Opus 1 (Short Fiction)

My name is Otto Eduard Hasse. I am not an actor. I am not German. The actor has not been born yet. The year is 1881. I was born in Camasca, Honduras. I spent my childhood years there but later moved to Bohdalovice in the Czech Republic. But I am neither Honduran nor Czech. I have only taken residence in these places and no more than that. I write this on damp paper in my study. Never mind that, however, for my companion approaches.

“Otto,” my companion says, “my assistance has been summoned for a very queer matter.”

“Oh?” I reply. “What is it, then?”

“I am sure you recall the incident in Essex which happened last year. Daniel Martin, a respectable banker—“

“—allegedly raped and murdered six year old Melony Wight, daughter of his colleague, over some sort of dispute. I recall.”

“But he had gotten away. It is only now that they have him in custody.”

“You’re to participate as a member of the jury?”

Scott takes a seat opposite to me. “Yes, but I can’t imagine why they would choose me, a man living in Scotland.”

This is a turn of events. Under usual circumstances I would intercede, but I shall endeavor to see this through. “Perhaps they have the wrong man.” I say.

“It is a telegram addressed to Scott Lucius Palmer. How many men in Britain have such a name?”

Indeed, Scott is exceedingly more often a surname than a given name. Neither I nor Scott know who his parents are. Apparently his father was an unemployed invalid who frequently took to drink. His mother also supposedly died after childbirth. The father, probably overwhelmed with the responsibility thrust upon him, put Scott into an orphanage. That is all we really know of the matter. We have no proof, but there’s nothing else to go on. Besides that, who in decent mind would name their son Scott Lucius? I turn to my companion.

“Are you familiar with the field of entomology?”

“Intimately.” He says.

“Do you know of Victor Motschulsky?”

“I do, but what’s this got to do with anything?”

“Now that you mention it, I am not entirely sure.”

“No matter. But yes, I have read his Études entomologiques.”

I rise from my chair and pour two glasses of brandy at the counter. “What do you think of them?”

Scott pauses and fixes his eyes on my paper. I hand him a glass of brandy and sit back down opposite to him. “Isn’t it strange,” he says, “that you and I both live in Scotland?”

“I’m afraid I do not see what’s strange about it,” I reply.

“It is queer, indeed.” He takes a sip of brandy. “Where were you before you were in this country, Otto?”

“I was in England.”

“And where before that?”

“The Czech Republic.”

“And before that?”

“Honduras. Why is this of such sudden importance now?”

Scott moves to take another sip of brandy, pauses, and instead swallows the remainder of it. “When do you figure the actor will be born?”

“The other Otto Eduard Hasse, you mean? I can’t say. I would guess sometime around the turn of the next century.”

Scott looks down at his emptied glass. “Could I trouble you for another brandy?”

“Certainly.” I rise from my chair, fill his cup, and sit down again.

“You haven’t touched yours,” he observes.

“I often do just that. It often happens that I pour myself a brandy and, as I go to sip it, I remember that I absolutely despise it. Would you like mine?”

“I despise people, I think.” He remarks as he takes my glass.

“But the human condition can be as intoxicating as brandy.”

“That’s exactly why I despise people,” he says.

“But you don’t despise brandy?”

“On the contrary. And it seems I have emptied my glass once more.”

I stand up from my seat and walk to my counter. Scott stares again at the paper on my desk. I open my cupboard and turn to my companion. “I will pour us both some more, then.”

John M. D. Leonard