Spotting Proust

by Matthew Rooney

A waiter appeared at Mark and Ellie’s table, rending the tense silence between them. “How would the lady and gentleman like to seize this lovely red and gold autumn morning, so sweet and crisp, so like an apple, that a benevolent God has made to fill our hearts with joy at the ineffable spectacle of His creation?” He was a slight man with a French accent and thick black hair parted in the middle and just touching his ears. He wore a starched white shirt under a black tuxedo vest and pressed black dress slacks, with a white apron that hung past his knees tied tight around his waist. Lips pursed, he observed them through lidded, world-weary eyes.

“Espresso with a twist of lemon,” Ellie said.
“Coffee, please,” Mark replied, briefly meeting the waiter’s sympathetic brown eyes. “With milk and sugar. And water, please.”

“Right away. Coffee is an indispensable start to any day, of course.” The waiter bustled away.

Maybe there’s a story here, Mark thought. Mark and Ellie, b-school classmates and live-in lovers a few years into their careers. She likes Eltana, a new chain coffee shop in a steel and glass office building near their apartment. He likes Elliot Bay, an independent bookstore with creaking plank floors and a café with worn wooden furniture.

“Don’t you think he looks like Marcel Proust?” Mark powered on his laptop and turned it so Ellie could see the lock screen, which displayed a portrait of the French author.

“Proust is dead,” Ellie replied. “And no changing the subject. We agreed you would take a year to see if you could make a living writing. How close are you, anyway? After ten months, it’s time for you to wrap it up. How much longer do you want me to carry you?”

“You’re not carrying me—”

She cut him off. “You’re tending bar. Part time. With an MBA.” She paused. “So your creativity doesn’t get suffocated by responsibility.” Air quotes. For Ellie, air quotes were just another handy tool for clear communication. They definitely didn’t connote mockery. “Meanwhile, out here in the real world, I have a responsible job, but we still can’t afford a place with some greenery and privacy.”

“I just...” Mark cast about for a new way to defend his lifelong desire to write, one that wouldn’t just rehearse the argument they had been having more and more frequently. It would be easier if he had more to show for ten months of sitting in coffee shops in front of his laptop. More than a couple of character sketches and plotlines. “I just know I can do it.”

“One coffee, one espresso,” the waiter proudly displayed the tray perched on his fingertips, looking from the laptop to Ellie to Mark and back as he set the table. “Proof that God wishes us to be happy. And water, without which life itself would be impossible.” He fussed with the table setting, arranging the cups and saucers just so, putting the water glasses on coasters, setting out spoons and napkins, and centering the bud vase.

“Of course you can. If John Grisham and Elin Hilderbrand can do it, how hard can it be?” Ellie’s voice softened a little. “But even if you can make a living writing, I am not sure you will be able to do it big enough to compete with writers like that. You’re not Marcel Proust, let’s face it, even if you do have his portrait on your lock screen.”

In the middle of refilling the sugar caddy with paper packets from the pocket of his waistcoat, the waiter fumbled, knocking the little tray on its side and spilling the packets across the table. He hurried to collect them and set the refilled tray gently on the table.

With a slight bow, the waiter turned, and Mark watched him, his gait constrained by his apron, waddle toward the bar. Maybe, he thought, the story is penguins waiting tables in an upscale seafood restaurant, unable to keep their beaks out of the fish tank. The bartender is an octopus, mixing four drinks at a time. Maybe his name is Mark. One evening, a cute little puffin sits at the bar to wait for her date. We might call her Ellie. The date is a no-show, but Mark and Ellie are soon sharing a cozy cranny in the reef.

“Three months.” Mark made his voice firmer. “If I haven’t published something in three months, I’ll go back to the corporate whorehouse.”

Ellie rubbed the lemon rind on the rim of her cup where her lips would touch it. She seized the dainty demitasse between her thumb and middle finger and downed the strong brew in one swallow. She was silent for a moment, then sighed.

“Let’s talk some more tonight,” she said, looking at her watch. “All I know for sure is it’s time for you to grow up.”

“I’ll be grown up for a long time, and then I’ll die. What’s three more months?” Mark recalled the anxiety attacks he suffered at his last tech job. He might literally suffocate back in a corporate office.

“Maybe you’ll live on in your deathless prose,” she said as she stood and picked up her purse and backpack. “I’m going to be late for work.” She turned on her heel, brushed past the waiter, who had returned at that moment, and strode through the café and out the door.

“Writing is a noble calling, sir,” the waiter said as he picked up Ellie’s empty cup and saucer. “Perhaps the lady can be brought to respect, even admire, the gentleman’s commitment to elucidating the human condition.” He slowly wiped her side of the table with a damp cloth.

“Ellie just wants a Rivian and a house on Lake Washington,” Mark said. “I hope you don’t mind, but has anyone ever told you you look like Marcel Proust?”

The man froze for a moment.

“People tell me I look like Prince,” he said quietly.

“I think you are the spitting image of Marcel Proust.” Mark gestured at the laptop screen. “You know, the French author?”

“I am familiar with Mr. Proust’s oeuvre,” the man said with a sniff. “It is not top of mind for most Seattle coffee shop habitués, in my experience. Will there be anything else, sir?”

“Not right now, Marcel,” Mark said with what he hoped was a playful smile. “I may have a croissant in a few minutes, Marcel.” He had to raise his voice over the howl of the espresso machine, and when it abruptly stopped, he found himself shouting “Marcel” into the sudden hush. A few of the other patrons in the dining room looked up curiously.

To Mark’s surprise, the man stepped closer to him and bent down, his lips inches from Mark’s ear. Mark caught a scent of lavender in the waiter’s cologne.

“I must beseech the gentleman to stop saying that!” he hissed in Mark’s ear. “No one else must know.”

“Wait,” Mark said, recoiling. “What?”

Marcel paused, licked the spittle from his lips, and continued in a low voice. “I do not wish to move yet again. London in the 20s and 30s was wonderful, until the Blitz made it unbearable. Buenos Aires in the 40s and 50s was comfortable, despite the political climate. Then Berlin, where there were so many refuseniks and hippies it was easy to blend in, at least until the Wall came down. Here, my various eccentricities are practically mainstream. Now I am almost done, almost finished, my life work nearly complete. Please don’t make it necessary for me to move again.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We must not continue this conversation in this public place,” Marcel whispered, casting furtive glances over his shoulders. “Meet me at the stairs.”

Before Mark could react, Marcel was gone.

That was weird, Mark thought as he stood, without really thinking about it, and went toward the rear of the restaurant. Too weird for a story, anyway. Maybe the story is just Mark and Ellie, a couple of left coast hipsters, complete with Subaru and canoe. Ellie, her clock ticking as she nears 35, is ready to go full adult, house-dog-baby-promotions-401(k), but man-child Mark is clinging to impractical dreams.

Marcel appeared, having removed his apron. With purposeful steps, he opened a door marked “stairs,” beckoning Mark to follow. Wheezing after four flights, they paused. Mark pulled an inhaler out of his pocket and drew a long breath, surprised to see Marcel doing the same. At the far end of an unlit hallway, Marcel tapped gently on a door marked “Manager, Region X.”

“Come!” barked a gravelly voice.

Marcel pushed the door open and they entered a small room in deep shadow. Mark thought of his laptop, sitting on the table downstairs. Ellie will be pissed if somebody steals it. He thought of his three-month deadline. I really don’t have time for whatever this is. The door closed behind them.

The owner of the gravelly voice, a barrel-chested man with wavy brown hair combed straight back from a high forehead, sat behind a steel desk. There was an antique telephone, with a wire and a rotary dial, on the desk next to a vinyl blotter. A brass lamp with a green glass shade provided the room’s only light. The man’s eyes sparkled like the Pacific on a July afternoon. His thick beard reached almost to his breast.

“I beg your pardon, Herman,” Marcel wheedled. “This gentleman has recognized me, identified me, as it were, used my name in a public place, a place where others congregate, where others have overheard.” He paused, still out of breath. “I am so close, Herman, so close to finishing my final great work. To move again would be a significant setback, cause months, possibly even years, of further delay. What can we do?”

“Hmm,” rumbled the voice deep inside Herman’s chest. “That is unfortunate, Marcel. Of course, it is something for which you must accept the lion’s share of the culpability. You are too ready to assume that those around you lack sophistication, and as a consequence you do too little to conceal your identity. Or perhaps you have taken too much to heart this generation of Americans’ search for self-actualization. Whatever the case may be, you are, as I and others have admonished you in the past, too much yourself.” Stroking his beard, he looked from Marcel to Mark and back several times. With his other hand, he toyed with a curved whalebone pipe, its bowl deeply tarred.

“Wait a minute,” Mark interjected as forcefully as he could. “What the hell are you guys talking about? Who are you?”

The man behind the desk cleared his throat. Using his pipe, he pointed at Marcel.

“I believe you have met Mr. Proust, unfortunately for all of us, most especially you.” He then rose from his chair and made a courtly bow. He had broad shoulders but was surprisingly short. “As for myself, Herman Melville at your service. And you, young man?”

“Yeah, right,” Mark snorted. “Can I call you Ishmael?”

“I prefer Mr. Melville, but I have come to understand that Herman is all that can be expected of you young Americans.” Herman sat back down and rocked back in his chair. “What is your name?” His voice was stern and deep.

“Mark. Mark Price. But really, what the fuck is going on?”

“Honestly,” Herman said with a sigh. “Even the old seafarer in me blanches at you young Americans’ vocabulary.” Herman leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk, jabbing the pipe at Mark. “What is going on, young man, is that you have stumbled upon a program that enables deceased great writers to complete their life’s work. Young Marcel here, for example, died before he could finish his magisterial satire of western society in the 20th century.”

“Bullshit,” Mark said. “I mean, baloney.”

“You may well wish it were baloney, my friend, but Marcel’s negligence has created a serious issue that you must help us resolve.”

“I was really not able to be fully myself while I was alive,” Marcel said. “In America in the 21st century, it is really not fair to ask me to live out my death in a closet.”

“Hmm.” Herman seemed lost in thought. “I suppose that is understandable. Still, John Kennedy O’Toole seems happy enough to keep a low profile in the Hollywood Hills, ghostwriting for Larry David. And Eddie Poe was very content in Stockholm writing under the Henning Mankell brand.”

“Wait,” Mark interrupted. “Henning Mankell brand? What...”

From the pocket of his jeans came the Darth Vader music, the ringtone he had assigned Ellie when their relationship started to sour a few weeks back. He looked up at Herman.

“Sorry, that’s my girlfriend. If I don’t take it, she’ll kill me.”

“That would solve our problem,” Herman rumbled.

“Hi,” Mark said quietly into his phone, turning away from Herman for discretion.

“Hi, babe.” She sniffled. “I’m about to go into a meeting, but I just wanted to say I felt bad about the way we left things earlier. I thought we were on the same page.”

“Me, too. I just need some more time.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe in you. I do. I’m just trying to look ahead.”

Mark knew that, when things like that needed to be said, they weren’t true.

“Oh, I know. But you have a career you love. I feel like this is my last chance, and I can practically taste it.”

“Well,” the line was silent for a moment. “We can talk some more later.”

“That sounds great,” he said. “I—”

The line went dead.

Or maybe the story was the other way around: Mark and Ellie, Seattle gaming entrepreneurs on the verge of adulthood. Mark is driven by a lifelong vision of a writing career, but Ellie is threatened by what seems to her an impractical life goal and working to undermine his confidence so he will make the practical choice.

Mark slipped his phone back in his pocket and looked up to find both Marcel and Herman looking at him intently.

“So,” he said, picking up where they had left off. “What’s this about brands? Henning Mankell was a brand?”

Marcel looked expectantly at Herman, who paused, stroking his beard.

“When a post-living author produces a single post-mortem work, we generally publish it under the author’s name, and tell the public that the manuscript was found among the author’s papers. When an author has a great deal to say, that would be implausible. In those cases, we might invent a persona to publish new works.”

“Invent a persona?” Mark didn’t even try to conceal his skepticism.

“I suppose you thought that J.D. Salinger and Thomas Pynchon were just reclusive?”

“Well—”

“In other cases, where a post-living author is especially prolix or his insights especially abstruse, like our young friend Marcel here—” he aimed the pipestem at Marcel “—we might work with a contemporary author who can provide a face and voice and do the book tours. Go on the Today show. Do Colbert.” He paused, looking at Marcel. “It is unfortunate that Tom Wolfe died before you finished. With the white suit and the blond hair, he was in a sense the anti-Proust, yet he enabled you to reach a wide audience with your critiques of America. Who would have expected your work to be made into a mass-market movie, eh, Marcel?”

Marcel shrugged sheepishly, studying his toes intently.

“Wait,” Mark interjected. “Those guys all had help?”

“We like to think of it as inspiration,” Herman replied. “We all stand on the shoulders of those who came before us.” He paused, then continued, choosing his words carefully. “This sort of situation does arise from time to time, particularly where our friend Marcel is concerned. And Lord knows that arranging a pedestrian fatality in this country is not terribly difficult…”

“Wait,” Mark said. “Fatality?”

Maybe that was the story, he thought. Mark Price, thirtysomething tech entrepreneur and aspiring writer, is struck and killed by an articulated Night Owl bus near Pike Place Market. Passers-by scramble to collect the pages of what appears to be a manuscript that flies out of his hands when he is hit. Many read passages and find it compelling and insightful. Mourned as a fresh new voice prematurely silenced, he is survived by his parents, his girlfriend, his Subaru, and his canoe.

“The gentleman need not be overly concerned,” Marcel cut in. “In my own case, I died over a century ago. In many ways, these have been the happiest years of my life.”

“Well, I certainly believe I have an unwritten masterpiece in me, even if Ellie doesn’t, but getting thrown under a bus still doesn’t sound like very much fun.” Mark thought they looked skeptical. “And if you guys decide I don’t have a masterpiece to offer, I’ll be actually dead!”

“There is that risk.” Herman’s basso voice should have been soothing. “Of course, it was one thing in London during the Blitz, where death was everywhere. And what was one more disappearance in Buenos Aires under the generals? Or Berlin, where things routinely slipped through the cracks between east and west?”

“I really don’t see any need to go that far,” Mark cut in. “I have nothing but respect and admiration for Mr. Proust. I would never tell anyone about his presence here.”

“Hmmm.” Herman toyed with his pipe. “The stakes are quite high, I’m afraid, my young friend. We cannot live with the risk of a slip of the tongue, no matter how well-intentioned. Marcel, Virginia Woolf, my modest self, even O’Toole – these are oracles revealing profound truths about the human condition. We must have complete certainty, or the maturation of human civilization could be drastically delayed. And Lord knows it has been slow enough.”

“In fact, if you need a new face for Mr. Proust, maybe I can be helpful,” Mark pled. “In any case, I strongly agree, in fact, I have long believed and often said that this society desperately needs a parodist who can cut it down to size.”

“Hmmm. We do need a new brand for you, Marcel.” Herman put his pipe between his teeth. “How close are you really, Marcel? After a century, it is time for you to wrap it up.”

“I am ready,” Marcel said. “Almost ready. The long 20th century is finally at an end, and I am ready to write my ending. I will be ready as soon as the management identifies a new brand for my work.”

Herman picked up the telephone handset and jiggled the bracket.

“Good morning, my dear,” he said. “And heartfelt greetings from the Pacific Northwest of the United States, God’s country –”

He was interrupted.

“Yes, I understand it is all God’s country. Just a figure of speech, I am sure. Is he in?”

He paused again.

“Good morning, sir,” he continued. “I’m afraid we’ve again had a problem with Marcel…. Yes, I’ve admonished him about that again, sir…. Well, sir, I believe that now, as in the past, the simplest and most foolproof solution is for the young man in question to join you for his eternal reward immediately and not become a potentially troublesome loose end here in this earthly vale of tears….”

“But,” interjected Mark. “That is not necessary, I assure you all. I swear to –”

Herman hushed him with a frown and a dismissive gesture of his callused hand. He listened intently, pressing the telephone receiver to his ear.

“Yes, that approach does lack a certain quality of mercy…. This time the subject is a young man who appears to be an aspiring writer. In fact, a bit of an admirer of Marcel’s work…. Yes, I had the same thought, as did Marcel, I believe.”

Herman looked at Marcel, who nodded.

“Mark Price,” Herman continued after a pause. “Mark with a ‘k,’ I believe.”

Herman looked at Mark, his brows a question. Mark nodded.

“Oh, I assume he could be persuaded to change it to a ‘c,’ under the circumstances.” He again queried Mark silently. Marc nodded vigorously. “We might even put a ‘y’ in his last name, for a Continental touch.” Marc nodded again.

Herman listened attentively for a long moment.

“Thank you, sir.” He set the phone in its bracket and turned his sea-blue gaze on Marc.

“Young man,” he began gravely. “It appears, to your good fortune, that we are able to be more forgiving than we have been in the past. It –”

“Mr. Melville, I am so grateful, sir,” Marc gushed. “You will not regret this, sir, I promise. I –”

“See to it that I do not,” Herman cut him off. “Nothing is forever in this world. But be advised that it is not as easy as it might sound to serve as Marcel’s literary cut-out. To start with, you are going to have to read and understand every word, something better men than you have tried and failed to achieve.” It was Marc’s turn to study his toes while Marcel indulged in a supercilious smirk.

“I’m delighted that you find this amusing.” Herman turned to Marcel, and the smirk disappeared. “For as you will recall from the early days of your work with Tom, just before you left Berlin, your success in this endeavor will depend in no small measure on your work with young Marc here. You will need his help communicating with the current generation. You must empower him to be you without stifling his native creativity. After all, when you complete your life’s oeuvre and cross the threshold to your eternal rest, he will need a career that will lend credence to your work together.”

“Of course, Herman,” Marcel replied. “We will begin work immediately.”

“Well, then, you know what to do.” Herman dismissed them with a wave of his pipe.

Back downstairs, Marc found his coffee untouched and his laptop where he had left it. Marcel picked up the cold coffee and wiped the table as Marc pulled out his phone.

“Hi, Ellie,” he said when she picked up. “I—”

“I’m so happy to hear your voice,” she cut in. “I miss you when I feel us disconnected.”

“Yeah,” he said slowly. He looked at Marcel, who nodded. “I wanted to say—”

“I was thinking about stopping at Whole Foods and picking up a couple plates of that eggplant parmesan you like,” she said cheerfully, all apparently forgiven. “And maybe a bottle of—”

“I had a great day today,” he blurted out, cutting her off. “I found real inspiration. I can see a clear path forward…”

“To publication in eighty-nine days?”

“To a writing career.” He paused and drew a breath. “And the first step is not letting you hold me back anymore.”

“I hold you back?” Her voice rose. “I hold you back?” She was shouting now. “For you, I live in six hundred square feet on Cap Hill surrounded by drunken college kids and I’m holding you back?”

“Yes,” he said. “I have come to see that the situation between us is not healthy, not salubrious, not apt to give either of us a meaningful perspective on a happy future. I feel that our moral well-being, mine as well as yours, will be strengthened if we part ways, seek our own paths into the future.”

There was silence on the line.

“Why are you talking like that pompous waiter?” she exploded into his ear. “Don’t use this for a story. Nobody would believe it!”

The line went dead. Marc slid the phone into his pocket and looked up to find Marcel’s lidded gaze locked on him. Their eyes met.

“Shall we begin?”