I loved pretending to have serious conversations about silly things with Mark because, sometimes, he would talk very seriously about very silly things. His eyes would focus and become as engaging as flickering coals in the belly of a fire pit. His speech would slow so that your imaginations hung on every word and the steady cadence in his speech was like that of the constant whisper of the tide slithering up the shore. His was a pattern of resonating speech followed by pauses that would slice their way into unconscious thoughts. His voice had a way of making you recall things. Or perhaps it had a way of making you imagine things.
My memory strains when I try to recall the last conversation that I had with Mark. It has been so long - so very long. Perhaps the reason for this is that the silkiness and refinement of his voice soaked into the unreachable corners of the mind, never to be extracted except by the kindling of new, original conversation. That is where you come in.
Perhaps I should begin this trip down the rabbit hole by recalling for you the first time that I saw Mark, and then telling the story, as it were, all the way up to the last time that I saw this man. He was dressed in the most peculiar attire - although I will always remember him for holding a large leather-bound book under one arm as he skipped jovially down the cobblestone sidewalk. His whole being seemed to radiate with the light of the sun and he was completely unencumbered by the lightly falling rain which had gone uninterrupted for the past fortnight. His worn shoes were in want of an experienced cobbler’s touch and his pants, their tattered hems dancing around his ankles, required the maintenance of a skilled seamstress. The fact that his clothing was beyond repair had clearly not held this man back from attempting the needed repairs himself. Mismatched patches flecked the legs of his pants like unwanted splatters of paint on a masterpiece of Michelangelo or Da Vinci. The pants were made of a material of the deepest midnight blue (or so appeared to have been the original color of the fabric) and flowed around his legs as if they had been pieces of the wind materialized and then tailored to fit (or, perhaps, more appropriately in this case, not to fit but merely to be worn). The pants continued up his noodle legs until they collided into a large black coat which had the most magnificent coattails that kissed the ground with every bounding skip. The coat, unbuttoned in front to show an immaculate silver vest, was in the same state of disrepair as the pants. The coat also appeared to be made of the same supple material. The shoulders and collar of the coat were also worn and spectacularly frayed. Atop the man’s head there grew a mess of hair darker than a moonless night and certainly more restless. Perched on the very top of the mess, slightly askew, was a shiny black bowler hat with a pink flower tucked into the side.
Despite all of this, distracting a spectacle as it was, I was mostly intrigued by the brown leather book which was over-sized, disheveled, and tucked under one of the man’s arms. The pages of the book were a sight in and of themselves, sticking out at odd angles as if every one of them had been previously ripped out and then haphazardly strewn back into the binding. The man was holding the book in such a way that the binding was placed firmly underneath his armpit with the tattered pages of the book facing the sidewalk. I watched as on multiple occasions a page or two fell free from the binding, floated down inches from the wet ground, and then got pulled violently by some unknown force back into the book. The man did not seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. Here he was, dressed in this peculiar manner, skipping through the rain as the pages of his mysterious book broke free and then returned back into place, yanked by some unseen anomaly. Admittedly, and quite needless to say, my interest in this man was stimulated enough to allow me to forget the small brown paper package, wrapped in twine, that I had so eagerly promised to deliver for my employer.
I had been lucky enough, being as young as I am, to find work as the financial clerk for a small law firm on the corner of Lewis and Carroll Street. The building was a handsome two story red and white brick structure built in the Queen of Hearts District of Dnalrednow Township, UK. (The letter ‘n’ in the city name being silent in the English language since the province was taken from the Saxons nearly 150 years before. However, the spelling remained the same). The early history of the district, as recorded while under the watchful eye of the Union Jack, was that of gambling and other raucous behavior. Thus the district was named for a piece of its gambling history - The Queen of Hearts.
The building was erected as the second of such in an effort to build a sprawling business district in that appendage of the blossoming city. The first being a general store of a most curious name where I first found employ. The gamble, excuse the pun, paid off and places of business began to sprout and flourish, driving out ruffians, gamblers, drunks and other such persons of low moral standing. They were promptly replaced by the upper-class businessmen of Britain and other middle class folk with the highest of aspirations, such as myself. Due to the fervor of the times work was relatively hard to come by and I was happy to jump at the first opportunity, even though it was not in the field of law.
When I first laid eyes on this odd man with the book under his arm I had been working not two months for an acquaintance of my cousin, Alice. This acquaintance was a sharply dressed, ambitious, middle aged lawyer from Cambridge with short, slick black hair who was hardly to be seen without his monocle and a puff of pipe smoke around his visage. He also had the most impressive collection of tall top hats which varied in color. “A top hat for every coat!” he would say in his charming voice.
Before coming to Dnalrednow to start his firm he had spent the previous six years in London laboring over a case of serial killings by a man known as Jack the Ripper. Having brought the notorious Ripper to justice, my employer sought the quiet life of a small-town lawyer in Dnalrednow. Having successfully secured the lease to the main floor of the building on the corner of Lewis and Carroll, he had packed up and moved in within the week. I had been urged by my dear cousin, Alice, to make an appointment and to seek employment with this man. They - Alice and my new employer - had met at Cambridge where he studied law and she had been studying the outlandish “science” of psychology. I had always thought the two to be a smart match as they seemed to be counterparts in intellect -this being based purely on how she spoke of him in letters home.
I had been working two years for the local general goods store, Tweedle Brothers Co., and was anxious to start a profession in law when I received correspondence from Alice. Having also studied law at Cambridge, but being unable to find employment in that respected line of work, I had jumped at the opportunity of running the general store but dreamed of working tirelessly in the field of law. It was on a day just like this one that I had received the letter from Alice regarding the possibility of employment with her old college friend.
Dearest Cousin,
I hope that this correspondence finds you happy and in good health.
It has come to my attention that a dear friend of mine from Cambridge, by name of Matthew, has begun a firm not two blocks from your employ at Tweedle Brothers Co. It would please me very much to see you under his employ. If you wish to make yourself stand out apart from other applicants to his firm, you may, in an informal setting, remind him of the name that I playfully bestowed upon him of “Mad” Matthew. I am quite sure that he will in the least enjoy a good laugh at being brought to a remembrance of our joyous excursions while together at Cambridge. At the very least a good laugh will be had by myself at the thought of him, now a respected lawyer, being called by this silly name.
He is expecting your correspondence no later than Saturday next. I do hope that you find this opportunity most agreeable and to your liking.
Most Sincerely,
Your Dearest Cousin, Alice.
REPLY TO:
Mr. M. Hatter
Corner of Lewis and Carroll #1
Dnalrednow, Queen of Hearts, UK.
I hastened to send a letter to Mr. Hatter the following morning and anxiously went about my business at the general store. I found myself in a most gripping mood of anticipation and fear that it may have affected my work on that particular day. The thought that I would have the chance to showcase my studies in the field of law engrossed me so much that I jumped to my feet at every patron who entered the store. Upon seeing that he or she was not the mail carrier, I went about normal business in an admittedly slothful manner.
Though my excitement seemed to prolong the duration of my wait, Mr. Hatter had responded promptly and, to my surprise, in person the following afternoon. He stepped into the store, theatrically removed his tall top hat, introduced himself in a flurry of smiles and invited me to join him for afternoon tea and sweet cakes. Having been raised in a society where sweet cakes were only indulged on special occasions such as birthdays, I inquired as to the occasion and informed that, being a stranger, I wished not to intrude on the birthday of a family member or close friend. Mr. Hatter chuckled and rolled the brim of his hat in his hands,
“My dear friend!” he began, “if a simple birthday is cause for celebration then a day without birthdays is certainly worthy of the same festivities! After all, they are both days in which people are born and people are not.” I could not find room to disagree and, upon hearing his refusal to accept my declining, I readily accepted his invitation.
I wasted little time in becoming good friends with Mr. Hatter and found him to be most enjoyable and good natured company. He laughed heartily at my mention of “Mad” Matthew Hatter and indulged me with stories of the most embarrassing nature that he insisted I relay to “Dear Alice”, as he so fondly called her. He, in turn, wasted almost no time at all in appointing me to work as his financial clerk.
It was on a business errand for Mr. Hatter that the strange man crossed my path on that drizzly afternoon. I looked down at the neatly folded and tied parcel in my hands and resolved to deliver it later in the day, along with my other errands. Stowing the package securely in my messenger bag, I hastily followed the man in the bowler hat.
(Chapter 1 continues with the next post)
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