Liz Nugent - Unraveling Oliver

I am horrified by what Oliver did to Alice. You think you know someone. It turns out that I called the house on the very night of the assault. I am in a state of shock, to be honest.

I know I wasn’t fair to Alice. Life wasn’t fair to Alice. But mostly, Oliver wasn’t fair to Alice. So far, the few people that knew about our affair have kept their mouths shut, but when the trial begins next month, the muckraking will begin in earnest. I have a new life now and the last thing I need is for the sordid details of my past with Oliver to jeopardize my future with Javier.

I could make a fortune if I sold my story, but I won’t. Out of respect for poor Alice.

Toward the end of October last year, two ladies from Ireland arrived at Cuisine de Campagne, both in their late fifties. I noticed them immediately because they seemed such unlikely friends. One of them was loud, wore too much makeup, and blatantly set out on a mission to seduce the only available single man in the group. The other was quiet, bookish, and less inclined to socialize. I felt sorry for her, as it soon became obvious that her friend had decided to abandon her for the duration of the vacation. I introduced myself to Alice and invited her to join us on several evenings, and together with Pierre, we ended up discussing all the things one is not supposed to: politics, religion, race, and so on. Her friend Moya had made the booking online, so it was only on the last night that I noticed Alice’s surname as she signed the guestbook.

“Ryan?” I said. “The first Ryan I ever met was an Irish boy working here the summer of 1973. His name was also Ryan, Oliver Ryan.”

“But that’s my husband’s name!”

We laughed at the coincidence. She was astonished, and we quickly made the connection that she was the same Oliver’s wife when she showed me some photos. He was older but still handsome, and there was no mistaking him. We spoke for most of the night. I was happy to hear that he was a successful writer. I recalled that Michael may have mentioned that in correspondence. Alice was shocked when I recounted the pivotal events of that season, of the fire and the death of my son and my father. She knew that Oliver had spent summers abroad—she actually fell in love with him on a foreign trip to the Greek islands—but it seemed that he had never told her much about the summer of 1973 except that he worked on a vineyard. I thought this odd because, whatever his trauma at the time, it was bizarre to me that all these years later he had never mentioned the fire or the deaths. The story of that summer is something one could not easily forget, particularly Oliver. With regard for his privacy, I did not tell Alice of the bond Oliver had with Papa and Jean-Luc, realizing that if Oliver had not talked about it in nearly forty years, he had buried it for a reason. I was discreet as ever, and did not mention Laura except as one of the gang, although it seemed that Alice had heard of her. Alice and Oliver had had their wedding reception in Michael’s restaurant, although apparently Michael and Oliver were no longer friends, and she mentioned that Michael’s sister had died tragically young. Poor Laura.

“Oliver was an enormous help to me after the fire. He was very upset.”

“Oh, that’s lovely to hear—I mean, that he was helpful,” Alice said proudly.

“Yes, of course he was sad about Papa and Jean-Luc, but he insisted on clearing out the library where he and Papa had worked together. They tell me he did the work of ten men in the week after the fire. He must also have been devastated because all of the work he had done with Papa’s stories went up in smoke. He worked so hard transcribing them for my father.”

“Your father wrote stories?” Alice said.

“Yes, I am a little surprised that he never told you any of this. My father secretly engaged Oliver to transcribe all the stories he had written for Jean-Luc.”

“Children’s stories? Well, perhaps that’s where he got his inspiration. Oliver writes books for children too. How lovely that it was your father who must have given him the idea. What were your father’s stories about?” she asked.

“I can scarcely remember, it was so long ago, but the central character was Prince Felix, and there was a trusted servant called Frown, an evil witch, and a flying chair.”

Alice narrowed her eyes and clutched her hand to her breast.

“Prince Sparkle ,” she said, “and Grimace .”

I didn’t understand. “Are you feeling all right?” I asked.

“Tell me more about the stories,” she said, and her voice had grown thin and shrill. I did not know in what way I could have offended her.

When I could not recall the details specifically, Alice became agitated.

“Are you sure your father wrote the stories, that it was not Oliver?”

It was my turn to be offended by her insistence.

“But what a preposterous question! My father began to write these stories when he was released from prison after the Liberation, long before we met Oliver!”

Alice sprang up from her chair and started pacing. To my astonishment, she began to describe the stories I had not heard in many decades.

“There is a young prince who lives in a land of sunlight and joy. An evil queen and her army come from the gloom to invade and occupy their land. She banishes the sun and orders them to live in the darkness, or to die. The prince’s servant invents a magic chair that flies beyond the stars, and every morning Prince Sparkle and his servant Grimace would fly far behind the moon until they found the sunlight. They would capture the sunlight in their cloaks and smuggle it back to their kingdom and share it with their people.”

It was my turn to be shocked.

“How… how could you know ?” I asked.

“Oliver wrote it. I illustrated it!” she said. “I have illustrated all the stories!” And she broke into sobs.

My shock turned to anger, and I suddenly felt the need to defend my long-dead father from her insinuation. “Papa enjoyed writing them,” I insisted on explaining. “He read them to me as a child. It was part of our bedtime ritual, though he wrote less when I grew older. But as soon as I became pregnant with Jean-Luc, he began writing them again with renewed vigor, and he continued writing these stories until his death, despite the physical discomfort it caused him.”

“How did he write them? Have you no copies?” Alice demanded to know.

“They were written on loose sheets of paper all over the house. Papa had primarily employed Oliver to transcribe them into leather-bound books so that they could be compiled in just a few volumes.”

“Why did he ask Oliver? Why Oliver?”

“I don’t know. He liked him. Papa treated Oliver like a son. My father did not like to type anything. He insisted that the stories should be made of ink.”

To my horror, Alice began to relate more of Papa’s stories to me. The names of the characters and the places were different—Papa’s witch was now an evil queen—but the stories were undeniably the same.

Truth can cause more pain than lies, I think. Some secrets are best left as secrets. The facts are simple. Oliver stole Papa’s stories. I had no way of proving it. The stories existed solely in Oliver’s typed notes. The only people who remembered their original versions were long dead.

Oliver used a pseudonym to write these books: Vincent Dax. How clever and sinister. Having no children, I never bought one of his books. Pierre’s girls were not readers. When I looked him up on the internet, I realized what an industry had been built around Prince Felix, or Prince Sparkle as he was in Oliver’s version. Films, stage musicals, merchandise. Oliver has made millions from my dead father and betrayed his honor.