Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Perfect numbers–that is, positive integers that are the sum of their proper positive divisors–had fascinated mathematicians since the days of the great Greek mathematician Nicomachus. Only four were known in those days, and relatively few have been uncovered since, none of them odd–something certain figures consider an impossibility.

In 1456, Abd al-Nitypt, an astronomer in the court of Mehmed II at Constantinople, discovered and proved the existence of a fifth perfect number, 33,550,336. He further set forth a complex formula for identifying further perfect numbers, a refinement of Euclid’s formula, and identified a list of values for n which he claimed would, when applied to his formula, reveal all odd perfect numbers between 0 and 10^1500.

This list, the Nitypt Numbers, was eventually lost in the quagmire of the Ottoman archives. They, alongside Fermat’s Last Theorem, were long regarded as some of the most tantalizing mysteries in mathematics.

And Harvery was staring at a copy in al-Nitypt’s own flowing calligraphy.

Of course, Schliemann had his own personal scale of box office success, which he wrote out longhand and taped up whenever he thought people needed perspective (usually shortly before they were fired and/or promoted):

“Blockbuster” – The rarest of the rare, a flick that made way more than was invested in it. Due to the ballooning budget requirements to make 3D action extravaganzas and brush out Australian actresses’ blemishes, the margins on even the biggest pictures tended to be too narrow to qualify as a blockbuster by Schliemann’s standards.

“Hit” – A movie that made back its cost plus a healthy profit. It was usually the first step toward promotion or more work for the people responsible. Crucially, Schliemann’s formula allowed for “Hollywood accounting” which put even the most successful feature as a loss to swindle authors and rightsholders out of their cut.

“Sleeper” – Movies that the studio didn’t have a lot of confidence in but also didn’t have a lot of cash tied up in, which slowly made money over a long theater run or broke even in theaters before making a profit on video.

“Watertreader” – A flick that made back its budget. A few people might get chewed out, but no one was losing their job. Often the overseas grosses would be the deciding factor, which Schliemann called “The Reverse Marshall Plan,” whatever that meant.

“Flop” – Movies that did decent business but didn’t make any money. Usually they came and went fairly quietly, often with freshman directors, writers, or stars. They’d have a hard time getting more work, but most were freelancers anyway. A major name could withstand half a dozen flops before Schliemann started calling them a “has been.”

“Bomb” – Movies that didn’t even come close to making their budget back despite a big marketing push were slapped with this label, not just by Schliemann but the press.

“Disaster” – It wasn’t enough for a disaster to lose money, even a lot of money. It also had to be critically reviled, with toxic publicity and media ridicule. Heaven’s Gate. Gigli. It was almost an honor to earn entry to this select club.

“Gabriel Flanagan. Know him?”

Iris shook her head. “Should I?”

“You should if you expect to be in the same panel with him. Don’t you actually read anything besides what you draw?”

“I told you, I’m an artist, not a comic book geek.”

“Gabe Flanagan’s one of the most respected artists to come out of the underground comix–with an ‘x’–movement since Robert Crumb. He wrote, illustrated, and colored three hundred issues of The Monsters of Merryville Street by himself and won a bushel of Eisners for it–not bad for a series that deals frankly with cannibalism, incest, necrophilia, self-mutilation, and includes unlicensed references to the classic Universal Monsters lineup.”

“Ah, I see,” said Iris. “You expected that the author and illustrator of a gentle watercolor comic with no violence and G-rated sensibilities would be familiar with something like that?”

“No, I just would have been impressed if you had. Most people here only know Gabe Flanagan from the 10-episode animated show he produced on MTV in the mid-90’s. Sods. Don’t mention that to him if you do meet; he lost creative control back then and is liable to start punching.”

“What’s the ‘Broughdarg Two-Step?'”

“Well, you see, during the war with the Tudors Broughdarg changed hands many times. Legend has it some wag kept a running tally of hash marks inside the gate for the English and Irish besiegers.”

“So?”

“So, every time the fortress was taken, the captives and their sympathizers would go to the gibbets on the battlements, at least until their fellows recaptured the city and cut them down. Winds are fierce around Broughdarg most of the year, so the gusts would shake the poor fellows such that they looked to be dancing. By the time the city fell for good, they say, over a thousand had danced the Broughdarg Two-Step.”

Among the many bits of flora and fauna he cataloged was ivichea irregulari. One of many specimens named after Captain Vichea of the Intrepid, it was an unremarkable deciduous shrub in every way save one: the leaves never seemed to grow in the same shape twice. And unlike the minor variations in oak and maple, the ivichea irregulari varied hugely in both size and shape. It also had an uncharacteristic tendency to grow leaves featuring straight lines and right angles, extremely rare in botany. Garrison preserved pressings of leaves resembling crosses, zigzags, open books, hearts, and a myriad of other shapes.

When his narrative of the voyage and reproductions of his pressings were printed after the Intrepid returned, it created a minor sensation. Some academics accused garrison of altering the leaves with compass and straightedge, while others insisted that he must have confused several closely related plants to obtain the varied samples. The controversy overshadowed much of the expedition’s work, and within two years another vessel had set out to confirm the story.

Sure enough, ivichea irregulari was found, and dozens of specimens were brought back to Europe where they were in huge demand as ornamental plants and curiosities. The price of specimens was so great, in fact, that Charlotte Island was soon denuded of the plants, which became extinct in the wild. They became a fixture of trendy topiary gardens for a number of years, and thanks to the bush’s short germination time and quick growth, breeders were able to create strains with more of the desired, and exotic leaf types.

That was, of course, until a pestilence (which latter-day research revealed to be a variety of Dutch elm disease) swept through the continent. With low genetic diversity, every viable specimen of ivichea irregulari was dead within six years.

“I don’t regret what I’ve done. I sleep like a baby every night. Most of them were bad people anyway, killed at the behest of other bad people maybe but usually as deserving of death as anyone on your death row. People don’t target the crusading lawyers and politicians like they used to, at least not in this country. Too many questions, too many badges. But if a drug middleman dies, who cares? That’s where professionals like myself make a living.”

“Then why leave it behind?”

“No one sees the work. No one appreciates the work, not even the clients. I’d like to do something people can see and appreciate. That’s not to much to ask after an early retirement, is it?”

You started feeling this way weeks ago, even though you can’t pinpoint exactly when or how. It’s like a dream, where the beginning fades away into tendrils of pale smoke the more you grasp at it. Even in the now the feeling ebbs and flows, all the keener in moments of stress or contemplation.

It’s more an absence of a feeling than a feeling, an utter emptiness right in the center of your being. Not heartbreak. You’re been there–we all have–but not heartbreak. Not love either. That’s a filling up, a welling, not an empty chasm.

Almost as if someone has reached in and removed something you never knew you had, never knew you could miss, the emptiness gnaws at you, begging to be filled. But how, and with what?

This post is part of the March Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is to describe a secondary character that surprises you in some way in 50 words or less and then to post a scene that shows why this character is special in 100 words or less.

Officer Charlie Bulforth, GRPD: eight-year veteran of the force who’s only just transitioned from his high school nickname ‘Bullshit Charlie’ to the more socially acceptable ‘Bullhorn Charlie’—appropriately, given his gravelly voice and lack of volume control. He is cheerfully, openly corrupt, though he sticks by friends—to a point.

“You need to figure out how to work a little extortion and corruption into your workaday life. How do you think I manage to keep myself in the style which I’ve become accustomed on a cop’s lousy take-home? I seek business opportunities wherever I can find them, be they shakings down, beatings up, or something sideways.”

“Frank about it, as always.”

“It’s a long way from being an upstanding citizen to a bastion of cheerful corruption like myself,” Charlie said. “But here we are. Just don’t ask me to do actual police work; I’m not sure you can afford it.”

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post their own responses:
Ralph Pines (direct link to the relevant post)
Yoghurtelf (direct link to the relevant post)
Proach (direct link to the relevant post)
Knotane (direct link to the relevant post)
Dolores Haze (direct link to the relevant post)
smaddux (direct link to the relevant post)
LadyMage (direct link to the relevant post)
xcomplex (direct link to the relevant post)

“Ah, okay. Mr. Y-A-Y-C-O-S-H.”

“No, not Yaycosh. Hjecosh.”

“Oh, sorry. Mr. H-E-A-Y-C-O-S-H.”

“No, no, no! Hjecosh! Hjecosh! It’s spelt H-J-E-C-O-S-H!”

“Oh. Why’s that?”

“It’s Dutch!”

Maintaining a garden was no easy task, least of all for someone with Marie’s fastidiousness. Any intruder, any interloper, any seed or spore that was there without her express permission was to be sought out and eradicated. Crouching in the finely-parted earth with calipers in one hand and gardener’s shears in the other was in many ways the perfect outlet for her obsessive compulsion.

“Oh no you don’t,” she muttered, examining a newly-sprouted maple sapling that had sprung up over the long holiday weekend. “Don’t even think about unfolding your usurping petioles in my garden.”

Normally a pacifist who made annual payroll-delectable contributions to PETA, Marie was vicious to garden intruders. She tore up the sapling by its roots, snapped its fragile stem in half, and threw it on a pile to be incinerated as yard waste.