‘Yes, just switch it on. I cannot myself, you understand. If you could do it for me, you’d be doing me a very great favour.’
‘You want it switched on now?’
‘Yes please.’
*
‘Well, uh, let’s see here. I presume it’s all plugged in at the back. Yes, yes, seems to be. Well, it should switch on just here. Like so.’
*
‘There it is.’
*
‘Ah yes. How well I know those chimes.’
*
‘Now, unless I’m mistaken, it’ll take a few seconds for it to light up.’
‘That’s right. It’s just coming up now.’
‘Good, good.’
‘Well, Mr, uh – if that’s all you – I’ll – I’ll be –’
‘No, no, stay. There’s something more I need from you.’
‘Excuse me, you’re hurting me.’
‘Am I? I’m sorry. But listen. Sit down here, will you?’
‘Now really, I just don’t have the –’
‘Nonsense. I said it would be a matter of minutes and it will be.’
‘Well …’
‘Please just sit down.’
‘Oh well, all right.’
‘Good. Now tell me what you see.’
‘On the screen?’
‘On the screen.’
‘Well, for the moment not much. Just the usual icons. Hard disk. Anarchie. Documents. Launcher. Java. And the wastebasket, of course.’
‘What in heaven’s name is all that?’
‘They’re applications. They come with the computer. Would you like me to open up the hard disk?’
‘Is that what you’re supposed to do?’
‘Look, I’ve done it already. Now I can see the list of folders and documents. Not that there are many. This computer hasn’t been used much, has it?’
‘Hasn’t it? It certainly feels as though it has.’
‘Well, there’s next to –’
‘No, no, when I think of it, I suppose it hasn’t. Tell me, do you see something called A Closed Book?’
‘A what?’
‘A Closed Book. Is there some – some folder or document titled A Closed Book?’
‘No. Nothing like that.’
‘Nothing at all? Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘There must be. Take another look.’
‘I’m telling you, no. There’s just the one folder. It’s called Truth.’
‘Truth? Why, of course, yes, that would be it. Silly of me. John forgot to rename it.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. Can you open it?’
‘Well, if you –’
‘Indulge me, please.’
*
‘It’s open.’
‘Okay. Now read it.’
‘What? All of it?’
‘Just the first paragraph. Please.’
‘“I am blind. I have no sight. Equally I have no eyes. I am thus a” – uh –’
‘Go on, go on.’
‘“I am thus a freak. For blindness is freakish, is – is – surreal. Even more surreal than my blindness itself, however, is the fact that, having been dispossessed not only of my sight but my eyes –”’
‘“But of my eyes –”’
‘“But of my eyes, I continue to ‘see’ nevertheless. What it is that I see may be ‘nothing’ – I am blind, after all – but that ‘nothing’ is, paradoxically, by no means beyond my powers of description. I see nothing, yet, amazingly, I am able to describe that nothing.”’
‘That’s enough. Yes, that’s fine, that’s fine.’
‘Ah. Now, uh, I can’t say how glad I’ve been to have – to have been –’
‘Bear with me for a few seconds more. Seconds, I do assure you, not even minutes.’
‘Well, all right, but –’
‘Just go to the end, will you?’
‘The end? The end of what?’
‘The last part of the file. You can do that, can’t you?’
‘Ohhhh. Yes, I suppose I can. Let me – okay, I’m there. What now?’
‘Read to me again. Just start at some suitable place and read on. Please.’
‘Well then … I’ll begin here, shall I? Um … “Paradoxically, perhaps, the question I have asked myself of Sitting at the Feet of Ghosts is not why it enjoyed the (for me) unparalleled commercial and critical success which it did – to be candid, I always knew that it was destined to please – but, rather, why I should have elected to write it at all. So utterly dissimilar to my other novels it is –”’
‘“Is it –”’
‘“So utterly dissimilar to my other novels is it, so superficially stylish and glamorous – I think of the period setting, of Venice, of the predominantly aristocratic milieu – that even now I have difficulty recognizing it as one of my own. Was it – by ‘it’, I mean my original motivation – was it merely that, having been for so long described as a writer’s writer, I craved just once in my career to be regarded as a reader’s writer? Hardly. I claim neither knowledge nor understanding of the great invisible constituency of my readers.” Is that enough?’
‘No, no, not yet. Go on, please.’
‘“Or else did I hope to catch the collective eye of the theretofore indifferent critical fraternity? Again, hardly. It is, as I already knew, impossible to prejudge a critic’s judgement unless –”’
‘Sorry, would you mind? “Prejudge” and “judgement” within the space of just two words. How could I have let that pass? Change “prejudge” to “predict”, will you? No, wait. Change it to “anticipate”. Yes, “anticipate”. Do that now, will you?’
‘Really, I haven’t –’
‘Just do it. It won’t take a second.’
*
‘I’ve done it.’
‘Go on.’
‘“It is, as I already knew, impossible to anticipate a critic’s judgement unless one happens to be cognizant of his tastes; and, in my experience, what the majority of critics like best is money. Or, finally, did I simply prefer to be a – a – a –whore than an old maid? In short, had I brazenly decided to, as they say, sell out? A third time, hardly. The writer who sells out always gets the better of the bargain, since his public is bound to feel short-changed and the work itself, in consequence, will not, cannot, endure. But I should doubtless not even try to comprehend my own novel’s phenomenal popularity. How, after all, can I judge a work in which I myself am directly implicated? It would be exactly like the police force choosing to investigate its own corruption.” That’s where it comes to an end.’
‘Thanks. Well, it all seems to be in order. Unless I’ve misremembered, it’s word for word as I dictated it.’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘Nothing. Just a little nagging anxiety. Foolish, really. Yes, thank you again. You read that very nicely.’
‘Well, thank you. Now can I go? I mean, would you mind if I went on my way? I really do have lots of other constituents to call on.’
‘Naturally you can go on your way.’
‘Thank you. By the way, you are a Conservative, aren’t you?’
‘Me? I’ve never voted in my life.’
‘Well, really, I do think you might have –’
‘Come, come, my friend. You’ve just set a poor old blind man’s mind at rest. You’ve done your good deed for the day.’
‘We’re not the Boy Scouts, you know. But – yes, I’m – I am pleased to have been of assistance. So I’ll just –’
‘Switch the thing off before you go, there’s a good fellow.’
*
‘It’s off now. So. I can’t depend on your vote, I suppose?’
‘Absolutely not. This way, this way.’
‘I remember. Please, you’re digging into my arm again. Do you mind?’
‘Just making sure you don’t lose your way. Through here.’
‘Yes, yes, I know. Ow! I said, do you mind?’
‘Sorry, sorry. Oh
, and incidentally, while I’m at it, it is Cook, isn’t it? I mean, the prime minister?’
‘Cook?’
‘Roger Cook.’
‘Roger Cook?’
‘That’s what I said. Roger Cook.’
‘Chap on television, you mean?’
‘Well, I’m scarcely likely to know that, am I? With these? Take a good look.’
‘Ohhhh, I –’
‘See what I mean? But he is the prime minister, isn’t he?’
‘What? What? Yes, oh yes, whatever – whatever you say!’
‘And Blair has AIDS?’
‘Oh, absolutely! Absolutely! Blair has AIDS all right! Yes, it’s – ah, thank heaven, here’s the door. I mean – No, no, don’t bother, I’ll see myself out. I’m awfully glad – as I said before, awfully glad – to have been able to assist you. And, uh – well, I – well, goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, goodbye. Drop in again some day.’
*
‘Moron.’
The computer didn’t lie to me. Roger Cook is prime minister. And, it appears, poor Tony Blair does have AIDS. Everything is in order, is it not? And yet. And yet. Why am I unable to rid myself of the feeling that something nevertheless is amiss? Is my mind at rest? No. Will it ever again be at rest? I wonder.
*
‘Christ! Shit!’
*
‘What the fuck was that?’
*
‘A book? It’s a fucking book. I could have killed myself! Who the fuck was stupid enough to leave a book on the landing? An open book! At the top of the bloody stairs!’
*
‘Yes, who?’€
*
‘That you?’
‘Yeah! Be with you in a minute! Just let me hang my coat up!’
*
‘Well, hello there.’
‘You’re home sooner than I expected.’
‘Traffic was light. Only thing that was, though. I’ve had a day-and-a-half, I can tell you.’
‘Why don’t you pour yourself a whisky? Unwind. You might get one for me, too.’
‘Good. I need it.’
*
‘You all right, Paul?’
‘Mustn’t grumble.’
‘Ah. If I know you, that means you feel very much in the mood to grumble.’
‘Does it? I’m not like that, am I?’
‘Oh yes you are. So tell me. What’s there been to grumble about?’
*
‘Come on, Paul. We both know you’re going to tell me eventually. Why not get it over with? What have I done now?’
‘I nearly fell downstairs.’
‘What?’
‘There was a book on the floor at the top of the stairs. This book.’
‘Ah.’
‘What book is it?’
‘Here’s your whisky.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s mine. How Proust Can Change Your Life. Alain de Botton. I’ve been reading it on my own time. I didn’t think you’d object.’
‘Well, of course I don’t object. I do object, however, to falling downstairs. And please don’t bother reminding me I didn’t actually fall. No thanks to you I didn’t. How Proust can change your life, eh? You almost changed my life.’
‘I’m really sorry, Paul. I left it there because I meant to take it to Oxford with me. I leave books and other things on the stairs all the time at home. But of course it was stupid, and dangerous, to do it here. Really, I apologize.’
‘Well – well, no harm done, I suppose. Chin chin.’
‘Chin chin.’
‘So? Find what you were looking for in Oxford? What I was looking for in Oxford?’
‘I think so. I went to Hertford, as you asked, and I took lots of photographs, and lots of notes, just to be sure.’
‘Did you go inside the college itself?’
‘I tried to, but I was stopped by some officious, bloody-minded porter. I wondered if I ought to tell him what I was there for – who I was there for – but then it struck me you’d probably prefer I didn’t.’
‘You’re right. I would. None of his fucking business.’
‘It wouldn’t have had any effect anyway. There were tourists milling about, mostly Japanese, some kind of coach party, and they were all being turfed out.’
‘You photographed the bridge, I presume?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Isn’t there a shield, some sort of shield, some sort of coat-of-arms, in the middle?’
‘Uh huh. It’s all in the camera.’
‘Describe it for me.’
‘Just let me get my notes.’
*
‘It was hard to get a proper view of it with all the scaffolding and tarpaulin – they seem to be renovating the college.’
‘Why can’t they leave the bloody thing alone? There’s a mania in this country for wrapping up public buildings. Last time I saw London, it looked like one of those ghastly conceptual experiments by – what the hell’s his name – Hungarian or Bulgarian sculpture fellow – always wrapping things up? What is his name?’
‘Christo?’
‘Christo, yes. Very good, John, very good.’
‘Thank you – he answered wryly.’
‘Stop it. It’s only me. You ought to be used to me by now.’
‘I am. Oh, I am.’
‘Yes, well, you don’t have to agree with such gusto. Go on.’
‘Go on?’
‘Hertford. The coat-of-arms.’
‘There are two stags, two stags’ heads borne up to heaven by cherubs, and there’s also a – is it a fleur-de-lis? – on a zigzagging background.’
‘Yes. Yes, that is how I remember it. Go on.’
‘Well, the quad itself is rectangular, it’s almost square, and the grass is very well tended. None of it has any particular architectural interest as far as I could see, except maybe for the ivied walls. There’s a fountain – and – and what else? Yes, the stairs into the college are on the right as you pass through the entryway.’
‘On the right? You’re quite sure they’re on the right?’
‘Yes, I – wait. No, wait. I made a rough little map of the layout. No, I’m wrong. They’re on the left. I was looking at it the wrong way up. They’re on the left as you enter.’
‘That’s true, yes, they are on the left! Oh, John, to you this couldn’t be more trivial, but to me it’s extremely important. It’s important for me to know that, about some things at least, my poor old memory hasn’t failed me.’
‘Well, it does seem to be okay as far as your Oxford days are concerned.’
‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it? But then, it should be. I was there for four years. And – and wait. Next door?’
‘Next door?’
‘Next door to the college, just beyond the bridge, there’s a house, isn’t there? There’s a quaint little house with a brass plaque. Someone lived there, someone famous. Oh God, I used to pass that house every day of my life. It was a scientist, a – a – a – Edmond Halley! Edmond Halley lived there! You know, the boffin who discovered Halley’s Comet?’
*
‘Well, didn’t he?’
‘He may have discovered Halley’s Comet but, no, he didn’t live next door to Hertford College. The plaque’s there all right, but it’s for James Watt. Inventor of the steam engine?’
‘James Watt? But Watt was a Scot!’
‘So?’
‘I mean, are you absolutely sure it was Scott?’
‘Scott?’
‘What?’
‘You mean Watt?’
‘Watt, yes, Watt! Are you sure it was Watt?’
‘I took a photograph of the plaque.’
‘Well, bully for you, John. You must show it to me when it’s developed.’
‘Look, I’m sorry, Paul, but I can only – I can only report back –’
‘Yes, yes, yes!’
‘I mean, look, it’s –’
‘Oh, never mind. The gargoyles, what about the gargoyl
es?’
‘Ah, yes, I did manage to buy a guide-book. Surprisingly expensive.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll reimburse you.’
‘Yes, Paul, I know you will. You really didn’t have to say that.’
‘Oh, sorry. I’m sorry. I’m – anyway, what is this book?’
‘Oxford’s Gargoyles and Grotesques. A Guided Tour.’
‘Oxford’s Gargoyles and Grotesques. Well, that’s admirably pithy and to the point. What are they like?’
‘Well –’
‘What I mean is, do any of them bear the slightest resemblance to me?’
‘Ah, so that’s why –’
‘Naturally. Why else?’
*
‘Well? Do any of them look like me?’
*
‘Remember, John, it’s for the book. This is no time to be fastidious.’
‘Frankly, and just riffling through it, I have to say it’s a bit disappointing.’
‘Disappointing? Why so?’
‘Because they’re not all that grotesque.’
‘Not all that grotesque, eh? So none of them actually does look like me? As you say, that is disappointing.’
‘Here’s one from, let’s see, the Bodleian Library. “This sprightly gentleman” – this is the guide-book talking – “this sprightly gentleman – a stone spirit, or lapid –” Do you know what a lapid is?’
‘Who cares? Go on.’
‘“A stone spirit, or lapid one might call him – seems to be emerging from the wall.”’
‘Well, there you are. That’s most promising. Could be me emerging from the mangled car in Sri Lanka.’
‘Well, no.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s grinning.’
‘I see. Try again.’
‘Here’s one from Brasenose. “A friar leans down from a window jamb and idly picks his nose.”’
‘No thanks.’
‘This is an odd one. From Magdalen.’
‘Pronounced “Magdalen”.’
‘“Magdalen.” All it says is, “This monster beggars interpretation.”’
‘Sounds like Michael Jackson.’
‘You’ve heard of Michael Jackson?’
‘Of course I have. Who hasn’t?’
‘True. You never met him, I suppose?’
A Closed Book Page 12
