by Joël Dicker
Harry had decided not to go to the gala. He had bought his ticket a few weeks earlier, but now he was no longer in the mood to go out; Nola was still in the hospital, and he was miserable. He wanted to be alone. But on the morning of the gala, Amy Pratt came over and hammered at his door. It had been days since she had seen him in town; he no longer went to Clark’s. She wanted to make sure he was not going to leave her in the lurch. He absolutely had to be at the gala—she had told everyone he would be there. This was the first time that a major New York luminary was going to attend, and—who knew?—perhaps next year Harry would return with the cream of show business. And, a few years from now, all of Hollywood and Broadway would come to New Hampshire to be seen at what would have become one of the most sought-after events on the East Coast. “You are coming tonight, Harry, aren’t you? You will be there, won’t you?” she had whined, while wriggling her body on his front porch. She had begged him, and he had finally agreed to go—mainly because he didn’t know how to say no—and she had even managed to palm off fifty dollars’ worth of raffle tickets on him.
Later that day he went to see Nola. On the way, he stopped off at a store in Montburry to buy more opera records. He couldn’t help himself; he knew that music made her so happy. But he was spending too much money, and he couldn’t go on like this. He didn’t dare imagine the state of his bank account; his savings were going up in smoke, and at this rate he would soon not have enough money to pay the rent on the house for the rest of the summer.
At the hospital, the two of them took a walk on the grounds, and, hidden in a copse of trees, they embraced.
“Harry, I want to leave.”
“The doctors say you can get out of here in a few days.”
“You don’t understand: I want to leave Somerset. With you. We will never be happy here.”
“One day,” he replied.
“One day, what?”
“We’ll leave together one day.”
Her face brightened.
“Really? Harry, are you serious? Will you take me far from here?”
“A long, long way. And we’ll be happy.”
“We’ll be so happy!”
She held him tightly.
“Tonight’s the gala,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Are you going?”
“I don’t know. I promised Amy Pratt, but I’m not in the mood.”
“Oh, please go! I’ve always dreamed of going. Ever since we moved here, I’ve dreamed that someone would take me. But I will never go … Mom won’t let me.”
“What would I do at the gala on my own?”
“You won’t be alone, Harry. I’ll be there with you, inside your head. We’ll dance together! No matter what happens, I’ll always be inside your head.”
Upon hearing those words, he became angry.
“What do you mean, ‘No matter what happens’? What are you implying?”
“Nothing—don’t get angry with me. All I meant was that I’ll always love you.”
So for the sake of Nola’s love, he grudgingly went to the gala. He had barely arrived before he regretted his decision: He felt ill at ease amid the crowds of people. To give himself a semblance of composure, he sat at the bar and ordered a martini, and then another, while watching the guests arrive. The room filled quickly, and the hubbub of conversation grew louder. He felt sure that everyone was staring at him, as if they all knew he loved a fifteen-year-old girl. Feeling shaky, he went to the bathroom, where he splashed water on his face and then locked himself in a stall and sat on the toilet to collect himself. He took a deep breath. He had to stay calm. Nobody could know about him and Nola. They had always been so careful and discreet. There was no reason to worry. Just act naturally. He felt his guts untwist. He opened the stall door, and it was at that moment that he discovered these words scrawled in red lipstick on the mirror above the sink:
PEDOPHILE SCUM
Panic-stricken, he gasped, looked all around him, and pushed at all the stall doors: nobody. The bathroom was deserted. He hurriedly grabbed a paper towel, soaked it with water, and rubbed at the lipstick words, which were transformed into a long, greasy red smear on the mirror. Then he sneaked out of the bathroom, afraid of being seen. Battling nausea, his forehead coated with sweat and his pulse beating in his temples, he went back to the ballroom, trying to act as if nothing had happened. Who knew about him and Nola?
Dinner had been announced, and the guests were heading toward their tables. A hand gripped his shoulder, and he jumped. It was Amy Pratt. He was sweating profusely.
“Is everything O.K., Harry?” she asked.
“Yes … Yes … I’m just a little hot.”
“I put you at the head table. Come with me—it’s just over here.”
She guided him to a large table decorated with flowers, where a man in his forties was already seated, looking bored.
“Harry Quebert,” declared Amy Pratt ceremoniously, “allow me to present Elijah Stern, who generously funds this gala. It is thanks to him that the raffle tickets are so cheap. He is also the owner of the house you’re renting at Goose Cove.”
Elijah Stern offered his hand with a smile, and Harry laughed. “So you’re my landlord, Mr Stern?”
“Call me Elijah. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
When the main course was over, the two men went outside to smoke a cigarette and take a short walk around the grounds.
“Are you happy with the house?” Stern asked.
“Extremely happy. It’s a beautiful place.”
His cigarette butt glowing red, Stern grew nostalgic as he told Harry how the house at Goose Cove had been his family’s vacation home for many years. His father had ordered its construction because his mother suffered from migraines and the doctor told her that the ocean air would help.
“When my father saw this plot of land by the ocean, he fell in love with it immediately. He bought it without a second’s thought, with the intention of building a house on it. He drew up the plans himself. We spent so many great summers there. But time goes by, and now my father is dead, my mother has moved to California, and there’s no-one left to live at Goose Cove. I love that house; I even had it renovated a few years ago. But I’m not married, I don’t have children, and I hardly ever have time to enjoy it; it’s too big for me anyway. So I decided to rent it out. I couldn’t bear the idea of its being unoccupied and falling into disrepair. I’m happy that someone like you is living there.”
Stern explained how as a child he had attended his first dances and experienced his first loves in Somerset. Ever since then, he had made a point of coming back here once a year—for the gala—in memory of those years.
They each lit another cigarette and sat together on a stone bench.
“So what are you working on at the moment, Harry?”
“A novel. A love story. Well, I’m trying to work on it anyway. You know, everyone here seems to think I’m some sort of famous writer, but that’s just a misunderstanding.” Harry knew Stern was not the kind of man to be easily fooled.
“People here are very impressionable,” Stern said. “You only have to look at the turn for the worse this gala has taken. So … a love story?”
“Yes.”
“How far have you gotten?”
“I’m just beginning. To tell the truth, I’m not managing to write anything.”
“That’s unfortunate for a writer. Is something bothering you?”
“You could say that.”
“Are you in love?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Out of curiosity. I was wondering if you had to be in love in order to write a love story. Anyway, I am always very impressed by writers. Perhaps because I would have liked to be a writer myself. Or an artist of any kind. I have an unconditional love for painting. But unfortunately I have very little artistic talent. What’s the title of your book?”
“I don’t have one yet.”
“And what kind of love story is it?�
�
“A story of forbidden love.”
“That sounds really interesting,” Stern said. “We’ll have to meet up again sometime.”
At 9.30 p.m., after dessert, Amy Pratt announced the drawing of the raffle, presided over, as always, by her husband. Chief Pratt read out the winning numbers one by one, his mouth too close to the microphone. All the prizes, most provided by local businesses, were fairly cheap and unappealing—except for the top prize, the drawing of which provoked a great deal of excitement: It was an all-expenses-paid one-week stay for two people at a luxury hotel on Martha’s Vineyard. “Your attention, please,” bellowed Chief Pratt. “The winner of the first prize is … listen carefully … ticket number one-three-eight-five!” There was a brief silence, and then Harry, realizing he had the winning ticket, stood up in surprise. There was a roar of applause, and several guests came up to congratulate him. He was the center of attention for the rest of the evening: Nobody had eyes for anyone but him. But he had eyes for nobody, because the center of his attention was sleeping, at that moment, in a small hospital room fifteen miles away.
As Harry was leaving, he ran into Elijah Stern in the cloakroom.
Stern smiled. “First prize in the raffle. Seems like you’re a naturally lucky guy.”
“Yeah. And to think I almost didn’t buy a ticket.”
“Do you need me to take you somewhere?” Stern asked.
“Thank you, Elijah, but I have my car.”
They walked to the parking lot together. A black sedan was waiting for Stern, with a man standing beside it, smoking a cigarette. Stern indicated him and said, “Harry, I’d like you to meet my right-hand man. Actually, unless you would rather I didn’t, I was planning on sending him to Goose Cove to take care of the rosebushes. It’ll be time to prune them soon, and he’s a talented gardener, unlike the idiots sent by the rental agency who let all my plants die last year.”
“That’s fine, Elijah. Please do whatever you like.”
As he approached the man, Harry noticed his dreadful appearance: His body was huge and muscular, his face twisted and scarred. He greeted him with a handshake.
“I’m Harry Quebert.”
“Good evening, Mifter Quebert,” the man replied, his speech halting and difficult to follow. “My name iv Lufer Caleb.”
*
Speculation swept Somerset the day after the gala: Who would Harry Quebert take with him to Martha’s Vineyard? Nobody had ever seen him with a woman. Did he have a girlfriend in New York? A movie star, perhaps? Or would he take a young woman from Somerset? Had he already made a conquest here, so discreetly that no-one had noticed? Would her name and picture appear in one of those celebrity magazines?
The only person not thinking about the vacation was Harry himself. On Monday morning, July 21, he was at home, sick with worry. Who knew about him and Nola? Who had followed him into the bathroom? Who had dared besmear the mirror with those vile words? In lipstick … so it was definitely a woman. But who? To distract himself, he sat at his desk and concentrated on putting his pages in order. For the past week, his pages had been accumulating in a jumble on his desk, but he always numbered them, according to a very precise chronological code, so that he could file them afterward. Having put them in order, he realized that one of them was missing. He recalled it clearly: It was a page about Nola, written the day of her suicide attempt. He went through his papers twice and emptied his satchel, but it was nowhere to be found. It was impossible. He had always made sure to check that he left nothing on the table at Clark’s. At Goose Cove, he mostly wrote in his office, and if he sat on the deck, he always brought back to his office whatever he had written. There was no way he could have lost that page … so where was it? Having searched the house in vain, he began to wonder whether someone had come in search of compromising evidence against him. The same person who had written those words on the bathroom mirror? The thought made him feel so ill that he almost threw up.
Nola was able to leave Charlotte’s Hill that day. She went to Goose Cove to see Harry almost immediately after returning home. He was on the beach, with his tin box of stale bread. As soon as she saw him, she threw herself into his arms. He lifted her in the air and swung her around.
“Oh, Harry! I missed it so much, being here with you!”
He held her as tightly as he dared.
“Nancy told me you won first prize at the raffle.”
“Yes! Can you believe it?”
“A vacation for two on Martha’s Vineyard! When is it for?”
“I can choose the dates. All I have to do is call the hotel to make a reservation.”
“Will you take me with you? Oh, Harry, take me with you so we can be happy together without having to hide!”
He didn’t reply. They walked a little farther along the beach, watching the waves crash onto the sand.
“Where do the waves come from?”
“From far away,” Harry said. “They come a long way to see the shores of America, and then they die.”
He stared at Nola and, suddenly overcome by anger, took her face in his hands.
“For God’s sake, Nola! Why did you want to die?”
“It’s not about wanting to die. It’s about not being able to live anymore.”
“But don’t you remember that day on the beach, after your school show, when you told me not to worry because you were there? How will you watch over me if you kill yourself?”
“I know, Harry. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
And on that beach where they met and fell in love, she got down on her knees to beg for forgiveness. And again, she said: “Take me with you, Harry. Take me to Martha’s Vineyard.” In the euphoria of the moment, he promised he would. But, later, when he watched her heading home along the path that led from Goose Cove, he realized he could not take her with him. It was impossible. Someone already knew about them; if they went off together, the whole town would know. He would go to prison. If she asked him again, he would postpone the trip. He would postpone it indefinitely.
The next day he went back to Clark’s for the first time in a long time. Jenny was serving, as usual. Her eyes lit up when she saw Harry: He had returned. Was it because of the gala? Had he been jealous to see her with Travis? Did he want to take her to Martha’s Vineyard? If he went there without her then that would mean he did not love her. This question was so urgent in her mind that she asked him before she even took his order: “Who are you going to take to Martha’s Vineyard, Harry?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “Maybe no-one. Maybe I’ll make use of the time to work on my book.”
She frowned. “It would be a waste to go to such a beautiful place alone.”
She was secretly hoping he would reply, “You’re right, Jenny, my love. Let’s go together and kiss beneath the setting sun.” But all he said was: “Can I get some coffee, please?” And Jenny, the slave, obeyed. At that moment, Tamara Quinn emerged from her office in the back of the restaurant, where she had been doing the accounts. Seeing Harry seated at his usual table, she rushed over to him and, without even a hello, told him in a voice full of rage and bitterness: “I’ve just been looking over the accounts. We’re not going to offer you any more credit, Mr Quebert.”
“I understand,” Harry said, wishing to avoid a scene. “I’m sorry about your invitation last Sunday … I—”
“I am not interested in your excuses. I received your flowers, which went straight into the garbage. I would like you to pay what you owe here before the end of the week.”
“Of course. Please give me the bill. I’ll pay you immediately.”
She brought him the itemized bill and he almost choked when he saw it. He owed Clark’s more than five hundred dollars. He had been spending without counting: five hundred dollars in food and drinks, thrown away, just so he could be with Nola. In addition to this bill, he also received, the next morning, a letter from the rental agency. He had already paid the first half of his stay at Goose Cove, which to
ok him until the end of July. The letter informed him that there was still a thousand dollars to pay for the use of the house until September. But he didn’t have a thousand dollars. He had hardly any money at all. Once he had paid Clark’s, he would be completely broke. What should he do? Call Elijah Stern and explain the situation to him? But what was the point? He had not written the great novel he had dreamed of writing. He was nothing but a phony.
Having given it some thought, he called the hotel on Martha’s Vineyard. He knew what he was going to do: give up the house, put an end to this masquerade. He would leave for a week with Nola so they could be together one last time, and afterward he would disappear. The desk clerk told him there was one room available for the week of July 28 to August 3. That was what he had to do.
Having made the reservation, he called the rental agency. He explained that he had received their letter but, due to a stroke of misfortune, he had no choice but to go back to New York. So he asked them to terminate the rental contract starting August 1, and he managed with the greatest difficulty to persuade the rental agent—citing practical reasons—to let him have the house until Monday, August 4, at which date he would return the keys directly to the agency’s Boston branch, on his way to New York. As he spoke on the telephone, he felt the sobs rising in his throat. So this was how his tale was ending, with the supposedly great novelist Harry Quebert incapable of writing three lines of the masterpiece he had once dreamed of creating. He was on the verge of breaking down, but before hanging up he managed to say, “That’s perfect. I will drop off the keys at your office on August 4, on my way back to New York.” Then, having replaced the receiver, he jumped when he heard a hoarse voice behind him say, “You’re leaving, Harry?” It was Nola. She had come into the house unannounced. There were tears in her eyes.
“You’re leaving?” she said again. “What’s going on?”
“Nola … I have problems.”
She hurried over to him.
