"Excuse me", he called the man behind the counter. The man turned to him with a disinterested glare. "I came to pick up my suit."
"Do you have the receipt?"
"Oh, of course." He searched in his pocket for it, looking awkward for a moment. "Here."
The man took the paper and read it, then looked back at him with a new interest.
"Mr. Editor? That's you?"
"Yes. K-" Before he could finish introducing himself, a package was put on his hands.
"We are all grateful for your work, Mr. Editor. Please, take care of this." The man whispered.
Editor nodded, already used to the strange words that his author's… friends? That those people gave him. He felt the package. Too small to contain a suit. He had been assured by his author that the suit would be delivered to him later.
"Thank you." Editor said, nodding to the man.
"The world is quiet here." The man replied.
Editor left the dry cleaners, the last words echoing in his mind. 'The world is quiet here.' They always said that. The world they talked about certainly wasn't this world, where the streets were filled with sounds of cars and horses, people talking and shouting, children running, birds singing and machines working.
He went to his small office, where he opened the package and found the manuscript he had been waiting for for weeks. His author was a bit… eccentric, as he often told his coworkers. Instead of mailing his manuscripts to the publishing company or to his editor, or even delivering them in person, he would send Editor a letter (or a telegram, this time) with very specific instructions of where to find the manuscript, accompanied by assorted items to be sent to the illustrator. This time, there was a small ash covered intercom speaker, a lamp, a popped red balloon, and a paper with a sketch by the author himself.
Editor sighed. He had a normal life once, he had worked with authors who delivered their work punctually and normally, and he had been blissfully unaware of the world of conspiracies and secrets the books he published showed a glimpse of. He had never before had to deal with furious mothers sending letters, with confused venue owners that waited for an author that wouldn't show up, or with weekly questioning from the police. But that was his life now, all because he picked the phone one morning, and accepted to meet someone recommended by an author friend of his, and shook hands with the mysterious man that was Lemony Snicket.
"You are the only person who I can trust for this." Said his author friend, in that meeting.
"You may not want to do this." Said Snicket. It was the first time Editor heard his voice. He sat in a defensive pose, keeping his head low, the hat covering his eyes and shadowing most of his face.
"You are…?" Asked Editor.
He hesitated for a moment.
"Lemony Snicket." He whispered.
Editor looked at his friend, the question in his eyes. The author nodded.
"That Lemony Snicket?" Editor asked, incredulous, though it seemed unlikely for him that two people shared such a name. Both his friend and Snicket nodded. "The wanted criminal? Who died two months ago?"
Lemony shrugged.
"So they say."
Editor had to rest his head on his hand, as he took in the man in front of him. The man looked like he was hiding himself and many other secrets, but he didn't look dangerous, and he was pretty much alive.
"What business do you want with me? Clearing your name?"
"That's the least of my worries right now. Though it would be pleasant if it came as a side effect."
"So, you are innocent?" Editor asked, his voice sharp.
"I am innocent of the crimes they accused me of," Lemony answered in an equally sharp tone. "But this is not about me."
"What is it about then?"
"Mr. Snicket is a writer." Explained the author.
"Researcher." Lemony corrected him, as he took a pile of papers from his suitcase. "Investigator. Journalist, maybe."
"I heard about it. Theatrics, right?" Said Editor.
"I was hoping to get into something bigger, but due to some unfortunate circumstances it was impossible."
Lemony handed the manuscript to Editor.
"And what is this?" Asked Editor.
"A detailed account of-" Snicket started explaining but was interrupted by the author.
"Children's literature."
Editor looked from one to the other, holding the manuscript firmly in his hands.
"We talked about this, L." Said the author. "No one will believe you."
Snicket sighed.
"Whatever you say, D. It really doesn't matter." He turned to Editor, who for a moment could see a glimpse of his dark eyes under the shadow of his hat. "I just need it published, no matter what it takes, and I need it to be exactly as I wrote it."
"That's not how it usually works, Mr. Snicket." Editor said, but he knew it wouldn't make much difference. There was a determination in Snicket's voice that he rarely heard anywhere else. "May I read it?"
"Please, go ahead."
Editor opened it and read the first paragraph, He chuckled.
"Very cheerful." He said, sarcastically.
"I don't want to lie to any potential reader," Snicket explained, but as Editor would later learn, it wasn't exactly true.
Editor kept reading.
"Baudelaire? As in, the Baudelaire siblings?"
Snicket nodded.
"As it happened to myself, the reports of their story are mostly incorrect."
Editor took a deep breath, trying to process all this information. He had no reason to believe Snicket, who was just a stranger who had a friend in common with him.
"Why me? I work with fiction. You should take this to the authorities, or at least to someone who works with… criminal biography? Non-fiction policial stories?"
Snicket sighed.
"I can't. I will be honest with you, Mr. Editor. In my current condition, there are very few people in the world I can trust. I have no idea of the whereabouts of half of them, and I have to stay away from the rest for their safety and mine. I am giving this to you because D trusts you. Writing down this story is what I am dedicating all of myself to. I do it because this story needs to be told. It needs to reach the great public. Only then it can reach the right hands. Only then, there will be any hope of…"
He trailed off. Editor kept looking at him, waiting for him to find his words. Snicket's voice had sounded mostly flat until then, but it now had an intensity, a mix of feelings that Editor could not name or understand.
"Of fixing some of my mistakes." He finally said. "Please, Mr. Editor. I need your help. You are my only hope of getting this story told."
Editor nodded and sighed at the same time. Every rational instinct he had told him that this was trouble and that the man sitting in front of him was a liar. Still, something in him intrigued Editor. Maybe he just wanted to see where this would go. Whatever the reason was, he was almost decided to take the job.
"So, you need this published, exactly as you wrote it, and mislabelled?" Snicket nodded. "Under… under your name or…?"
"Under my name."
"This will be troublesome…" Editor said, already starting to feel the first of the many headaches that Snicket would give him.
"There are no laws against dead men publishing books." The author offered. "I researched it."
Editor nodded, but his mind was not in there. It was in all the work that it would take to have it done.
He didn't have the faintest idea.
Now he sat at his office, reading the eighth volume of who knows how many. This current work he did with Snicket wasn't what he had in mind at any point of his life, but there he was.
Editor was very wary of Snicket at first and did not believe much of what he wrote, but some research showed that at least some facts were accurate. The same research also showed that Snicket seemed to be acquainted with many of the people he wrote about, so that was something. And while he always acted suspiciously and secretive, he never showed any signs of being aggressive or in any way dangerous. He was polite, to the point of being excessively formal at times, and erudite, a perfect gentleman, not to mention also interesting to talk to, in the few times Editor had the chance to. He was a broken man, and a man with secrets, but if someone asked Editor, he would say that Snicket was incapable of hurting a fly.
Nothing had shaken this one certainty, until Editor read The Hostile Hospital.
He had to stop himself before he did anything he might regret. It was useless to go out right then, when his mind was still spinning from the revelations. You don't know the whole story, he reminded himself. You don't know what this means, what any of this means.
He still felt deceived, betrayed.
It was useless to go out right then. Editor didn't even know where to go, and he was quite hungry. Even if he knew and if his stomach wasn't growling, he wouldn't know what to say. He couldn't put in words exactly why he felt the way he felt, which would be terribly against him in confronting a man who mastered words like Snicket.
So Editor went home, prepared a nice meal and tried to calm himself down. After eating, he called his author friend, the only person who could know where Snicket currently was. It turned out he was in the city, in the same apartment he always occupied when he was there.
Editor locked the manuscript in his safe, and left for the familiar address, making sure to take three different cabs and make them take a long and confusing path. Dealing with Snicket brought this sort of thing to his life too.
He knocked in the previously agreed pattern, only to be answered by an unfamiliar voice.
"Who's there?"
Editor sighed.
"I brought your book delivery."
"There's no one here." Replied the unfamiliar voice.
He sighed again.
"Snicket-"
"The correct phrase is 'I have your book delivery'."
"I know it is you and you know it is me. Just open the door."
Editor heard the sound of many locks being opened, and then the door itself opened, revealing a very tired looking Snicket.
"Mr. Editor." He greeted.
"Let me in." Editor replied, already pushing his way in. Snicket didn't try to stop him.
The apartment looked exactly as Editor remembered it: full and messy. Papers were everywhere: drafts, sketches, fliers, maps, photographs, diagrams, letters, notes, newspapers, magazines, catalogs, origami, manuals, receipts, assorted documents and a big number of books. They were piled over the working desk and the couch, pinned to the walls, filling the shelves and, lacking anywhere else to be in the small space, covering a good part of the floor.
After all the locks were back in place, Snicket turned to Editor.
"I suppose you received the manuscript." He said in a flat tone, the one he mastered.
"I did." Editor replied, some of his frustration evident in his voice.
Snicket wouldn't look him in the eyes.
"I suppose you read it."
"I did."
Snicket started checking some papers on his table, and one could think he was focused on this task, but Editor knew better.
"I am leaving for the Hinterlands. Things are happening as we speak and I have never been so close to catching up with them. I will make sure to send the next manuscript as soon as possible."
One may not know Snicket spoke a lot when he was nervous.
"Show me." Editor said, serious.
Snicket looked at him, and Editor knew he knew what he was talking about, and that he knew Editor knew. Still, he tried to pretend he didn't.
"The tattoo." Editor elaborated before Snicket could use an excuse. "I want to see it."
Snicket lowered his eyes.
"I was taught since I was a child never to show it unless I was with people I can trust. Can I trust you, Mr. Editor?"
Editor tried to ignore the implication that Snicket had that tattoo since he was a child.
"Can I trust you, Snicket?"
Without answering it, the writer put his left foot on a chair and lowered his sock, revealing the tattoo of an eye.
Editor didn't know what he was expecting. Snicket's brother had the same tattoo. So did a notorious criminal. It all made sense and also made no sense at all.
"Our illustrator got it wrong." He found himself saying. A neutral, safe comment.
"B had all creative and artistic license in his work. He may have to adjust it in the next book, though, if my sources are right."
Editor sighed.
"What does this mean? What does any of this mean?"
"What do you think it means?"
"Stop trying to avoid my questions, Snicket!" Editor almost shouted. He was tired of these games.
Snicket didn't say anything. He just stood there, looking at anything but Editor.
"You lied to me." Editor finally said what had been on his mind since he finished reading the book.
"I didn't." Snicket retorted.
"Yes, you did."
"I didn't. I never claimed I was something I was not. You were the one who assumed I was not something I am."
"You are the worst!" Editor exclaimed in frustration. "You are too coward to say the truth and too coward to even lie to my face. All you ever do is confusing people with your smart words."
"I can't help it. It's all I know how to do." Snicket replied, having at least the decency to sound ashamed.
"Well, if you want me to keep working with you, you better learn something else and explain me everything."
"You will have to be more specific. I could spend hours telling you a story of nobility and wickedness, of fires and the ones who start them, the ones who try to fight them and the ones who lost everything to them. I could tell you about a couple who lived in a small town that is now flooded, and a boy who became a man in a seaside town that is not by the sea anymore. I could tell you of a couple that got married on an island that is not on any map, and a young man that-"
"You are doing it again." Editor interrupted, frustrated.
Snicket sighed. "Ask your questions and I will answer them."
Editor gave him an unbelieving look. "What does this mean?" He repeated, pointing to Snicket's now covered ankle.
"Many things-"
"Which things? Why are you supposed to keep it hidden?"
"Because it's a secret. That's how secrets work." Snicket looked away. "I am - or used to be, I am not sure anymore - part of an organization."
He stopped at that. Editor waited a few seconds, hoping he would say more, but it didn't happen.
"So…?"
"That's it." Snicket shrugged. "That's the secret. The answer to all your questions."
"It barely answers one of my questions." Editor pointed.
Snicket sighed again.
"I was a part of it. We all were- my siblings, Beatrice, all these people I write about…" He gestured vaguely to his typewriter. "We did noble things together, but also… also mistakes. I, in particular, did one terrible mistake that triggered some… unfortunate events to people I cared about."
It was still frustratingly vague, but things were finally starting to make sense to Editor.
"Does this terrible mistake have anything to do with Esmé Squalor?"
"It has everything to do with Esmé Squalor." He answered, not elaborating on it.
"Why is everything in your world so complicated?"
"I don't know. It has been so since long before I was born."
Editor looked around, trying to decide what to do next. He still had some doubts.
"Is her- is what she is doing in any way justified?"
"Nothing justifies hurting people who have nothing to do with the mistakes that were made," Snicket replied, voice firm and certain.
At least one thing still made sense.
Editor nodded.
"Beatrice…?"
"I loved her more than anything." Editor rolled his eyes. There was not a second in which he could forget or doubt such a fact. "But I know she was not perfect. She made mistakes as well. We all did."
"You do?" Editor asked, surprised.
"I am not blind, Mr. Editor." He walked to his typewriter. "Do you think I agreed with everything she did? Do you think she agreed with everything I did?"
Editor shrugged. "You do sound like the perfect picture of a beautifully tragic love." He didn't expect to sound as bitter as he did. Why did he sound so bitter?
"There's nothing beautiful in a tragedy," Snicket said in a melancholic tone. "Beatrice was happy with the life she chose, however short it turned out to be. I'm sure she wouldn't have exchanged it for anything."
"But you are not happy."
"Of course I'm not!" He exclaimed, in a tone Editor had never heard from him before. But Editor had never had such a personal talk with him before. "I am not happy. I can never be happy knowing that- knowing that she could have had a long, happy life with a husband who she loved and with their three intelligent, charming children, who they both cherished more than anything. They could all be together and happy right now, but she is gone and her husband is gone and their children are all alone and hurting and this is all my fault!"
Editor needed a moment to take it all in.
"What do you mean when you say it's your fault?"
Snicket took a deep breath, seeming to be calming himself down.
"I mean that I did things I shouldn't have. And I didn't do things I should have. I kept secrets that should have been revealed sooner. I was too busy trying to protect myself that I ended up putting the people I love in danger."
Editor remained silent. He didn't know what to say in answer to that. This was all too much.
One thing kept replaying in his mind, a realization that he only had now. Lemony Snicket was not moved by love, he was moved by regret. That changed something. Editor wasn't very sure of what it was, but it changed.
"I am leaving for the Hinterlands. Things are happening as we speak and I have never been so close to catching up with them." Snicket said, not looking at him. Editor blinked. Why did he know that already? "Please let me know at once if you are quitting this. I will need to make some arrangements."
"I'm not quitting."
Snicket looked at him, surprised.
"You're not?"
"No. We have a contract, right?"
"You don't have any obligation to keep a contract with a dead man."
"But I have an obligation with my word." Editor pausing for a moment, considering if he should say the next part. "And I want to help. I am going with you."
"No! It will be dangerous and unpleasant and- and I need you here."
Editor sighed. It will be dangerous for you as well.
"You underestimate me, Snicket. I can be much more useful to you than I am being right now."
"I know. But I can't put you in any more danger than I am already doing. I can't and I won't."
"If you think I am going to just sit down and wait for your next manuscript, you are wrong."
Snicket started looking through his papers. Looking for an excuse, probably.
"You don't even know the whole story, Mr. Editor."
"Then tell me."
"I don't have time. I have to leave tonight if I don't want to be too late again."
Editor sighed. That was a good excuse, one he couldn't argue with.
"There must be some way."
Snicket hesitated.
"I am looking for my sister. I haven't seen her in years, and she is the only one who can help me put some things back into place."
"Do you have any idea of where she is?"
"I do, but it's not safe for me to meet her in person yet."
"Do you want me to contact her?"
"Absolutely not. Things must stay as they are for now."
"Then why are you telling me this?"
"Because… if you really do want to get involved, it would be incredibly helpful if you could confirm if she really is where I think she is, and if she still frequents the libraries I think she does."
Editor nodded.
"Sounds easy enough."
"I hope it is."
There was a moment of silence. Editor didn't want to leave yet. He felt that once he did, Snicket would disappear forever, leaving him worried and full of questions. He felt it often, but it was stronger after everything he just learned.
"If you really do want to get involved, to learn the whole story, you could do some research on your own." Snicket offered.
"I wouldn't even know where to start."
"Yes, you would. You are an intelligent man, Mr. Editor. Just… search for the patterns. What do most of the fires that happened in this area in the last 40 years or so have in common?"
Editor frowned.
"40 years?"
"The Quagmire triplets found the answers without nearly as many clues. I am sure you can put it all together, Mr. Editor. It's all hidden in plain sight."
"What do you-"
"It's almost time for me to leave. I will let you know when the manuscript is done."
And just like that, Snicket shoved Editor out of the apartment. He was left worried and full of questions.
He thought of knocking on the door, of making a scandal until Snicket explained even a little bit of his last sentences. But deep down he knew it would be of no use. He should consider himself lucky for getting as many answers as he got that night.
Snicket was right, Editor was intelligent, and he had sources. He sent a copy of The Hostile Hospital to be published, and kept one for himself where he highlighted the most suspicious and mysterious bits.
The next night he was alone in his office, accompanied by a map of the city, a pile of newspapers that contained news about fires in the last 40 years or so, a copy of the catalog of the Prufrock Preparatory School's library, a book about the history and symbolism of eye images, and a culinary book about the uses of sugar. His desk was a mess. It reminded him a little of Snicket's apartment.
Working with this writer was messing with his head.
Still, after a whole day of reading, marking points in the map, and taking notes, the patterns were indeed starting to show up. It was both frightening and exciting to see a conspiracy unravel in front of his eyes. And he found himself not regretting anything.