Mirkwood: A Novel About J.R.R. Tolkien

“The Jack the Ripper Diaries.”

“The fake wines reputedly hidden in a Paris cellar by the American Ambassador to France, Thomas Jefferson.”

“And now we come at last to another candidate, adding unexpected chapters to our special mythology. Let us bring the cold eye of science to this most recent candidate. We focus the microscope today on … The Tolkien Documents!”

So here it was, the careful turn of the head, the unyielding glare of the Inquisitor. And yes, just as she’d figured, the bony finger unfurling and stretching out to damn her as a member of the League of Frauds. The insta- science of Bossier Thornton’s little gizmo suddenly seemed pretty dubious.

The cameraman yelled “Aretes!” and Bois-Gilbert fished a pack of Gauloises from his coat, shot one into his mouth, lit it as smoothly as a finger snap, and walked out the door. A cloud of smoke more foul-smelling than any cigarette she’d ever whiffed lingered in the air after him.

At that point Cadence got up, retrieved her purse, and pulled out her cell phone. Coverage was spotty but she got through. Mel answered.

“Yo.”

“Don’t yo me, you bastard! Why didn’t you tell me it’s a TV show.”

“Wait! Cadence, slow down. It’s just to memorialize things, that’s all. Just one more meeting.”

“It’s not just a meeting, that’s what I’m telling you. It’s a recorded sideshow at my expense. No more guinea pig stuff, Mel. I want my damn documents back from these jackals.”

“OK, but the results will be in soon. Shouldn’t we find out? You want to lose the Mirkwood Forest or save it? Come on, kid, it’s your best shot. Now, tell me …”

She hung up.

After the aborted phone call with Mel, Cadence waited in a folding chair by a rack of unplugged lights. The crew milled about and she sensed this lull might last awhile. She was just getting relaxed.

The receptionist rushed up. “Mademoiselle Grande? Are you ready? Vitement! He is coming!”

She was escorted back to her place on the set, the judges re-empaneled, and all eyes went to the stage director. His fingers silently marched down the count. Five. Four. Three. Two. A pointed finger. They were live …

… and Bois-Gilbert bounded into the room.

“As forgery is an ancient art, so the fineness of its accomplishment must be esteemed, most especially by those whose profession is detection. We judge not on the moral plane, but only on the quality of the product. We are Les Inspecteurs!

“Tonight we bring you the reality of our investigation, our clash between the art and science of fakery and the art and science of detection. We have before us a thorough test of our skills. And in the balance lies authenticity or an unmasking …”

Cadence could imagine the images of legendary fakes being somehow blue-screened and rolled in behind the cuts of her sitting alone, accused and friendless. These would be followed by close-ups of her suspiciously darting eyes and tell-tale twitching hands. The background would roll with aerial shots of crop circles, a grainy snip from the lone Sasquatch film, flying lights over desert mountains, the gravel pit excavation site of Piltdown Man, and on and on.

“Cadence, you have met our panel of expert judges. In a moment they will announce their findings. Are you prepared to receive the proofs?”

Now both cameras were facing her. If one missed the incriminating droplet of sweat that now formed on her upper lip, the other would be sure to catch it. But before she could speak, Bois-Gilbert started up again.

“Here, then, are the proofs! And they are stunning. By the classic methodologie de faux, the Seven Principles of the Fake, we shall judge now your supposed Tolkien Documents!

Oh God, she thought, not air quotes.

“The Principles are … wrong ink … wrong type … wrong implement … wrong paper … wrong handwriting … wrong time … wrong style. Cadence Grande, can you run the gauntlet of our judges?”

What followed was the studied false pause of the reality show. In the strange, complicit seduction of the television camera, she felt an almost irresistible urge to bite her lip.

“Hold, before you answer!” More pause. He raised his right hand, index finger pointing upward, the sign of the Great Idea. “I have, as you Americans say, a deal for you. Let me measure your faith in your documents by the capacity of your purse.” Great, she thought, hit me where it hurts. She thought about her purse, cheap and empty of money, sitting on the chair over against the wall.

“I offer you now twenty thousand American dollars to confess the forgery of these pages and call off our verdict. And, before you answer, should you choose to proceed, you shall have the further choice to accept a different, perhaps a lesser but still substantial amount, if you confess before the growing weight of the evidence. Thus is the gravity of truth laid on your decision. Wait until the end, and you will receive nothing but the judgment of our experts. Each will, in turn, pronounce his or her verdict, and we will see the results on the screen behind you — a red ‘X’ for fakery, a green check for possible authenticity, and a yellow question mark for ambiguity.”

Glimpsing the monitor closest to her, Cadence saw three large images suddenly illuminated. They were blow ups of the three pages, identified as simply “Tolkien Note,” “Manuscript I,” and “Manuscript II.”

“So it is up to you, Ms. Grande. The money … or the proofs?”

She thought about the upcoming auctioneer’s cant in Topanga, the “Sold!” exclamation on the steps of the Mirkwood Forest. Three weeks ago, twenty thousand smackers would have bought her soul. Now …

“I …”

“Yes?”

“… choose … “

The camera zoomed in as the barracuda leered.

“… the proofs.”

Betraying no reaction, Bois-Gilbert turned with a flourish. He raised his hand in the air like a conductor calling a vast orchestra to the opening note.

“Professeur Aranax, you may begin the verdicts.”

A breathy female voice-over intoned the first judge’s CV as a camera lingered on a grayed, somber-looking man at the judge’s table. “Professor Aranax is the Lecard Professeur of Archival Science at L’Universite de Cite in Marseilles. He specializes in analysis of the physical characteristics of documents — inks, methods of inscription, papers and the like …”

A translator came and sat by Cadence. She intoned in English as Professor Aranax, who used a lighted cigarette held twixt two fingers Euro-style as a sort of signature prop for his pronouncements, rambled on. His speech was interlaced with long, fatigued, smoke-plumed sighs of impatience.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle. We have been allowed, thus far, to examine only three of your documents. A pity, and no judgments there, but let’s proceed. I speak first to the so-called Tolkien Note.”

He consulted his notes.

“The initials JRRT appear accurate as compared to numerous authenticated standards. I have used the Fabian Method to identify the age of the inks. As you can see, the note consists, in its entirety, of three typed sentences preceded by the date of October nineteenth, nineteen seventy, and the letters ‘NYC’. It is followed by the hand-scribbled initials ‘JRRT.’ The ink in the type is from a ribbon manufactured in nineteen sixty seven by Smith- Corona in Litchfield, Connecticut. It was not commercially distributed in Britain. The ink from the initials is from a BIC pen manufactured in Chicago, Illinois in nineteen sixty eight. The paper was manufactured at a mill in Georgia in the same year. Thus, the note is by my measure not provable as inauthentic. Be mindful, however, that my colleagues have other views. I provisionally give you that one, Mademoiselle.”

Bleep. On the big screen a green check mark went up by the Tolkien Note.

“Now, however, to the other two exhibits. They are puzzling. They are hand-written manuscripts, in what are probably different hands, and purporting to be, by your account, in a language called ‘Elvish.’ Such matters are of no importance to me for this analysis, as I have concentrated exclusively on the material in and on which they were written. That alone has led to interesting results. The gold standard for authentication of ancient documents is