THE WRITERS' HAVEN CLUB

"Across the river," the locals called Ravenshire: aging houses, dying businesses, a public school, and the prison. Why did I pick this wrong part of town to accept my first teaching position? Simple: it was close to my parents' place in Calderston, on the nicer, more polished side of the Ashwood River to drop by occasionally, but far enough to breathe on my own.

As the saying goes: love your parents from a distance—the farther, the better. I figured this out at twelve and had been plotting my escape ever since. My folks were good-natured people. Of course, except when they became despotic and cruel, pushing me on a quest for freedom. First, I crossed the Ashwood River, later the US border. A few years on, I went to Germany and ultimately settled in New Zealand, beyond which lies only Antarctica. When people ask me why I chose this end of the world, I give various reasons, besides perhaps the true one: I wanted to love my parents more. Independent life, however, didn't go well at first.

The school offered me a room in a shared staff residence. It was all I could afford. Living there made me think housing ratings needed to go below zero. There was no central heating, so we used portable fans. At the time, two couples and two single lodgers shared a bathroom and kitchen. The only small mercy was having the bathroom on the same floor as my room; I didn't have to go upstairs to find it occupied.

Life in the residence resembled a poor melodramatic farce. Teachers, anxious souls, have scarce ways to handle stress. After a few years in the classroom jungle, some abandon the profession, others resort to drink or enter a new, fragile reality where work becomes their only solace, while everything else pisses them off. School eats tolerance clean. Nearly every day a loud argument would break out in one or both family rooms, sometimes with smashing of faces and dishes. And nearly every evening, Nick, the divorced history teacher, would drop by to swap today's survival tales, bringing a flask of pure spirits, cut with water. He had connections at the local distillery.

Next year, we welcomed two female university grads and a literature teacher, Ivan, along with his pregnant wife. Life in every way became more fun. Visiting the bathroom in the morning turned into a challenge, not to mention taking a shower. For urine and body hygiene emergencies I kept a plastic bottle and bucket in my wardrobe. Stripping off and washing with a flannel in the cold room wasn’t exactly cozy. By winter, my independence was looking highly overpriced. I kept the room in the residence but started commuting to my parents' home almost daily.

Different seasons meant different ways to cross the river. By ferry—twenty minutes. On foot over the ice—about an hour. From afar, the procession of walkers looked like an uneven dark seam on a white sheet. I remember the usual question, "How's the ice on the other side?" "Fine... you'll make it." When the ice was firmly set, commuters hired coachmen or local drivers. The ride took ten to fifteen minutes. During ice drifts, a helicopter was the only option. Twenty people on board. A short journey filled with deafening rumble, a dose of adrenaline, and breathtaking views.

My favorites were the helicopter and sleigh. Given the choice between a car and a sleigh, I bypassing baffled drivers confidently headed to a coachman. The sleigh ride across the river held an otherworldly allure... Metaphysical? Surreal? Hard to say. I effortlessly recall the pungent scent of horse and frozen hay, hoofprints in loose snow, the soft tinkling of harness, the creaking of runners on bumps. And again I see the city becoming watercolor, losing its contours, disappearing, while the other shore is not yet visible. Everything is white. Only the sleigh, groaning and swaying, moves through the snow haze—out of time and space. God knows where.

And the chopper once let me down badly. But first, a little backstory.

At university, I got into writing. I wrote everything: poetry, short stories, essays, newspaper articles, even an obituary tribute. One day, I brought my newest flash fiction to the Weekly Chronicle.

"Perfect timing!" the editor exclaimed. "Have you heard? Our mayor has died unexpectedly. We’ve just received word."

"So what?"

"We're compiling tributes for the next issue. You’ll write one on behalf of the grateful student body."

"Now?"

"No, in a month... Of course, now." He nodded to a nearby empty desk. "And make it sincere, you know, with a little tear, a human touch. Okay?"

"Well, what about my story?"

"Leave it with me. We’ll run it next week."

They paid me a tenner for the "tear". I don’t remember how much I got for the story, probably fifteen.

Because of my genre-hopping tendencies, I joined all three sections of the Calderston Literary Association. In the journalism section, I was praised and encouraged to seriously pursue the second oldest profession. My short stories received more or less approving nods from the mentors. The poems, however, were often criticized for lacking originality and a distinct voice. Still, one compelling reason kept me in the poetry section—it was attended by the most beautiful girls. In addition, I found myself part of a tight-knit group, gathering for a happy hour after each meeting. To fit in, I quickly dove into Joyce, Pound, Stevens, Heaney, and Plath, along with iconic Eliot, whom everyone quoted with or without point. At these drinky-friendy, thinky-winky sessions, the inner circle planned publications and reviews. They also handpicked poets for showcase readings at the Writers' Haven club gala, an annual event drawing the city's lit folks, celebrities, and media. In the list of authors featured that year, I was delighted to see a favorite two-word phrase.

Having selected a couple of my most tolerable poems, I rehearsed them in front of a mirror, perfecting gestures. I recorded myself on tape and listened back, pinpointing any wrong intonations. It was late March, the ice drift had just begun, which came in handy. My plan was to fly to Ravenshire in the morning, teach my lessons, and return to Calderston on the 3 p.m. helicopter. Back home, I'd rest, dress up, and head to the gala. There was still time for a bar meetup with my writer pals to knock back a few for inspiration.

By noon, the helicopter noise had suspiciously died down, and the weather had changed. Snowfall turned wild, mixing with rain. Gusts tore the air, the sky darkened. I sat in the teachers' lounge, coat open, listening for the chopper. I still couldn't believe my bad luck. After multiple dropped calls, the airport finally answered.

"No flights this afternoon," the voice came through static. "Tomorrow at best."

"Tomorrow?! I need to be in Calderston today!"

"Forget it. Nobody flies in this weather."

The nearest bridge is sixty kilometers away, and I have no ride. Already late.

Another call, another eternity on hold, maddening classical music. At the edge of hope, a female voice: "Writers' Haven." I blurted out my crisis: the gala tonight, the snowstorm, the helicopter... The soothing voice reassured me that Andrew Cheetham, a renowned poet, would be in attendance and gladly fill in with his own verses if I couldn’t make it. I knew Cheetham in passing from his role as deputy editor at the National Poetry Press, where, by a lucky coincidence, his third book was being published. Rumor had it he penned a poem daily and was always willing to recite himself nonstop, even unasked.

Inexplicably, two poignant lines from Andrew's poetry baggage surfaced in my mind: "... like a poor painter, lost in decline, drowns his broken violin in a glass of wine..." The painter, the violin, and the glass of wine spun in my head all the way to the river. I couldn't shake the thought that a painter would rather drown a palette or brushes. Besides, a violin is very unlikely to drown in a glass, even if shattered into splinters. Nor, for that matter, would a palette.

I found myself in front of a warning board rattling in the wind: "Crossing the ice is prohibited. Danger to life. Penalties apply." There was an elusive paradox in those phrases. That is, if a madman like me crossed the ice, he would face a fine. But if he didn’t make it to the end, then...

That's it, I thought. Dare to risk it? For creativity and glory?

A few meters from the shore, the ice looked thick and solid. Although, at times, it crackled and seemed to groan. Closer, puddles powdered with snow darkened. Suppose I find a path from here, but what awaits on the other side?

I imagined the hall of the Writers' Haven filled with light and festivity. The exciting smell of perfume, the applause, the appraising glances from the female literature students... Familiar and unfamiliar journalists, maybe even TV crews. The hosts wait until the last minute, hoping I’ll show up. But no! And instead of me, the inveterate rhymester Cheetham climbs onto the stage... Despair and rage tore me apart. I wanted to cry, scream, howl. "Why?!" I shouted into the night and blizzard. "Why the hell today?!"

I don't remember how long I stood on the shore or how ended up in front of Nick's door.

"Have you been swimming?" the history teacher asked, surprised. "I thought you'd flown off to Caldy."

"I haven't. Got anything to drink?"

"Not anymore. But we can grab something from the pub. What's going on?"

"I'll tell you later. Let's go, my treat. And we'll drop in on the girls. It would be great to hang out at their place."

"Should we bring Ivan and Nat?"

"Absolutely."

Half an hour later, the young teachers, Sarah and Melissa, prepared quick sandwiches. Ivan opened a jar of pickled tomatoes. Nick filled the shot glasses with whiskey. I drank mine, poured another, and said:

"Guys, right now—this very moment—I was supposed to be performing my poetry at the Writers' Heaven club. But this bitch of a weather... hasn't given me a chance. So... it turns out, you'll be my Writers' Heaven tonight. Let's drink. And I'll recite for you."

Having raised their glasses, my colleagues were silent in amazement. They had no idea about my creative hobby.

"Well?" I said. We clinked and drank. I began to recite.

Never in my life had I read poetry so well. Little by little, I started feeling better. The Writers’ Heaven club drifted off to the side, like some used theatre scenery. Journalists, TV people, literary crowd almost ceased to matter. Especially Andrew Cheetham. Five village teachers became the best audience in the world. Maybe the alcohol helped. The poems I read that evening didn't seem so good later—the usual thing. But back then...

How I read! Enough that every lady in the company fell for me instantly. That included Ivan's heavily pregnant wife. Her gaze was flashing with readiness to leave Ivan for me right then. I even got a bit worried. Fortunately, it passed quickly with her. A month later, Natalie was taken to the maternity hospital, where she—without problems and on time—gave us a reason for a grand celebration. Understandably, the new mom wasn't up for flirting. Melissa, the curvy blonde music teacher, didn't hold her feelings for me too long either. Come spring, she got involved with a local bully. From what I heard, she even married him that fall, after I'd left the school. Gossip had it, their union was a failure. As if marrying a bully could be anything else.

With Sarah, the French teacher, things weren’t that simple. My performance seemed to impress her so deeply that, for several years, she showed up wherever I lived, even in Germany. Finally, weary of the long letters and surprise visits, I proposed to Sarah. The move to New Zealand became our honeymoon. On the plane, my wife confessed she had never been much of a poetry fan.

Max Nevoloshin is a teacher, psychologist, university lecturer and researcher. Author of novels and short stories. Lives in Australia.