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The Universe and Other Stories

by Christian-Eric Falardeau

217 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #02-0545; ISBN 1-55369-732-4; US$20.50, C$23.95, EUR17.00, £12.00

The Universe and Other Stories is a collection of short stories written over a period of ten years, from the first 1991 piece, The Maid's Dress, to its tenth anniversary counter-part: Classified Ads. Varying in both length and style, each of these entertaining stories brings its own little universe and insights.

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About the Book The Universe and Other Stories is a collection of short stories written over a period of ten years, from the first 1991 piece, The Maid's Dress, to its tenth anniversary counter-part: Classified Ads. Varying in both length and style, each of these entertaining stories brings its own little universe and insights. Here are highlights of a few of them: The Maid's Dress shows Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson coming out of a period of inactivity when a new client brings a refreshing change of pace. A murder was committed and the main suspect is quickly dismissed by Holmes on the account of the maid's dress. Dr. Watson advances theory after theory but is thwarted by Holmes' implacable logic. The great detective has only one clue, the maid's dress, but it sounds sufficient. George is leading a perfectly ordinary life when a recurring nightmare comes to haunt him. Managing to keep his mind from probing a few lapses, he questions himself less and less... but a few others are getting seriously worried, if not scared... The Unidirectional Vertical Energy Retension System Expansion Project has a very long title. It is a fake scientific report describing the basic system requirements to which complies our Universe. Built as a journey through the wonderful world of acronym, it remains a pleasant and original reading. Also contained in this compilation: Classified Ads The Pilgrim Threesome comic strip The Little Angel and the Golden Soul The Peters Principle and I The Crossbow Selection of poems and songs

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About the Author Christian-Eric Falardeau was born in 1968, on a little farm near the village of Beaudry, now part of Rouyn-Noranda, in Abitibi-Temiscamingue (north-west of Quebec). He was raised amidst cows and some of them might have influenced several of his characters. He also has two brothers and three sisters. In 1990, he graduated from Sherbrooke University with a degree in computer science, embarked on a career as a programmer analyst and, later on, became a software development manager. He retired from the industry in March 2002. He wrote his first novel in 1993 (Saint-Jolivet of Pendleton) quickly followed by a second one (Paul III of Montreal) before slowing down to accommodate the demands of a busy profession. Writing on and off over the next few years, he came back to literature on a more serious level in 2001 with the completion of his third novel (Caroline) and various short stories. Now a full-time writer, many new novels and short stories can be expected in the coming months and years. See also: The Alas League (English) Caroline (English) Caroline (French) Le faux écrivain (French) La Ligue des Helas (French) Paul III de Montréal (French) Paul III of Montréal (English) Saint-Jolivet de Pendleton (French) Saint-Jolivet of Pendleton (English) La simplicité de la vie (French) The Simplicity of Life (English)

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Excerpt

    Urged by my friend, I shall now continue to chronicle the adventures exemplifying his exploitation of the extraordinary resources of his mind. Once again, I open the trunk containing hundreds of cases--yet unpublished, for obvious marketing reasons--involving Sherlock Holmes and his rare gifts. The one I wish to relate to you today, faithful readers, shines less by the fortune of its actors than by the quality of the intellectual puzzle it presented to Holmes and by its unusual resolution.
    At the time of the case in question, Holmes and I shared a comfortable apartment at 221b, Baker Street. Following a crime shortage, we were experiencing a period of forced idleness, which, as always, had pushed Holmes into a vicious abyss. This latest inactive period had given birth to an original depravity, which, I must admit, put my nerves on trial. Sherlock Holmes had taken on the deplorable habit of letting his nails grow and grating them on a steel plate which he had ordered tailor-made for this purpose from one of his many London connections.
    I do not mean to suggest that life with Holmes contained only painful moments. Far from it. I was largely compensated when, leaving his steel plate, he would pick up his Stradivarius and brilliantly interpret any of Mozart's string quintets--cello part included--or delightfully adlib on one of my favorite airs. One day in early June, the second to be exact, I was sitting comfortably in my favorite armchair attentively reading a scientific article where the author illustrated the pointlessness of scientific articles; a masterful demonstration I might add. I was just reaching the conclusion when Holmes took out his dreadful plate and started to play his nails on it.
    The appalling squealing paralyzed me for a few moments. The binding of the book in my hands shredded to pieces and sheets billowed to the floor. This was too much! I had always had a policy of avoiding questioning Holmes on his small obsessions--I never forget that he is a boxing champion--but I took exception when the porcelain teapot inherited from my mother exploded into shards, and I attacked him:
    "Holmes, you go too far!"
    "What are you talking about, my dear Watson?" he retorted, surprised.
    "I refer to the noise inherent to the movement of your nails on the plate you're holding on your knees."
    "The sound is disturbing you?"
    "Only when I hear it."
    "Please forgive me, dear friend, I am so bored that I had somewhat forgotten your existence."
    Encouraged by the ambiance of confidence set by Holmes' tone, I started to question him on the reasons for this bizarre activity:
    "That you take cocaine, I can understand, but I cannot fathom the reason behind this unbearable noise."
    "You see, Watson, as I have already explained to you, I believe, my brain, normally so involved in the pursuit of my profession, cannot bear the inactivity caused by the irresponsible honesty of our fellow-citizens. Thus, the need for artificial stimulation," he started to explain.
    "So far, Holmes, I comprehend perfectly. You have told me before, and I even used some extracts from those conversations in the chronicles I've written on your exploits..."
    "Ah, yes! Your little stories... Frankly, Watson, you might have omitted the episodes about the cocaine! I am forced, once again, not to congratulate you."
    "However, Holmes, you must admit that the public is not interested in a hero without flaws. I thus saw myself obligated, in the interest of preserving your image, to mention some of them. You have to admit that I've chosen the less damaging ones."
    "Undoubtedly, Watson, undoubtedly. From the point of view of a storyteller, your argument is sound. Nevertheless, I persist in the belief that these chronicles, as you call them, should deal more specifically with my crime solving activities rather than my private life. And, above all, they should avoid dramatizing what are, primarily, intellectual problems."
    Piqued in my writer's pride and in my sincere friendship, I grumbled somewhat and brought the conversation back to its initial subject:
    "We've already discussed this hundreds of times, I concede you the cocaine. On the other hand, I'm still waiting for an explanation for the nails and steel."
    Holmes interlaced his fingers and brought them back under his chin. He deliberated for a moment, eyes closed, before answering:
    "For a few years now as I practice this unique trade of mine, logical deduction, forming the basis of my system, has become automated to the point of being near-reflex. I will not insult your medical knowledge by elaborating on the fact that the reflexes are located in the vertebral column, that is to say, the spine."
    "Quite, but I fail to see the connection."
    "Well, just like my brain, my spinal cord works double time when I am on a case and is reduced to near idle in periods of calm..."
    "And the vibrations caused by the abominable squealing triggers its stimulation!" I exclaimed in revelation.
    "Exactly, Watson. I tried several alternatives before remembering the powerful effect of nails screeching on a blackboard. After some research, the results led to the development of a personal steel alloy which maximized the vibrations..."
    A noisy carriage halting in front of our door, an undeniable sign of either a promising affair or an unfortunate coincidence, ended Holmes' confidences. He closed his eyes for a second, and, as if reading a prophecy contained in his mind, he declared:
    "It's a forty-year-old man. He weighs approximately 230 pounds and he's married to Helena Smith (born Russell). He works for a coffee importation firm and quarreled with his employers two days ago."
    "Holmes, you must be joking!"
    "Ah, yes! I almost forgot... His name is John Smith."
    "Sounds like a mystification," I commented.
    "Not at all, Watson. Don't tell me you had not deduced all that?"
    "Come on, Holmes, how could I have guessed such assertions?"
    "Not guessed, deduced. You know how much I abhor suppositions."
    "Do you dare claim that you arrived at these eccentric conclusions by reason alone?"
    "Completely, it's elementary. It couldn't be more elementary, actually."
    "At least tell me what has escaped my poor brain."
    "It's six o'clock."
    "Holmes, there you go again! I thought you were serious. You're going too far this time. Six o'clock! How impressive!"
    I was really beside myself. Holmes' giddiness made me lose my cool. My face must have betrayed that I did not appreciate his little joke because Holmes seemed contrite. His eyes widened and he clapped one hand to the side of his face looking quite embarrassed. I believed that he was about to cease his childishness and that we could go back to more constructive conversation.
    "I owe you my deepest apologies, my dear Watson. I hope that you will not be too resentful."
    "Certainly not, consider yourself forgiven. I really thought for a moment there that you were going to insist on your absurd assertions."
    "You are mistaken about the reason for my excuses, Watson. These absurd assertions, as you so impolitely call them, are veracious. My repentance was for my absentmindedness concerning a second clue, which I consider capital."
    "What is this hint? I warn you, Holmes, it had better be a good one."
    "This morning, while you were taking your daily walk, this letter came."
    He handed me the letter, which read as follows:
    "Mr. Holmes,
    I am in urgent need of your assistance. My wife (Helena, born Russell) and I are living a horrible drama. In spite of my 40 years and my 230 pounds, I will be at your apartment, at six o'clock sharp, in a noisy coach.
    John Smith."
    Seeing me baffled, Holmes burst into loud laughter, a little forced and always surprising coming from this usually taciturn character. I did not hesitate to join him, and we hooted until cramps forced us to stop. However, one detail drew my attention.
    "Holmes. I've read and re-read this letter but I cannot find the slightest clue from which you could have deduced his occupation and the quarrel with his employers."
    "Turn the sheet over," Holmes told me.
    I did so immediately, without results. I saw nothing unusual.
    "I meant to draw your attention to the back of the sheet, Watson, the back."
    I hastened to comply with his instructions, a little embarrassed, and read, in the same commercial writing, what I have reproduced here:
    "Memorandum June 1
    Hon. Directors,
    As a result of our dissension of yesterday, I feel compelled to submit my resignation.
    John Smith."
    In the top-left corner, I noticed the company logo, the image of a coffee plant transposed over a geographical map of South America beneath which read: "Duran and Duran, coffee importers." All became clear to me and I said, smiling:
    "It was, after all, quite elementary."
    "All shout 'childish!' as soon as I finish exposing the chain of hints and inferences that I used."
    "Yes, but, in this case..."
    "I admit it, Watson, I was kidding."
    After a short pause, he pointed out to me:
    "I believe, Watson, that we have made our visitor wait for sufficiently long. We should, perhaps, let him in."
    "I had completely forgotten him," I acknowledged. Holmes tugged on the bell-pull, which hung close to his armchair, and Mrs. Hudson appeared.
    "Please show our visitor in."

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