by Joël Dicker
26
N-O-L-A
(Somerset, New Hampshire, Saturday, June 14, 1975)
“THE REASON WRITERS ARE such fragile beings, Marcus, is that they suffer from two sorts of emotional pain, which is twice as much as a normal human being: the heartache of love and the heartache of books. Writing a book is like loving someone. It can be very painful.”
STAFF MEMO
You will have noticed that Harry Quebert has come to eat lunch in our restaurant every day for the past week. Mr. Quebert is a famous New York writer and we should pay him special attention. His needs must be met with the greatest discretion. No one should bother him.
Table 17 is reserved for him until further notice. It must always be free in case he arrives.
Tamara Quinn
THE TRAY WAS UNBALANCED by the weight of the maple syrup bottle. As soon as she placed it there, it tipped over; in attempting to catch it, she lost her balance and, with a mighty crash, she and the tray both fell to the ground.
Harry leaned over the counter.
“Nola? Are you all right?”
She got to her feet, a little dazed.
“Yes, yes, I . . .”
The two of them assessed the damage for a moment, before bursting into laughter.
“You shouldn’t laugh, Harry,” Nola gently reprimanded him. “If Mrs. Quinn finds out I’ve dropped another plate, I’ll lose my job.”
He went behind the counter and crouched down to help her pick up the pieces of broken glass that lay in a sticky mass of mustard, mayonnaise, ketchup, maple syrup, butter, sugar, and salt and pepper.
“My God,” he said, “can someone explain to me why for the past week every time I order something, my server brings me all these condiments at the same time?”
“It’s because of the memo,” Nola replied.
“The memo?”
She pointed at a piece of paper stuck behind the counter. Harry stood up and reached for it.
“Harry, no! What are you doing? If Mrs. Quinn finds out—”
“Don’t worry—there’s nobody here.”
It was 7 a.m., and Clark’s was still empty.
“What is this about?”
“Mrs. Quinn gave us orders.”
Some customers came in, interrupting their conversation. Instantly Harry returned to his table, and Nola rushed back to her station.
“I’ll bring you some more toast right away, Mr. Quebert,” she solemnly declared before disappearing into the kitchen.
Behind the swinging doors, she hesitated dreamily for a moment, smiling to herself. She loved him. She had loved him since their first meeting, two weeks earlier, on the beach; since that glorious rainy day when, by chance, she had gone walking near Goose Cove. She was sure of it. It was an unmistakable feeling; there was nothing else like it. She felt different, happier; the days seemed more splendid. And most of all, whenever he was there, she felt her heart beat faster.
He had begun coming to Clark’s every day to write, causing Tamara Quinn, the restaurant’s owner, to call an urgent meeting of all her “girls,” as she called her waitresses. It was on this occasion that she had showed them her memo. “You will have noticed, girls,” Tamara said to her employees, who were lined up in military fashion, “that for the past week, the famous New York writer Harry Quebert has been coming here every day, which shows that he finds in our restaurant the standards of refinement and quality found in the very best establishments on the East Coast. Clark’s is a restaurant of high standing. We must show we can meet the expectations of our most demanding customers. As some of you have brains that are smaller than peas, I have written a memo to remind you of how Mr. Quebert must be treated. You must read it, reread it, and learn it by heart! I will be conducting random tests. It will be displayed in the kitchen and behind the counter.” Tamara had then reiterated her orders: “Do not disturb Mr. Quebert, because he needs calm and concentration. Work to ensure that he feels at home here. His previous visits to Clark’s indicate that he always orders black coffee. Serve him coffee when he arrives, and nothing else. If he wants anything else—if Mr. Quebert is hungry—he will ask for it himself. Do not bother him by suggesting he order food, as you must do for all our other customers. If he orders food, bring him all the condiments and extras we have, so he doesn’t have to ask for them: mustard, ketchup, mayonnaise, pepper, salt, butter, sugar, and maple syrup. Famous writers should not have to ask for what they want; their minds must be free so that they can create in peace. Maybe what he is writing—the notes he is taking while he sits in the same place, for hours on end—is the beginning of a great masterpiece, and one day soon Clark’s will be known all over the country.”
And Tamara Quinn dreamed that with the money she earned, she would open a second branch in Concord, then one in Boston, and New York, and all the major cities on the East Coast, all the way down to Florida.
“But Mrs. Quinn,” Mindy, one of the waitresses, asked. “How can we be sure that Mr. Quebert only wants black coffee?”
“Because I know it. Period. In the best restaurants, important customers do not have to order: The staff knows their habits. Is this one of the best restaurants?”
“Yes, Mrs. Quinn,” the waitresses replied. “Yes, Mom,” bellowed Jenny, because she was Mrs. Quinn’s daughter.
“Don’t call me Mom here,” Tamara ordered. “This is not some country inn.”
“What should I call you, then?” Jenny asked.
“Don’t call me anything. You listen to my orders and you obey them slavishly with a nod of your head. There’s no need to speak at all. Understood?”
Jenny nodded.
“Have you understood or not?” her mother repeated.
“Well, yeah, I have understood, Mom. I was nodding, I—”
“Very good, darling. You see how quickly you learn. All right, then, girls, I want to see you all acting servile . . . Good! And now nod. Yes, just like that . . . from the top to the bottom . . . Excellent. Anyone would think they were at the Chateau Marmont.”
The waitresses all applauded one another after receiving this vote of confidence.
“Now let’s do a trial run!” said Tamara, with no attempt to hide her excitement. “I’m going to sit at the table. Pretend I’m him.”
Tamara sat at table 17 and nonchalantly snapped her fingers. Mindy rushed to the table in such a panic that she almost tripped over her feet.
“Yes, Mr. Kyoo-burrrt?” she called.
“Mindy, for God’s sake! He’s a famous writer, not a local farmer! His name is pronounced Kuh-bear. Like in French. You know why? Because he is a refined gentleman! Kuh-bear. Repeat after me: Kuh-bear. It should be pronounced with grace and delicacy. Kuh-bear. As if he were the king of France. All right, girls, go ahead . . .”
The chorus of waitresses croaked like frogs: “Kuh-bear. Kuh-bear. Kuh-bear.”
Tamara, nodding, congratulated her obedient employees: “Very good, girls. You see—you can do it when you put your minds to it.”
Tamara Quinn was not the only one thrown into a state of excitement by the presence of Harry Quebert in Somerset; the whole town was abuzz. Some people said he was famous in New York, and others agreed with this so as not to seem uncultivated. Ernie Pinkas, who had made several copies of Harry’s first novel available in the library, said he had never heard of him, but nobody paid heed to a factory worker who knew nothing about New York high society. And, above all, everyone agreed that not just anybody could have moved into the magnificent house at Goose Cove, which had not been rented for years.
Harry Quebert also aroused great excitement among young women of marriageable age, and sometimes even their parents. Because Harry Quebert was single. He was a man in search of love, and his reputation, his intellectual capacities, his wealth, and his physical attributes made him a catch. At Clark’s the entire staff quickly understood th
at Jenny Quinn—a pretty, sexy blonde, and a former cheerleader and prom queen at Somerset High School—had a crush on Harry. Jenny, who worked at Clark’s every weekday, was the only waitress to disobey the memo brazenly; she flirted with Harry, talked to him constantly, interrupted his work, and never brought all his condiments to him at one time. Jenny didn’t work weekends; on Saturdays Nola filled in.
The chef rang the service bell, tearing Nola from her thoughts. Harry’s toast was ready. She put the plate on her tray; before going back out, she fiddled with the gold clip that held her hair in place, then proudly pushed the door open. She had been in love for two weeks.
She took Harry’s order to him. Clark’s was slowly filling up.
“Enjoy your meal, Mr. Quebert,” she said.
“Call me Harry . . .”
“Not here,” she whispered. “Mrs. Quinn doesn’t want us to.”
“She’s not here. No one will know . . .”
She indicated the other customers with her eyes, then went on with her work.
Harry took a bite of his toast and scribbled a few lines in his notebook. He wrote the date: Saturday, June 14, 1975. He filled up pages without really being aware of what he was writing. During the three and a half weeks he’d been here, he had not managed to begin his novel. The ideas that had come to him had not led anywhere, and the harder he tried, the less he succeeded. He felt as if he were slowly sinking, suffering from the worst affliction imaginable for people of his kind: He had contracted the writer’s disease. Each day, his fear of the blank page grew stronger, to the point where he doubted the merits of having moved here. He was sacrificing all his savings to rent that impressive beach house until September—the writer’s house he had always dreamed of—but what good was a writer if he didn’t know how to write? When he had signed the rental contract, his plan had seemed infallible to him: write a damn good novel, enough of which he would have completed by September to submit to major New York publishing houses, who would all be so dazzled by it that they would enter into a bidding war. They would pay him a significant advance to finish the book, his financial future would be guaranteed, and he would become the famous author he had always imagined himself to be. But already his dream was turning to ashes: he had not yet written a single line. At this rate, he would have to return to New York in the fall penniless and bookless, and beg the principal of the high school where he had taught to take him back, and forget his hopes of glory forever. He might also have to work as a night watchman so he could put a little money aside.
He watched Nola chatting with the other customers. She was radiant. He heard her laugh, and he wrote:
Nola. Nola. Nola. Nola. Nola.
N-O-L-A. N-O-L-A.
N-O-L-A. Four letters that had turned his world upside down. Nola, the sweet girl who had made his head spin from the moment he first saw her. N-O-L-A. Two days after he had met her on the beach, he had seen her again in front of the general store; together they had walked down the main street to the marina.
“Everyone says you’ve come to Somerset to write a book,” she said.
“That’s true.”
“Oh, that’s so exciting! You’re the first author I’ve ever met! There are so many questions I’d like to ask you.”
“Like what?”
“How do writers write?”
“It’s something that just happens. Ideas swirl around your head until they become sentences that gush out onto paper.”
“It must be wonderful to be a writer!”
He had looked at her, and he had fallen head over heels in love.
N-O-L-A. She had told him she worked at Clark’s on Saturdays, and the following Saturday, at first light, he was there. He had spent the day there, watching her, admiring her every gesture. Then he remembered that she was only fifteen years old, and he felt ashamed. If anyone in the town came to suspect what he felt for the little waitress at Clark’s, he would be in serious trouble. He might even end up in prison. So to soothe their suspicions, he started eating lunch at Clark’s every day. It was now a week that he had been a Clark’s regular, coming in every day to work, feigning indifference, pretending that there was nothing to his being there. Nobody must know that on Saturdays his heart beat faster. And every day, wherever he worked—on the deck at Goose Cove, at Clark’s—all he was ever able to write was her name. Whole pages that he tore out and burned in his metal trash can. If anyone ever saw what he was writing, he would be finished.
• • •
Around noon, Nola was relieved by Mindy in the middle of the lunchtime rush, which was unusual. She approached Harry’s table, accompanied by a man who had arrived late in the morning and had an iced tea at the counter.
“Good-bye, Mr. Quebert,” Nola said. “I’m finished for today. I just wanted to introduce you to my father, Reverend David Kellergan.”
Harry stood up and the two men exchanged a friendly handshake.
“So you’re the famous writer,” Kellergan smiled.
“And you must be the pastor I’ve heard so much about,” Harry said.
David Kellergan looked amused. “Don’t pay any attention to what folks say. They always exaggerate.”
Nola took a leaflet from her pocket and handed it to Harry.
“It’s the end-of-year high school show today, Mr. Quebert. That’s why I have to leave early. It’s at five o’clock. Would you like to come?”
“Nola, leave poor Mr. Quebert in peace,” her father gently chided her. “Why would he want to see the high school show?”
Harry thanked Nola for her invitation and said good-bye. Through the window, he watched her disappear around the corner, then he went back to Goose Cove to lose himself once more in his mess of papers.
• • •
It was 2 p.m. He had been sitting at his desk for two hours and had written nothing. His eyes were riveted to his watch. He should absolutely not go to the high school. But no walls or fears of prison could stop his wanting to be with her; Harry’s body was enclosed in Goose Cove, but his mind danced on the beach with Nola. Three o’clock came. And then four. He clung to his pen to prevent himself from leaving his office. She was fifteen years old.
• • •
At 4:50 p.m., Harry, elegant in a dark suit, entered the high school auditorium. The room was packed; the whole town was there. As he moved past the rows of seats, he had the feeling that everybody was whispering about him, that the parents whose eyes he met were saying: I know why you’re here. Randomly choosing a row, he sank deep down into a seat so that nobody could see him.
The show began. There was a god-awful choir, and then a jazz ensemble that had no swing. There were dancers with no rhythm, a soulless duet, and soloists who couldn’t sing. Then the lights went out, and the only thing that could be seen in the darkness was the halo of a spotlight on the stage. And she walked into it, dressed in a blue sequined dress that made her sparkle and shine. There was a hushed silence; she sat on a stool, checked her hair clip, and adjusted the microphone that had been placed in front of her. She then smiled dazzlingly at the audience, picked up a guitar, and burst into a rendition of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” in a version she had arranged.
The audience watched and listened, openmouthed, and in that moment Harry realized that by sending him to Somerset, fate had propelled him toward Nola Kellergan. Perhaps his destiny was not to be a writer, but to be loved by this amazing young woman? He couldn’t imagine a more wonderful fate. He was so overcome that when the show ended, he stood up amid the applauding spectators and fled. He went straight back to Goose Cove, sat on the deck, and—swallowing large shots of whiskey—began frenetically writing her name. He no longer knew what he should do. Leave Somerset? But to go where? Back to the noise and chaos of New York? He had made a commitment to rent this house for four months, and had already paid half of the money. He had come here to write a book; he could not j
ust give up. He had to get a grip on himself and behave like a writer.
When he had written so much that his wrist hurt and drunk so much whiskey that his head spun, he went miserably down to the beach and slumped against a large rock to contemplate the horizon. Suddenly he heard sounds behind him.
“Harry? Harry, what’s happened to you?”
It was Nola, in her blue dress. She ran toward him and knelt on the sand.
“What is it? Are you in pain?”
“What . . . what are you doing here?” was all the response he could muster.
“I waited for you after the show. I saw you get up during the ovation, and I couldn’t find you afterward. Why did you leave so suddenly?”
“You can’t stay here, Nola.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve been drinking. I mean, I’m a bit drunk. I regret it now. If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve stayed sober.”
“Why were you drinking? You look sad . . .”
She nestled against him, and her bright eyes penetrated his.
“The solitude is killing me, Nola.”
“I’m going to keep you company, then.”
“You can’t . . .”
“I want to. Unless I’m bothering you.”
“You could never bother me.”
“Harry, why are writers such lonely people? Hemingway, Melville . . . they’re the loneliest men in the world!”
“I don’t know whether it’s that writers are lonely or whether it’s loneliness that makes them write . . .”
“And why do all writers commit suicide?”
“Not all writers commit suicide. Only writers whose books aren’t read.”
“I read your book. I borrowed it from the library, and I read it in a single night! I loved it! You are a truly great writer, Harry! Harry . . . this afternoon, I sang for you. That song, it was for you!”
He smiled and looked at her. She stroked his hair tenderly and repeated: “You are a truly great writer, Harry. Don’t feel lonely. I’m here.”
