The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair

by Joël Dicker

  Wednesday, June 18, 1975

  Since Harry Quebert had arrived in Somerset, it was taking Jenny Quinn a good hour longer to get ready in the mornings. She had fallen in love with him the first day she saw him. She had never felt like this before; he was the man of her dreams, she was certain. Each time she saw him, she imagined their life together: their triumphant wedding and their New York home. Goose Cove would become their summer house, where he could read over his manuscripts in peace while she visited her parents. He would take her far away from Somerset; she would no longer have to wipe grease-covered tables or clean the toilets in this hick restaurant. She would have a career on Broadway, she would make movies in California. Magazines would run features about the two of them.

  She wasn’t making this up. It was obvious that something was happening between her and Harry. He loved her too—there was no doubt. Why else would he come to Clark’s every day? Every day! And the conversations they had at the counter! She loved it so much when he came to sit across from her so they could chat awhile. He was different from all the men she had met before, far more sophisticated. Her mother, Tamara, had given orders that the employees must not distract him or talk to him, and she sometimes argued with Jenny at home because she believed her daughter’s behavior with him was inappropriate. But her mother didn’t understand anything. She didn’t understand that Harry loved her so much, he was writing a book about her.

  It was several days ago now that she had wondered about the book, but that morning she felt certain. Harry arrived at Clark’s with the sun, about 6.30 a.m., just after it opened. It was rare that he turned up so early; normally the only customers at that time were truck drivers and traveling salesmen. He had hardly even sat at his usual table before he began frantically scribbling, almost bent over the page, as if afraid that someone would see what he was writing. Occasionally he stopped, and gave her long, lingering looks; she pretended not to notice, but she knew he was staring hungrily at her. At first she had not understood the reason for these insistent looks. It was just before noon when she realized he was writing a book about her. Yes, she—Jenny Quinn—was the main character in Harry Quebert’s new masterpiece. That was why he did not want anyone to see his words. As soon as she realized, she was overcome with excitement. She took the opportunity offered by the lunch hour to give him a menu and chat with him a little bit.

  *

  He had spent the morning writing the four letters of her first name: N-O-L-A. Sometimes he would close his eyes so he could picture her, and then, in an attempt to cure himself, would force himself to look at Jenny. Jenny was a very beautiful woman; why couldn’t he love her?

  When, just before noon, he saw Jenny coming toward him with coffee and a menu, he covered up the page with a blank sheet, as he did every time someone approached.

  “It’s time to eat something, Harry,” she ordered in an overly maternal voice. “You haven’t swallowed a thing all day, apart from a half-gallon of coffee. You’ll get heartburn if you try to get by on an empty stomach.”

  He made himself smile politely and partake in a brief conversation. He noticed that his forehead was sweating, and wiped it quickly with the back of his hand.

  “You’re hot, Harry. You work too hard!”

  “That’s possible.”

  “Are you inspired?”

  “Sure. Things are going pretty well at the moment.”

  “You haven’t lifted your head from the page all morning.”

  “That’s true.”

  Jenny gave him a smile of complicity.

  “Harry … I know this is forward of me, but could I read it? Just a few pages? I’m curious to see what you’re writing. It must be wonderful.”

  “It’s not ready yet.”

  “I’m sure it’s already magnificent.”

  “We’ll see later.”

  She smiled again.

  “Let me bring you a lemonade to cool you down. Would you like something to eat?”

  “I’ll take bacon and eggs.”

  Jenny went straight into the kitchen and sang out: “Bacon and eggs for the grrrreat writer!”

  Her mother, who had seen her talking to him in the dining room, scolded her. “Jenny, I want you to stop bothering Mr Quebert!”

  “Bothering him? Oh, Mom, you have no idea. I’m his inspiration.”

  Tamara Quinn gave her daughter a skeptical look. Jenny was a nice girl, but far too naive.

  “Who’s been filling your head with such nonsense?”

  “I know Harry has a crush on me, Mom. And I’m pretty sure I’m a big part of his new book. No, Mom, your daughter will not be serving bacon and coffee all her life. Your daughter is going to become someone.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Jenny exaggerated a little so that her mother would understand.

  “Harry and me—it will soon be official.”

  And, smirking triumphantly, she swanned out of the kitchen.

  Tamara Quinn could not suppress a smile: If her daughter succeeded in getting her hooks into Quebert, Clark’s would be famous all over the country. Who knows—maybe the wedding could even take place here; she would find a way to persuade Harry. A fenced-off area, large white tents on the street, a hand-picked guest list; half of New York’s crème de la crème, dozens of journalists to cover the event, and flashbulbs endlessly popping. Harry Quebert was heaven-sent.

  Harry left Clark’s in a rush at 4 p.m. that day, as if he had lost track of the time. He dived into his car, which was parked in front of the restaurant, and sped off. He didn’t want to be late; he didn’t want to miss her. Soon after his departure, a Somerset police car parked in the space he had vacated. Nervously gripping his steering wheel, Officer Travis Dawn discreetly scanned the inside of the restaurant. Deciding that there were still too many people around, he did not dare enter. Instead he remained in his car and rehearsed the line he had prepared. Just one line—he could manage that. He looked at himself in the rearview mirror and recited: “Jello, Henny. I was thinking we could go to the movies together on Saturday …” He cursed himself: He had messed it up again! Just one simple line, not even twenty-five words, and he couldn’t get it right! He unfolded the piece of paper and reread what he had written:

  Hello, Jenny. I was thinking, if you were free, that we could go to the movie theater in Montburry on Saturday night.

  That really wasn’t so difficult, was it? He had to walk into Clark’s, smile, sit at the counter, and ask for coffee. While she filled his cup, he had to say it. He checked his hair, then pretended to talk into the car’s radio microphone so that, if someone saw him, he would appear to be busy. He waited two minutes. Four customers left Clark’s together. The coast was clear. His heart was pounding; he could feel it reverberate inside his rib cage, in the veins of his hands, in his head … even his fingertips seemed to react to each heartbeat. He got out of his car, the piece of paper scrunched up in his fist. He loved her. He had loved her since high school. She was the reason he had stayed in Somerset. When he went to the police academy, they’d recognized his abilities and had suggested he might want to aim higher than his local police force. They had talked about the state police, even the feds. A guy from Washington, D.C., had told him: “Son, don’t waste your time in some hick town. The F.B.I. is recruiting. The F.B.I., son!” Yes, they had suggested he apply to the F.B.I. He might even have asked to join the Secret Service. But there was this young woman who waitressed at Clark’s, in Somerset, this woman he had always hoped would finally notice him: Jenny Quinn. So he had asked to be assigned to the Somerset police. Without Jenny, his life had no meaning. Standing in front of the restaurant’s entrance, he took a deep breath and then went in.

  She thought about Harry while mechanically rubbing a towel over cups that were already dry. Recently he had been leaving every day at about 4 p.m.; she wondered where he went. Was he meeting someone? And, if so, who? A customer sat down at the counter, dragging her from her daydreams.

 
“Hello, Jenny.”

  It was Travis, a nice guy she’d known in high school who had become a policeman.

  “Hi, Travis. Can I get you coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment in order to concentrate. She placed a cup in front of him and filled it. Now was the time to do it.

  “Jenny … I wanted to tell you …”

  “Yes?”

  She fixed her large bright eyes on his, and he was completely unnerved. What was the next part of the line?

  “The movie theater,” he said.

  “What about the movie theater?”

  “I … there’s been a robbery at the movie theater in Manchester.”

  “Oh, really? A robbery in a movie theater? How strange.”

  “I mean, at the post office in Manchester.”

  Why the hell was he talking about that robbery? The movies! He was supposed to be talking about the movies!

  “At the post office or the movie theater?”

  The movie theater. The movie theater. The movie theater. The movie theater. Talk about the movie theater! He felt as if his heart were about to burst. He said, “Jenny … I wanted to … I mean, I was wondering maybe if … I mean, if you wanted to …”

  At that moment Tamara called her daughter from the kitchen.

  “Excuse me, Travis, I have to go. Mom’s been in a foul mood recently.”

  She disappeared through the swinging doors without giving the young policeman a chance to finish. He sighed and muttered under his breath: “I was thinking, if you were free, that we could go to the movie theater in Montburry on Saturday night.” Then he left a five-dollar bill for a 50-cent coffee that he had not even drunk and walked out of Clark’s, sad and disappointed.

  *

  “Where did you go at four o’clock every day, Harry?” I asked.

  He did not answer immediately. He looked through the nearest window, and I thought I saw a smile on his face. Finally he said, “I needed to see her …”

  “Nola?”

  “Yes. You know, Jenny was a great girl, but she wasn’t Nola. When I was with Nola, I felt truly alive. I don’t know how else to explain it to you. Each second I spent with her was a second of life lived as fully as possible. That’s what love is, I think. That laugh … I have heard it in my head every day for the last thirty-three years. That extraordinary look in her eyes … I can still see it, right in front of me. The way she put her hair back in place, the way she chewed her lips. Her voice still echoes inside me. When I walk down Main Street, to the marina, to the general store, I see her again, talking to me about life and books. In June 1975, she had been in my life less than a month, yet I had the impression she had always been part of it. And when she wasn’t there, nothing seemed to have any meaning: A day without Nola was a day wasted. I needed to see her so much that I couldn’t wait until the following Saturday. So I began going to the high school gates to wait for her. That’s what I did when I left Clark’s at four o’clock. I took my car and I went to the high school in Somerset. I parked in the teachers’ parking lot, just in front of the main entrance, and, hidden in my car, I waited until she left. As soon as she appeared, I felt so much more alive, so much stronger. All I needed was the joy of seeing her. I watched her until she got on the school bus, and I waited there until the bus drove off. Was I crazy, Marcus?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “All I know is that Nola lived inside me. Literally. And then it was Saturday again, and that Saturday was a beautiful day. Clark’s was empty—everyone was at the beach—and Nola and I had long conversations. When she finished work, about 6 p.m., I offered her a ride home. I dropped her off a block from her house, on a deserted street, where no-one could see. She asked if I would like to walk with her some of the way, but I explained that it was complicated, that people would talk if they saw us walking together. I remember she said to me, ‘Walking together isn’t a crime, Harry …’

  “‘I know, Nola. But I think people would start asking questions.’

  “She frowned. ‘I love being with you so much, Harry. You’re an extraordinary person. It’d be nice if we could be together a little bit without having to hide.’”

  Saturday, June 28, 1975

  It was 1 p.m. Jenny Quinn was busying herself behind the counter at Clark’s. She jumped each time the door of the restaurant opened, hoping it would be him. But it never was. She was crabby and irritable, but she was wearing a beautiful cream-colored ensemble that was only for special occasions. The door slammed again, and again it was not Harry. It was her mother.

  “Darling, what are you doing, dressed like that?” Tamara asked. “Where’s your apron?”

  “Maybe I don’t want to wear your horrible aprons anymore. I’m allowed to look pretty from time to time, aren’t I? Do you think I enjoy serving hamburgers all day long?”

  Jenny had tears in her eyes.

  “Alright, tell me what’s going on,” her mother said.

  “It’s Saturday and I’m not supposed to be working! I never work on weekends!”

  “But you were the one who insisted on replacing Nola when she asked for the day off today.”

  “Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know anymore. Oh, Mom, I’m so miserable!”

  Jenny was nervously fiddling with a bottle of ketchup, clumsily dropped it. It slipped out of her hands and smashed, and her immaculate white sneakers were splattered red. She burst into tears.

  “My darling, what’s happened to you?” her mother asked.

  “I’m waiting for Harry, Mom! He always comes on Saturday … So why isn’t he here? Oh, Mom, I’m so stupid! How could I have believed that he loved me? A man like Harry would never want a common diner waitress like me! I’m such an idiot!”

  “Come on, don’t be like that,” Tamara said soothingly, taking her daughter in her arms. “Take the day off, go and have some fun. I’ll fill in for you. I don’t want you to cry. You’re a wonderful girl, and I’m sure that Harry has a crush on you.”

  “Then why isn’t he here?”

  Mrs Quinn thought for a moment. “Did he know you were working today? You never work Saturdays. You know what I think, darling? Harry must be very sad on Saturdays. It’s the day he doesn’t get to see you.”

  Jenny’s face lit up.

  “Oh, Mom, why didn’t I think of that?”

  “You should go to his house. I’m sure he’d be very happy to see you.”

  What a wonderful idea! She would go find Harry at Goose Cove and take him a nice picnic lunch. The poor guy was probably working so hard he’d forgotten to eat. She rushed to the kitchen to stock up.

  *

  At that very moment, 130 miles away, in the little town of Rockland, Maine, Harry and Nola were picnicking on a seaside boardwalk. Nola was throwing pieces of bread to the huge, screeching seagulls.

  “I love seagulls!” she shouted. “They’re my favorite birds. Maybe because I love the ocean, and wherever there are seagulls, you’ll find the ocean. It’s true, even when the horizon is blocked by trees, you can look up in the sky and see seagulls and know that the ocean is close. Will there be seagulls in your book, Harry?”

  “If you want. I’ll put anything you want in this book.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “I’d like to tell you, but I can’t.”

  “Is it a love story?”

  “Kind of.”

  He looked at her, amused. He was holding a notebook, and was attempting to draw the scene in pencil.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Making a sketch.”

  “You draw too? Show me—I want to see it!”

  She came close.

  “That’s so beautiful, Harry!”

  She cuddled up to him in a rush of tenderness, but he pushed her away, almost by reflex, and looked around to make sure nobody had seen.

  “Why did you do that?” Nola asked. “Are you ashamed of me?”

  “Nola, you’re fifteen …
and I’m thirty-four. People would be shocked.”

  “People are stupid!”

  He laughed, and sketched her furious expression in a few lines. She pressed herself to him again, and he let her. Together, they watched the seagulls fighting over the scraps of bread.

  They had decided a few days earlier to make this getaway. He had waited for her near her house, after school. Close to the bus stop.

  “Harry? What are you doing here?” she had said.

  “I don’t really know, to be honest. But I wanted to see you. I … Nola, I’ve been thinking about your idea again …”

  “About being alone together?”

  “Yes. I was thinking we could go away this weekend. Not far. To Maine, for example. Someplace where nobody knows us. So we can feel more free. Only if you want to, of course.”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful! But it will have to be Saturday. I can’t miss the Sunday service.”

  “Then let’s make it Saturday. Can you get off work?”

  “Of course! I’ll ask Mrs Quinn for the day off. And I know what to tell my parents. Don’t worry about it.”

  I know what to tell my parents. As soon as he heard these words, he wondered what had got into him, falling for an adolescent girl. And here on the beach in Rockland, the thought returned to him.

  “What are you thinking about?” Nola asked, still pressed against him.

  “About what we’re doing.”

  “What’s wrong with what we’re doing?”

  “You know perfectly well what’s wrong with it. Or maybe you don’t. What did you tell your parents?”

  “They think I’m with my friend Nancy Hattaway, and that we left very early to spend the day on her boyfriend Teddy’s father’s boat.”

  “And where is Nancy?”