From Under the Overcoat

A
famous Russian writer once said of Realism literature: ‘We have all come out from under Gogol’s Overcoat’. Scholars have long debated who that writer was — some attribute the words to Fyodor Dostoevsky, others to Ivan Turgenev. Provenance aside, the assertion says much about the past and the future of the short story.

The claim refers specifically to Ukranian-born Nikolay Gogol’s 1842 short masterpiece, ‘The Overcoat’. This simple tale chronicles the rise and fall of a poor Russian government clerk. The clerk needs a new winter coat. He subjects himself to extreme privation in order to buy one. He is immediately robbed of it, and dies of a fever in the harsh St Petersburg
winter. The clerk returns as a ghost to rob citizens of their coats.

‘The Overcoat’ is celebrated as one of the first stories to chronicle the ordinariness of life — the first appearance in short fiction of the Little Man, as Irish writer Frank O’Connor put it in his 1963 book
The Lonely Voice: A Study of the Short Story
. O’Connor goes further, claiming that ‘The Overcoat’ revealed so much about the human condition that had it never been written, scores of stories by Turgenev, Guy de Maupassant, Anton Chekhov, Sherwood Anderson and James Joyce would not exist. Extrapolate the claim, taking into account the influence of all those writers on today’s authors, and one might wonder whether the short story could have survived at all without ‘The Overcoat’.

This contention can of course never be tested. But no one would deny that the common man and woman have taken a firm grip on the literary subconscious. Mr and Mrs Average are the muses of the world’s best short-story writers. The less that appears to be going on in their lives, the deeper the writer probes, the more poignant the story revealed.

The idea that all stories have come out from under Gogol’s Overcoat has pessimistic connotations too. Does it mean — if we agree with the statement — that nothing new, exciting and different will ever be written? Fortunately the idea, although specific on the matter of character, does not dictate language, structure and style. Today’s writers freely explore the minutiae of life and lives in their unique voices.

This collection although inspired by those famous words has not been bound by them. The idea was to identify ten classic short stories and write a modern story in response to
each, a story that tipped its hat to the original in some way. The purpose is twofold — to salute short masterpieces of the past, and to encourage readers to seek the stories out and read them.

Choosing the classics was at once a joyful and desperate task. I had decided (with a couple of exceptions as discussed below) to focus on the modern, individual short stories from the era of ‘The Overcoat’ — the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Storytelling is universal, but certain writers of this period succeeded in elevating the genre of short fiction to the foreground of their cultural landscapes. Their stories concerned themselves with dignity, honesty, bravery, weakness and passion — the very same sensibilities occupying the twenty-first century writer.

I began by reading dozens of old stories from all over the world, and, for a long time, writing nothing. This was a particularly stressful way of creating a work, but I wanted the new stories to develop organically — earn their existence without being contrived or manipulated to meet the criteria of connecting to the originals. Ten old stories eventually found their echoes naturally in the stories I wanted to write.

I had chosen ‘The Overcoat’ as the raison d’être for the collection, but it was impossible to salute the modern short story without acknowledging another Russian writer, Anton Chekhov. ‘The Party’ gripped my imagination immediately. Moving west to France, I found Guy de Maupassant’s works equally germane and compelling. En route, I happened upon the Austrian writer Arthur Schnitzler, who is believed to have pioneered the interior monologue in his short story
‘Lieutenant Gustl’. This radical development in form — said to have greatly influenced James Joyce in the writing of
Ulysses
— is honoured in ‘George Clarke Junior’.

No salute to storytelling would be complete without an Irish tribute, and no Irish tribute could ignore James Joyce. The vignettes in the collection
Dubliners
together form a complete world, but the final tale, ‘The Dead’, also stands aloofly to one side: a chilling, tender masterpiece.

Across the Irish Sea, England had become a home away from home for two renowned expatriate writers of short fiction. American-born Henry James spent most of his writing years in England and was naturalised as a British subject in 1915. The tacit complexity of his long story ‘The Turn of the Screw’ demanded my attention. The second writer, our own Katherine Mansfield, would of course be present in this book; her stories of class consciousness offer inspiration for a re-examination of New Zealand society today.

A final turn of the globe took me to the United States, where the modern short story had found a fertile, welcoming habitat. I read Ernest Hemingway, Herman Melville, Nathaniel Hawthorne, O. Henry, Edgar Allan Poe and many, many more. But in the end it was a simple little story of self-denial by Sherwood Anderson called ‘Death’ that haunted its way into my collection.

Two stories fell outside the time period. I wanted to pay homage to the sublime Māori tradition of oral storytelling. ‘Recreation’ catches up with one of the Māori gods,
reminding
us of the perils of messing with nature. And I couldn’t ignore fairytales — the most beloved, widely read short
stories of all time. ‘Once Upon a Time in the Antipodes’, a warts-and-all study of marital longevity, flips ‘Sleeping Beauty’ sunny-side down.

The ten original stories touched me deeply and I can recall their substance without hesitation. Their observations are as fresh and honest today as they were the day they were penned. That is my justification for my choices; I happily concede another writer might choose ten different stories, equally excellent.

The stories in
From Under the Overcoat
also stand alone; if the reader is not curious about the archetypal story that inspired each of them, he or she may read the book for what it also is — a modern collection of (mostly) New Zealand short stories.

But I urge you to take the journey I took — seek out the classics at the heart of this collection, read them and marvel at their perennial beauty. ‘The Overcoat’ appears at the end of this book. The notes section will point you in the right direction to find the rest.

SUE ORR

FEBRUARY 2011

JOURNEYMAN

‘
H
ome time?’

David knows without looking up that it’s Neil standing over him. It’s the smell, although smell could never be the right word for Neil Crighton. Cologne? Fragrance? Utter, understated wealth: whatever that word is.

The way Neil says
home time
makes leaving for the day feel like a cheating thing to do. David pulls tight the laces on his sports shoes and looks at his watch. ‘Twenty past five already. Traffic’ll be a nightmare,’ he says.

Neil is perched on the edge of the desk, arms crossed and one foot tucked behind the other. The picture — the whole Neil package — reminds David of some advertisement he’s
seen in a magazine for an impossibly expensive wristwatch.

‘Shame you’re off,’ says Neil.

David folds his trousers and shirt carefully into the bag, hopeful for Trudy’s sake they’ll go another day. He looks again at his watch, then zips shut the bag. ‘Why’s that?’

‘We’re going to the Laybourne.’

Neil might as well suggest a quick trip to the moon. ‘Thanks,’ says David. ‘But I’ve got to get going … Trudy’s been home all day with Jamie.’

‘Sure.’ Neil’s nodding. ‘It’s just … there’s something I wanted to sound you out on. Thought you might be interested …’

‘Can it wait ’til tomorrow?’

‘Yeah, yeah, no worries. At least I … actually, no. Don’t worry about it.’ Neil slides off the desk, makes for his corner of the room. ‘Not important.’

‘Neil …’

‘Seriously — forget it. Get on home, mate.’

Nine months ago, they’d started on the same day. Sat in the cool white reception, making small talk, waiting for Mack Whitby to come and introduce them around the trading floor. They were both twenty-eight, David married with a child, Neil not. That was all they managed to share, before Mack arrived.

The three men walked the big open room. ‘This is David Fowler,’ Mack said, over and over, to welcoming faces. ‘Neil you’ve already met.’

David shook hands and tried to remember new names while Neil chatted on behind him. It turned out Neil had popped in the day before, when things were winding down, just to say hello to everyone.

‘How about that?’ said Mack to David.

‘How about that?’ David replied, shrugging his shoulders.

David had checked Neil out for signs of smug oneupmanship, for reasons to not like the guy. Keen to find something to hang the irrational irritation on, but there was nothing. It had been a good idea, to pop in the day before starting the new job. Simply, a good idea that Neil had had, and David had not.

DAVID WEAVES HIS BIKE
through the five-thirty traffic. It’s January and the air is heavy and hot, thick with a buzz. People are excited, leaving their offices and finding real summer heat so late in the day. The bars are filling up, doors flung open, patrons spilling out onto the street. Suit jackets hang over railings, high-heeled shoes are abandoned in piles under outdoor tables.

David stares at the clusters of office workers on the pavements, at their sunflower faces following the sun. Long drinks sweat in the heat. He tries not to think about the scene at home, but it seeps like rot through the warmth of the early evening. The dark lounge, mountains of creased, stale washing. Dishes piled high on the bench. Trudy walking the room, shoulders stooped, Jamie screaming in her arms. That fleeting look of accusation as he walks in — it’s there, always — followed like lightning by gratitude at his arrival.

David will do what he has done every day since they were finally allowed to bring Jamie home from the hospital. He’ll take him, place him gently in his cot and shut the bedroom door. Then he’ll hold Trudy as she cries into his shoulder.

He blinks in the bright sunlight and pedals on. The city
smells reckless, raunchy: hot tar clicking under the bike wheels, exhaust fumes, cigarette smoke wafting conversation through the close air. The sun heats David’s back, through his T-shirt, across his shoulders and down his bare arms. He pulls off his top, tucks it in his shorts. There’s a whisper of a breeze — he can feel it now — brushing his bare skin like a soft tongue. He allows himself the rare luxury of the old fantasy — he is of this pulsing city, not a guilty voyeur with empty pockets.

What was it that Neil had said?
S
omething I wanted to sound you out on. Thought you might be interested
. David glances over his shoulder, signals left and turns the bike back towards the Laybourne.

THE ARGUMENT IS WELL
under way by the time David finds them. They’re sitting around a tall wooden table inside the pub, next to a wide, open window.

Neil smiles when he sees David, waves. ‘Hey man, good effort.’ He moves over, making room for him. ‘Where’s your bike?’

‘Lassoed it up, round the corner,’ David says.

‘You got a pass out, David?’ It’s Louis King asking.

David smiles.

Louis continues. ‘Well, anyway. One good reason, Neil? Just one.’

‘You’ve never played golf in your life. How’s that for a reason?’

‘I can learn. What’s there to know? A few lessons, I’ll be sweet.’

‘It takes ages to learn, Louis. Years, if you want to be any good.’

‘I’d be a natural.’ Louis steps back from the table and takes
a swing with an imaginary club. He looks out the window, his hand shading his eyes, then leans towards the drinkers. ‘Fall,’ he shouts at them.

‘It’s fore,’ says David, grinning.

Someone hands him a beer — he bought one on the way in but it’s empty.

‘That’s what I said,’ says Louis. He crouches low, beside the table, teeing up a new invisible ball. ‘Fall. Like, look out dickhead, there’s a ball falling on your head.’

‘No, fore, as in before,’ says David. ‘Look before thee, dickhead, a ball about to fall on thy head.’

The banter goes on.

‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, back at work,’ Neil says quietly to David.

‘What’s that?’

‘Golf. I know you play. Would you be interested in a golfing weekend?’

‘Oh man, would I. But there’s no way …’

Neil says nothing.

‘Don’t get me wrong … I appreciate you asking. It’s just Trudy, and Jamie … you know he’s not well. He’s not … he’s got problems. It’s hard, for Trudy. I mean, really bloody hard …’

Neil touches David’s back, a sympathetic gesture. ‘Yeah, I heard something. What is it, exactly?’

David takes a deep breath. It’s the first time anyone from work has asked. He’s not sure how to put the nightmare into words. ‘They call it Hunter syndrome … an enzyme deficiency thing.’

Neil nods.

‘He doesn’t sleep, hardly ever. Then, when he does, we don’t sleep — in case he stops breathing. He screams … for hours. It goes on for fucking hours.’ David takes a big mouthful of beer. ‘Basically, it attacks every cell in his body, shuts them all down until …’

Neil shakes his head, looks down at his shoes. ‘Jesus Christ. You poor bastard.’

‘Yeah, well …’ David shrugs and lets the words hang. There are too many other symptoms to start describing them all.

‘Can they treat it? I mean, are there drugs?’

‘Sort of,’ says David. ‘He’s on enzyme-replacement therapy. It’s supposed to improve the quality of life.’

‘And does it?’

‘We don’t know, not yet. He’s only fourteen months. Too early to tell.’

They both drink again, for want of something to say.

‘Hey look, sorry about bringing up the golf,’ says Neil. ‘I just thought, you know? An opportunity for you to get out and take a swing.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ says David. He licks the beer away from his top lip. ‘And thanks, eh? For even thinking of asking me.’

‘It
is
a great weekend — it’s a once a year thing, we go somewhere different each time. It’s a bloody laugh, mate.’ Neil is relaxed now, in the comfortable territory of sport. ‘We’re giving Coromandel a go, brand-new international course. They’re pushing hard for business, charging peanuts.’

‘How’d you know I played?’

‘I met your father the last time I played Miramar. He told me. He’s a proud old bugger, you know. Proud of you.’

Oh, David knows. His father’s been the greenkeeper there for thirty years. Ron Fowler understands how things are for his son now, how Jamie has made it impossible to play. They never talk golf any more, but David knows his father discusses the shelf of childhood trophies with anyone who will listen.

‘So you got the Ron experience. Sorry.’ David can just see it. His father on his mower, old blue towelling hat pulled hard down on his head, bailing up Neil and his friends as they head for the clubhouse.

‘Not at all — it was great talking to him. Anyway, I never meant to put you on the spot. About the weekend, I mean. I sort of remembered back at the office that things were tough for you. As soon as I opened my mouth, I remembered.’

‘Don’t worry. It’s me that should be apologising, going on with family dramas …’

It’s past time to go. David plans a quiet exit — buy the others a drink, then slip away. He is at the bar when he feels it: a spitting surge of anger. A deep, despicable pity — for Trudy, for Jamie, for the fortune they pay every month to prolong the agony, just to keep him alive. The whole crap deal.

He orders the drinks and waits for the moment to pass. He should have gone straight home from work. Going straight home eliminates this shit. His hands are shaking; he lays them flat on the bar to steady them. The emotion feels deviant, like a virus attacking a weak body, taking its grip.

Too late, he realises the barman has opened another beer for him.

Back at the table with Neil, David drinks most of the bottle in one gulping, heady mouthful. Then he sends a text to Trudy to say he’ll be late.

IT’S TEN O’CLOCK WHEN
he gets out of the taxi. He’s ready for it. Ready for an argument. He wants one. He wants Trudy to come storming out the front door and go at him for all the things that are hard and unfair. For being late, for being drunk, for spending money on alcohol and a taxi (and losing the bike) and then, finally, in one big beautiful rage, for Jamie.

The taxi drives off, leaving him in the silent street. The heat of the afternoon has gone but the evening is still. David leans against the streetlight outside their house, finding his feet. A sweet sound forms a backdrop. Crickets.

He hasn’t heard the chirp of crickets since he was a boy. After his mother died, his father never noticed that he roamed the golf course late at night. He’d take a torch and collect balls abandoned by careless players. His flashlight swung in wide arcs across the fairways, picking up the gleam of the little white balls in the waterways and rough. The crickets flew into his head: a low fast thud against his face or a manic beating in his hair. He sold the golf balls back to their owners the next weekend, a dollar each.

He’s stabbing at the lock with his key when Trudy opens the door. He listens for the sound of Jamie crying, but hears nothing.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Sorry ’bout this. Drinks.’

‘It’s okay,’ she says.

The house is tidy, clean and calm. David doesn’t understand. ‘Jamie?’ he asks. He has a sudden, terrifying thought. ‘Is he alright?’

Trudy’s exhausted, David can see that, now they are inside under the lights. Her face is pale; there are dark hollows under her eyes.

‘Mum and Dad have taken him,’ she says quietly, not looking at him. ‘For the night. To give us time on our own.’

He still wants the fight, it surprises him. He wills her to explode, lash out at him. ‘Why didn’t you phone me? I would’ve come home.’

‘I did. About an hour after you texted me.’

David pulls his phone out of his pocket. There it is — the missed call a blur of grey markings on the screen.

‘Sorry,’ he says again.

Trudy opens cupboard doors, pulling plates down. ‘You’d better eat,’ she says. She reaches for bread. ‘Toast? Or a toasted sandwich, cheese …’

‘Not hungry.’ David collapses in an armchair and points the remote at the television. ‘Hey, I’m going away for a weekend.’

He says it as though it happens all the time, him taking off with the boys. As though Trudy does it too — packs a little bag and shoots over to Sydney with her girlfriends for shopping. As though that’s the sort of couple they are.

Trudy sets bread and cheese in the toastie machine. David watches as she wipes the bench with a cloth. She rinses the cloth under the tap and wrings it out.
This is it
, David thinks.
Here it comes
.