This is not a story about love. This is not a story about great cities, adventure, or glory. If you wish to walk away from your reading with a feeling of goodwill and warmth, your time would best be spent elsewhere. Instead, this story is about dark storm-clouds spilling their rain on a suffering populace. This is a story about un-mourned death on a back street. This is a story of stone blackened by the loving embrace of fire.
This is a story about life.
In New York City, not a year ago, black rain fell from a tumultuous sky. Lightning. A heartbeat of light. The darkness quickly returned. I sat inside, staring out into the storm, listening to the light sound of my housemate sleeping. I was an actor then. My stage name was Arthur Cantrell, an American-English name. My real name is Artur Czajkowski, and I'm from the western Soviet Union. Despite moving to America when I was a child, and carrying no trace of an accent, I knew I would face prejudice when using my real name. Such was this era, the era of the Cold War. It was 1983, and the Soviets needed to be gunned down.
I was successful as well. My works ranged from romantic comedies to action movies, and the critics lauded me as very successful with developing my characters. The previous week, a publishing company had come to me, asking if I was interested in writing a memoir. Despite being quite young for such a thing, only twenty-nine years of age, I agreed. A ghostwriter was assigned to me, an English girl named Amelia Collins. See, though I was an actor, my writing skills left much to be desired.
Miss Collins was to move into my home until the manuscript was finished. To my knowledge, she had no family, and was happy to travel overseas to work. She had arrived earlier that day. What followed was nearly an hour of 'setting up shop,' as she put it. This involved installing a typewriter on the desk in my living room, moving her personal items into my guest bedroom, and putting an ungodly amount of pillows everywhere. "A writer has to be comfortable before she can write properly," she said when I inquired as to why she'd installed so many.
The girl was pretty, I had to admit. She had big eyes, hair that wasn't ridiculously styled (as was usually the case in those days), and a beautiful smile. Her accent was light, but still had that beauty of England to it. During the first night, I commented on it, and she sheepishly admitted to taking lessons from a speech therapist to make her accent more fitting to America. After all, who wanted to appear foreign in a new place? Ironically, I could accept that.
We had a short interview, to get to know each other. For each question about me, I got to ask one back. It was silly, and probably childish, but some great answers came from it. I told her about how I'd gotten my start, as an extra in a couple movies. When I finally made my way up to where I was getting lines, people started paying attention. It was a classic example of climbing a ladder in a career, and stepping on the heads of everybody else along the way. Despite being only twenty-five, she had been writing for years, and found that her books sold better when there was a famous name attached.
It seemed that we had a lot in common.
The next day, we officially started on the book. It was sunny outside, and the rain was starting to dry up. From my home, a high-rise, there was a spectacular view of Central Park. According to Amy (as she preferred for me to call her), seeing nature in the middle of a cityscape inspired her to write more. "I can't help but feel like there's some magic in those trees," she would say wistfully, staring down.
The first question she asked was when I had become interested in acting. "Well," I responded, "as a child, I had a very active imagination. While everyone else was playing sports, I was playing people. My mother was afraid that I was crazy, but I didn't care. As I grew older, into my teenage years, I started adopting accents. I would walk around the city, speaking to people as a British citizen, or an Australian, or maybe a German. Since it's New York, people bought it easily. I guess I've always been an actor. It's just now that I'm getting paid for it."
She commented on how the story was sounding clichéd. There had to be something angsty about my early childhood that would make the story really sell. "Well, alright," I replied. "Also, in my teenage years, I had a hard time finding myself. That's very common, I know, but let me continue. I still don't know who I, as a person, am. It's in my acting that I find personalities. I only know who I am until the director yells 'Cut'. After that, I'm wandering aimlessly in the dark. I'm a different person for every group of people that I spend time with. I have different habits, different speech patterns. I'm able to notice every bit of it, and I can't do anything about it. Does that satisfy you?"
I took her out to dinner later that evening, to Lombardi's. A visit to New York City isn't complete without eating at the country's oldest pizzeria, after all, and that's the thing for which New York is most famous. A few pictures were snapped, and I was approached for a couple of autographs, but the paparazzi was otherwise absent.
That night, she began writing. I guess it's a normal thing for writers to have trouble with beginning stories, because she threw out a lot of papers before finally producing one she liked. She turned out about four more pages before going to bed. I sat up, listening to the rain outside, and watching television. President Reagan was telling of a plane being shot down in the Soviet Union. A Congressman was on it. As usual, the part of me that came from the Soviet Union flinched, afraid that this would come back on me.
"Is something wrong?" I heard from behind me. Apparently, she'd seen the look on my face in response to that news.
"Uh... no, nothing," I lied. She didn't believe me. "Well, it's something I've never told anyone."
"Ah, well, I'm sure it's something your memoir can't live without, then," she said, sitting on the couch next to me. She was wearing sweat pants and an oversized shirt. She wore no makeup and her hair was awry. It was beautiful.
I told her, then, about how I'd been born in the Soviet Union, and how my name wasn't Arthur Cantrell, but Artur Czajkowski. How I was afraid to show who I really was to anyone because of the judgmental nature everyone had toward my situation. I told her my few memories of the U.S.S.R., and how I enjoyed the U.S.A. much more. Hell, anyone raised in freedom would prefer the relative safety of the United States.
The television cast a gentle glow over her otherwise darkened frame. As the screen grew brighter and darker, her features also fluctuated in my sight. Amy was a great listener. Somehow, her non-judging eyes opened up a floodgate. I ended up telling her the truth about everything. Memories I hadn't faced in years came back to me in that moment. My mother being beaten by the Americans after we moved here, just because she came from the 'evil Soviet empire'. How she later changed our name from Czajkowski to Cantrell. I remember hating that name. I hated both of them. Cantrell I hated because it wasn't who I was, and I hated Czajkowski because it got me into trouble.
She remarked on something I'd often thought of. Since I'd had a different name for most of my life, I'd never been able to develop as my own person. I was acting, all along. And that could be the foundation on which my self-doubt was built. My entire life was a dichotomy between these two people; the person I was, and the person I tried to be were at war with each other, and I had no idea who would win, or if anyone would win at all.
By the end of it, I was out of breath. I was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. And she just sat there, exuding quiet compassion. "You're an amazing man, Mr. Czajkowski," she responded, switching to my real name as if she'd used it all along. "You've put up with more than most of the people in the free world could, and you never showed it. You've had everyone fooled all along."
"The best part is," I said, trying to keep my voice from cracking, "I've never told anyone. Not since my mother changed our name. I've been Arthur Cantrell to everyone I've met since."
We talked for a little while longer, and then went to bed. Before we went our opposite ways, though, she hugged me. "I can't imagine what you've been through, Artur," she said, "but I promise you that I'll do my best to help you feel better about it."
"Thanks," was all I could whisper. I could never express to anyone how much that meant to me.
The next morning, everything was different. While we were at my home, she would refer to me as Artur or Mr. Czajkowski. In public, I was Arthur. Not once did Amy slip up, and not once did she seem as if she was acting any different. It was comforting to me. I had opened up to this girl in ways I had never experienced with anyone else, and it felt great. I felt free while I was with her. Free from these chains I'd been carrying my entire life.
Over lunch, in my home, she brought something up. "I realize that relations between our countries and the Soviet Union are strained," she said, taking a sip of tea, "but maybe we could use your native nationality to an advantage."
Her plan turned out to be very intriguing. It consisted of me going public with being Soviet-born, and using that as a way to help the relations of the United States and the Soviet Union become a little less strained. After all, I was a bit of both worlds. I could meet with the President, bring some of my fans to support him. I could come out of this with a lot of good publicity!
And, of course, Amy would get to write the first book to come out about me after the fact. It would sell millions, and she'd finally be vaulted to fame.
What could we do but celebrate? That night, after she wrote a few more pages, we went to a club. I all but forced her to dress up. I swear, if it were up to that girl, she would get married in an oversized shirt and sweatpants. And she wouldn't wear shoes, either. I got her to put on a little eye makeup, some dress clothes, and was very pleased. She looked great before, but with a little sprucing up, she was gorgeous.
We drank... probably too much. I could barely remember where I lived as we got in the cab to come back. And, well, we slept together that night, in our stupor. It was perfectly natural at the time, considering our questionable state of mind. It was the next morning that was awkward. The headache was natural, but finding out that you slept with someone you actually knew... that was irreparable.
Still, we talked a bit about it, came to the conclusion that everything could be explained away because of the alcohol. And we didn't mention it again. For a while. But that comes later.
The book was coming along splendidly. It was supposed to be a few anecdotes about my childhood, and then mostly focus on my acting career. We were a few chapters in by the end of a week, and Amy was very cheerful about how it was turning out. The very first paragraph went as follows,
"You may know me as Arthur Cantrell. I've appeared in films such as The End of Days, Half Asleep, and Monet. What you don't know about me, however, is the truth. My name isn't Arthur Cantrell, but Artur Czajkowski, and I was born in the Soviet Union."
This was going to be controversial. It was going to be hated by the radical right, and embraced by the radical left. This book... was going to be a best-seller.
Soon, we let something 'accidentally' leak from the book. People knew that it was being written, and knew about Amy staying at my house to write it, but the details of the book were being kept secret by the publishing company. The celebrity gossip newspapers were all over the leak, which contained my real name. I was contacted quickly about it, and my agent set up a press conference.
Clips from the press conference were on the news for weeks. "Yes," it would show me saying, in response to the first question, "what you read is true. My name is actually Artur Czajkowski, and I was born in the Soviet Union. But you can trust that I was raised in America, and I support the president and this great country!" The cheers and applause were deafening. Who ever said patriotism was dead?
After the conference, I was invited to speak on all sorts of talk shows. One of them caught my attention more than the others. It was based more on comedy, and had been started the year before by a man in his thirties named David Letterman. He and I laughed about how I'd been using a false name all these years, and how, if I had used my real name, nobody would give me parts in their movies because they wouldn't want to put 'Czajkowski' on their posters.
Amy would come with me to these shows, and usually sit in the green room while I was talking to the host. Sometimes, the talk show host would take me to dinner, to talk more at length about myself and the book, and she'd come along. They knew, of course, that I wasn't writing the book, and were delighted to meet her.
Unfortunately, not everyone was taking this so well. I went to a movie premiere, with Amy as my 'date', and found a group protesting outside of it. They believed I was a KGB spy, and was infiltrating American society, trying to undermine the country by getting it to trust me. Luckily, they didn't do anything but verbally accost me as I walked along the red carpet. I assured Amy that, even though they were protesting, they were making me even more famous, and more people would buy the book when it came out.
We went to a club again after the premiere, with some of the other actors and the director of the film. They were all happy to meet Amy, and asked why I wasn't dating her yet. She was pretty, we obviously got along well, we were both at that time single. Everything was perfect. She responded that it was easier to write the book without a bias when she wasn't romantically involved with me. There was no doubt that we had grown very close over the past month or so, but she claimed that she looked at me as more of a 'big brother' than a romantic interest.
When we got back home, nearing two a.m., she admitted to me sheepishly that she lied. She liked me a lot, and was torn. Finding out so much about me, she saw a lot of things she admired, but if we were to openly start dating, she would probably be taken off the writing assignment. She hadn't lied about that. It was easy to embellish things about someone you cared about, and she couldn't have that if she was to get a credible book out about me. But, if I were open to the idea of doing something in secret... she would very much enjoy that. I didn't say anything. Instead, I kissed her. After a moment of looking shocked, she gave the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen in my life, and hugged me tightly.
In public, we were an actor and the writer sent to follow him around and record the events that happened. In private, we were a couple. We'd watch movies on my television, her head lying on my shoulder. We'd still go out and eat, which was normal, but people didn't know that it was different in our minds than it had been originally.
She kept on with the book. I was amazed at her dedication to it. I suppose it comes from being a writer for so long. It had been a couple of months by this point, and she was almost finished with the first draft. We knew that she wouldn't be able to stay much longer, and it was a sadness that stayed on my heart. She figured that she'd be done in two weeks.
But the memoir was never really finished. In October of that year, a man broke into my home with a gun. I do not know to this day if he was a political zealot, or if he was just a crook, hoping to rob my home. When he broke through the door, the alarm went off. I immediately grabbed the handgun I kept on my bedside table. Amy, however, was less patient.
She slowly opened the bedroom door. Unfortunately, whoever the man in my home was had an itchy trigger finger. As the door began to open, three gunshots rang out, in quick succession. Amy screamed as she fell to the floor, and then she was quiet. My heart started to beat quickly. My stomach clenched. My mouth went dry. The area around the edges of my sight went black. I felt this uncontrollable horror rising up in the back of my mind.
Before I knew what was happening, I was in the hall, firing my own gun at the shrouded figure. He was dead before the police arrived. But I didn't care about him. Turning, I ran back to the room and knelt by Amy. She was alive, though her breathing was staggered and shallow, and she was shaking. I think she was unconscious, but her eyelids kept clenching as if she was feeling pain.
I called 911 immediately. The woman on the other end stayed on the line with me as the ambulance was on its way. She asked me where Amy was shot. She had been shot twice, and the third shot had ricocheted off of the doorknob. One of the bullets was in her stomach, and the other was in her left leg.
The paramedics arrived with the police. The officer wanted me to answer a few questions before I went along to the hospital to be with Amy. He said I couldn't help her by hovering. "Mr. Cantre- er, Czajkowski," he said, "can you tell me exactly what happened?"
I told him how the man had broken in, how Amy had gone to open the door, and how he shot three times. The third bullet was found in the wall. The officer requested another unit come to help with the body, and then released me to go to the hospital.
I waited for an hour before the doctor came out. He told me the news. They had been able to remove the bullets, and stopped the bleeding, but the rounds had been laced with something. It was something they hadn't seen before, and they couldn't stop it.
Amy was dead.
And so here I sit. It's been six months since that night. It's raining. The black of the night is only broken by the occasional burst of lightning, and only for a moment. The rain is pounding against the window, just like it did that night, so long ago. The unfinished manuscript sits on the desk in my living room, just like it has since then. I never released it back to the publishing company.
I'm not sure if I loved her. It might have been the intimacy of our situation, living together and whatnot. It might have been that she was killed in front of me, and that we never got to see how the relationship would have worked out. But I can't get her out of my head.
But you all already know that. You've told me as much.
Artur Czajkowski
As you can see, Mr. Czajkowski doesn't know what's going on around him. He believes in the events that he wrote about above.
Mr. Czajkowski suffered a mental breakdown on the night of October 6th, 1983. He was under extreme stress, and suffered from paranoia. We've found since that he has extreme schizophrenia, multiple personality disorder, and a mild case of obsessive-compulsive disorder.
The details we've been able to put together suggest that he confronted Miss Collins at approximately 7:30 P.M., accusing her to be an assassin, sent by the Russian mafia to silence him, and after an exchange, shot her in the stomach. A neighbor called the police, and they found him kneeling beside the body, crying.
I strongly recommend that Artur Czajkowski remain institutionalized.
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Subscribe
Flag Writing