DEATH IN THE CREATIVE WRITING CLASS
Leonae’s imaginative story makes one think; one never knows what dark secrets arehidden in other folk’s past!
Maria was droning on and on, and everyone in the creative writing class was dozing
off. Being an evening class, members tended to feel somewhat tired after the day’s
activities anyway, and Maria had this habit of boring everybody with extremely long
pieces of writing that were not particularly interesting. However, the unspoken rules
did not allow anyone to complain.
Hans King was not in fact dozing, but doodling in the margins of his own
contribution. His mind had shut out Maria’s somewhat irritating voice, and was trying
to find a satisfactory fourth line for the poem that he was dreaming up for next
week. Hans was a C.I.D. detective who wrote poetry in his spare time, and thought
of himself with some amusement as a modern-day, South African Lord Peter
Wimsey. His police colleagues were not at all impressed with his poetic streak, but
were hugely impressed by his ability to solve cases that had defeated all the rest of
the homicide staff at Johannesburg Central Police Headquarters.
Pretty little Sarah Godwin sat next to Hans as she always did. She really fancied the
young man, although to date all her efforts to be charming and seductive had met
with no success: Hans remained his invariable friendly self, and always responded to
her invitations to various events with “I’d love to, Sarah, but I just don’t have time at
present”.
On the other side of the big round table sat three middle-aged ladies – Ann, June
and Patricia. This trio did the rounds of all the writers’ workshops available in
Johannesburg, and were bright, merry and good fun. Their work was of a fairly good
standard, and every now and then one of them startled the group with a really
creative piece of writing.
Paul Berning sat on Ann’s right. He was German, a very old man, bent nearly double,
with glasses so thick one couldn’t see his eyes clearly, and a shock of yellowish-white
hair that touched his shoulders.
Sitting to the left of Patricia was the group leader, a dynamic black-haired man in his
early fifties who rejoiced in the name of Pirandello Bianchi. Born in Italy, but having
lived most of his life in South Africa, Pirandello had the local South African English
accent and usage. He was a moderately successful novelist who felt it his task in life
to encourage struggling writers and to strengthen the clout of the Writers’ and
Artists’ Union of which he was the very enthusiastic chairman.
As Maria at last drew to a close – and everyone in the group drew a quiet sigh of
relief – the group leader said in an encouraging voice: “Rather long, Maria – do
please try to keep to the required word count – but some interesting ideas expressed
there. Anybody else want to say something?” No-one dared express their true
feelings, and into the rather embarrassing silence Paul said in his thick German
accent: “My turn!”
He lifted his rather tatty brown exercise book close to his thick glasses. Hans noticed
that the old man’s gnarled hands were shaking slightly – observation was a built-in
habit with Hans. Paul began in a rather quavering high voice to read his piece on
that week’s topic, which was: “I am not what I seem.”
“I AM NOT WHAT I SEEM. This is the title that Pirandello has given us for today’s
writing assignment and in my case…”
His voice stopped abruptly as he pitched forward onto the pink- checked tablecloth
where his body lay absolutely still. There was a stunned silence. Then everyone shot
to their feet, and Hans was beside the old man in a split second. Grabbing his cell-
phone from his belt he immediately summoned the doctor attached to the forensic
team.
“It must be a heart attack!” Patricia said. June was a retired nursing sister, and she
had her fingers on Paul’s left wrist. “He’s dead!” she exclaimed in horror.
Hans bent down and peered closely into Paul’s face. “This doesn’t look like a heart
attack to me!” he said sternly. Looking swiftly round the pale shocked faces of the
six people in the room he announced: “Don’t leave the room, any of you! I have to
call the police”. And he got busy on his cell-phone.
The would-be writers left the table and congregated in the corner of the room as far
away from Paul’s body as possible. “If it’s not a heart attack, and Hans is acting like
its murder, what on earth could this be about?” gasped Ann in an agitated voice to
the others. “No-one here could possibly want to murder Paul!” said Sarah firmly.
Within a few minutes, the doctor arrived, closely followed by two of Hans’s
colleagues. Hans sent one of the policemen into Pirandello’s bedroom with the
writing students. Another ring at the doorbell announced the arrival of the forensic
team, and the photographer began popping his flashlight.
“Pirandello, we need another room for our interrogation, please” said Hans. “Of
course!” said the group leader and he led Hans and the second policeman into the
adjoining study.
One by one the six members of the Creative Writing Group were invited to come into
the study and tell their versions of the evening’s activities. Everybody’s fingerprints
were taken; every detail of each one’s acquaintance with Paul was probed. Who had
known Paul outside of the writing class? Patricia had given him a lift to his nearby
flat on a few occasions when Paul’s car had gone in for service. Maria had once had
coffee with him at the neighbouring shopping center. But apart from those
encounters, nobody else had ever spoken to Paul outside the class.
Within a mere hour of Paul’s death, each of the surviving members of the group was
made to feel like a potential murderer – and was suspiciously eyeing the others in
the same light.
Tea had been served half an hour before the catastrophic event. It had consisted of
a tray holding tea-bags, a jar of instant coffee, a small jug of milk, a bowl of sugar,
and a plate of biscuits. Nothing had been different to the usual pattern. One by one
the members suddenly realized that Paul had possibly died of poison, and rapidly
went over what they themselves had eaten and drunk – wondering agitatedly if they
too were about to writhe in agony and drop dead! Patricia in fact became hysterical
and had to be sedated by the paramedics. Pirandello muttered agitatedly: “Poison is
the typical modus operandi of women!”
“Oh shut up, Pirandello!” snapped Sarah. “We don’t even know if he was poisoned!”
After a further hour or more of miserable inactivity for the “suspects” - “that’s what
we are, you know!” said Sarah – Hans told them that they could all go home, but
were not to leave their homes until he, Hans, phoned them with further instructions.
As they returned to the once-friendly table to round up their papers, handbags and
other belongings, they saw a member of the forensic team holding Paul’s exercise
book in a gloved hand and dropping into a plastic bag which he then sealed.
“Stop!” shouted Hans. “Remember what he was reading to us! “I am not what I
seem”! What did that first sentence say?” He pulled the exercise book out of the
sealed bag, opened it, paged through and exclaimed: “Here it is!” He read:
“You think you know me, dear people. You think I am just Paul, that old man you
see every Thursday night in Pirandello’s flat. A harmless old man, you think, don’t
you?”
People turned to look at each other wonderingly. What on earth was going to come
next?
“You have a saying in English: ‘entertaining angels unaware’. Well, in my case, you
have been entertaining a devil unaware! I can contain my guilt no longer, dear
friends. For a short period in 1944 I was commandant of a Nazi death camp in
Southern Germany. I am responsible for the horrible deaths of many innocent men,
women and children. Among my victims were three members of an Italian family
called Bianchi.”
All the people present turned to look at Pirandello, who had gone ashen with huge
staring eyes.
Hans continued to read: “I never forgot that name because the manner of their
death was so terrible that even my hardened subordinates hesitated to execute my
command. Some weeks later I started to have nightmares – nightmares that
reduced me to a shaking, sweating, screaming wreck. These dead people came to
me in my sleep so vividly that I eventually did all in my power to stay awake; I dared
not fall asleep. My superior sent me to a psychiatric hospital in Berlin, from which I
managed to escape shortly before the war ended, and to assume a false name and
identity in North Italy.
But I was not to enjoy any peace. I could not forget my crimes. As time passed, my
guilt grew to enormous proportions and eventually the torment that accompanied it
drove me to roam the world. I ended up here in Johannesburg, was briefly married,
and had one son who became a veterinary surgeon. I never told my wife or my son
who I truly was – I could not bear to talk of my real past. I invented a bland history
that satisfied them. All these many, many years I have relived my terrible crimes. I
have never had a good night’s sleep in all this time. Day and night I am haunted. I
found the name of Bianchi in the telephone book here in Johannesburg where
chance had brought me to settle. I discovered that Pirandello was a well-known
writer and ran this class. In fear and trembling I joined his class. Week after week I
planned to confess my involvement in the tragic deaths of his grandparents and
father. Week after week my courage failed me. Now, finally, the moment has come.
When Pirandello set us the task of writing “I am not what I seem” I knew I had to
make my confession to him and to you all, kind friends who have welcomed me
among you and treated me like a human being instead of throwing me out as the
vile creature I really am.
From my son’s veterinary surgery I stole a new poison that works very quickly and
painlessly – in case what I did was not bad enough, you see what a coward I am, I
could not bear the thought of suffering! So I plan to swallow this capsule when we
have our friendly cup of coffee this morning. I will tell you the truth about me, and
then I will be gone.
So it is that you now regard my dead body. I have gone into eternal oblivion – the
only place I can hope to escape from the mental and emotional tortures that have
not left me for a minute for all these years. Pirandello, I cannot even ask your
forgiveness – how can such enormous crimes be forgiven? Farewell to you all!”
There was total silence in the room. Pirandello buried his face in his hands and
began to sob – deep, wrenching sounds. Ann put her arms around him.
“Well,” said Maria, “at least we are off the hook! I hated having to look at you all as
possible murderers!”
Everyone started talking excitedly, but Hans interrupted: “We still have to do an
autopsy! How do we know that one of you didn’t forge Paul’s writing and plant that
confession in his book? Or that one of you forced him at gunpoint or blackmailed him
into writing a false story? But I admit that it’s not very likely. Still, don’t go overseas
or to Cape Town until I give you the all-clear!”
Quiet once more the writing students left the room. June whispered to Patricia:
“What shall we write about for next week?”
“Shh!” said Patricia, “How can you be so unfeeling! Let’s just absorb the shocks of
this evening – then we can start again.”
“Wow – what a class!” muttered Sarah to Ann. “You never know what’s going to
happen in a creative writing class, do you?”