About the Author: Israel Centeno was born in 1958 in Caracas, Venezuela, and currently lives in Pittsburgh, he is a former Writer-in-Residence with City of Asylum/Pittsburgh. He writes both novels and short stories, and also works as an editor and professor of literature. He has published eigtheen books in Venezuela and three in Spain.
Author Site From the Publisher: “The Poe Project> is a gripping historical mystery set against the turbulent backdrop of late 19th century Venezuela, the chaotic streets of 1890s New York City, and the dark corners of Edgar Allan Poe’s literary legacy. A unique blend of historical fiction, literary thriller, and supernatural mystery, this novel explores the fascinating intersection of Poe’s works, family secrets, and political intrigue in a tale that will captivate readers who love literary mysteries, historical dramas, and Poe-inspired fiction.
At the heart of the story is Clementina, the granddaughter of a legendary Venezuelan general. When political upheaval forces her and her cousin Manuel to flee Caracas, they embark on a perilous journey that leads them from the Caribbean to the vibrant streets of New York City. There, they encounter Mr. Hamilton, an enigmatic figure who reveals a dark secret about Clementina’s grandfather and a rare orchid—the Cypripedium elegant—that could change everything.
As the investigation into her family’s past unfolds, Clementina finds herself entangled in a web of literary deception, occult secrets, and industrial power. The search for the orchid takes her deep into the world of 1890s New York, where she crosses paths with Mr. Bierce, a self-proclaimed detective with a passion for the occult, and Louis Villarroel, a notorious literary forger who has been stealing the works of Edgar Allan Poe.
Their investigation eventually leads to Pittsburgh, where the labor unrest of the 1890s is tearing the city apart. Here, Clementina confronts the powerful industrialist Mr. W, who has ties to her grandfather and the orchid—and whose sinister influence threatens to derail her quest for the truth. The story shifts focus to García, a private investigator, hired to uncover the mysterious disappearance of Villarroel. As García digs deeper into Villarroel’s final days, he uncovers disturbing parallels to Poe’s life, including a dangerous obsession with replicating the author’s own tragic fate.
In the underworld of New York’s literary elite, factions are locked in a high-stakes battle to control the authenticity of Poe’s legacy. As bodies appear in the Hudson River, echoing the events of Poe’s The Mystery of Marie Roget, Bierce and García must race against time to uncover the conspiracy surrounding the authorship and preservation of Poe’s works, while contending with a mysterious figure, Petra Dukovski, who seeks to destroy the very notion of literary truth.
The Poe Project is a complex and atmospheric tale that blends historical events, literary history, and supernatural intrigue. It explores the nature of genius, the power of literature, and the lengths to which some will go to manipulate the legacy of a master like Edgar Allan Poe. Perfect for fans of historical mysteries, literary thrillers, and Poe’s devoted readers, The Poe Project offers an immersive and thrilling reading experience that will keep you guessing until the final page.
Special Note: A percentage of sales from this book will be donated to The Red Door at St. Mary of Mercy Church in Pittsburgh, an initiative dedicated to feeding the homeless.“
More info Praise for Previous Works:
“A rare voice from Venezuela. In this fever dream of a novel shot through with dark humor, Centeno grapples with the fallout from generations of violence and corruption.” —Natasha Wimmer, translator of Roberto Bolaño’s The Savage Detectives and 2666
“His fleshy, psychologically penetrating work is one of the great undiscovered literary experiences of Latin America.” —Aurelio Major, co-founding editor of Granta en Español
“The alleyways and hideaways of Israel Centeno’s Venezuela are as real and visceral as the streets of Pasolini’s Rome.” —Dermot Bolger, author of The Journey Home
Your work in Pittsburgh seems deeply connected to the community. How do your charitable efforts align with your writing?
Pittsburgh has given me so much—a home, a sense of stability, and a space to rebuild my identity. It’s only natural to give back. I believe in practicing what I call “radical love for my neighbor,” a philosophy rooted in genuine action and care. My writing and my community work are intertwined, both serving as expressions of that love.
For instance, I am actively involved as an AmeriCorps volunteer and contribute to initiatives like The Red Door. This historic program, which has been open since the Great Depression, provides meals, comfort, and dignity to those experiencing homelessness. It’s a place that stands as a testament to resilience and community spirit.
Through my initiative, Indelible Word, I aim to use my talents not just for creative expression but also as a means to serve. A portion of my book royalties is directed toward organizations that work tirelessly for those in need. Writing and community work go hand in hand; both require dedication, humility, and the willingness to face difficult truths.
For me, literature isn’t an isolated pursuit. It’s a way to connect with others, to foster understanding, and to provide a small but meaningful contribution to the world. Whether through the stories I write or the work I do at places like The Red Door, my goal is the same: to make the world just a little more compassionate and just.
How do you balance your creative work with your charitable efforts?
It’s not about balance, really—it’s about integration. Both my writing and my charitable work feed into each other. Writing allows me to explore the complexities of human nature and the challenges people face, while my work in the community keeps me grounded. It reminds me of the real, immediate needs of people around me.
When you’re engaged in something like volunteering at The Red Door or Literacy Pittsburgh, you see firsthand the resilience and courage of people who are often overlooked. That experience informs my writing, adding layers of authenticity and purpose. It’s a cycle: the stories I write are inspired by the humanity I witness, and the lessons I learn through writing deepen my commitment to serving others.
Pittsburgh has become a home for my body, my spirit, and my art. It’s a place where I can use my talents to contribute to something greater than myself, to build bridges of understanding and compassion.
You’ve chosen to write in English, a second language for you. How has that shaped your experience as a writer?
Writing in English has been one of the most challenging and rewarding decisions of my life. Language carries culture, nuance, and identity, and to write in a second language means navigating those layers while building something meaningful. I often write with an accent—not in the literal sense, but in the way I structure ideas and express myself. That “accent” becomes a part of the voice I bring to the page.
Technology has been a significant ally in this journey. With tools that facilitate learning and constant feedback, I’ve been able to refine my craft. Platforms that evolve and adapt allow me to present a product that feels polished while still authentic. It’s like building a bridge from my past to my present, using the language of my adopted home.
My goal is to take full advantage of these tools to create stories that are both local and global. Pittsburgh is the perfect launching pad for this—a city rich in character, history, and resilience. I want to bring stories from here to the world, showing how universal human struggles and joys are, even when told from a specific place.
What do you find most rewarding—and most difficult—about writing in English?
The most rewarding aspect is discovering a new layer of my identity. Writing in English has allowed me to explore ideas and emotions in ways I hadn’t before. It’s like finding another dimension to my creative voice. The challenge, of course, is that I’m still learning. There’s always the risk of missing subtleties or cultural contexts, but that’s part of the process.
What’s exciting is that this challenge pushes me to innovate. It keeps me from becoming complacent. Each word, each sentence, is a deliberate act. I’m not just writing; I’m building something carefully, like crafting a sculpture.
Do you see yourself continuing to write in English?
Absolutely. I’ve already self-published The Poe’s Project, a collection of noir novelettes inspired by Edgar Allan Poe. I’m also working on several other books in English. It’s a journey, but one I’m committed to.
The stories I want to tell are universal, and writing in English allows me to reach a broader audience. But it’s also about challenging myself, about seeing what’s possible when you step outside your comfort zone.
With Indelible Word as a platform, I hope to build a bridge between cultures, using Pittsburgh as the nexus. The city has shaped me in ways I never expected, and I want to honor that by sharing its spirit with the world.
Start Reading The Poe’s Project…
FOOTNOTE
A bolt of lightning split the sky, tracing a cobalt crack and etching the edges of the clouds racing across New York City that summer afternoon. The oppressive heat and humidity soaked through the clothes of passers-by as they quickened their pace along the muddy streets and unfinished sidewalks. The chaotic clatter of carts and the busy movements of merchants hawking their wares filled the air; crowds gathered and dispersed at every corner, moving to the frenetic pulse of this long and, as always, extraordinary summer.
John del Canal took the arm of his friend – a tall, lanky Englishman dressed in a Hindu toga and billowing trousers, his face set in a cynical grimace, indifferent to the world around him. The two men walked down Madison Avenue in step with the other pedestrians. It was a day of foreboding, the air poisoned by the gathering storm. Summer clouds loomed over the monstrous, living forms of the towering buildings – threatened by the ocean, the rivers and the clouds swollen with the impending downpour. Yet no one seemed to seek shelter – not under shop awnings, not in cafés, not at stalls selling bread and sausages.
“Louis Villarroel never tried to be anyone else, you know,” del Canal rambled as he jumped over a puddle. “He was a man who faced his work, not his life, which was always intertwined with the misery of poverty and gambling.”
The man in the saffron robe and baggy trousers leaned closer to his friend as if he hadn’t heard him, and the two of them squeezed in next to three men and a woman standing on the edge of the pavement. The men were making lewd comments to the woman, laughing nervously and slapping each other on the back. They all exchanged suspicious glances before falling back into the rhythm of the city.
“And you, dear John, say Louis has disappeared?”
“Disappeared into the southern swamps,” del Canal repeated, weaving through some of the rubble towards the streets leading to Fifth Avenue, pausing only to let a wagon overloaded with barrels pass. “He never came back from Baltimore or Richmond – who knows? He was last seen wandering around Joe’s Inn. He’s lost himself in his lectures – some claim to have heard him in Baltimore, but his journey should have ended long ago. Miss London has too many commitments, another lecture on footnotes, too many responsibilities, and she can barely keep the group together. She’s overwhelmed with anxiety and has stopped writing. She’s in decline and has lost her creative spark”.
They managed to hail a carriage to take them across town, as the Writers’ Circle meeting was due to start at seven. John del Canal had promised to bring Mr Bierce, who was little known in the New World, although he came with glowing recommendations. He was to clear up the matter and explain the disappearance of Laura London’s fiancé.
Laura London was the eldest of the London family. The widow of an army captain killed in the Civil War, she was childless and deeply involved in the arts of spiritualism and conspiracy. She was also a close friend – perhaps more, the gossiping tongues of East Side society whispered – of a Cuban independence poet. In fact, before Louis Villarroel’s arrival, the cause of Cuban independence had almost become her own.
In the Park Avenue Writers’ Circle, occult science was celebrated, a love of dark poets was nurtured, and sympathy for Cuban independence – sometimes tinged with interventionist fervour – was encouraged. Laura had two sisters: one married to a banker, the other to a patent exporter. Only Laura kept her parents in a constant state of worry, tying them up in knots with her fantasies of spiritualism, literature and revolutionary causes. They were deeply concerned about her inheritance at her age, and the scandals that inevitably accompanied her literary activities made them guardians of both her fortune and her honour. They had come to accept her adventures, but since her engagement to Louis they had been preparing to hand over these responsibilities to her new husband.
John del Canal and Bierce crossed the city from the scandalous, burgeoning south to the classic, staid north of Park Avenue. The wind and rain battered the roof of the carriage, shaking its frame. The rain fell like a handful of nails. The monstrous city was swallowed by a torrent of water, everything that existed but was hidden in the summer downpour.
Shouting above the storm, Bierce commented to John,
“So he’s a poet, I suppose – one of the bad ones?”
“No, sir. I have no grounds for judging him, but I have done my research. According to several experts, he’s a good poet – perhaps the best plagiarist anyone has ever known. There’s a new trend in art, you know. The theory is that the best art “is” plagiarism. Louis appropriates another author’s work, reimagines it, and then claims credit for discovering an original vein – one born out of the relief of the copy, which in turn becomes his reading. That’s why he adds footnotes, you see – a parallel exploration, in another dimension, which makes it a completely new creation”.
“Well! And who did he plagiarise?” Bierce shouted back.
“Who, sir!” Del Canal shouted, adjusting his hat against the rain. “He was versatile. Every successful writer was a challenge to him. He began his career as a literary critic,” he coughed, clearing his throat, “for the New York Literati Magazine. From there he fired a series of effective salvos at the famous pens of the North.”
“Is he a Southerner?”
“Not exactly – though no one knows for sure, since his biography is intertwined with the adventures of the authors he plagiarised. He claimed to have been born in Boston by accident, but raised in Richmond by his adoptive parents.”
“We’ve arrived!” The coachman shouted, huddling under his rain-soaked cloak.
Bierce pulled his hat down low over his ears and leapt to the pavement, performing a curious three-step dance in the rain – a strange figure, draped in a tunic, billowing trousers and, instead of a turban, a Scottish cap. An eccentric sight, even for wild New York, a city striving to impose a new aesthetic on fashion. John del Canal followed immediately, hurrying to meet the doorman who, recognising him, approached with an umbrella and ushered them into the building’s lobby.
“Good evening, Peter” – Del Canal greeted a tall Irishman with a flushed face and the pantomime of a drunkard.
“Good evening, Mr Del Canal. They’re all waiting for you upstairs,” the Irishman glanced sideways at his soaked guest for the evening and thought to himself, “Another lavish expense of the London family.”
John exclaimed:
“Good God, Peter! The city is a hell of water. Yes, flames of water, Peter.”
They entered a dimly lit room where chandeliers flickered, casting shadows on the ochre wallpaper decorated with large mirrors. The room was spacious, and as the couple entered, the lively conversation came to an abrupt halt. The guests interrupted their congratulations to Senator London on his recent re-election and paused to speculate on the posthumous literary lives of certain authors. “They don’t just pass away or inspire, they keep on writing,” someone had said earlier. They had praised the recent poetry of Laura London, which, according to her admirers, tended towards metaphysical transcendence and away from political contingencies. “Thanks to Louis”, an ardent fan had exclaimed, “although she still has her eye on the Cuban question, she dissolves more and more in her search for a new life… but let’s call bread, bread, and wine, wine, as my dear one used to say – the poem a poem, and for the Cuban, a cigar”.
There was a burst of laughter, mingled with the rustling of the ladies’ dresses, only to be cut short by a sudden silence. The high voices were drowned out by the expectant silence, giving way to the anticipated scene. All attention turned to the newcomers and the long silence cut like a knife. Rita London, Laura’s mother, glided gracefully through the small crowd.
“Gentlemen, you look like you’ve been spat out by a leviathan! You’re soaked to the bone,” she called out in a soprano voice. “I’ll send for some dry clothes at once.”
Bierce immediately began to shake his head and hands, refusing to wear anything but the clothes he was wearing.
“But you’ll catch your death, dear friend. Your lungs, summer pneumonia. No, no, no, that would be a tragedy!”
Bierce insisted.
“My dear lady, I appreciate your kindness and every one of your concerns, but I simply cannot part with my clothes. It’s a long story, but rest assured, I cannot, and I will be fine. My clothes and my disciplines are such that they will dry on my body without harming me.”
“Is your hat special too?” asked Walter London as he joined them.
The guests stifled smiles, their mouths curving into barely concealed grins. They exchanged amused glances at the British fakir, clad in a Scottish hat up to his ears.
“Is that the guest?” someone muttered.
Laura London approached her parents and gave Bierce a warm smile.
“I trust Mr Bierce completely. I’ve had the highest recommendations. If he chooses not to change, he has his reasons, Mother. I’ve been told many times of his excellent judgement. John himself assured me that he never sews without a thimble. A man of logic, a machine of thought, though he may not appear to be.
With a sigh she added,
“…like Louis Villarroel. We live in snobbish times, Mother, and such people are easily misunderstood.”
She was on the verge of tears, her big blue eyes drowning in emotion. Bierce took her hand and kissed it. Laura caught her breath and calmed her racing heart; she calmed herself as she looked at his weathered forehead, wrinkled with age, wisdom and exposure to the elements – a humble wonder bowed in awe.
“Enchanté, mademoiselle.”
Laura regained her composure. With equal solemnity, Bierce kissed Madame Rita’s hand and shook Mister Walter London’s.
“Here I am, gentlemen, at your complete disposal.”
Laura regained her composure. With the same solemnity, Bierce immediately kissed Madame Rita’s hand and shook Mister Walter London’s.
A servant handed Laura London a bell and she rang it. There was no need, as everyone was already engrossed in the unfolding scene. But, as the hostess often said, “Formalities are formalities”, and the literati listened and obeyed.
“Tonight,” said Rita London in a slow but heartfelt voice, “we will hold a special meeting. We have called it ‘Investigation, Spiritualism and Literature'”.
One of the guests, looking at Bierce, whispered to another,
“Will this extravagant caricature have anything to say about spiritualism and literature?”
“A great mystery, my dear Segismundo. I suspect it will have something to do with the fiancé’s investigation.”
“As you understood and wished,” the hostess continued, “our literary meetings have become acts of engagement – a whole story. We’ve been trying to follow Louis’ escapades from here in the city. We haven’t received a single telegram or psychic communication about his literary pursuits, the lectures in Richmond and Baltimore. For a month we’ve been waiting to celebrate his engagement to our dear Laura, but he’s disappeared under the strangest of circumstances. We know he wasn’t popular here or there, so we fear the worst.
There was a murmur in the room. A lady, whom Bierce managed to overhear, exclaimed,
“A most convenient disappearance – it saves Laura from marrying a fortune hunter.”
Bierce turned on his heels, smiled at the lady, then held out his arm and pointed directly at her. Overwhelmed, the woman lowered her eyes and blushed.
“Fortune-hunter, did you say?”
“There’s too much noise – you must have misheard me.”
“Still, you said fortune hunter, referring to Louis.”
“You misunderstood my words.”
“I make it a point never to misunderstand a lady.”
Rita London continued,
“Tonight’s programme will be slightly different. As always, Laura will read and share with you, my dear literary critics, her latest poems – the ones she intends to take with her to Paris, to the tomb of Monsieur Baudelaire. Afterwards, instead of our usual consultation with the afterlife, we will ask Monsieur Bierce to hypnotise our dear Laura, to transport her and to search for some answers – some clue that will tell us that our Louis has not simply disappeared to the South.
All eyes were on Bierce, except for Dolores, the lady he had confronted. Dolores stayed by his side, desperately looking for an excuse to leave, to hide, to escape, but outside the rain continued to pour. The smoking room was closed to women and the lounge offered no refuge from prying, curious eyes. She felt restless, stifled, on the verge of fainting. The eccentric man’s gaze and his persistent attempts to involve her in his gossip had unsettled her.
John del Canal approached her, now dressed in dry clothes. Bierce, however, still stood there, his own clothes dripping wet.
“Do you know my niece, Dolores del Canal?” John asked.
“We haven’t been introduced,” Bierce replied, his eyes widening and his mouth forming an exaggerated ‘O’.
“Yet you insisted on pestering me with a question, or rather, spoiling my evening,” Dolores cut in.
“My apologies, miss. Something you said caught my attention.”
“But you misunderstood, and yet you insist…”
“Oh, I understood perfectly. It’s not the meaning of the word ‘fortune hunter’ that interests me, but the way it was said.”
“Fortune hunter!” John del Canal exclaimed.
“Uncle, I think the gentleman misheard me, but he insists…”
“It doesn’t matter. Truly, none of it matters. My dear lady, forgive my frivolity. I’m a curious man, you know. It was your accent, the way you emphasised your words, that intrigued me.”
Once again the sound of the bell echoed through the room. The large drawing room, lit by a large crystal chandelier in the centre, had four doors. The main door led into the hall, while the other three led to various rooms in the house, each decorated with elegant ochre-coloured curtains tied with simple ribbons. Against the wall facing the entrance, Laura London presided over an imposing mahogany table, sitting in the centre with an empty chair beside her. The guests turned their attention to Laura as she began to speak, her voice carrying her usual measured intensity.
“We should resume our activities, which have been put on hold since poor Louis disappeared. Although my pen hasn’t rested, arranging my thoughts into verses in response to ‘Le Spleen de Paris’, trained in creative plagiarism, I have not been consistent in this exercise of reinventing the author of ‘Les Fleurs du mal’. I’ve lost something essential – a point of convergence, the poetic inflection that Louis’s presence and guidance provided. Now my work results in scribbles, as our critic John del Canal describes them. He was a man who faced his work, and it was only this closeness, this attitude, that inspired me”.
Dolores couldn’t hold back any longer and muttered under her breath,
“Fortune hunter, charlatan, fraud.”
Bierce raised an eyebrow and squinted at her. This time Dolores didn’t hide her feelings – she seemed to challenge him, locking eyes with a defiant stare.
Laura continued,
“I will not share my latest poems; I am ashamed. Nor will I speak of the brothers who have been reincarnated as promising writers, of automatic writing, or of my progress in communicating with Baudelaire’s spirit. I simply cannot go on without Louis – or at least without finding an answer, a clue as to the whereabouts of our dear friend. Tonight I have the pleasure of inviting Monsieur Bierce to sit beside me and plunge into my soul in trance. Bierce is a man of logic and reason, tempered by the heights of Tibet. I’ve received the highest recommendations from John del Canal regarding his ability to unravel the mysteries hidden in the ether where thought escapes. My dear guests, please welcome this fine man.
The guests applauded and formed a human corridor to allow Bierce to approach the table where Laura London sat.
The man in the saffron robe raised one arm and, after waving it in slow undulating motions to attract attention, said,
“If you don’t mind,” he turned to Laura, “I’d prefer to talk to you from here, next to this charming lady,” he said, drawing Dolores del Canal almost forcibly towards him and embracing her in a familiar embrace, “who in some way inspires my deductive powers.
Laura covered her displeasure with a trembling, forced smile and, without speaking, made a gesture of approval.
“Very well,” Bierce said. “I had prepared a few questions after my first impressions, gleaned from my conversation with John del Canal. I intended to ask them under hypnosis, and indeed I did so, altering the consciousness of Dolores del Canal. I must confess that I was perplexed, trying to reconcile the idea of a man described as standing before his work, but never before his life. I imagined him absorbed, sitting at a desk in the New York library or in his private study, breathing through his work. And when I read some of his critical notes in various journals, in which he savagely accused the most prominent northern writers of plagiarism, I became curious. His artistic pursuits revealed to me a trivialisation of plagiarism, elevating it to the status of fine art. I quickly realised that Louis Villarroel was a great provocateur, one of those figures born to stir up the obscene and sensitive corners of society”.
The room buzzed with murmurs as the London family gathered stoically and proudly around Laura. Behind the large mahogany table, the daughter’s face was pale, betraying a sense of horror.
“But, my friends,” Bierce continued, “a few moments beside this lady were enough to change all my previous impressions. Louis Villarroel was not a man standing before his work; he was a man standing before his life – an ambitious, demanding life that had brought him into this circle. This very circle that he once criticised in his press articles became his sanctuary, where, after manipulating a few concepts, he was invited and accepted as the leading figure for Laura London, the daughter of our esteemed Senator from Virginia, Walter London”.
The murmurs grew louder. Dolores blushed, then turned pale. John del Canal leaned against the back of a chair, looking dizzy and confused. Laura, however, stared not at Bierce but at Dolores, her expression one of anger and frustration.
“You,” she said, pointing at the woman. But Bierce interrupted.
“Dear Laura, these are only modest observations. We have nothing conclusive. Our friend is lost somewhere in Virginia or Maryland. There’s still no reason to believe he’s joined a westward-bound caravan. Nothing suggests that.”
“And the hypnosis?” exclaimed a disillusioned guest.
“I did it in a flash. The best hypnosis defies spectacle – at least my method does. A quick abduction of the subject’s thoughts,” Bierce explained confidently. “After these brief observations, as a practical man, I have decided to take immediate action. I will make a few inquiries here in New York and then make my way south. I will follow Louis’ path. I can’t guarantee his life, but I will find him, dead or alive.
Laura regained her composure, breathed with poetic solemnity and added with determination,
“We will make the arrangements for that trip, Mr Bierce, and give you the support you need to continue your investigations here in New York. I am sure you will return to the premise that Louis was a man who stood before his work, never before his life.”
“Agreed. I am a practitioner of objectivity, which is essential to my work. I won’t draw any conclusions until the investigation reveals the facts.”
“Excellent!” Laura London exclaimed, obviously pleased.
“One more thing,” Bierce added, pointing to Dolores, “I would like to be accompanied by this young lady – and, of course, to avoid any scandal, by her uncle, John del Canal.”
There was a great commotion in the room. Comments and protests came from all directions. Mrs Rita London rang her bell, and over the din of the guests Laura’s voice rose, firm and authoritative.
“Only if I go with you. I want to be a part of this expedition.” She said this, glaring at Dolores with a burning hatred in her eyes.
“Daughter,” her father, who had been passive until now, finally spoke, “I cannot allow you to risk such a dangerous journey.”
“Father,” Laura replied, “I will go to the lands you represent as a senator. If I’m not safe there, where can I be safe?”
The room was again filled with murmurs and confusion. The dramatic arc was clear to all present. Dolores, tugging at the sleeve of Bierce’s robe, hissed,
“How dare you drag me into this? You’ve gone too far and put me in a very uncomfortable position.”
“My dear lady,” replied the detective, impassively, “you brought yourself into this when you described Louis under hypnosis. I must confess that these are my only clues. And I have every reason to believe them.”
“You must be out of your mind! How can you take such trivial remarks as solid clues and then claim that you’ve played with my mind?”
“Triviality in you is a revelation,” Bierce remarked, almost as a compliment, as he bent to kiss her hand.
“Stop it! You’re not flattering me, and I won’t take a single step outside Park Avenue.”
“Not even to prove what a scoundrel the man you loved was?”
“What nonsense! How could you know that? This is a scandal! You are a scandal – look at the way you’re dressed! Who will believe someone who looks like a clown?”
“Your uncle hired me, Dolores, and with good reason.” After a brief pause, lost in the growing noise of the room, he added, “And this dress, dear lady, is quite respectable and serious in other cultures – and well suited to this diverse city. Does your uncle often hire charlatans like Louis?”
Dolores shot him a look of pure hatred and, after a flirtatious snarl, turned her back on him.
The guests broke up their orderly gathering and swarmed around the London family in displeasure. Three weeks without any literary or intellectual activity. Three weeks without constructive leisure. Without trends. Without the avant-garde. Three weeks suspended in emptiness or in the personal torment of their hostess: Laura was the centre of this group of writers. She summoned them, dictated the aesthetic guidelines – romanticism, a touch of symbolism and an atmosphere steeped in necromancy. Without Laura, they would have to wander the salons of Uptown, sniffing around the canons of other groups.
A short, round man approached Bierce and held out his hand.
“I’m García, a pleasure to meet you in person. Manuel has spoken of you. You had quite an adventure in the middle of the Pittsburgh strikes…”
This excerpt is published here courtesy of the author and publisher and should not be reprinted without permission.
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