Another Paradise

Clarence poured over the restaurant menu, his brown fingers running down the list of choices, unable to decide. He was to meet his good friend Lawrence for brunch, which happened to be Clarence’s favourite type of meal.

Lawrence was running late, as usual, so Clarence went ahead and perused the menu. 

As he was perusing, and waiting for his friend to arrive, he was suddenly overcome with an appalling sense of disgust at the very nature of his situation. 

“Why am I sitting here, waiting like a fool?” he asked himself. “Nobody dines alone. Lawrence said he’d be here thirty minutes ago.”

And with that, he laid the menu down on the oak table and pushed his chair out, got up and headed for the front door, grabbed his jacket as he left, and walked out onto the sidewalk in front of the restaurant he frequented so often. 

Even though it was simply traffic that was the most likely culprit for Lawrence’s tardiness, Clarence couldn’t seem to care. He had made it there on time, after all. In fact, he was early to the restaurant, making sure to save Lawrence’s favourite seat. “Oh well,” he thought to himself. “Such is life.”

Clarence strolled down Fifth Avenue, passing by all kinds of interesting shops. He stopped in front of a tailor, and considered going in to buy a new jacket, for he loved collecting finely made jackets, but decided against it, as at this point he felt he had enough at home. 

You see, Clarence was a writer for a living, and so to him every moment was a passing chance at living through the lens of the writer’s mind, which is to say he viewed things through the eyes of the characters he made up in his mind. Would ‘Richard’ buy a new jacket? Or would he just continue on down Fifth Avenue? Where would ‘Richard’ go next? ‘Richard’ was a character in his up-and-coming novel, ‘Another Paradise’, and he was determined to finish it by the end of the year. 

Clarence was not exactly a successful writer, but he did make enough to cover his basic expenses, which one could say certainly makes you successful to some degree, while there are writers struggling to make ends meet. This was another reason for his dissatisfaction with Lawrence’s late arrival, as he was excited to share with him that his new novel was almost finished, and that he needed to hire a new editor to proofread it, as his previous one had tragically died in a skiing accident. He was going to propose to Lawrence a biweekly salary of $600 for as long as it took him to finish it. He wouldn’t have chosen Lawrence had it not been for his advanced degree in philosophy, which made certain that Lawrence was quite capable of slogging through a 900 page book. 

Of course, Lawrence taking the job depended on Clarence actually finishing the novel, which he was having trouble with. He just didn’t know where to take ‘Richard’ next, or what his ultimate fate should be. Clarence thought a lot about life, and how none of us knows what our ultimate fate will be, so why should he know the fate of ‘Richard’? This paradox disturbed him, and he wasn’t able to shake it from his mind as he continued walking down Fifth Avenue. 

“The one thing missing from my novel,” he thought to himself, “is a good romance. But a good romance is hard to write, because all romance is inherently predictable: either they get together or they don’t. How can I make it more interesting?”

And just as he turned the corner onto Adelaide Street, he found his answer. 

Clarence was looking, absentmindedly, up at the skyscrapers as he walked, and did not notice at all the young woman, also absentminded, walking directly towards him. They collided, and her glasses fell off her face and landed on the hard pavement below, thankfully not cracking when they did. 

“I’m so sorry miss,” he said as he bent to pick them up. And, just as if it had been lifted out of a book, she bent down too and their fingers touched as they both went to pick the glasses up at the same time. 

Clarence looked up at the young woman crouched in front of him, and was immediately taken aback at her beauty. She was elegant, as if from another age, or even another world; her long black hair dangled in front of her, and as she pushed it out of the way he caught a glimpse of her bright green eyes and soft, rounded face with cheeks red as a rose, blushing for a reason he could not discern, for he thought there was no chance she found him equally as attractive, but as they touched hands this was, indeed, the reason for her blush. 

“Don’t worry about it,” she said as they both stood up and she put the glasses back on her face, somehow making her even more attractive, more regal. 

The two of them stood staring at each other, awkwardly, and before he knew what he was doing, Clarence stuck out his hand and said: “Clarence Hoffman,” to which she shook it and replied: “Rosabelle Meyers. But you can call me Rosie.”

“I hope your glasses are alright.”

“Oh, they seem fine, it’s no trouble at all.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, quite sure. Are you alright?”

How was he to say “no, actually I’m not, for you’ve made my heart skip a beat and yet it’s only been a heartbeat since I met you.” How was he to say anything without his tongue twisting into a knot and his throat going as dry as a desert?

“I - I’m fine.”

Suddenly, a loud honk overtook their conversation, and the two of them turned to see a yellow taxi pulled up at the side of the street, with Lawrence clambering out the back door. 

“Clarence! How are you? And who might this be?” he said, indicating at Rosie.

“Rosabelle Meyers,” she replied. 

“Lawrence Perry,” he returned. “An acquaintance of my dear friend Clarence?”

“A stranger in his story, actually,” she said, smiling. 

“It’s funny you should say that, as he is in fact a writer.”

“Oh, is that so?” she asked, turning to Clarence again. 

“It’s true,” he said. 

“Well isn’t that interesting. I’m a struggling writer too.”

“Oh, Clarence isn’t struggling,” Lawrence said. “He’s published three novels and is working on his fourth.”

“Wait…Clarence Hoffman. I thought I recognized that name! I’ve seen your books on store shelves.”

And at this, Rosie’s heart fluttered, for she was most excited to meet someone in the position for which she pined so dearly. 

“Yes, and his books are quite good too, I should say,” Lawrence added.

“I’m afraid I haven’t read any of them,” she said, embarrassed, but not wanting to lie. 

“That’s quite alright,” Clarence said, noting her cheeks going a deep red again. “Have you tried to publish any of yours?”

“I have, yes, but nobody wants to bite.” She sighed. 

“Well, why don’t I have a look at some of your manuscripts and see what I can do?” 

“Oh, Mr. Hoffman, you don’t have to-“

“Please, dear, call me Clarence.” 

And with that, she gave him her number, and they parted ways, but not before one final exchange. 

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Rosie.”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

II

Clarence continued walking down Adelaide, this time joined by Lawrence. 

“Oh, what a fine and pretty girl she was,” he said. “I’m quite envious of you, my friend.”

“If your envy haunts you now why is it that you refrained from telling her your occupation? Professor of Philosophy at the local university is quite an achievement.”

“Ah, but not as much of an achievement as your status. I didn’t want to take away your thunder. Still, I should have told her more about myself. Perhaps when you go to meet her I should come along?”

“What makes you say I’m going to meet her? She can just as easily send me her manuscripts as it would be to collect them by hand.”

“Oh, you know me, I just have a feeling. So, are we going to eat?”

“You know, I don’t have much of an appetite now,” Clarence said. The truth was, though, that he was giddy with excitement internally, for he had realized the perfect way to continue the life of ‘Richard’ in his novel: have him fall in love with another writer. 

III

Clarence waited a few days, and then decided to call Rosie. As the phone was ringing, his heart started to beat faster and his mouth went dry. These feelings surprised him, as he’d always been able to have a good handle over his emotions. But there was something about her, something in the way she was, simply, that intoxicated him. 

“Hello?” She said.

“Hello, Rosie? It’s me, Clarence Hoffman.”

“Clarence! I’m so very happy you called.”

He couldn’t help but smile. There was a pause between them, and, unsure of what to say next, it was Rosie who continued on, politely asking him: “How’s your fourth novel coming along?”

“Oh, well, I was stuck but now I think the current is flowing again, so to speak.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful to hear!” She said. “Writer’s block is the bane of my existence.” 

“Yes, it’s a most unfortunate illness to succumb to, in the same way one succumbs to a fever that puts them bedridden for days. Rosie, I was thinking, if you’d like, you could send me one of your manuscripts; the best one you have, and I could take a look at it and see if I may be able to get it into the right hands. Is that something that would interest you?”

“Oh, yes, quite a bit!” She replied. 

“Great! Let me give you the address-” and he stopped mid-sentence, because he’d just realized that he’d forgotten all about his editor’s tragic accident, and that sending the manuscript to his address would no longer be possible.

“Er - let me give you my address actually, and you can mail it here. 112 Baker Street.” And he gave her the postal code as well. 

“Baker Street? I live ten minutes from there! Why don’t I just drop it off myself? Would that be alright?”

“Of course,” and his heart fluttered again. “When would work for you best?”

“Could I drop it off sometime this week?”

“Absolutely. How does Thursday work for you?”

“Thursday works splendidly.”

“Say, three o’clock?”

“Three o’clock it is.”

“Alright then Rosie, I’ll see you then.”

“Thank you Clarence. You’re so very kind.”

And with that, they hung up, hesitantly, as though each one of them was unsure if the other was to say one last thing, but they both felt the conversation had reached a natural conclusion, so they hung up the receiver, gently, and simultaneously. 

Clarence paced around his apartment, flooded with new emotions and ideas, like electricity crackling through a wire. He went over to his study and, sitting down, began typing on his typewriter. He had ‘Richard’ encounter a similar situation; bumping into a pretty girl and knocking her glasses to the ground. He wrote about his affinity for her; how her regal beauty had captured his soul. He called her ‘Isabelle’. 

IV 

Ecstatic with the news, Clarence picked up his phone and called Lawrence, telling him everything that had happened with Rosie.

“Oh, that’s great news!” Lawrence said. “Will you invite her in?”

“Well, I think that’s a decision I’ll have to make in the moment,” Clarence replied. 

“Of course. Such is the way with things as delicate as this.”

“I don’t love her, Lawrence. It’s merely an infatuation.”

To this, Lawrence smiled. “Well if you don’t love her be careful not to lead her on.”

“I’ll be careful. Oh, Lawrence, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. I’m sure you’ve heard of the tragic accident of my previous editor, and now I’m in need of someone to proofread my work. Is that something you’d be interested in? I would pay you a fair stipend.” 

“You know how much I love reading your work. Sure! I would be honoured to be your stand-in editor.”

“Oh, thank you so much, you’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”

And at that, the two of them said their goodbyes and hung up, and Clarence went back to his study to work on his novel. 

V

That Thursday, Rosie arrived right on time to Clarence’s delight. He opened the door, and she stood there, smiling.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello Rosie. Have you brought the manuscript?

She handed it to him, and he opened the yellow envelop, peering inside at the thick wad of papers she’d given him. 

In that moment, something happened to Clarence; all his defences fell and went away, and he decided he would let her in.

“Would you like to come in for some tea? I have coffee too.”

“Yes please,” she replied. 

And so Rosie stepped inside Clarence’s apartment, a fair sized place with cream coloured walls and beautiful, ornate furniture, which he’d inherited from his grandparents. They walked into the living room and Clarence beckoned to her to take the blue couch, while he took the chair opposite it, a small oak table in between them. 

“Your apartment is lovely,” she said. 

“Thank you, I’ve lived here for eight years now. I find it to be a good mix of old and new.”

She looked so beautiful to him; her dark black hair falling perfectly over her shoulders, her piercing green eyes full of eagerness and curiosity. She was like a stone on the beach, impossible to miss, jutting out of the sand, begging to be admired, her face like the smooth edges along the rock. He wished so much to hold her in his arms that it made a physical pain within his heart, and his stomach dropped into a sunken place only the deepest divers could recover. 

Before he could say anymore though, to his surprise there was a knock at the door. Clarence opened it and standing there was Lawrence, still late, even for a date he was not invited to. 

“Lawrence?” He asked, questioningly. 

“Hello Clarence! I’ve come by to see if you wanted to hand me the current manuscript for your story. I’m most interested in reading it.”

This wasn’t like Lawrence to stop by, and Clarence knew his ulterior motive was to see Rosie. But, seeing as Lawrence was a good friend of his, he let him in anyway, knowing full well he was risking his status with Rosie, as Lawrence was a professor, and philosophy was a difficult subject to master, if one ever could.

But as the two of them walked in, Rosie was nowhere to be found. 

“Rosie?” Clarence called out. “Rosie?” 

And then he heard it: muffled crying coming from the bathroom. He knocked at the door, and asked, “Rosie, is everything alright?”

“Oh Clarence…” she said behind the closed door. She unlocked the door, and stepped out, holding the manuscript for ‘Another Paradise’, which Clarence had mistakenly left out on the side table of the living room. 

“What you’ve written…it’s so beautiful. Is it about me, this character ‘Isabelle’?”

Clarence didn’t know what to say. His face went beat red and he was overcome with embarrassment. Lawrence simply stood there, not expecting to find her in this state. 

He decided to tell the truth, as is often the easiest route, especially in matters concerning love, for lies hide the very nature of our desires, and what are we without them but animals foraging for affection?

“Yes, it is.”

And with that, she threw her arms around him and wept like a baby. Clarence started to cry too. And Lawrence continued to stand there, shocked, unable to grasp the link that now bonded them together. He slowly backed up, and walked away, out the front door, and down the winding staircase to the lobby, where he tipped his hat to the receptionist and strolled out the front door.

VI

Clarence would go on to merge his manuscript with Rosie’s, finishing his fourth book and first collaboration with another, and they married not long after it was published. 

He lived the rest of his days in peace and harmony, as did Rosie, and they only heard from Lawrence sporadically over those years, especially after the wedding in which he begrudgingly came. 

Lawrence would always regret not speaking up when he first met her, but Clarence knew it wouldn’t have made much of a difference, for the philosophy of life isn’t hidden in the texts of those who came before, but the texts of those yet to come, and the love in which you share, unspoken, between the words and letters in the white space upon which the ink is dried. 

‘Richard’ found his fate, and so did he.