humbert, by dolores

by Vic Brooks

Despite, or even because she was a mere character, cultural places like the Southbank Centre made Lolita feel insecure. The conversations and concerts were always highbrow. She could never be. The only thing she imagined she was good at was being nubile in the eyes of men at least twice her age. She was passable, too, at heart-shaped glasses and bubble-gum pops. She also did a mean high pony and sneaker-shuffle-skip. Short-shorts frayed, a slight stoop to appear the right amount of good-girl. Her traits stuck fast, even in the ethereal realm of stories.

Today would be different. It had all been difficult to arrange. She had needed permission from the Publisher, the head of the prestigious press that printed the new British edition of Nabokov’s classic. The book was sky-blue cloth-bound, and the cover was embossed in pink.

“Even I have to admit the magic number has been surpassed,” the Publisher said at a meeting Lolita had decided to request in the Gower Street Waterstones philosophy section. She chose this location because it was always quiet, plus an old white man appearing to talk to himself would’ve gone unnoticed. The Publisher was fat and old but with a kind face. Lolita perched on a table of books, her spectral backside against Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra. To the Publisher, she looked just like Lolita as she should be.

“I didn’t realise you were waiting for a specific amount of popular but problematic authors to be revealed as sexual predators before you listened to me,” she replied.

The singularity of Lolita’s ghost began to build when she became infamous—people adored and despised her, or who she might be. She inhabited dreams and arguments. When Lolita was banned in France in 1956, she reached peak irony, and then—four years after her character’s death in childbirth on Christmas Day—Lolita, the ghost, became. She popped up in expected places. Like between a has-been professor and his young student, between a neighbour and the girl-next-door, or a father and his teenage daughter’s best friend.

“It’s more about the particular names I’ve heard. Perhaps I should be doing something for the industry now I’m so accomplished,” the Publisher replied. Lolita looked at him with up-for-it-but-not-in-a-threatening-way eyes. “You know, this isn’t really about you,” the Publisher continued. “You’re too young. Nymphets aren’t the prey of these… #MeToo predators.”

“On the contrary, actually. I’m precisely the one they project onto the bodies of their prey. My author said that Humbert’s story wasn’t about old men marrying teenagers and all that—it was about men who wanted pre-pubescent girls. That’s nonsense. They’d go for me if they had the guts. I should bloody well know.”

The Publisher looked the character up and down hungrily, then cleared his throat. “I’ll give you one day. But, after that, it’s back to the books.”

Lolita became her flesh-and-blood-self at 7am the next day. Although she found the environment uncomfortable, she decided that the advantage of the Southbank Centre was opportunity. Temporary home as it was to many a clever man looking for somewhere to sip his espresso and pen a masterpiece—perhaps while taking bites from a stale pastry and emailing his too-young mistress. However, all this could wait an hour or two.

It was early spring and the cool air felt like it was icing her wounds—especially since she was wearing her usual shorts. The blue sky made her feel like a lamb. She lost her stoop. She skipped—not to look pixie-like for men, but because she was full of joy. She stopped to look down at the murky Thames, spying a small beach with pebbles. She shouted, “I love you,” at the skaters zipping and crashing through the Undercroft Skate Space. She then decided to experience eating. She bought a ploughman’s sandwich and positioned herself at a table near the Centre café. She wolfed it down, enjoying the new-to-her taste of nutty cheese and acidic pickle. Of course, before long, a man sat next to her.     

He took out his laptop. He was a big presence, wearing an artist’s coat, tortoiseshell glasses, and a tweed beret. He was distinguished and was probably in his mid-50s. He typed loudly and took occasional sips from a takeaway coffee. After each mouthful, he licked and smacked his lips. Mouths—what funny, telling things—Lolita thought, as she watched the man’s face and his occasionally triumphant smile. He typed almost exuberantly, as if he were playing a classical symphony on a Steinbeck, not writing crap on an Apple MacBook.

Lolita removed her sunglasses. She took a big swig of cherry cola and burped. The air bubbling and bursting from her larynx felt delightful. The man stopped typing. He lowered his head and looked at Lolita over the top of his glasses.

“Excuse you,” he said. He had a deep voice with a slight American accent.

“Why?” She replied.

“You emitted air in my presence. It’s customary to apologise,” he said.

“I don’t see why. I think you should feel privileged that I shared my faunlet gas with you,” she replied. The man closed his laptop, appraised her body, and leaned back in his chair.

“What were you writing?” She asked.

“A memoir. It’s taking me a while. Which is fine, I should hate for it to be published while I’m alive,” he said.

“Why, because it’s rubbish?” She asked.  

He laughed patronisingly as if amused by a child, then folded his arms. Lolita spied a shiny wedding ring. She leaned back, picked up her legs and stretched them so that her heels rested lightly on his thigh.

After Lolita revealed her name to the man, he said, “I think it’s a perfect political statement.” It transpired that the man lived in Woking which was a short train journey from London, and his name was Algernon. He was a moderately famous critical theorist—the kind who’d been published in the Times Literary Supplement, been interviewed on Radio Four, and had a talk or two at the cultural centre in which they sat.

“I think my parents just liked it. Politics are for people like you.” Lolita replied, and Algernon looked pleased.

“Let me buy you a book from the shop—my new one on online political discourse is out now.” Lolita agreed, since she could tell Algernon wanted to do something nice for her. She took him by the arm. She made them stop just before they entered the shop.

“Algernon,” she whispered, “I’d prefer something else, if that’s OK—something more personal.” Algernon leaned in so she could get close to his ear.

“Let me be your mistress for a day,” she said. “Let me learn, let me absorb your brilliance.” Her breath tickled his neck.

“Ok.” He replied, “although you’re a little old for my tastes. You look like you’re 16 or so, just out of the magic years. I’ll call you my aging mistress.”

“Was that all?” Lolita said, as she stepped back into her shorts after they’d cemented the deal in the level three toilets. She didn’t intend on saying that. She regretted it as soon as she had.

“I’ve not had any complaints before,” Algernon said.

“I suppose you haven’t.” Said Lolita, again wishing she could regain some of her characteristic silence. Her face was also a problem—she’d not had the same practice at masking as everybody else.

“What do you mean, child?” Algernon said, looking irritated.

“Has anyone said anything bad about anything you’ve done, ever?” Lolita asked.

“Why would they? I’m a genius. I mean, I can prove it—let’s go and get my book, like I said earlier. I can sign it and put in a cryptic but flirtatious note. You can sell it when I’m dead,” he said.

“I’d love that,” Lolita said. He seemed happy. She was beginning to learn.  

“I hope I haven’t made you pregnant. We didn’t use anything,” Algernon said as he pulled open the toilet door and replaced the Closed for Cleaning sign.  

“So do I,” she replied. “The day I give birth will be the death of me,” she added, under her breath.  

They did the book buying and signing at the shop and the staff fawned and took selfies with Algernon. Afterwards, a crowd began to gather and Algernon started an impromptu mini lecture on the scourge of anti-intellectualism and how #MeToo was the monster, not the artists whom leftists were so keen to cancel. “I mean, as a monster, I need to be an artist to make up for it—know what I mean?” He belly-laughed, telling on himself. People clapped.

That’s when Lolita went outside for a cigarette. She put her sunglasses back on, enjoying how the sunlight bounced off the pale slabs and big windows of the Centre. After a particularly satisfying drag, she recognised a familiar figure standing by the steps to the Hungerford Bridge.

It was the Publisher. He was holding his arms open ready to receive a hug from a pretty blonde woman in a leather jacket and leggings. She hugged him warmly like they were more than friends. Indeed they were, because then they shared a kiss—one of those extra-long, extra-marital, ones.

Lolita stamped out her cigarette and walked over to them.

“I didn’t expect to see you on today of all days,” Lolita said to the Publisher, interrupting their post-kiss glow. The woman looked surprised. The Publisher looked nervous.

“Gosh. My darling Charlotte… this is Dolores, sometimes we call her Lolita,” said the Publisher, his arm around Charlotte’s waist while gesturing at Lolita, “Dolores is a young writer we’ll one day publish, when she’s old enough. Lo, this is my… Charlotte. My good friend who also works in publishing.” He held Lolita’s gaze as though trying to make her yield under the pressure of being perceived. His slipperiness around her name seemed to her to be designed to dampen her threat. Charlotte—who was clearly his mistress—reached for Lolita’s hand, which she shook.

Charlotte. Her Mother’s name.

“Well, hello there. I see you’ve met my new friend.” Algernon said. He’d finished holding court and was now standing next to Lolita.   

“She’s quite something, isn’t she—I’ve been in love with her for a long time—I’d have her for a daughter or a lover anytime,” the Publisher replied. “Wonderful to see you, Algy.”

“I’m certainly falling. Although I’m a little concerned at her age—she’ll soon be losing her girlish charm.” Algernon said. Both men laughed. Charlotte looked on, concerned at what exactly the joke was in this scenario.

“I hope she hasn’t been distracting you from the manuscript,” the Publisher said.

“What are you writing about? Something perverted, naturally?” Asked Charlotte, keeping a straight face before laughing—as loudly as the men a moment before—which Lolita liked. Algernon looked blank, the Publisher looked awkward.

Charlotte turned to Lolita. “Have you read it?” She asked.  

“Oh, no. I don’t need to,” replied Lolita. “It’s a memoir. It’ll be a great story of a great man. Do you know, all this literary chat is tiring for a girl like me, why don’t we head to the bar—they have cherry cola—don’t you just love it?”

As the group walked inside, Lolita spied a pair of discarded jelly sandals beside a juice box. She was troubled at the question of an ending to this day of hers. It couldn’t be the same, where Humbert gets arrested and dies a nobody, because she’d end up the same—a no-body.  

“Did you see they’re putting on another of my talks? It’s the one about separating the art from the artist,” Algernon said, as they sat around a table by the singing lift. Lolita and Charlotte were side by side, sucking hard on their straws, looking at the two men.

“Ah, that’s the most brutal but necessary cut we need to make in these times. Wonderful news,” said the Publisher.

“Do you know what I’d like to do?” Said Charlotte, “I’d like to take a ride in that thing.” She pointed at the lift. “Wouldn’t you like that, Lo? And then we can find a hidden spot and Algernon can read us an extract of his memoir.”

Lolita was keen. Algernon wasn’t so sure. “I… don’t think it’s ready for human eyes. Or ears,” he said.

“Come on. You can choose the extract. Please?” Said Charlotte. Of course, the proposition was too good for Algernon to resist.

“Fifth floor is best,” said Charlotte, seeming happy to take the lead. She appeared to delight in it, in fact. Algernon and the Publisher stayed a few paces back, happy to watch them from the rear. Charlotte put her arm through Lolita’s and squeezed as they stepped into the lift. “Don’t you just love an exploration,” she said. It occurred to Lolita that, yes, indeed she did. A lot of things started becoming apparent now she had a body—about her needs and pleasures, that sort of thing. The three characters and the real Lo all sat on sofas in a square on the fifth floor. Charlotte was next to Algernon. The rest of the floor was empty on account of the time of day.

“I think you should stand by the window. See how grand the London skyline looks—there’s St Pauls. A perfect backdrop to your first reading,” said the Publisher.

Algernon chose a bland passage, predictably. But still, the sentences were expertly crafted—everyone said this. Afterwards, he took questions from the Publisher, leaving his laptop unattended on the table. He was fully absorbed in his brilliance.

“Dolly-dear, let’s go and powder our noses,” Charlotte said to Lolita. Lolita liked Charlotte, and liked the idea of having her to herself. Charlotte and Lolita scurried off together, leaving the two men to talk more about Algernon’s work.

“I saw it,” said Charlotte in Lolita’s ear, just as they spilled into the toilets. She pulled her in front of her so they were face to face and Lolita could smell Charlotte’s smoky mint breath.

“What?” Said Lolita.

“The rest of Algernon’s book,” replied Charlotte. 

“And… Tell me. Make it quick,” said Lolita.

“It was deadly boring—a life of liaisons with young girls. You’re there, right at the end—just scrappy notes… But I was thinking, do you know what he’d hate, more than anything?” Charlotte asked. Lolita reached into her pocket for a piece of bubble-gum. She looked in the mirror and slowly unwrapped it. She turned the pink cube in her hand. As the taste of nuclear fruit filled her mouth, she recalled her story as it was written, and Humbert’s final wishes.

“Yes I do.”

Charlotte had, without anyone noticing, emailed Algernon’s manuscript to herself, and deleted the evidence. She then spread it across social media—her contacts list in publishing was gold—and set up a simple but effective website where a PDF copy of the memoir sat ready to be downloaded by anyone interested. It was true that it might later have gained traction—but early indications were that no one gave a shit.

“I must’ve been hacked on this goddamn public network.” Algernon said to the Publisher, upon discovering a handful of emails from contacts alerting him to the leak. “Oh, this is mortifying. What can we do?” He began to sob, actually sob. When he calmed a little, he looked at the Publisher, who was looking out of the window. Charlotte and Lolita were sitting watching the men, quietly chewing, save for the occasional click of a popping bubble.  

“I suppose it’s good that it hasn’t really been picked up by the media,” said the Publisher, becoming slightly irritated and rather uninterested. Also, having read the manuscript—or skimmed it—he was relieved that he was no longer contractually bound to publish it since it was now in the public domain.

“Oh, but it will be, surely. People will realise its brilliance, its confessional drama,” said Algernon, unable to believe for a second that his words would not be gobbled up by a salivating readership.

“I doubt it,” said the Publisher.

“I’m dead. Whoever did this has committed murder.” With that, Algernon fell to his knees.

“Good thing you’re not being dramatic about it,” replied the Publisher.

Charlotte and Lolita slipped away. Looking back at the mess of important literary men, Lolita knew what she needed to do. It was 4pm, she didn’t have long and she needed help, which for the first and last time, she had.

“Could I write a memoir in the time I have left? I’ll pull an all-nighter,” Lolita said to Charlotte as they burst out of the building into the sunshine.

“Let’s get a candyfloss, first.” Charlotte replied.

Humbert, Lolita’s memoir sold thousands of copies and was made into a film. Dolores Charlotte, the author of Humbert went from ghost and distorted memory-of-pervert to full-blown narrator.

Algernon disappeared into obscurity. His books were not banned, just forgotten.

The Publisher made a lot of money since he published Humbert. He died young, still married. But he kept his mistress well. He gave her a large chunk of the royalties which enabled Charlotte to have a garden of her own, which she tended peacefully. Although, her neighbour thought she was mad.

“Why are you always talking to yourself?” they asked.  

“Lovely Dolores. It makes sense that you wouldn’t see her. People rarely see me. The invisibility runs in the family,” she replied.

Photo fo Vic Brooks

BIO: Vic Brooks is a duplicitous queer gender-shifter writer living in London, and parent to an octopod (small identical twins). They write fiction and poetry about queer twin-parenthood, double trouble in all its forms, and trans-dimensional and futuristic sexuality/gender. Their first novel, Silicone God, was published by MOIST Books (UK) and House of Vlad (US). Their essays, short fiction, and poetry have been published in the Institute of Arts and Ideas, The Philosopher’s Magazine, Hobart, Archer, W0rms, SAND, Discount Guillotine, Tears in the Fence, and elsewhere. Instagram: @vics_double_trouble.