Anguished Culpability

What if you could step into the shoes of one of your most beloved icons at one of those crucial moments in their lives that end up defining them forever? Adam Ashraf braves these murky waters, venturing into the mind of the eternally fascinating Truman Capote on the eve of one such moment... 

My publisher just hand-delivered a copy of my new novel that will hit the racks next week- In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote. Me – cold-blooded killer. Merely looking at the instrument I used for the murder – the murder of a man far better than I – makes me nauseous. I can’t bring myself to touch it, much less read it. I steal a look at the back cover and read, “On November 15, 1959, in the small town of Holcomb, Kansas, four members of the Clutter family were savagely murdered by blasts from a shotgun held a few inches from their faces. There was no apparent motive for the crime, and there were almost no clues. As Truman Capote reconstructs the murder and the investigation that led to the capture, trial, and execution of the killers, he generates both mesmerizing suspense and astonishing empathy. In Cold Blood is a work that transcends its moment, yielding poignant insights into the nature of American violence.”

Truman Capote. My name always comes with a little bio. In early days, I was called “Local Reporter”. Later, it was “Freelance Writer for The New Yorker”. “Best-selling Author of Breakfast at Tiffany’s” followed. Today, I get a new sobriquet. It is the most significant of them all.

I wrote a book that was of a new genre; a new style of writing. It is bound to become a classic and is probably going to be compared to the work of Hemingway. I am probably going to be put in the league of Dickens, Twain and Fitzgerald. I’m not just about to become the Manhattan literary toast of the sixties, I am about to become an icon. As the dreariest of thoughts pops into my head, I pour myself a glass of champagne and toast, “To the man who betrayed his friend!”

“Was it all worth it?” I wonder. In forty years, what will the world remember? The man who betrayed his friend or the man who wrote the best non-fiction novel of his generation? Am I going to be compared to Hitler or Lincoln? After draining my glass down in a single gulp, attempting to vanquish the guilt that refuses to let me go, I pour another drink. “To the man who will inspire writers in generations to come”, I say as I wait for my emotions to numb.
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Guilt Of Ignorance: Icon by Michaela Rinaldi

“Of course it was worth it!” the rational side of me attempts to calm it down- the guilt.

“They were murderers, Truman.” I remember, my best friend, Nelle Harper Lee’s words from right after the execution. They are words that never fail to calm me down. “They were murderers, Truman”, I repeat to myself. Those words are my calming lullaby. They soothe me and shelter me from my own self-contempt. They help me sleep at night. I slump into slumber praying that they will sink in once and for all even though I know they never will. They are laws. They are not the spirit of the laws. They are what bound the laws, but they had nothing to do with justice. They are not what bound me. I know better. Perry Smith was indeed a murderer, but he was no beast. Perry Smith was indeed a murderer, but he was no monster. Smith was my friend. If Smith was a monster, then who is not?! If Smith was a monster, then what am I?! And now he is gone. The pen is mightier than the sword. I would know - I used it to kill.

That champagne isn’t serving its purpose. I need something stronger. I gulp a gin martini and toast out-loud with the theatrical tendencies I shall forever be notorious for, “TO THE MAN WHO KILLED HIS FRIEND”. I scream hoping it will numb my senses because the alcohol is doing such a bad job.

My demons will haunt me for life. I know that. I know that my editor, Shawn, is a stranger to the truth. He will lie to save himself the guilt. “You didn’t kill them,” he would tell me with the most plastic of smiles on his face. “You simply did not help.” Nothing is further from the truth. The whole jury probably read In Cold Blood’s excerpts before the final verdict was made and the sentence was uttered. I practically tied the noose around Smith’s neck with my bare, filthy hands, to land myself a bestseller. No, no, no – I did it to make myself an icon. I need more gin. Straight, this time.

“To the biggest writer of the twentieth century! TO THE BIGGEST FRAUD OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY!” I toast in my sharp voice as I turn around flamboyantly.

What is happening to me? Why am I thinking like that? This is the book that millions around the world are waiting for! Millions around the world are chanting my name! I can’t pull the plug now. It’s too late. I’ll open a charity in Smith’s name. It’ll be redemption for his sins. “And yours too,” my demons remind me with a condescending look on their faces. I don’t know what they’re talking about – I haven’t done anything wrong. Everything will be okay. In one week, I’ll be the biggest household name in New York. I’ll be the biggest household name in America! I’ll attend all the fabulous galas and parties. Life will be good. It will be good. I’m sure it will be.

“It ought to be, right?” I mutter over another glass of gin.

-Adam Ashraf

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Think Again!

Summer… it’s that amazing time of the year when we get to embrace the hobbies that we barely get to practice year-long, well at least, for people who are too lazy to get a job, like me. Earlier this week, as I got to reading The Phantom of the Opera for the third time around, my father pulled a little intervention on me to force me out of my profound introversion. We ended up visiting my great-aunt, a Turk of sixty-something who was born and raised in Egypt and has come to know me as the toddler she babysat fifteen years ago when my parents went out on date night.

A long conversation with her got me pondering about choices, opportunities and determination. The result is this article. As a celebration of ‘Show, don't tell’, here is her story in her own words.

“I was born in 1951 on the outskirts of Cairo to a rich family, a family of circus performers.  My father was a clown; my mother used to hang on the aerial trapeze, my uncle was a juggler and grandpa was the ring master. We were rich, but lacked intellect. Many members of the family were illiterate. Cursing, abandoning kids for careers and more was common within us. Our family was the sort who had it all easy. I never fit in the scene. I always felt like I was on the fringe and a feeling of self-hatred built up within me. When I hit puberty, a time at which we start getting trained for a life in the circus, our family was shocked to find how clumsy I was. I lacked acrobatic skills and I could barely jump the rope. I suppose it had something to do with the fact that I was subconsciously unwilling.

Being the disappointment that my father saw in me, I was sent to live with a distant aunt who didn’t engage in the family business. Until this point, I had received not just enough education to make me functionally illiterate, but my craving for intellect was strong. That didn’t change the fact that I was destined for illiteracy. I there met her homeschooled son, who was my age too. Since my father never paid my aunt to hire me a tutor, I didn’t have the opportunity to share his but the first day I saw a tutor walk in, I saw an opportunity so I listened at the door.

Over the next couple of weeks, I saved my dismal allowance to buy books that would prepare me for the checkpoint examination done in sixth grade, through which I could go to high school. Back then, attending school up to sixth grade wasn’t required to take the checkpoint examination. I would listen at the door to the tutor everyday and spend all night studying. I ended up passing the test with a higher score then the boy who had all the opportunity in the world.

I finished high school and went to Law School; back then higher education was free. I graduated and worked for the government until I retired two years ago after getting my Masters and climbing the career ladder up to the position of undersecretary.”

Source: Unknown

After listening to this, I was struck. I couldn’t help but wonder, where would this woman be had she had my share of luck growing up in a decent society, studying in a lavish school where my biggest worry was whether I can afford an iPad soon? It got me to look at life from a new perspective. Shouldn’t I prove to the world that I deserve the lifestyle I was blessed with?

This story will definitely remain with me for life as it stands as a beacon of hope when hope is shattered and represents a quote I have always cherished, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way”. So the next time you think your upcoming SAT, sports game or interview, will be challenging, think of her, then think again!

-Adam Ashraf

Catch more of Adam's random, insightful ramblings on his column 'Adam's Ecstasy'. You may also write back your thoughts and reflections directly to him at adamashraf97@hotmail.com.

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