Chibici-Revneanu OF MURDER, MUSES AND ME

1. Auflage 2017
ISBN: 978-1-909762-40-4
Verlag: Jacaranda Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 216 Seiten

Reihe: Jacaranda

When bestselling author Mark Drubenheimer is found dead in his studio, Rosalind Waterloo's world collapses. The official story is that the author committed suicide, but for his devoted fan Rosalind, there is only one explanation: Drubenheimer was murdered, and Rosalind is the only person who can expose the killer. Rosalind takes her investigation to London and to the heart of the publishing industry where she encounters an intriguing cast of characters; an eccentric editor, a modest muse, a wounded widow and a mesmerising mystery man. With her sanity now in question, Rosalind is even more determined to uncover the truth behind Drubenheimer's death regardless of the dramatic consequences. Of Murder, Muses and Me is a sharp and witty debut by a promising talent.

Claudia Chibici-Revneanu is a geographically confused Austrian, who currently works as a lecturer at the National Autonomous University of Mexico (UNAM) in León, Mexico. She has published poems, literary essays, translations and academic articles in different international magazines such as Celeste, Schreibkraft, olasciviles and The International Journal of Cultural Policy Studies. In 2000, she won the Austrian award for women writers, Minna Kautsky. Of Murder, Muses and Me is her first novel.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Chibici-Revneanu, Claudia

Leseproben

Chapter One

It was early morning on the 5th of May and the air buzzed with the promise of spring. Rosalind hid behind the fortress of books she had built for herself in the crowded library of her Midlands university. Undergraduate exam time was approaching and countless boys and girls passed by her desk enveloped in the morning’s sunshine. Some read; some chatted; others laughed. On the table behind her, a couple kissed and she could hear their careful sighing, their mouths separating and finding each other again. They all seemed so immersed in life; filled with an electric joy.

And although her existence had been devoid of electric joy lately, there was always Mark Drubenheimer, subject of her thesis and focus of her life. The wonderful Mark Drubenheimer. A personification of hope, value and truth.

Since 8.30, this very morning, she had been steadily working on an article about him that was destined for a Caribbean journal. She knew that if only more people read Drubenheimer’s work—touched upon his novels’ messages of a deep joy underlining life’s pain—the world could be a far happier place.

She would read through what she had written so far, then take the afternoon off and treat herself to a classic. A ray of sunlight fell into the library window and onto her face. Rosalind shut her eyes for a second, feeling the warmth on her skin. When she opened them again, she surreptitiously glanced at the kissing couple. They were both immersed in their studies, now. She took a deep breath and started to read.

Introducing: Mark Drubenheimer

The novelist Mark Drubenheimer, currently one of England’s most acclaimed writers of fiction, is considered the star author of the prestigious publishing company Flow. His first novel, , tells the story of Frederic, a depressed man in his fifties who goes on a beach holiday to recover from the loss of his wife. Intent on fulfilling a half-forgotten dream, he learns to dive. During a particularly hazardous descent, he encounters and falls in love with a mermaid. From then on, they meet every day in the depth of the Caribbean, kissing, making love—the exotic, mermaid way—and speaking about the secret workings of the world. She teaches him many comforting truths, among them the existence of a hidden light behind life’s darkness and pain.

Drubenheimer’s second work, , is about a young woman, Anette, who guiltily lives for reading. One night she decides to sleep at her local library, where she is seduced by another woman sharing her hide-away, the beautiful violinist Gwen. They become lovers and Gwen, at first, urges Anette to expand her experiences beyond stories. To face “life as it is”. To Anette’s surprise and Gwen’s joy, this proves impossible. Hungry for experiences, Anette ends up tumbling in and out of “real-life” narratives (quests, tales of redemption and love) and learns that life never leaves story-mode, that the world is a multicoloured chaos of tales. Anette’s path to fulfilment, apart from marrying Gwen, becomes the conscious creation of her own, unique mixture of these stories—her life-plot—from now on.

Rosalind smiled. She hadn’t achieved more than a summary so far. And yet, it delighted her that Drubenheimer’s and her writing were mysteriously intertwined in her notebook, now. Also, if the article happened to get accepted, it might give her the confidence to finally ask her father—his literary agent—to arrange a meeting with him.

To the high-pitched sound of birds chirping away outside, she dreamily rested her head on her hands. Separated by two cups of coffee, Rosalind Waterloo and Mark Drubenheimer wouldn’t only talk, they would think together. The connection between them would be immediate, magical. Mark Drubenheimer would make her feel infinitely special. Like a person who mattered at last.

She blushed ever so slightly, then made herself read on:

Mark Drubenheimer’s allure is not limited to his writing. Literature lovers all over the nation are fascinated by the few facts known about his personal life. He arrived in England as an infant after his German parents—about to give their lives for the anti-Nazi resistance movement—put him unaccompanied on an airplane so he may survive.

Perhaps it is this dramatic formative story which has given his writing—with its colourful treatment of life and death—its wisdom and force.

More sunrays played shadow-games on Rosalind’s body. The library grew warmer. The couple kissed, again. Her heartbeat quickened—she loved this heroic story about Drubenheimer’s parents. It contained such poetry it seemed almost invented, unreal; it linked the author’s life to her own. Her mother’s parents had also come from the continent—they were Italians—to England during the war. Although her father had always taken pride in the fact that her mum was the most un-Italian of all the world’s Italians he knew.

At the thought of her father, Rosalind felt her throat tighten. Yes, he was none other than Drubenheimer’s agent. And yet, he had never helped Rosalind to establish contact with him; nor had she ever asked. Although cheerful and sociable on the outside, he was a very private person, never revealing much about work—or anything. This wasn’t the only problem. But she really didn’t want to think about this now! She hadn’t even discovered Drubenheimer’s work through him. No, Rosalind had come across of her own accord, shortly after her mother had died. She had walked into a bookshop, utterly bewildered and confused, looking for something, anything, to comfort her.

She had begun with the self-help section, a place she would usually avoid, leafing through books with titles like and . Immediately frustrated she had hurried back to the fiction department—her world. There she had come across him. Mark Drubenheimer, whose was on special display. For Rosalind this arrangement had not been created by a shop manager (or whoever held the responsibility for such things), but by fate itself. Then, just as now, Drubenheimer’s writing whispered some secret knowledge that both thrilled and soothed her.

She stood up and shoved her notebook into her bag. Oh, Drubenheimer! But enough dreaming, enough past! Hadn’t she been planning to indulge in one of her favourite past times now—browsing through a literary classic? As always, she would only flick through the pages, to refresh her memory. Which one should it be?

Rosalind slowly demolished her readable fortress and returned small piles of books to the library cart. She felt in the mood for a novel unrelated to her thesis. Some famous book full of colour and intensity that would momentarily bring back her mother, to her. Their bookshop visits together had been one of their few bonding activities. She still remembered their last trip. Her mother’s belly had already shown and they had enjoyed the fact that an adult daughter and a pregnant mother would go book-shopping together. Her mother had picked up Dostoyevsky’s and called it the best novel in the world. Dark and real. She had adored classics throughout her short life.

, then. In a few moments, she would return to the story of Raskolnikov, the student—about her age—driven wild by lack of space, food and delusions of superiority. She would be transported to Russia, and witness the young man haunted by coincidence until he murders, twice. The book’s darkness would be set against the relentless sunlight of the student library.

Accompanied by the sounds of other students nervously scribbling or quietly talking and giggling, she moved towards the Russian literature section, bent down and looked at the neat line of books on the bottom shelf. Although the “Secret Committee Against Superficial Affairs”, or SCASA (her internalised voice which provided strict guidance as to which thoughts and behaviour were acceptable) objected, Rosalind chose a glamorous blue paperback volume published several years ago by Subtlety as part of a Classics series. The cover showed the picture of a star-sprinkled city at night, the shadow of a man haunting its streets.

Respectfully balancing the book in her hands, Rosalind walked towards one of the wooden chairs next to the window overlooking the lake. She sat down and glanced at the view of sun-dappled water, lost ducks and lush trees. Filled with anticipation—a lightness in her neck and her chest—she started to read.

The beginning followed the young Raskolnikov trudging home, desperately trying to avoid his landlady. The young man was in a terrible state:

It was not that he had been terrified or crushed by misfortune, but that for some time past he had fallen into a state of nervous depression akin to hypochondria. He had withdrawn from society and shut himself up, till he was ready to shun, not merely his landlady, but every human face.

There was only one face, one body that may have broken his loneliness. The body of a woman now dead. He vaguely remembered her beauty. Light caught in her hair and her eyes; the hypnotic power of her voice. Now she was gone, there was nothing left but vague memories and fierce poverty.

Rosalind stopped reading, taken aback. She didn’t quite remember Raskolnikov’s dead girlfriend appearing so early on in the novel. Why did she have a feeling that she had been described...