by John Boyne
‘Well, it was about two Germans. The clue is in the title, you see.’
‘Yes, of course. I suppose what I mean is that I can’t remember the plot.’
‘Well, never mind,’ you said. ‘There wasn’t much of one, anyway.’
‘And are you working on a second book?’
‘My husband’s second novel was published in 1991,’ I said.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Garrett. ‘I must have missed it. So you’re working on your third, then?’
You breathed in deeply through your nose and then exhaled. For a few moments, I felt as if the entire restaurant had turned to dust. ‘I’m afraid I never talk about work in progress,’ you said. ‘And my wife and I are celebrating our wedding anniversary so perhaps you would be so kind as to stop apologizing for interrupting us and just fuck off.’
I looked down at the table. I couldn’t apologize to the boy because to do so would have been to take his side over yours. But I felt badly for him. He gave a slight laugh, as if the whole thing had been a terrific joke, but walked away without another word, returning to his table and his maybe-boyfriend.
‘Did you have to?’ I asked, looking across at you. ‘I haven’t even taught my first class yet and already you’ve alienated one of my students.’
‘Arrogant cunt,’ you said, waving a hand in the direction of the waiter for the bill, and I knew, even as you said it, that you were being deliberately vague as to whom you were referring, Garrett or me.
You see, Maurice, you might not have been very good at coming up with ideas for your books but no one could ever have denied that you had a way with words.
2. October
Three weeks into term, I was reminded of an incident that took place during our first year together. The catalyst for the memory was a short story submitted to workshop by one of my weaker students detailing an unpleasant encounter between two old friends, many years after their estrangement. The story itself was not very good and received a negative reception in class. Garrett, the boy you tried to humiliate during our anniversary dinner, was particularly harsh, which disappointed me for I had hoped that his shyness might mask a degree of empathy, but in fact it was simply a cover for the brutal ambition that would reveal itself as the year went on.
But the student’s story is neither here nor there. It simply recalled to me the time, a few months after we started dating, when I accompanied you to a literary festival in Wales. It hadn’t taken long for me to become infatuated with you and the opportunity to present myself in public as your girlfriend boosted my hopes that ours would not be a casual relationship but something more long term. I’d been to literary festivals before, of course, but always as a reader and had never found myself in the secret rooms where writers and publishers gathered in advance of their events. As I was sketching out ideas for my first novel at the time and wondering whether I would ever find myself part of this world, the experience was an exciting one.
There was still some time before your event was due to begin and, as we sat with a glass of wine, I noticed how you kept glancing towards the entrance from where, every few minutes, another writer would appear. You offered waves to some, ignored others, and a few came over to say hello, but then I noticed your eyes open wide and your face fall as you leaned forward, reaching for the programme that sat on the table between us and flicking through it for the schedule of the day’s events.
‘Fuck,’ you said, as your finger stopped on a listing.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘It can’t be nothing. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
It was obvious that something was wrong. I looked around and noticed an elderly man staring in our direction, an expression on his face that I’d never witnessed before. It seemed to combine humiliation, regret and acceptance all at once. He came towards us slowly, walking with the aid of a stick.
‘Maurice,’ he said in a strong New York accent when he reached our table. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’
‘Hello, Dash,’ you replied, standing up to shake his hand. ‘It’s been a long time.’
‘Just over five years. You haven’t changed much. A little older, of course, but still as handsome as ever.’
‘Thank you,’ you said, smiling, and as it became obvious that he was not going to walk away, you invited him to sit down, which he did, pushing me a little to the side as he took the seat opposite you. You both sat silently for a moment, simply staring at each other, and as things began to grow awkward I introduced myself and he shook my hand, offering his name too. Of course, I recognized it. I hadn’t actually read any of his books, although I’d always meant to as he’d been publishing for decades and had a good reputation.
‘Did you two read together somewhere?’ I asked, looking from one to the other. ‘Is that how you know each other?’
‘Oh no,’ said Dash. ‘Maurice would never share a stage with someone as long in the tooth as me. No, we met many years ago when he was still trying to get his foot on the ladder. Seville, wasn’t it?’
‘Madrid,’ you said.
‘That’s right, Madrid. Erich Ackermann was receiving an award of some sort, I think—’
‘It wasn’t an award,’ you told him. ‘It was just a lunch.’
‘My goodness, your memory!’ he said, bringing his hands together, and I noticed thick liver spots on both that discoloured the skin. ‘You remember it as if it were only yesterday. Can you remember what we ate too?’
You smiled at this but said nothing.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘Maurice and I met that afternoon and became firm friends. For a time, anyway. He lived in my apartment in New York for … how long was it, a year? Eighteen months?’
‘Less than that,’ you replied. ‘Ten months at most.’
‘Well, all right. We won’t quibble over minor details. Interesting days, as I recall. We went everywhere together, we were quite the odd couple.’
‘Not exactly a couple,’ you said, interrupting him.
‘I introduced him to everyone who was worth knowing. We dined with Mrs Astor, spent a weekend with Edmund on Fire Island, travelled to the Amalfi Coast to spend a night with Gore and Howard. We even went to Jets games together, didn’t we?’
‘But you hate sport!’ I said, turning to you in surprise.
‘But I love it,’ said Dash. ‘And Maurice was very … what’s the word I’m looking for? Obliging. A most obliging boy indeed. Up to a point, anyway.’ He paused for a moment and gave a deep sigh. ‘But then his novel was published and he was far too busy to bother with me any more!’
‘That wasn’t it,’ you said coldly. ‘I was travelling a lot and—’
‘As I say, you were very busy. Have you ever read Erich Ackermann, my dear?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t read books by fascists,’ I said.
‘Why ever not? There’s not much left to read if you ignore them. Writers are all fascists. We like to control the discourse and crush anyone who dares to disagree with us.’
‘Are you here for an event?’ you asked, before I could engage with this observation.
‘Yes, I have a new novel out. Didn’t you know?’
‘No, what’s the title?’
‘The Codicil of Agnès Fontaine.’
‘Sorry, I haven’t heard of it.’
‘It’s been widely reviewed.’
You shrugged your shoulders. ‘Well, I’ll make sure to pick up a copy at the festival bookshop and you can sign it for me.’
‘I remember the first time I signed a book for you,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘It was very early in the morning in New York and you were staying in a hotel with Erich, doing whatever it is you did for him in those days. Do you remember?’
‘No,’ you said.
‘Well, I do. I read your second book, by the way,’ continued Dash. ‘What was it called again? The Garden Shed?’
‘The Treehouse.’
‘Not quite as good as Two Germans, was it? I wonde
r what poor old Erich made of it.’
‘Well, he was dead by the time it came out, so I doubt he made anything of it.’
‘Of course he was,’ said the American. ‘He died alone in Berlin, didn’t he? I read somewhere that he’d been dead a week before anyone discovered the body. One of his neighbours complained about the smell. Such a sad end to an illustrious career.’
‘I thought you didn’t rate him?’
‘Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘The hundreds of criticisms you made of his work when we knew each other.’
‘Oh no,’ he said, looking appalled by the accusation. ‘No, I admired Erich greatly. His novels will be remembered, I think. And the scandal will fade away. The poems will last too.’
‘He always said they were ill advised.’
‘He was wrong about that. But then he was wrong about a lot of things, wasn’t he?’
Before you could reply, a young volunteer came over and said that she was there to escort Dash to his event. He stood up carefully, taking a long time to adjust his body to the vertical and to grip his stick just so, and then looked down at us and smiled.
‘Well, I might see you later, Maurice,’ he said.
‘Unlikely,’ you replied. ‘After my talk, we’re catching the next train back to London.’
‘Probably for the best,’ he replied, before waving a hand in the air as he turned his back on us. ‘Goodbye, my boy. I daresay we won’t meet again.’
I watched him as he walked away and felt torn between laughter and confusion.
‘Cantankerous old swine,’ you muttered. ‘He was in love with me once.’
‘Really?’ I asked.
‘It does happen.’
‘Well I, of all people, know that,’ I said, smiling at you. ‘You let him down easily, I hope?’
‘It’s all so long ago, I can barely remember. Anyway, what time is it? Let’s take a walk around the site. I wouldn’t mind having a look in the bookshop.’
I nodded, following you as you stepped outside. Dash Hardy died shortly afterwards, didn’t he? I remember reading about it in the newspaper over breakfast one morning and feeling shocked that someone who had sat with me so recently could have hanged himself in his Manhattan apartment. You read the article too but said nothing about it, although you were rather quiet throughout the day, as I recall.
One month in, and Norwich was proving a positive experience. My initial fears about teaching creative writing had dissipated as the students seemed both respectful and hard-working. Only one, a Polish girl named Maja, gave me reason for concern. Due to visa difficulties, she’d arrived late on campus, missing the first two weeks of class, and it seemed that she was struggling to fit in. She was working on a novel that had the most bizarre premise – Adolf Hitler solving crimes in post-First World War Germany – and any critical comments made of her work left her in a state of fury. At the same time, she was making little attempt to engage with the work of her classmates, and so I took her aside, asking whether I could help in some way, but she seemed offended by my question and I quickly backed off. I confided in you and your first instinct was to ask me how her English was.
‘Her English is perfect,’ I told you. ‘There’s no issue there at all.’
‘I only ask because, if she’s struggling with the language, then maybe she feels she can’t contribute as much as the others.’
‘No, it’s not that,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure what it is, if I’m honest. She just seems to hate everyone, me included. I don’t know why.’
I wanted to discuss this further with you, to seek your advice, because I suspected that there was trouble brewing with Maja, but you were reading a novel that had been shortlisted the previous autumn for The Prize and I could tell that you were growing increasingly enraged by it. It was a long novel, more than five hundred pages, and I knew that the author, Douglas Sherman, had published his first book the same year that you’d published Two Germans. I remember you telling me how you’d enjoyed touring together in the early days, two handsome young novelists with assured futures, the literary world falling over itself to embrace you both. But since then, Douglas had published four more novels, each one better received than the previous one, and his stature had grown considerably while you, of course, were flailing.
‘I don’t know why you keep reading that,’ I said. ‘It’s masochistic behaviour.’
‘Because I never don’t finish a novel once I’ve started it,’ you replied. ‘It’s a rule of mine.’
‘Not me,’ I said, collapsing on to the sofa and glancing towards the pile of class scripts sitting on the coffee table but making no effort to reach out for one. ‘Life’s too short. As far as I’m concerned, a writer gets one hundred pages and, if they can’t keep my attention during that time, I move on.’
‘Ridiculous,’ you said.
‘Don’t call me ridiculous.’
‘I wasn’t calling you ridiculous. I was calling that policy ridiculous. You can’t say you’ve read a novel unless you’ve read it cover to cover. Yes, perhaps you’ll be bored at the start but what if it gets better and suddenly everything that went before falls into place?’
‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘But I still think it’s a mistake, considering your history.’
‘You make it sound like we were lovers.’
‘Particularly when you’re feeling so—’
‘When I’m feeling so what?’ you asked, putting the book aside and staring at me. You parted your legs a little and gripped the sides of the armchair and an image of Lincoln on the Mall came into my mind.
‘When you’re feeling so lost,’ I said.
‘What makes you think I feel lost?’
‘Don’t let’s do this,’ I said, looking past you and through the front window, where a black-and-white cat had climbed on to the mantel and was staring in at me. He raised a paw and pressed it against the glass and, for one surreal moment, I thought he was beckoning me to him, like one of those maneki-nekos that sit in the windows of Chinese restaurants.
‘Do let’s,’ you said, enunciating each word. ‘Go on, Edith, tell me why you think I feel lost.’
‘Because you’re not writing.’
‘We’ve been over this.’
‘Which is why I said that we should talk about something else.’
You remained silent for a long time, eventually conceding with a sigh. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Sorry, Edith. I shouldn’t be such a prick. None of this is your fault.’
‘You don’t have to apologize,’ I replied.
‘I do, actually. Here we are in this nice flat. You’re the one working, earning the money and writing at the same time, and I sit here doing nothing but complaining. I’ll try to be better, I promise.’
‘Well,’ I said, with a smile. ‘That would be nice. You could start by painting the bedroom. The colour in there gives me a headache.’
‘All right.’
‘And fixing the railing on the staircase up to the flat would be helpful. Have you noticed how shaky it is?’
‘Or I could read those scripts,’ you suggested, nodding at the pile on the coffee table. ‘And write up some notes for you?’
‘Why would I want you to do that?’ I asked.
‘So you don’t have to read them yourself. I assume they’re all rubbish.’
‘They’re not, actually. And they’re my students’ work. They’re relying on me to come to class prepared. I have to read them; otherwise how could I possibly advise them?’
‘It was just a suggestion,’ you said. ‘How is your book coming along, anyway? Are you getting much done?’
‘I think it’s going quite well,’ I said.
‘How far along are you now?’
‘Close to the end of this draft.’
‘And how many more lie ahead?’
‘One? Maybe two at most?’
‘And then I’ll get to read it?’
‘Not till it’s published, sorry.’
You
scowled. I knew you didn’t like that I refused to share my work with you in advance, but I had explained why many times. I respected your opinion, of course I did, but I loved you too and I didn’t want a novel to come between us. If you thought it was awful, after all, you might not tell me. And if you thought it was good, then I might find your praise insincere.
‘So how long?’ you asked. ‘Before you turn it in, I mean?’
‘Four or five months, I’d say.’
‘Well, I won’t push you on it,’ you said, standing up and coming over, raising my chin with your index finger and kissing me gently on the lips but holding the kiss for a long time, so long that I felt the need to pull away before you suffocated me.
A few days later, during class, there was a tap on the door, and when it opened I was surprised to see my brother-in-law Robert standing there with an apologetic smile on his face. The students turned to look at him, displeased by the interruption, and for some reason I found myself blushing.
‘Sorry, Edith,’ he said. ‘Am I disturbing you?’
‘Well, we’re in the middle of class.’
‘Could I just have a quick word?’
I stepped out into the corridor, feeling a little flustered as I closed the door behind me. ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. ‘Is it Rebecca? The boys?’
‘No, no,’ he said quickly. ‘No, it’s nothing like that. Everyone’s fine. I just needed to speak to you, that’s all.’
I stared at him, feeling a mixture of pity and irritation. ‘Well, I can’t right now,’ I told him, nodding back in the direction of the workshop. ‘We’ve only just started.’
‘That’s all right, I can wait.’
I nodded and gave him directions to the graduate students’ bar, saying that I’d meet him there at five, and later, when I arrived, I was glad to see that he’d chosen a table in the corner where we could talk quietly.
‘So, how are you, anyway?’ I asked.
‘Miserable. And you?’
‘Tolerable.’
‘And Maurice?’
‘He’s fine. He’s been incredibly supportive of me coming here. I couldn’t have done this without his help, to be honest.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ said Robert. ‘I’ve always envied you the—’
