by Joël Dicker
She threw a fork at him and then turned back to me. “So, anyway, we waited until 1.30.”
*
Tamara was hoping his car had broken down or even that he’d been in an accident. Anything, as long as he wasn’t standing them up. Under the pretext of having things to do in the kitchen, she went several times to call the house at Goose Cove, but there was no reply. So she listened to the news on the radio, but there was no mention of any accident, or of any famous writers dying in New Hampshire. Twice, she heard the sound of a car in front of the house, and each time her heart leaped. It was him! But, no, it was just her stupid neighbors.
Eventually the guests could take it no more. Overcome by the heat, they took shelter in the tent, where it was cooler, and then sat in their assigned places amid a deathly silence. “This better be big news,” Donna said finally.
“If I drink any more of these cocktails, I think I’m going to throw up,” Amy said.
After a while, Tamara asked the waiter to put out the buffet dishes and suggested to her guests that they begin lunch.
By two o’clock the meal was well under way, and still there was no news of Harry. Jenny was too anxious to eat. She was trying not to cry in front of everyone. Tamara was trembling with fury. Two hours late! Clearly he wasn’t coming. How the hell could he have done such a thing? What kind of gentleman behaved in such a way? And if that weren’t enough, Donna started nagging her to announce this oh-so-important news. Tamara remained mute. Poor Robert, wishing to save the situation and his wife’s honor, got up from his chair, solemnly lifted his glass, and declared proudly to the assembled guests: “My dear friends, we would like to announce that we have a new television.” There was a long, uncomprehending silence. Tamara, unable to bear the inanity, stood up in turn and announced: “Robert has cancer. He’s going to die.” Everyone was deeply moved, including Robert himself, who had no idea he was dying and wondered when the doctor had called and why his wife had not told him. Suddenly Robert began to cry, because he would miss being alive. His family, his hometown—he would miss all of it. And they all hugged him, promising that they would visit him in the hospital until his final breath and that they would never forget him.
*
Harry did not turn up at Tamara Quinn’s garden party because he was at Nola’s bedside. As soon as Pinkas told him the news, he went straight to the hospital in Montburry. For several hours he stayed in the parking lot, behind the wheel of his car, unsure what to do. He felt guilty: If she had wanted to die, it was because of him. That thought made him also want to kill himself. Overwhelmed, he was now beginning to understand just how deep his feelings were for Nola. When she had been there, close to him, he had been able to convince himself that there was nothing serious between them, and that he had to distance himself from her, but now that he had almost lost her, he could no longer imagine living without her.
It was 5 p.m. when he finally dared enter the hospital. He was hoping he would not see anyone, but in the main lobby he bumped into David Kellergan, his eyes red from crying.
“Reverend … I heard about Nola. I am truly sorry.”
“Thank you for coming, Harry. You probably heard that Nola tried to commit suicide, but that’s just a miserable lie. She had a headache and she picked up the wrong medicine. She often gets distracted, as all children do.”
“Of course,” Harry replied. “Damn medicines. Which room is Nola in? I’d like to say hi.”
“That’s good of you, but it’s best that she not have too many visitors right now. You don’t want to tire her out. I’m sure you understand.”
The pastor did, however, have a little notebook with him, which visitors could sign. Having written, Get well soon. H. L. Quebert, Harry went back outside to hide in the Chevrolet. He waited another hour, and when he saw Kellergan walking across the parking lot to his car, he returned discreetly to the hospital’s main building and asked for directions to Nola’s room. Room 26, second floor. He knocked at the door, his heart racing. No reply. He quietly opened the door: Nola was alone, sitting on the edge of the bed. She turned her head. Her eyes lit up at first, and then she looked angry.
“Leave me alone, Harry. Leave me alone, or I’ll call the nurse.”
“Nola, I can’t leave you alone—”
“You’ve been so horrible. I don’t want to see you. It was because of you that I wanted to die.”
“Forgive me, Nola.”
“I’ll forgive you if you want me. Otherwise, leave me in peace.”
She stared at him; he looked so sad and guilty that she couldn’t help smiling.
“Oh, Harry darling, don’t put on that puppy face! Do you promise you won’t be horrible anymore?”
“I promise.”
“Ask my forgiveness for all those times you left me alone on your porch and wouldn’t open the door.”
“Please forgive me, Nola.”
“Get down on your knees. Kneel down and ask me to forgive you.”
He knelt down, not thinking anymore, and placed his head on her bare knees. She leaned over him and caressed his face.
*
In Somerset the garden party had been over for several hours, and Jenny, locked in her bedroom, was weeping. Robert had tried to comfort her, but she had refused to open the door. Tamara had left the house in a rage, on her way to Harry’s house, where she intended to make him answer for his absence. Less than ten minutes after her departure, the Quinns’ doorbell rang. It was Robert who opened the door and found Travis Dawn, eyes closed, in uniform, offering him a bunch of roses and breathlessly reciting: “Jenny-would-you-like-to-accompany-me-to-the-summer-gala-please-thank-you.”
Robert burst out laughing.
“Hello, Travis. I’m guessing you’d like to speak to Jenny?”
Travis opened his eyes wide and stifled a cry.
“Mr Quinn? I … I’m sorry. I’m so pathetic! It’s just that I wanted to … Well, would you allow me to take your daughter to the gala? If she wants to, of course. Although maybe she already has a date. Is she seeing someone? Oh, I knew it! I’m such an idiot!”
Robert gave Travis a friendly tap on the shoulder.
“Don’t despair, son. In fact, your timing could hardly be better. Come in.”
He showed the young police officer into the kitchen and took a beer from the fridge.
“Thank you,” said Travis, placing his flowers on the countertop.
“No, this is for me. You need something much stronger.”
Robert grabbed a bottle of whiskey and poured a double over a few ice cubes.
“Drink that straight down.”
Travis obeyed.
“Travis, you look so nervous,” Robert observed. “You have to relax. Girls don’t like nervous guys. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”
“I’m usually shy, but when I see Jenny, it’s as if my brain freezes. I don’t know what’s—”
“That’s love, son.”
“You think?”
“No doubt about it.”
“Your daughter is a wonderful girl, Mr Quinn. So gentle, and intelligent, and so beautiful! I don’t know if I should tell you this, but sometimes I drive past Clark’s just so I can see her through the window. When I look at her … when I look at her, my heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest … I feel like my uniform is suffocating me. So … that’s love?”
“Absolutely.”
“And when that happens, I want to get out of the car, walk into Clark’s, and ask her how she’s doing and if she might, by any chance, like to go to the movies when her shift is over. But I never do it. Is that love too?”
“No, that’s just goddamn stupid. That’s how you end up not getting the girl you love. You can’t be shy. You’re young, good-looking. You’ve got everything you need.”
“So what should I do?”
Robert poured him another whiskey.
“I’d like to bring Jenny down, but she’s had a difficult afternoon. If you want m
y advice, drink that and go home. Take off your uniform and put on an ordinary shirt. Then call here and ask Jenny out to dinner. Tell her you feel like having a hamburger at the Denny’s in Montburry. She loves it there. You see, your timing is perfect. And on your date, when things are relaxed, suggest going for a walk. You’ll sit on a bench together, look up at the stars. You’ll show her the constellations …”
“The constellations?” Travis said hopelessly. “But I don’t know any.”
“Just show her the Big Dipper.”
“I don’t know how to recognize the Big Dipper! Oh, God, I’m screwed!”
“Look, just show her any light in the sky and give it a name. Any name. Women always find it romantic when a guy knows the night sky. Just try not to mix up a shooting star with an airplane. After that, you can ask her if she’d like to be your date at the gala.”
“You think she’ll agree?”
“I’m sure she will.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr Quinn! Thank you so much!”
*
Having sent Travis home, Robert coaxed Jenny out of her bedroom. They ate ice cream together in the kitchen.
“Now who will I go to the gala with?” Jenny asked miserably. “I’m going to be alone and everyone will make fun of me.”
“Jenny, I’m sure there’s a whole bunch of guys who would love to take you.”
Jenny ate a huge spoonful of ice cream.
“Like who?” she said with her mouth full. “I don’t know any.”
At that moment, the telephone rang. Robert let his daughter answer it, and heard her say: “Oh, hi, Travis … Yes? … Yes, I’d love to … In thirty minutes? That’s perfect. See you then.” She hung up and eagerly told her father that her friend Travis had just called to ask her out to dinner in Montburry.
Robert feigned surprise. “You see,” he said, “what did I tell you? No way would a girl like you have to go to the gala on her own.”
*
At that moment, in Goose Cove, Tamara was nosing around. She had pounded on the door for a long time, with no response. If Harry was hiding, she was determined to find him, but there was nobody home, and she decided to carry out an inspection of the premises. She began with the living room, then the bedrooms, and, last, Harry’s office. She rummaged through the papers on the desk until she found something he had just written:
My Nola, darling Nola, Nola my love. What have you done? Why did you want to die? Is it because of me? I love you. I love you more than anything. Don’t leave me. If you die, I die. You are all that matters in my life, Nola.
Tamara put the note in her pocket, determined to destroy Harry Quebert.
19
The Harry Quebert Affair
“Writers who spend all night writing, addicted to caffeine and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, are a myth, Marcus. You have to be disciplined. It’s exactly the same as training to be a boxer. There are exercises to be repeated, at certain times of day. You have to be persistent, you have to maintain a certain rhythm, and your life has to be perfectly ordered. These are the three heads of Cerberus that will protect you from the writer’s worst enemy.”
“Which is what?”
“The deadline. Do you know what a deadline really means?”
“Tell me.”
“It means that your brain, which is capricious by nature, must produce something within a period of time decided by someone else. Just as if you were a deliveryman and your boss demanded that you be at such-and-such address by such-and-such a time, you have to be there, and it doesn’t matter if there are traffic jams or if you blow a tire. If you’re late, you’re fucked. It’s exactly the same for the deadlines imposed by your editor. Your editor is both your wife and your boss. Without him, you are nothing, but you can’t help hating him. You have to make your deadlines, Marcus. But if you can afford the luxury, ask for an extension. That’s so much more fun.”
It was Tamara Quinn herself who told me she had stolen the note from Harry’s house. She told me the day after our conversation at Clark’s. What she told me had piqued my curiosity, so I sought her out at home in order to hear more. She received me in the living room, excited by my interest in her. Mentioning the statement she had made to the police two weeks earlier, I asked how she had known about Harry’s relationship with Nola. That was when she told me about her visit to Goose Cove after the garden party.
“That note I found on his desk,” she said. “It made me want to throw up.”
I realized she had never considered the possibility of a love affair between Harry and Nola.
“Did it ever cross your mind that they might have loved each other?” I asked.
“Loved each other? Come on—don’t be ridiculous. Quebert is a pervert, period. I can’t imagine for a second Nola would have responded to his advances. God knows he made her suffer for it … poor kid.”
“So what did you do with the note?”
“I took it with me.”
“Why?”
“To destroy Quebert. I wanted him to go to prison.”
“Did you tell anyone about it?”
“Of course!”
“Who?”
“Chief Pratt. A couple of days after I found it.”
“Only him?”
“I told more people about it when Nola disappeared. Quebert was someone the police needed to investigate.”
“So if I understand correctly, you discover that Harry Quebert is infatuated with Nola, and you don’t tell anyone but Chief Pratt about it until she disappears, nearly two months later?”
“That’s right.”
“Mrs Quinn,” I said, “from the little I know about you, I find it hard to believe you didn’t use what you discovered to hurt Harry as soon as you got the chance, considering how badly you thought he had behaved by not coming to your party. I mean, with all due respect, you seem more the type of person who would photocopy that note and plaster it all over town or put it in your neighbors’ mailboxes.”
She lowered her eyes.
“You don’t understand. I was humiliated. Harry Quebert, the great writer from New York, had rejected my daughter for a fifteen-year-old girl. My daughter! How do you think that made me feel? I had spread the rumor that Harry and Jenny were an item, so imagine what people would have said. And Jenny was in love with him. She would have died, if she’d known. Obviously I decided to keep it to myself. You should have seen my Jenny’s face the night of the summer gala. She looked so sad, even though Travis was with her.”
“And Chief Pratt? What did he say when you told him?”
“He said he’d look into it. I talked to him again when Nola disappeared. He said it could be something they’d investigate. The problem was that, somewhere in there, the sheet of paper had vanished.”
“Vanished? How?”
“I kept it in the safe at Clark’s. I was the only one with access to it. But then, one day in early August, the page mysteriously vanished. And the evidence against Harry vanished with it.”
“Who could have taken it?”
“I have no idea! It’s a complete mystery. It was in a huge cast-iron safe, and I had the only key. All the restaurant accounts were inside that safe, along with the money to pay wages and some extra cash for orders. One morning I noticed the note was not there anymore. There was no sign of a break-in. Everything else was there except for that damn piece of paper. I don’t have the faintest idea what could have happened.”
This was becoming more and more interesting.
“Between you and me, Mrs Quinn,” I said, “when you discovered Harry’s feelings for Nola, how did you feel?”
“Disgusted. Angry.”
“Would you have tried to get vengeance on Harry by sending him anonymous letters?”
“Anonymous letters? Do I look like the kind of person who would do something as pathetic as that?”
I let it go, and went on with my questioning.
“Do you think Nola might have had a relationship with any other men in S
omerset?”
She almost spat out her iced tea.
“What is wrong with you? Seriously! She was a nice young girl, really sweet, hardworking, intelligent, always ready to help out. Why would you imagine she was bedding half the town at the age of fifteen?”
“It was just a simple question. Do you know someone named Elijah Stern?”
“Of course,” she replied, as though it were obvious. Then she added: “He was the owner before Harry.”
“The owner of what?” I asked.
“The house at Goose Cove. It belonged to Elijah Stern, and he used to stay there regularly. It was his family’s house, I think. There was a time when we would see him quite often in Somerset. But once he took over his father’s affairs in Concord, he no longer had time to come here, so he rented out Goose Cove, before eventually selling it to Harry.”
I could not believe it.
“Goose Cove belonged to Elijah Stern?”
“Well, yes. What’s the matter with you, Mr Bigshot New Yorker? You suddenly look pale.”
*
At 10.30 a.m. on Monday, June 30, 2008, on the fifty-first floor of the Schmid & Hanson building on Lexington Avenue in New York, Roy Barnaski began his weekly manuscript meeting with Marisa.
“Marcus Goldman had until today to send you his manuscript,” she recited.
“I assume you haven’t received anything.”
“Nothing, Mr Barnaski.”
“I figured. I talked to him on Saturday. He is one stubborn son of a bitch. What a waste.”
“What should I do?”
“Inform Richardson of the situation. Tell him we’re going to take legal action.”
Just then Marisa’s assistant interrupted the meeting by knocking on the office door. She was holding a piece of paper.
“I know you’re in a meeting, Mr Barnaski,” she said, “but you’ve just received an e-mail and I think it’s important.”
“Who’s it from?” Barnaski demanded, visibly annoyed.
“Marcus Goldman.”
“Goldman? Give that to me!”
From: [email protected]
Date: Monday, June 30, 2008—10:24
