I’m relaying word for word my conversations with Pardos in an attempt to convey to you the way she talked. If, ripped from reality and reproduced without any attempt at editing them, her words lose their flavour, then, take my word for it, put that down to my decision not to even attempt to convey the infinite nuances and allusive suggestions of our conversations in print. I wouldn’t know how to begin to try to do that; how to describe the way she said things; the hinted possibilities and hidden significance of the things she didn’t say; the way she looked at me when she spoke to me, twisting the meaning of her words, rolling them around on her tongue, savouring their taste then spitting them out, as if she was telling me with a look that she knew that I knew that there was more to what she was telling me than what she was telling me and that this something more was in the way she was telling me — something more than words. I don’t know how to begin to attempt to describe that, so I’m writing it as she said it, without embellishment, without editing out the banalities and repetitions of everyday speech, because I want to stay true to her voice and I suspect that if I were tempted to attempt to perfect it, I’d only succeed in destroying it.
The other main reason I’m relaying word for word my conversations with Pardos is that writing them down like this allows me to relive them anew, in a way, resurrects them — resurrects her — for me.
‘Well, if you’re such a good guesser, tell me the number of the room I’m going to,’ I said.
‘309,’ she replied, without hesitation.
‘You are a good guesser,’ I said. ‘How did you know that?’
‘That was the room where Craig Liddell’s body was found,’ she said. ‘Why are you going there?’
I told her about Chris the Crossword Compiler’s phone call from Noah Time.
‘And you think this Noah Time’s the kidnapper?’ she prompted.
‘I thought it was worth asking him,’ I said.
By this time we were standing directly outside room 309. I hesitated, waiting for her to advise me that the wise thing to do would be to turn around and go home.
‘What are you waiting for?’ she asked.
‘Don’t you have a gun or something?’ I whispered, for fear the occupant of 309 should overhear us.
‘Have I stepped into the pages of a thriller?’ she asked aloud then, mimicking me, she whispered, ‘And why are you whispering?’
I sighed and knocked on the door. Nobody answered. I knocked again, louder. Again there was no answer. I pressed my ear to the door but heard nothing.
‘What shall we do?’ I whispered.
‘Here, try this,’ said Pardos, handing me the key. ‘He checked out this afternoon — paid by cash.’
Room 309 looked as perfunctorily pristine and characterless as any other three-star hotel room. As it had already been cleaned, there were no telltale clues to be gleaned.
‘D’you think Noah Time’s his real name?’ she asked.
‘Don’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Who d’you think he is then?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘So why’s he calling himself Noah Time?’
‘I don’t know that either — but I’ll find out.’
‘I’m sure you will, sooner or later.’
‘Sooner.’
We retired to a nearby café called the 13th Note, where we were lured down to the basement by the sounds of Latin American-flavoured jazz. A plaintive sax transported me back to a veranda in Port de Soller. When I closed my eyes I was lounging with Lisa in a post-coital bliss, still naked, on the veranda of our villa toking a joint and sipping sangria, listening to Jobim, inhaling the fragrance from the rampant bougainvillaea amongst the cluster of cypress trees.
‘You must have loved her very much,’ observed Pardos, returning me to the present.
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘Whoever put that look in your eyes,’ she said. I didn’t reply. ‘Sometimes you can love someone too much,’ she added.
Just then an angelic blonde, barefoot and dressed in white, appeared onstage and sang a song in Spanish over a bossa nova beat. It must have been called something like La Vida es una Sentencia de la Muerte because that was the refrain which ended each verse.
On our way back upstairs for a bite to eat the band broke into a bossa nova version of Richard Strauss’s Also sprach Zarathustra and I noticed its name written around the circumference of the skin of the bass drum: The Amino.
Over dinner Pardos remarked that she’d finished reading Original Harm earlier that evening and that she’d been captivated by it.
‘It was one of those books where you’d love to meet the author and you wish the lead character was real — like Holden Caulfield or Tom Sawyer,’ she said. ‘You should read it.’
It took me all my limited powers of restraint to refrain from proclaiming authorship. The only thing that stopped me was a suspicion that this was exactly the response she was hoping for. Instead, I tried to turn the tables and take her by surprise.
‘I paid Ian Thome a visit this afternoon,’ I declared, anticipating a shocked response to the news that he hadn’t been kidnapped after all. As usual, her reaction wasn’t what I had expected.
‘So did I,’ she said. ‘Did you speak to his flatmate?
‘No.’
‘That’s because he’s gone missing,’ she said. I was confused.
‘You think he’s the kidnapper?’
‘The flatmate?’
‘Yes.’
‘No, I think he’s the victim.’
‘You’ll have to explain that,’ I said.
‘Mistaken identity,’ she said.
‘You’ll have to explain that,’ I repeated.
‘Well, it’s only a hunch, but my theory is that the kidnapper bungled and, instead of kidnapping Ian Thome, kidnapped his flatmate — a guy called Guy Fall — instead. Furthermore, my guess is that the kidnapper doesn’t know that he’s bungled. I think he thinks that his hostage is Ian Thome.’
‘Do you intend to enlighten him?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Your theory presupposes that the kidnapper had not previously known Ian Thome.’
‘No it doesn’t.’
‘Doesn’t it?’
‘No. It presupposes that the kidnapper had not previously met Ian Thome,’ she corrected. At the time I saw no benefit to be derived from quibbling over semantics and so did not pursue that particular line of enquiry.
‘And why would someone want to kidnap Ian Thome if they hadn’t even met him?’ I wondered.
‘Well, it was made pretty clear in the kidnapper’s letter that it had something to do with the letter written in response to the book review of Original Harm, the letter written, purportedly, by Ian Thome.’
‘What d’you mean “purportedly”?’
‘Well, my theory, for what it’s worth, is that the Ian Thome you and I visited this afternoon is not the writer of that letter.’
‘No?’
‘No. My guess is that he’s a namesake.’
‘And I thought coincidences were rare,’ I said.
I don’t think Pardos appreciated my sarcasm because she stopped talking for a while.
‘Talking about namesakes, you mentioned Tom Sawyer earlier,’ I said.
‘And what does that have to do with namesakes?’
‘Well, it just so happens that I had an interesting encounter with Mark Twain early this morning,’ I said.
For the first time, I saw a flicker of surprise flash across her face.
‘Tell me more,’ she said, so I recounted the dawn encounter by the flagpole at Queen’s Park. ‘Would you recognise him if you saw him again?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ I confirmed, my mental image of him already blurring as I spoke.
‘Why d�
��you think an author would employ a pseudonym?’ she asked.
‘Why d’you ask me?’
‘I’m interested in your answer. My hunch is that Tom Haine is a pseudonym but I can’t think why the author, whoever he is, wouldn’t use his real name. If I’d written Original Harm, I’d want recognition for it.’
‘Not if you were uncertain how it would be received.’
‘You think the author was concerned about adverse criticism?’
‘I think it’s a possibility. After all, by all accounts the book deals with a contentious issue, so perhaps he — or she — anticipated just the kind of extreme reaction that transpired. Why do you think Tom Haine’s a pseudonym?’
‘Because coincidences are rare and it simply strains credulity to put the fact that Tom Haine and Ian Thome and Noah Time and Niamh Toe are all anagrams of “I am not he” down to coincidence.’
‘You missed out Toni Mahe and Tina Home,’ I said.
‘Someone’s fucking with us,’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know, but my guess is that once we start unmasking whoever’s hiding behind these pseudonyms we’ll be well on our way to finding our kidnapper.’
‘What about The Amino?’
‘What about them? That’s a story.’
‘But what if life can imitate art? What if the name and philosophy has been appropriated by a real group of moral vigilantes — could the kidnapper not belong to such a group?’
‘This is the second time tonight I feel as if I’ve stepped into the pages of a thriller,’ said Pardos. ‘Get real.’
It was my turn to fall silent.
‘What if Tom Haine and Ian Thome were one and the same person?’ she asked, as if the thought had just occurred to her (which I didn’t believe for a second).
‘Why Tom Haine and Ian Thome, why not Tina Home and Niamh Toe?’
‘Because if, as you suggest, Tom Haine was used as a pseudonym by the author as a safeguard against unwanted criticism, it might just be that he proceeded to adopt a second pseudonym, Ian Thome, to answer those criticisms.’
‘But where do Niamh Toe and Tina Home fit in?’
‘What if the author of Original Harm was not only Tom Haine and Ian Thome but also adopted the pseudonym Niamh Toe as well?’
‘Why would he criticise his own book?’
‘Publicity. Hundreds of novels must be published every year and they all need the oxygen of publicity to save them from being pulped.’
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘And perhaps the author of Original Harm is also the kidnapper because now he’s front page news.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Pardos, ‘or perhaps he paid someone to do his dirty work for him.’
‘It’s not so much a thriller as a mystery,’ I said.
‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’ she enquired.
I shook my head.
chapter sixteen
never the twain shall meet
We parted awkwardly with much left unsaid.
‘What’s your next move?’ she asked. I shrugged.
‘What’s yours?’ I asked. She shrugged.
‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’ she asked again. I considered declaring my love for her but shook my head and hailed her a taxi instead. I’d intended to invite her home but, whilst something about her manner told me she might not have spurned such an invitation, I found myself unable to articulate it.
It was only later, as I was crossing the Clyde, that I realised I’d been remaining faithful to the memory of Lisa. As soon as this dawned on me, I was seized by an aversion to the notion of returning to my empty flat. Instead, I acted on an impulse to pay a return visit to the flagpole at Queen’s Park. I was hoping to replay my encounter with Mark Twain. There were some questions I wanted to ask him.
As I wandered up the hill, I reflected on Pardos and our conversations, belatedly realising what I should have said to her and would say to her the next time we met. I felt sure we would meet the next day. I was depending on it.
As I resumed my position on the same bench I had sat on in the early hours of the morning, I recalled Pardos’s approving comments about Original Harm and filed them away for posterity. As I sat there I began, for the first time, to imagine the possibility of being able to reflect on Original Harm from an emotional distance. The view I glimpsed through this novel perspective was that, during the period of its composition, I had become immersed in, and to some extent obsessed with, the murder at the heart of the subject matter. As you know, Original Harm had partly been inspired by a real incident that had struck me as absurd and challenged my assumption of a commonly held moral code. It was this sense of absurdity that had fuelled the narrative and propelled me to query whether my code was out of kilter with the common morality or even — something I’d never questioned before — whether such a morality existed.
Writing the book was in part a process of working out for myself why the murder had struck me as absurd and whether the application of reason could help me comprehend and come to terms with it. But the more I considered the matter, the more absurd it became. Instead of my comprehension becoming clearer and an explanation emerging from behind the foreground fuzz of absurdity, my standpoint in relation to the incident became scuffed with uncertainty. Original Harm was also, in part, an attempt to trace the trajectory of that sense of unease.
As I sat yawning on the park bench, my ruminations slipped into the no-man’s-land distinguishing fact from fiction and I found myself wandering aimless and alone in a forest. It was already dark and cold when I realised I was lost. In a panic I sought to retrace my steps, but instead of emerging into a clearing, I seemed to be ploughing deeper and deeper into a dense jungle. I started at each fresh squawk or squeal or unidentified rustle of leaves, searching the clawing branches with mounting trepidation till I tripped over thick undergrowth and sprained my left ankle. Then I glimpsed the moon glint off a luminous marble some distance ahead. Transfixed, I watched it approach then split in two, bobbing hypnotically through the dark as if suspended from an invisible thread. At the instant the bobbing became more pronounced, I wrenched myself from my trance with the dread realisation that a black panther was attacking me. My sprained ankle did not impede my escape. I was already incapable of movement — of breathing even. Paralysed, I sprawled, rooted, defenceless and waiting to be mauled as the panther pounced: its jaws open; its fearsome fangs visible; its flesh-tearing claws raised...
I awoke with a start to find Mark Twain seated beside me.
‘How soon and how easily our dream-life and our material life become so intermingled and so fused together that we can’t quite tell which is which anymore,’ he said.
‘Mark Twain?’ I asked. He nodded. ‘My life’s turning into a Mark Twain aphorism,’ I observed.
‘Mine already is,’ he replied.
‘I was hoping to bump into you again,’ I said. ‘I thought you might be able to shed some light on recent events.’
As I summarised the narrative you are reading up to this point, taking care not to divulge the full extent of my involvement, and omitting chapter eight entirely, I was struck by how unreal it all seemed and I could tell from Twain’s uncomprehending reaction that my ill-defined suspicion of his complicity was unfounded.
‘What makes you think I can shed some light on any of this?’ he asked.
‘The fact that coincidences are rare and yet here we are meeting on the same bench as this morning.’
‘Who says coincidences are rare?’
‘Me — and someone I met today.’
‘Who?’
‘A girl called Pardos.’
‘And you agree with her?’
‘Yes. Are you going to try and tell me that it’s entirely coincidental that we’ve met here again?’
‘No, it’s not coincidental
.’
‘So, you’ve something to tell me?’
‘Yes, but nothing that will shed any light on recent events.’
‘What then?’
‘Well, I returned with the hope of meeting you again,’ he said, placing a hand on my knee. Realising his misjudgement from my reaction, he retrieved his hand and pocketed it, bringing an abrupt conclusion to a fraught-laden juncture by enquiring into the nature of my dream.
‘I was about to be mauled by a black panther,’ I said.
His reaction to this information was incredulous, as was my reaction to his reaction. He claimed (I use the word ‘claimed’ because, bearing in mind, once again, Pardos’s assertion concerning the rarity of coincidences, this latest incidence immediately aroused my suspicions — but if it was not a coincidence, what was it?) that just prior to his stroll to this very park bench, he’d been immersed in an account of his namesake’s travels in South East Asia, wherein passing reference had been made to the fact that, in Thailand, black panthers are considered by natives to be omens.
‘I bet your girlfriend’s black,’ he said.
‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ I said, not realising till I’d said it how much I yearned for her to be.
Later, unable to sleep, mulling over the accuracy of Twain’s guess about Pardos’s ethnic origin, I dug out Will’s last, undelivered, letter to you, as I had done on so many previous occasions. But whereas before I’d pored over this priceless, if somewhat worn and torn, artefact to wallow in a nostalgia for a lost utopia, this time I sought to clarify a particular aspect of this letter which had been troubling me since the previous day.
What was concerning me was the uneasy feeling that there was something familiar about the kidnapper’s handwriting — a feeling that had only grown when I’d seen his letter reproduced on the front page of the paper that morning. Superficially, the kidnapper’s and Will’s handwriting appeared markedly different — it would have been unusual for the calligraphy of an adult and a child to be strikingly similar — yet I fancied I could discern some fundamental similarities. So I sat with Will’s last letter to you in one hand and the kidnapper’s first letter in my other, until I just about managed to convince myself that if Will’s handwriting had progressed into adulthood, then it would have approximated that of the kidnapper. But no sooner had I reached this conclusion than I recognised that a dispassionate third party would undoubtedly interpret it as no more than the wishful thinking of a remorseful father who’d failed to come to terms with the death of a beloved son — and yet ... it was because of my inability not to imagine the incredible (the possibility that Will was somehow still alive and might even be the kidnapper) that I had thus far refrained from confessing to Pardos the full extent of my involvement in inciting the kidnapper’s letter, for if it were ever to transpire that the incredible was revealed to be true, then how could I expose and condemn my own flesh and blood without first giving him the opportunity to explain his motives?
Oh Marina Girl Page 9
