by Joël Dicker
“Hm. You need to look into that, writer.”
I decided not to say anything to Harry about Elijah Stern until I had more solid evidence. On the other hand, I did tell Roth because it seemed to me that this evidence could prove crucial for Harry’s defense.
“Nola Kellergan was having an affair with Elijah Stern?” he gasped into the telephone.
“Yup. And my source is reliable.”
“Good work, Marcus. We’ll subpoena Stern, we’ll bury him in court, and we’ll turn the situation upside down. Imagine the jurors’ faces when Stern, having solemnly sworn on the Holy Bible, gives them all the juicy details of his bedtime adventures with the Kellergan girl.”
“Don’t say anything to Harry yet. I want to wait until I know more about Stern.”
I went to the prison that same afternoon, where Harry corroborated what Nancy Hattaway had said about Nola’s situation at home.
“Those beatings . . . it was horrible.”
“She also told me that at the beginning of summer, Nola seemed unhappy.”
Harry nodded miserably.
“I made Nola very unhappy when I pulled away from her, and the results were disastrous. After I’d gone to Concord with Jenny on the Fourth, I was completely overwhelmed by my feelings for Nola. I desperately needed to distance myself from her. So the next day, Saturday, I decided not to go to Clark’s.”
As I recorded Harry’s voice telling me about the nightmarish weekend of July 5–6, 1975, I began to see how accurately The Origin of Evil had traced his affair with Nola, mixing the story with actual extracts from their correspondence. So, in fact, Harry had never hidden their relationship; from the beginning he had confessed his impossible love affair to the entire world. In the end I had to interrupt him to say, “But Harry, all of this is in your book!”
“All of it, Marcus, all of it. But nobody ever tried to understand. So many people have analyzed that novel, talking about allegories, symbols, and literary devices that I have never even mastered, when, in reality, all I did was write a book about Nola and me.”
Saturday, July 5, 1975
It was 4:30 a.m. The streets of the town were deserted, and the rhythm of his footsteps was all that could be heard. Since he had made the decision not to see her anymore, he hadn’t been able to sleep. He would wake up involuntarily before dawn and wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep. So he would put on his shorts and go running on the beach, chasing seagulls and imitating the way they flew. He would run until he reached Somerset. It was six miles from Goose Cove; he practically sprinted that distance. Normally, having run all the way across town, he would take the Massachusetts road, as if he were leaving town altogether, then stop at Grand Beach, where he would watch the sun rise. But that morning, when he got as far as Terrace Avenue, he stopped to catch his breath and walked for a while between the rows of houses, soaked with sweat, his pulse beating in his temples.
He walked past the Quinns’ house. The previous evening, which he’d spent with Jenny, had unquestionably been the most boring of his life. Jenny was a great girl, but she didn’t make him laugh and didn’t inspire him. The only one who inspired him was Nola. He walked on down the road until he arrived at the forbidden house: the Kellergans’, where, the previous evening, he had left Nola in tears. He’d had to force himself to act coldly so that she would understand. But she hadn’t understood anything. She’d said, “Why are you doing this to me, Harry? Why are you being so mean?” He’d thought about her throughout the evening. During the meal in Concord, he had even left the table for a moment to make a call from a telephone booth. He had asked the operator to put him through to Mr. Kellergan in Somerset, and then as soon as it had begun ringing, he’d hung up. When he returned to the table, Jenny had asked him if he felt unwell.
Now, standing motionless on the sidewalk, he stared at the windows. He tried to imagine which room she was sleeping in. He stayed like that for a long time. Suddenly, he thought he heard a noise; in his desperation to get away, he ran into some metal trash cans, which clattered and crashed as they tipped over. A light went on in the house, and Harry sprinted away.
Back at Goose Cove he sat in his office to write. It was the beginning of July, and he had still not begun his great novel. What would happen if he couldn’t manage to write? He would return to his miserable life. He would never be a writer. He would never be anything. For the first time, he considered suicide. Around seven in the morning, he fell asleep at his desk, his head resting on ripped-up pages covered with cross outs.
• • •
At twelve-thirty, in the employees’ bathroom at Clark’s, Nola splashed water onto her face, hoping to remove the red marks around her eyes. She had been crying all morning. It was Saturday and Harry hadn’t come to the restaurant. He didn’t want to see her anymore. Saturdays at Clark’s had been when they met; this was the first time he’d failed to show up. She’d been full of hope when she woke that morning: She imagined he would come to tell her how sorry he was for being beastly to her, and she, of course, would forgive him. The idea of seeing him again had put her in a wonderful mood; when she was getting ready, she’d even put some rouge on her cheeks. But her mother had reprimanded her severely at the breakfast table: “Nola, what are you hiding from me? I want to know.”
“I’m not hiding anything.”
“Don’t lie to me! Don’t you think I’ve noticed? Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“Oh no—I would never think that!”
“You think I haven’t noticed how happy you are, that you’re out all the time, that you put makeup on your face?”
“I’m not doing anything wrong—I promise.”
“You think I don’t know you went to Concord with that little slut Nancy Hattaway? You’re a wicked girl, Nola! You make me ashamed of you!”
Her father had left the kitchen to lock himself in the garage. He always did that when there were arguments at home; he didn’t want anything to do with them. And he’d turn on his record player in order not to hear the beating.
“I promise I’m not doing anything wrong,” Nola repeated.
Louisa Kellergan stared at her daughter with a mixture of disgust and contempt. Then she sneered, “Nothing wrong? You know why we left Alabama . . . You know why, don’t you? Do you want me to refresh your memory? Come here!”
She grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into the bedroom. She forced her to undress in front of her, then watched as the girl trembled in her underwear.
“Why do you wear brassieres?” Louisa Kellergan demanded.
“Because I have breasts.”
“You should not have breasts! You’re too young! Take off that brassiere and come here!”
Nola stripped naked and moved closer to her mother, who grabbed a metal ruler from her daughter’s desk. First she looked her daughter up and down, and then, lifting the ruler, she smacked the girl’s breasts. She smacked very hard, over and over again, and when her daughter curled up in pain, she ordered her to stand up and remain calm or she would get even more. And the whole time she was beating her daughter, Louisa repeated: “You must not lie to your mother. You must not be a wicked girl. Do you understand? Stop treating me like an idiot!” Jazz blasted at full volume from the garage.
The only reason Nola had found the strength to work her shift at Clark’s was that she knew she would see Harry there. He was the only one who gave her the strength to keep going, and she wanted to keep going for him. But he hadn’t come today. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, lifting her blouse and examining her breasts, which were covered in bruises. Her mother was right, she thought: She was wicked and ugly, and that was why Harry no longer wanted her.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door.
“Nola, what are you doing?” she heard Jenny say. “The restaurant is packed! You have to come out and serve!”
Nola opened the door i
n a panic, thinking that Jenny must have been phoned by another employee, angry that Nola had spent so much time in the bathroom. But Jenny had come to Clark’s by chance. Or, rather, in the hope of seeing Harry. On arriving, she had noticed that nobody was waiting on the customers.
“Have you been crying?” Jenny asked when she saw Nola’s miserable face.
“I . . . I don’t feel well.”
“Splash some water on your face and join me out there. I’ll help you during the rush. They’re going crazy in the kitchen.”
When the lunch hour was over and everything had subsided, Jenny poured Nola a lemonade.
“Drink that,” she said kindly. “You’ll feel better.”
“Thank you. Are you going to tell your mom that I screwed up today?”
“Don’t worry—I won’t breathe a word. Everyone gets down sometimes. What happened to you?”
“I’ve had my heart broken.”
Jenny smiled. “Come on, you’re still so young! You’ll meet the right guy someday.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Come on, look on the bright side! You know, not so long ago I was in the same situation. I felt lonely and miserable. And then Harry arrived in town . . .”
“Harry? Harry Quebert?”
“Yes! He’s so wonderful! Listen . . . it’s not official yet and I shouldn’t really be telling you this, but you and I are kind of friends, right? And I’m so happy to be able to tell someone: Harry loves me. He loves me! He’s writing a book about me. Last night he took me to Concord for the fireworks. It was so romantic.”
“Last night?”
“Yes, we watched the fireworks above the river. It was beautiful!”
“So, Harry and you . . . Are you . . . You’re together?”
“Yes! Oh, Nola, aren’t you happy for me? Whatever you do, don’t tell a soul. I don’t want everyone to know. You know how people are: They get jealous so easily.”
Nola felt her heart contract. So Harry loved someone else. He loved Jenny Quinn. It was all over—he didn’t want her anymore. He had even replaced her. In her head, everything was spinning.
At 6 p.m., having finished her shift, Nola stopped off quickly at home, then went to Goose Cove. Harry’s car was not there. Where could he be? With Jenny? The mere thought of that made her feel even worse; she forced herself to hold back her tears. She climbed the few steps that led to the porch door, took from her pocket the envelope she had addressed to him, and wedged it in the doorway. Inside the envelope were two photographs, both taken in Rockland. One showed a flock of seagulls by the sea. The second was a picture of the two of them taken during their picnic. There was also a short letter, a few lines written on her favorite paper:
Darling Harry,
I know that you don’t love me, but I will love you forever.
I am giving you a photo of the birds that you draw so beautifully, and a photo of us so you will never forget me.
I know you don’t want to see me anymore. But please write to me, at least. Just once. Just a few words, so I have something to remember you by.
I will never forget you. You are the most amazing person I have ever met.
I love you forever.
She ran away as fast as she could. She went down to the beach, took off her sandals, and ran into the water, just as she had the day she met him.
21
ON THE DIFFICULTIES OF LOVE
“MARCUS, DO YOU KNOW what is the only way to know how much you love someone?”
“No.”
“By losing them.”
ON THE ROAD TO MONTBURRY there is a small lake, known throughout the region, and on cloudless summer days it is invaded by families and children’s summer camps. The banks of the lake are covered with beach towels and sun umbrellas, parents lying slumped beneath them while their children splash noisily in the green, lukewarm water. Trash from picnics, dropped in the water and carried away by the current, piles up in parts of the lake, turning the water to foam. The Montburry local government has endeavored to clean up the shores of the lake ever since the regrettable incident, two years earlier, when a child stepped on a used syringe. Picnic tables and barbecue pits have been provided to avoid the many open fires that turned the lawn into a lunar landscape; the number of trash cans has been doubled; toilets have been installed in prefabricated buildings; the parking lot, which adjoins the edge of the lake, has been enlarged and paved over; and, from June to August, a maintenance team comes every day to clear trash, used condoms, and dog shit from the shore.
The day I went to the lake, for the purposes of my book, some children had caught a frog—probably the last one alive in this body of water—and were trying to dismember it by pulling on its two hind legs.
Ernie Pinkas says that this lake is a good illustration of the decline of humanity. Thirty-three years earlier, the lake was unspoiled. It was difficult to reach: You had to leave your car on the roadside, cross a patch of woodland, and then walk for a good half mile through tall grass and wild rosebushes. But all the effort was worth it in the end: The lake was beautiful, covered in pink water lilies and overhung by immense weeping willows. Through the clear water, you could see the trails left by shoals of golden perch, which were hunted by herons that waited amid the roses. At one end of the lake, there was even a small beach of gray sand.
It was to this lakeside that Harry came to hide from Nola. He was here on Saturday, July 5, while she was leaving her first letter at the door of his house.
Saturday, July 5, 1975
It was late morning when he arrived at the lake. Ernie Pinkas was already there, lounging on the bank.
Pinkas laughed when he saw him. “So you finally came. It’s a shock to see you anywhere other than Clark’s.”
Harry smiled.
“You’ve told me so much about this lake that I couldn’t not come.”
“Nice, isn’t it?”
“Beautiful.”
“This is New England. It’s protected, and that’s what I like about it. Everywhere else in the country they’re paving paradise and putting up parking lots, as the song says. But here it’s different; I can guarantee you that thirty years from now this place will still be unspoiled.”
They cooled down in the water together, then dried themselves and talked about literature.
“On the subject of books,” Pinkas said, “how is yours coming along?”
Harry shrugged.
“Don’t be like that. I’m sure it’s very good.”
“No, I think it’s very bad.”
“Let me read it. I’ll give you an objective opinion—I promise. What don’t you like about it?”
“Everything. I have no inspiration. I don’t know how to begin. I’m not even sure I know what my subject is.”
“What kind of story is it?”
“A love story.”
“Ah, love . . .” Pinkas sighed. “Are you in love?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s a good start. I was wondering—don’t you miss your life in New York a little?”
“No. I’m happy here. I needed some tranquility.”
“But what do you do in New York, exactly?”
“I . . . I’m a writer.”
Pinkas hesitated to contradict him. “Harry . . . don’t take this the wrong way, but I talked to one of my friends who lives in New York . . .”
“And?”
“He says he’s never heard of you.”
“Not everybody knows me. Do you know how many people live in New York?”
Pinkas smiled to show that there was no malice in what he was saying.
“I don’t think anyone knows you. I contacted the publisher who put out your book—I wanted to order more copies. I hadn’t heard of that publisher, but I thought that was just my own ignorance until I discovered it was
actually a print shop in Brooklyn. I called them, Harry. You paid a print shop to publish your book.”
Ashamed, Harry lowered his head.
“So you know the truth,” he muttered.
“I know the truth about what?”
“That I’m an impostor.”
Pinkas placed a friendly hand on his shoulder.
“An impostor? Come on, don’t be ridiculous! I loved your book! That’s why I wanted to order more copies. You don’t have to be a famous writer to be a good writer. You have a huge amount of talent, and I am sure you will soon be successful. Who knows? Maybe the book you’re writing now will be a masterpiece.”
“What if I don’t write it?”
“You will. I know you will.”
“Thank you, Ernie.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s just the truth. And don’t worry—I won’t tell a soul. All of this will remain between us.”
Sunday, July 6, 1975
At exactly 3 p.m., Tamara Quinn positioned her husband on the porch. He was wearing a suit and holding a glass of champagne and had a cigar in his mouth.
“Don’t move a muscle,” she ordered.
“But my shirt is making me itch, honey bunny.”
“Shut up, Bobbo! Those shirts are expensive, and expensive clothes don’t make you itch.”
Honey bunny had bought the new shirts in a fashionable Concord store.
“Why can’t I wear my other shirts?”
“I already told you: I don’t want you wearing your disgusting old rags when a great writer is coming over!”
“And I don’t like the taste of cigars . . .”
“Other way around, numbskull! You put it in your mouth the wrong way. Can’t you see that the band shows where your mouth goes?”
“I thought it was a lid.”
