A Harmless Forgery

JOSEPH CONRAD is the author whose novels I re-read most often. Enough said about my reading life. Here is my only Conrad anecdote. In February 1977, I arrived from Baffin Island in the pale Arctic via Winnipeg to Halifax, Nova Scotia. From the airport I went directly to hospital. I knew that something was terribly wrong with me. It felt as if a hundred pound anvil was in my chest. I was fairly gasping for breath. Within an hour my left lung collapsed. Also, I was diagnosed as having pneumonia. In hospital I had an edition of Conrad's letters. In one he'd written to a friend about a mutual acquaintance (paraphrased), Donald, at the of tuberculosis as he is. The word gates struck me as operatic, almost religious prescience, foreshadowing a point in time and space Donald would eventually cross over into the afterlife. Anyway, the letters made a fine companion. I didn't know a soul in Halifax. My stay in hospital was ten days, during which medications kept me from the of complications from pneumonia, which the poor fellow, forty-four years my senior, in the neighbouring room, succumbed to. To the accompaniment of his percussive cough, I scarcely slept.All of was preface, however, to a small incident that offered me a chance to come to some knowledge of my decided limitations as an ethical person. Discharged with instructions from a stern doctor of how to build up my stamina and wind, I checked into the Lord Nelson hotel. I slept much of the next three or four days, then took a morning walk in the city. In a used and antiquarian bookshop I found a hardcover copy of The secret Agent. Mint condition, to my eye. What's it appeared to be actually signed by Conrad. There was his cursive signature on the title-page of first English edition. The price, written in pencil, was ten dollars. Now, to a person comporting himself with dignity, discovery may have prompted the question, Perhaps on closer inspection you'd care to sell book for more than ten dollars ... Surely was an oversight. I should say something to the owner, Mr Albert Moraigne. Yet within a moment's time I began to rationalize my choice not to bring Conrad's signature to anyone's attention. Someone in the shop indeed should have studied the book more carefully. That's their profession, after all. To rationalize further, I vowed, come hell or high water, I'd never sell the book in hand. Further yet, I had about thirty dollars to my name. (I was waiting for a cheque for some travel writing.) Therefore I was about to spend a third of my net worth. I delivered the book to the front desk.If I'm correct, I said, this will cost me ten dollars.The clerk, a woman in her late thirties, glanced at the first page and said, You're absolutely correct. Lovely book.I'd have thought a first edition would cost more, I said.Registering the sale in a ledger, today something of an antique process, she said, It's been marked down, actually.Oh, why is that? I said.The signature is a forgery, she said, matter-of-factly. ccYou see, a first edition like would be, even without a signature, worth a healthy sum. But with a forged signature, it's simply - how to say it? - 'soiled.' Do you still want it?Yes, I said.Good, she said. However, I was obliged to bring the signature to a customer's attention.She wrapped the novel in flowery paper and sealed it with Scotch tape.Looking to my right and up a winding staircase, I noticed Mr Moraigne peering down, eavesdropping, as it were. …

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