'J.'

By Miles Walters

Tim Kruger is an art collector and son of deceased architectural giant Maxwell Kruger.  Throughout his life, he has travelled and explored the world, purchasing and displaying rare and expensive artworks.  Yet lately, nothing seems to interest him, and he begins to see his life as repetitive and looping once again – so he takes the advice of those around him and travels, this time to France to reconnect with his lover, Josephine, who is beginning her new career as a photographer.

 

During his stay, Josephine tells Tim about an auction that is taking place nearby at the house of a deceased art and ceramics collector.  Attending the auction out of curiosity, he purchases one of the sealed trunks that are available, hoping to score artworks lying inside.  When opened, it instead reveals old books filled with handwritten entries by a man named Marc Kingman who is living in a guesthouse in India – the story seeming to shift when he encounters another travelling guest, naming himself only: 'J.'.

 

The story becomes blurred after Marc's enforced dependency on opium renders him unable to follow 'J.' on his next journey.  From here, the story becomes unfinished, with a dead-end at nearly every turn.  Deciding instead to investigate and complete the story himself, seeing it as his next exhibition, Tim plunges himself into 'J.'s hidden world – eventually leading him to his last known location where he follows in his footsteps, experimenting with everything from intensive fasting, seemingly endless periods of meditation and the use of hallucinogenic eyedrops, all to discover a man who never wanted to be understood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Miles Walters
• Release date: Sep 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9781739567507

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This novel is also accompanied by an original soundtrack score that can be streamed on YouTube and Bandcamp.

Dedicated to K.C.S., who was not only my writing partner, my inspiration and first audience, but was also my best friend who made a profound impact upon my life within the brief six-year period that I knew her.

1

New York City

Wednesday

A yellow flash, peaking at ninety miles per hour, darted across the famous Brooklyn Bridge, heading straight for Manhattan.  The car, having been driven in circuits for two hours – from 3:45-5:45am.  Occasionally, a vehicle of interest fell into its lights, but was swiftly overtaken without notice – eyes of the overtaken driver flitting to make out even the passing shadow of the car, a 1969 Porsche 911S in Bahama Yellow.  A growl as it clung to its lane with intermittent, fleeting observation.

He gripped the wheel to the point of pain – a pair of vintage brown leather driving gloves slept still in the glovebox, unused and often ignored.  Donning a crisp white t-shirt and black suit trousers, he paired them against black running shoes to feel the clutch bite and keep his feet as nimble and as cramp-free as possible.  He felt more like a machine than a man – looping, emotionless, efficient... often on autopilot.  A machine, not just behind the wheel, but in everyday life – in every action, in every word, in every sentiment, mechanical.

This was the reason for the speed, the driving want to push the car past one-hundred and thirty... pure disconnection.  He had felt this more times than he cared to remember, but this was normally remedied with a swift exit to some distant country in search of something worthwhile to bring back upon his return to the gallery – whether it was a success or not, it still provided him enough time to clear his head.  This time, it was different.

How can someone top a success?  Musicians, artists, painters, writers, all have this to face, either traversing it with another string of successes or a seemingly never-ending series of failed attempts.  The minute the idea of the painting ‘The Variation on Creation’, or ‘the lost renaissance masterpiece’ as it was written in the Tribune, was put into the heads of the public, in and out of the art world, it began to gather momentum – a momentum halted only when the painting was hung in The Kruger Gallery, with Tim’s face splashed over magazines and news articles.  The painting’s eyewatering estimates often no more than four words away.

His last therapy session replayed itself:

"...And off the record, I could see you were heading towards this for a long time now... most people need to hit the crash, before they can work on rising again."

So what you’re saying is, I’m fucked up?

In a phrase, yes.

Tim smiled and turned to Warrington who was finishing off the last of his notes with perfect stillness.

"Well, it’s good to know I’m something."

Through the streets of Art Deco architecture, Tim pulled into the carpark below his building and rode the elevator to the Leisure Rooms where he did his routine laps of the pool and headed to his apartment.  Suite #44, Albinoni Floors, Passcode: 1452 – the year of DaVinci’s birth.  The heavy door closing itself after fifteen seconds.

In the bed, at the furthest corner of the room lay the outline of a woman, wrapped within the white sheets, undisturbed by Tim’s entrance into the room as he made a sharp right into the bathroom.

On the countertop lay an empty bottle of Bollinger, an empty glass that had circled itself to stillness lay at its feet – the second glass however lay shattered in the sink, without remembrance, without care.  The only time its image would reoccur would be when all lights were switched on, illuminating the shards like discarded diamonds.

He studied his face in the mirror and concluded that he’d seen better expressions at this time of the morning.  His mind still raced around as he ran a basin of semi-warm water and changed the blade in his open razor.  His brain switched off as he lathered his face and scraped the remaining details of a Sunday stubble away.

Forcing his lips to part for a quick smile was the antithesis of that present time.  Giving up, he wandered into the glass shower cubicle and adjusted the temperature to where he knew it would wake him up.  The skylight was open, and steam travelled through its openness like ancient, ascending ghosts.  Sure, there would be traces of his presence within the bathroom but not obvious ones.  Either way, the Maidenhair was thankful for the humidity he created – it expanded a ‘thank you’ through its white stone pot that hung suspended on a small silver hook in the corner of the room.

His entire body ached, and his hair felt like long knotted strips as he shampooed it with precision.  He did this process every morning without fail – he knew without a shadow of a doubt that if he were to skip one day’s bathing or maintenance that he would find a comfort in continuing the habit.

‘You can breathe.’

Wandering out into the long room once again, he dropped the towel and sorted through the coat-rail wardrobe for something to wear.  The phone call was missed as he walked in, so the answering machine grabbed it – seconds later, the voice of his sister, Andrea, came filtering through.

Hi Tim, long time, huh?  She began.  I hope you got the package I sent you – it’s one of your old notebooks, I found it in the attic.  Any of the photo-packs marked ‘T.K.’ I’ve thrown in there too.  Call me soon, maybe we could go to lunch or something.

Tim smiled as he threw his selected clothes onto the bed, still not disturbing the sleeping figure of Olivia.  He had received the package that his sister had spoken about, it lay opened and briefly glanced at, still housed in the brown paper it was delivered in.  Out of all the countless filled or semi-filled notebooks that he had used over time, Tim had remembered the notebook the second he saw it – first started when he was fifteen and completed during his university years spent studying in London, before returning once again to New York.

Inside its pages, it dealt with everything, the first focus being on the frequent youthful trips around the world with his father Maxwell on architectural jobs – Tibet, Japan, Thailand, Italy, India, Greece, all documented with photographic examples and cut-outs from the magazines that the shots were featured in.  Most presumed that he would follow Maxwell and learn, being a direct descendant of what many considered to be a ‘master of modern architecture’.  Many thought he would get into photography as a full-time occupation, shocked of course when he seemingly abandoned it for collecting art and becoming a gallerist, whilst Andrea followed in the footsteps of their father and oversaw ‘KCorp.’.

The sounds of the code-system buzzed briefly and the door opened, with Sandy, Tim’s assistant, entering soon after.  She greeted him with a smile as she laid her paperwork, overfilled folders, and breakfast down on the table – three coffees and three blueberry muffins.

How did you know?  Tim asked.

I saw you talking to her last night – I just presumed....

Sandy raised herself slightly, overacting the action of looking over Tim’s shoulder at the slumbering woman.

I’ve known her a long time, he defended.  She’s more than a friend.

I still talk to people I went to school with... doesn’t mean I go leaping into bed with them whenever the chance arises.

Tim ignored Sandy’s comments and sighed unnoticed.  Sandy had set herself up at the dining table and now fully clothed, but not tucked-in, buttoned-up or presentable in any way, Tim opened the shutters and allowed the light to flood that portion of the room.  Sandy picked at her breakfast as she watched Tim empty a few glugs of water from a small glass jug into the surrounding plants.

...Got to hand it to her though, Sandy restarted, dragging Olivia back into conversation.  "She could still sleep through a hurricane – at least she can get some sleep.  I can only sleep for those last five minutes before the alarm clock goes off."

Need the day off?  Tim asked, looking at her eyes for signs of fatigue.

No, she quickly responded.  "All I’d do is lie there – lie there and look at the ceiling, and just think about sleeping."

Maybe you should call the doctor, get some sleeping pills or something.

Oh yeah, that’ll cure me, more fucking pills.

"I didn’t say it was the right answer, it’s just an answer."

I don’t know what it is... even when I sleep I don’t dream y’know.  I just seem to lie there while my brain tries to figure out what to do.  I see darkness – like a black hole in my mind.  I can never dream though, no matter how hard I try.

Taking a brief sip of coffee, Tim began to peel through any advice he could think of.  His advice receptor being just as blank as Sandy’s dreams.

Why do you want to dream so badly?  It only feels like some messed-up movie anyway.

It’s different when you dream to dismiss it.  Like a teetotaller telling an alcoholic that ‘drinking gets you nowhere’.  I dunno, maybe it’ll repair itself eventually.

I haven’t been dreaming lately anyway so I wouldn’t worry yourself too much about it.

Lifting her arm, Sandy checked her watch and studied it under the low light of the lower half of the room.

We should get going in around five minutes.  Do you mind if I use your bathroom?

Sure, he said, throwing his arm into the air and loosely pointing at the doorway without looking.

As Sandy made her way across the room, Olivia rolled over in the bed which made her freeze momentarily – checking that her eyelids were still firmly shut she could breathe a sigh of relief.

Soon after, they took the elevator down to the ground floor, both knowing full well that Olivia had slept over so often that she knew her way in and out of the apartment better than they did.

Small, soft rain droplets held from the previous day ricocheted from buildings and street-level stores, hitting Sandy’s windscreen, appearing like teardrops against the black paintwork.  She made small talk as she navigated her way through the streets.  Cracks of intermittent sun scattered through the gaps in the skyline.

***

Doctor Warrington’s Office

Lower East Side

New York

"I do the same thing every single day, expecting something new to happen, as if some grand act is going to show itself to me and I’ll be impressed by it.  This!  Even this is becoming repetitive...."

Doctor Warrington laughed slightly from behind him.  Tim was still heavily guarded on every matter and gave little to no information away – repeating that Warrington had ‘already worked him out long ago’ and that he was just ‘ticking boxes’.  Strangely, Tim respected Warrington from the very first session, after observing his immense interest in yoga and meditation – thick multi-volumed books peppered his cherrywood shelves between works on psychiatry and phrenology.

Are you doing the journalling that we discussed?  He asked.

What do you think?  He smiled.  "Every time I try to do it, I keep writing it like I would an article about somebody else... as if I’m writing somebody else’s story."

"Well, maybe you need to write somebody else’s story – maybe then you’ll understand your own."

Tim sighed and felt as deflated as usual, seeing the looping series of actions and reactions taking place.

"I think I know what I’m going to tell you at the end of this session, but please follow my tangent.  I was at the airport coming home, after having visited relatives in Los Angeles, when I read this, he presented a magazine from the side of his desk – Tim swung himself around in the chair, took a glimpse of the item and then lay back down, rolling his eyes slightly to the left.  Why do you feel the need to deny psychiatry?"

I’m not getting anything from it... I’m not seeing anything within it.  It works for some people but it’s doing nothing for me.

Why did you come here?  The first time I mean.

As Tim answered, Warrington tapped the finely sharpened point of the pencil into the top right-hand side of the ruled a5 page.

Recommendations... I guess when you’ve been the death and destruction of more than three parties people start to wonder what’s wrong with you, then the opinions and the ‘you should’s’ come into play – someone said ‘Warrington’, I took the card and nodded my head.

Warrington switched subjects, still tapping the pencil into the corner of the page.

You mention the painting a lot.

Honestly, I was sick of the painting before it had arrived – it pleased me no end to see it, but after all the fuss created to get it here and then the fuss to display it... I was around a year out of sync from my own body.

He made a small ‘hmm’ noise as Tim spoke, the line about being ‘out of sync’ seemed to resonate somewhere.

I’d like to do a couple call and response questions again, like we did last time.  Is that okay?

Sure, he replied, fidgeting slightly in the chair as Warrington resumed notetaking.

Do you still drink?  He began.

Yeah, more than I should.

...Are you in any stable relationships?

No.  I haven’t been in some time.

But you are having sex?

Yes.

And how do you feel about it?

It’s meaningless.

Are you in love with anyone?

No.

When was the last time you felt at rest?

It must be years ago now.

Soon, the rapid ping-pong style of conversation disappeared, leaving Warrington still scratching away at the surface of the paper.

I don’t want to rush to any kind of pills with you Tim, there doesn’t appear to be any need, and there doesn’t appear to be any need for further analysis – you’re burnt out....

Sometimes after a concluded session, Tim would walk his way to wherever he needed to go, remembering certain incidents and scenery from his past – seeing loves and losses in every doorway or greenspace.  It cleared his head, at least for a few moments.  At that moment, he was feeling foggy and hailed a cab, muttering the address to the driver from the backseat.

***

Kruger Gallery

Upper East Side

New York

Tim greeted the receptionist working that day before taking the stairs, knowing that there were twenty-four steps to make it to the first floor, another twenty-four steps to make it to the second floor and a final twenty-four steps to the third floor.  A silver engraved sign, with a moniker of ‘TKG’ in the left corner, read:

THIRD FLOOR – OFFICES

He fell into the chair with a ricocheting crack as his slumped posture propelled him into place at his desk.

Another success?  Asked Sandy, lifting her attention from her keyboard and screen.

To a degree – I’m just happy I only have to see him once a month, said Tim, raising one of the swinging balls of a Newton’s cradle and watched as the action took place.

Clack.  Clack.  Clack.

Treatment?  Pills?  She scanned.

Clack.  Clack.  Clack.

No, thankfully nothing like that.  I’d have refused anything anyway.

Clack.  Clack.  Clack.

What then?  Another follow-up session?

Clack.  Clack.  Clack.

No, just the same advice as I’ve been expecting... I need a break.

Clack.  Clack.  Clack.

...But you never slow down.

Clack.  Clack.  Clack.

That’s because I have no need to.

Tim lay his head in his hands and scraped away at the tired skin with his clipped fingernails.

Are you still looking at the archive tomorrow?  She asked, referring to the calendar at her side.

Probably.  I’m unsure yet.  Nothing’s exciting me – I haven’t found something that really turns the dial since purchasing that painting downstairs.

I can understand that.

"Something’s got to come along that’ll really work or I’m just not going to entertain it.  I’ll just keep regurgitating the same shit and lie back."

You have the funds to do so – easily.

Not the right way to live though is it Sandy?  Replied Tim as he placed his feet on his desk.  Sandy scoffed at the image.

You’ve got to call Justin Bernard from ‘The New Gallery’.

Why?

He’s got space available.  He’s asked if you would like to exhibit some of the archive there.  We have some works on paper we could lend – the Twombly pieces and the Picasso drawings?

...If they’re just sitting around then go ahead.

Do you want me to call him?  She offered.

No, I’ll do it.

Tim resumed his original seating pose and aimed his attention at his Rolodex of names.  Although it appeared unfashionable for a twenty-six-year-old to still use what other people would call ‘archaic forms of detail keeping’, he still found it the easiest way of doing things.

Whilst he peeled through the flapping cards as though he was dealing a hand of poker, he stopped upon a name that caught his eye.  He halted where he was and made his way back through the itemised people:

‘Josephine Monteil

xx xxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxx

France

(Personal)’

He ran his finger along the black ink of her name, as if reigniting the idea of her in his mind with this simple action.  Tim had been seeing Josephine on and off for around four years – first through social circles during his visits to France as he had first spotted her in art crowds wearing large, white-framed sunglasses.  Her slightly hoarse voice creating a subtle scratch to her English vocalisations – she seemed so flippant, yet so excitable and full of life, speaking about life itself as if it were just some temporary setback.

Eventually, he began to just travel there to see her – his last art connection there having moved to Florence a few years after he first made contact.  Their days together were often clouded with cigarette smoke and red wine, occasionally stepping out at night to eat at fine-cuisine restaurants – exploring and experimenting with ideas of private, secluded decadence, throwing their minds and bodies back to eras they never knew.

Tim threw the remaining names of the rolodex back down which caused the cradle to squeak.

In fact, would you mind calling him after all?  He said, making his way to the door.

Sure, agreed Sandy, wondering what had made him change his mind.

That night, Tim called Andrea.  It had been a while, so they had a lot to talk about.  As usual, they seemed to be having a period of wanting to know one another – something often fleeting, returning to months of silence.

Andrea had been working solo on their family home for close to a year, sorting through every room with a keen eye.  Following in the footsteps of their mother, who periodically sorted through her belongings and donated them, Andrea felt that she should do the same, seeing that sufficient time had been left after their passing.

Tim had not seen the house since the year of their deaths.  Any time he was even presented with images of his family home, all he could do was turn his face away.  In a