During lockdown, the Melbourne Jewish Book Week conducted its annual gala on-line. The theme this year was Fake It till You Make It. Each of the 6 performers wrote and performed a piece. There was poetry, non-fiction, and music. I wrote a short story which I have posted below. I had quite a lot of fun writing it, and even more performing it.
FAKE IT TILL YOU MAKE IT
Cleo, goddess of poetry and epic fiction, surveyed the Fake Room from her office on the mezzanine floor. It was Thursday, and the Fake Room was already crowded. She anticipated an uncomfortable crush come Sunday, just before the room was emptied out in preparation for the new week. How times had changed. At this rate there might need to be two clean-outs a week – a situation unknown and unimaginable throughout the entire history of humankind.
Cleo thought fondly of the days when weeks could go by with scant occupancy of the Fake Room, allowing her to get on with her epic poetry. And when people did come in, such a different type of man from the current crop. She remembered Clinton, who DID have sexual relations with Monica; the charm of the man, it wouldn’t have been out of the question that she, Cleo, would have engaged in a bit of canoodling herself. And Hawkey, who did NOT give up booze and Blanche despite what he said, she always looked forward to his visits to the Fake Room. Caesar had been a favourite, and a Byron week was never a disappointment, and Bellow – well, despite his five marriages or, perhaps, because of them, he was a man to love.
The Fake Room is actually the Room for Liars, but ‘Fake’ sounds so much more benign than ‘liar’. As the muse of epic poetry and fiction, Cleo is, in a very real sense, mistress of the word, but she does report to a higher authority. If left to her, she would be calling a spade a spade (so to speak). But don’t be fooled: in the contemporary era, fake is most certainly a synonym for lie and liar.
From her cubby, she surveyed the current rabble. All the usuals were there, indeed, they might as well change their address permanently. Trump, formally of the White House was chanting ‘Make ME Great again’ while he negotiated with Putin for a new Trump towers in St Petersburg – and his return to the White House in 2024.
‘Or perhaps Don Junior,’ he said with that peculiar pursing of the lips which reminded Cleo of porn films.
Boris was covering sheets of paper with pithy slogans to replace ‘get Brexit done’ given Brexit was done – on paper at least. He shouted out each possibility and gauged the response: make Britain great again, he said, (Trump glared); better than French (Le Pen glared); British beer for the Krauts (in the absence of a German, the Austrian Freedom Party leader, Norbert Hofer glared).
While Boris pursued his next pithy statement, Scott Morrison was putting his hopes in thoughts and prayers, as he juggled how good is coal with how good is gas with how good am I. None of the internationals took any notice of his efforts, but that didn’t bother him; seems Nero Morrison lacks more than the empathy gene; in fact, he doesn’t care about the opinion of the rest of the world: they don’t vote in the Australian elections; and, as a marketing man, he knows the importance of identifying the target audience and feeding them what they need to hear. With his handling of Covid he had the Australian people on side and how good was that? But now, with the vaccine roll-out he is struggling, and the recent spate of sexual accusations is sorely testing him. Jen is doing her best to help him understand (‘Imagine it is your daughter’), but his recent obfuscation about what he knew and when he knew it, coupled with the vaccine fiasco, has, in recent weeks, provided him with a permanent seat in the Fake Room.
Cleo again found her thoughts turning to the old days. The company was extremely good back then and she was happy to leave her desk and mingle with the throng. Aristophanes, Lenny Bernstein, Rilke, Dante – this is a men’s club, not exclusively but overwhelmingly, and it would seem that every man has at least one whopper in him. But today’s rabble is all mindless, narcissistic fakery and there’s no charm nor engagement in that. And the dearth of originality in their lies beggars belief – although belief itself, belief based on sound research seems to have become redundant. For these men with their cravings for power, no lie is too bombastic, no conspiracy theory too bizarre.
What strikes her as extraordinary is the greatest lie of all: so many of these men have pledged themselves to public service, yet they don’t give a damn about the public.
In the modern era, the Fake Room requires so much work.
Back in the old days, emerging from some excellent conversations, her own fiction and poetry progressed through the pens of Dostoyevsky and Dante, her fellow countrymen Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, and many other notable luminaries. Eleanor Roosevelt came a couple of times (the incomparable Eleanor and how Cleo wished she’d had come to stay more often). Fortunately when Eleanor did spend time in The Fake Room – it was that issue with the girlfriend – it was not during the same weeks as her husband. Ted Hughes, Philip Roth, Jean of Arc, the list goes on. These days, the goodies have mostly been forced out.
And the dramas and highlights of the old days. There were some doozies. Like the time Plato lobbied, ex post facto, to get Homer a prolonged stay in The Fake Room for certain fabrications in the Iliad– no anachronism here as time is not linear in the Fake Room. Plato failed, but it took all Cleo’s ingenuity to get him to back down. Plato was not a good listener, he preferred to orchestrate all dialogue, making him a hard man to convince, and Cleo’s being a woman certainly didn’t help – you will recall not a single woman participated in his symposium. Fortunately though, being a woman, Cleo’s reason was tempered with patience, and she brought him round in the end.
One day during the Covid lockdown when truth-telling, one would think, was more important than ever, and yet the Fake Room was so full that social distancing was impossible, Cleo was watching the boys playing ‘mine is more powerful than yours’. And gradually it dawned on her that there was a way of stopping them, of restoring this place to what it once was.
The solution had been staring her in the face.
Cleo, the muse of poetry and epic fiction, had always known about the power of fiction to expose, illuminate and generally bear truths.
It was time to act.
From that moment on, apart from marking the roll, Cleo left the Fake Room occupants to look after themselves. These guys were never going to make it, not if her plan worked. For several months, she lived on coffee and Red Bull while she wrote and revised, read and reread. When satisfied with her work, she sent the manuscript – quite a hefty tome, to her agent, who had been waiting millennia for it.
THE BOYS LAID BARE, by Hannah Luxenburg, was published simultaneously in a dozen territories throughout the world. The media for the book was Trump-sized, it was an overnight sensation: the revelations fuelled conversations across the globe.
Hannah Luxemburg, it seemed, had come out of nowhere. But appear she did. Immediately, the fixers, the lobbyists, the official spy agencies, the mum-and-dad conspiracy spooks got to work, striving to outdo one another in uncovering the author’s dirt – to do unto her as she had done in the BOYS LAID BARE to so many others. Because dirt there must be; politically speaking there is always dirt. And when they found no dirt, they faked dirt. But Cleo was the woman who had talked Plato round so these guys didn’t stand a chance.
After millenia of managing the fake room, Cleo knows more about faking it than the fakers. She knows that you can fake it all you like, but that’s not the way to make it.
No, not at all.
Call her old-fashioned, but Cleo is a gal wedded to honesty. And, with a mind full of curiosity and a pen in her hand, she has learned there’s nothing like fiction to reveal the truth.