles pulp writer named Raymond Chandler was visiting New York City and stopped in to marvel at the construction of said machine. Having been working on a borrowed and beat-up typewriter, he was in the market for one of his own. For a wordsmith, the typewriter was everything. It was his Stradivarius violin, his Keuffel and Esser slide-rule, his two-pound Sheffield framing hammer. Once a typewriter had been chosen, a writer might keep it for fifty years, eschewing all technical advancements, choosing instead to be faithful to the object that could so easily channel his muse.

Several months later, apparently impressed by the jumbo version he'd seen in New York, and convinced by the Underwood Typewriter Company's admittedly un-seductive motto—
The machine you will eventually buy
—Chandler walked into an office supply store in Los Angeles and spent the princely sum of $109.50 (a sum he could ill afford) on a new No. 5, the most popular typewriter in the world. That summer, he handed the final draft of his first novel to his publisher and the following February held a published copy of
The Big Sleep
in his hands. It was the start of his long, hard-boiled journey.

Raymond and his wife, Cissy, had discovered the lovely coastal town of La Jolla and had been making frequent trips from Los Angeles to the quaint and exclusive seaside village for years. After deciding to rewrite his fifth novel for a third time, and quite tired of hauling the heavy typewriter up and down the quarter-mile stone path to their rental cottage, the author finally took the thirty pound beast to a friend and traded it for a lighter, portable Underwood Noiseless (made for Underwood by the Remington Company) that he could more easily take with him on his excursions. It was the last time he would see the machine that had been such a faithful companion.

The friend, a reporter, moved to Chicago two years later and took the Underwood No. 5 with him. It remained in the offices of the
Chicago Tribune
and was pressed into service throughout the reporter's career to fashion many a story. When the old newshound retired in 1978, the typewriter retired with him, hauled away in the back seat of his Gremlin along with six file boxes' worth of notes and papers. Two years later, he was banging away on this same typewriter, writing his memoirs, when he suffered a fatal heart attack and fell dead on top of the machine.

It was a beautiful funeral, attended by all the good and great in the newspaper community. Someone sang
Seasons in the Sun
, the mid-70's hit made famous by Terry Jacks.

Goodbye, Michelle, it's hard to die

When all the birds are singing in the sky.

Once the vocalist got to the last verse, there weren't many dry eyes in the place, especially since the widow's name was Michelle. Several testimonials were given, one by the editor of the
Trib
, and the faithful typewriter sat on top of the casket for all to admire, a single red rose stuck in the glass keys.

Several weeks after the funeral, the wife decided to go through her dead husband's desk, the desk that had remained off-limits and locked for as long as she could remember. She took a long-handled screwdriver and a hammer and after a couple of whacks, the locks gave way and the drawers slid open. The widow sat in the old wooden chair and read the beginning of his memoirs. There wasn't much—two complete chapters and a few extra pages—so it didn't take her long to discover that her husband's exploits during their time in California included frequent cocaine use, four bisexual orgies, a sordid affair with a well-known B-Film actress—and he hadn't even completed chapter three, the one entitled, "1940-41, The Randy Years." She'd hoped, after first glancing at the chapter heading, that "Randy" referred to their beloved Golden Retriever. It hadn't. After that, she couldn't bear to look at the typewriter and relegated it to the attic where it sat unused and unloved for the next two decades.

Eventually the woman died and the children returned to the house to go through thirty-five years' worth of memories. When they got to the attic, the eldest daughter found the typewriter in a dusty corner. Upon cleaning it, she found half a piece of paper stuck in the housing. On this paper was typed the following:

This typewriter belonged to Raymond Chandler and was used to write his first four novels.

That anonymous piece of provenance and an accompanying letter by Raymond Chandler thanking his reporter friend for exchanging "that hulking piece of junk" for the more portable Underwood Noiseless was enough for the auction house to accept it as genuine, issue a certificate of authenticity, and advertise it in an online auction—an auction I happened to see.

Now, some years later, the typewriter sat on my desk. It had taken a lot of cash (which I had in abundance) and a few weeks' work by my new friend Max in Philadelphia to get everything in tiptop shape. Max fixed things, typewriters in particular. He'd had to replace the carriage return lever (badly bent when the reporter fell dead across the keys), clean the innards, grease the gears, change the oil, rotate the tires, and whatever else typewriter technicians do. He did a great job. It worked like new.

I hadn't seen the letter from Raymond Chandler since it wasn't part of the auction package, so I was a bit put out when I found out from Max (another Chandler aficionado) that my hero hadn't used this typewriter to write
all
his works of fiction. I soon got over it.
The first four novels were plenty.
The Big Sleep
might well be my favorite and it was Chandler's first.
Farewell My Lovely, The High Window,
and
The Lady in the Lake
followed. All works of genius as far as I was concerned, and quite enough for me. I ruminated over a well-chosen phrase from
The Big Sleep
that had been first typed on this machine and typed it again, looking at the characters on the heavy 24 lb. bond as if seeing them for the first time, seeing them as Raymond Chandler might have seen them in 1939.

Vivian is spoiled, exacting, smart and quite ruthless. Carmen is a child who likes to pull wings off flies. Neither of them has any more moral sense than a cat. Neither have I.

I typed another line.

I don't mind your showing me your legs. They're very swell legs and it's a pleasure to make their acquaintance.

Once I sat down at the typewriter, chomped on an unlit Cuban
Romeo y Julietta
, donned Raymond Chandler's actual fedora (another acquisition of an aspiring writer with too much disposable income), and flipped on the green-shaded banker's lamp, I was in another world. That I'm the Chief of Police in our little township of St. Germaine, North Carolina, was a fact that melted into the background. My avocation as part-time organist and choirmaster at St. Barnabas Episcopal Church faded as well. My wife, my friends, my whole world, disappeared into one of those fogs that envelops Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman as they stand on the runway, hands shoved deep into the pockets of their trench coats, the propellers of the getaway plane slowly spinning in the background.

"You’ll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life," I heard a voice say.

"We'll always have Paris," I replied. "I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world."

"What the heck are you talking about?" said Meg.

"Huh?" I snapped out of the trance and looked around the room. Meg was in the kitchen doorway eyeing me with suspicion.

"Are you talking to yourself again?"

"Umm. Nope," I said, but after a long courtship and three years of marriage, Meg was not easily fooled.

"I was saying," she continued, "that I think you may regret inflicting any more of your detective stories on the choir. Maybe not today, but soon. Marjorie is starting to review them for the church newsletter."

"A good writer does not fear reviews," I said, taking the cigar out of my mouth and waving it in defiance. "He welcomes them. He embraces them."

"Hayden Konig," Meg said sternly, "may I remind you that you're not a good writer. You're a terrible writer. Literary reviews are not your friend. You should fear them. You should cower before them like Lindsay Lohan at a drug rehab facility."

"Hey, that's not bad! Can I use that?" I typed Meg's one-liner onto the page in front of me.

"No, you may not," said Meg. "If you do, it's plagiarism, pure and simple."

"Never stopped me before," I muttered.

"Besides," said Meg, "I spent the better part of the afternoon thinking it up."

My attempts at detective fiction were becoming legendary, at least in my own mind. I had begun with
The Alto Wore Tweed
and worked my way through the choir—baritone, tenor, soprano, bass, and mezzo—before branching out to include the diva and the organist. I typed these stories on the faithful typewriter (hoping for a little of the Chandler magic), and put them, one chapter at a time, into the choir folders. I was proud to say that some of my best work had been recognized in a national competition. Never mind that it was a competition for the worst sentences ever written.

I pulled the piece of paper containing my warm-up efforts out of the typewriter, stuck it into the desk drawer, rolled a new piece of foolscap behind the platen and typed:

The Golovshchik Wore Gabardines