The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair: A Novel

by Joël Dicker

“Don’t you know anything about chicness?”

  “Chicness?”

  “It means chic things.”

  “I didn’t know chicness was a word.”

  “That’s because you don’t know anything! Harry will be here in fifteen minutes. Please try to behave as if you’re worthy of him. And try to impress him.”

  “How?”

  “Smoke your cigar thoughtfully. Like a great businessman. And when he talks to you, act superior.”

  “How do you act superior?”

  “Very good question. Since you’re stupid and don’t know anything about anything, you’ll have to make do with being evasive. Answer his questions with questions. If he asks you, ‘Are you for or against the war in Vietnam?’ you reply, ‘If you’re asking me that question, obviously you have a very clear view on the subject?’ And there you go, boom! You serve the champagne! That is what is called a ‘diversion tactic.’”

  “Yes, honey bunny.”

  “And don’t disappoint me.”

  “No, honey bunny.”

  Tamara went back into the house and Robert sat down in a wicker chair, feeling dejected. He hated Harry Quebert, who was supposedly a great writer but seemed more like a great stuffed shirt to him. And he hated seeing his wife put on these elaborate courtship dances for him. He was doing what she asked only because she had promised he could be her Naughty Bobbo this evening and that he could even sleep in her room. The Quinns had separate bedrooms. In general, once every three or four months, she would agree to have sex, usually after a long period of pleading, but it had been a long time since he had been allowed to spend the whole night with her.

  Upstairs, Jenny was ready: She was wearing a long evening dress, wide skirted with puffed shoulders, fake jewelry, too much lipstick, and too many rings on her fingers. Tamara arranged her daughter’s dress and smiled at her.

  “You’re beautiful, my darling. Quebert is going to fall head over heels in love with you when he sees you!”

  “Thanks, Mom. But you don’t think it’s too much?”

  “Too much? No, it’s perfect.”

  “But we’re only going to the movie theater!”

  “And afterward? What if you go to a chic restaurant? Did you think about that?”

  “There aren’t any chic restaurants in Somerset.”

  “Well, maybe Harry has reservations at a very chic restaurant in Concord for his fiancée.”

  “Mom, we’re not engaged yet.”

  “But you will be soon, darling, I’m sure. Have you kissed?”

  “Not yet.”

  “In any case, if he feels you up, for God’s sake let him do it!”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “And what a charming idea it was of his to suggest you go to the movies!”

  “Actually, that was my suggestion. I got my nerve up, called him, and said, ‘You’re working too hard, Harry! Let’s go see a movie this afternoon.’”

  “And he said yes . . .”

  “Right away! Without a second’s hesitation!”

  “You see—it’s just as if it had been his idea.”

  “I always feel guilty about disturbing him while he’s working, because he’s writing about me. I know—I saw something that he wrote. He said that he only came to Clark’s to see me.”

  “Oh, darling! That’s so exciting.”

  Tamara took a makeup box and touched up her daughter’s face while continuing to daydream. He was writing a book for her. Soon, in New York, everyone would be talking about Clark’s, and about Jenny. There would probably be a movie too. What an enticing prospect! By sending them Quebert, God had answered all her prayers. She was so glad they had been good Christians—here was their reward. Her thoughts sped on: She absolutely had to organize a garden party next Sunday to make this thing official. It would be short notice, but the Saturday after that was the summer gala, and the whole town, shocked and envious, would see her Jenny in the arms of the great writer. Her friends had to see her daughter and Harry together before then, so that the rumor would have time to go around town; that way, they would be the evening’s star attraction. Oh, what joy! She had been so worried about her daughter; she might have ended up with a truck driver. Or, worse, with a socialist. Or, worse still, a black! She shuddered at the thought: her Jenny with a black man. She was instantly gripped with anxiety: Many great writers were Jews; what if Quebert was a Jew? Maybe even a socialist Jew! It was too bad that Jews could look white, because that made them invisible. At least blacks had the honesty to be black, so they could be easily identified. But Jews were sly. Her stomach was in knots; she could feel the muscles cramping. Ever since the Rosenbergs, she had been terrified of Jews. They had given the atomic bomb to the Russians, after all. How could she find out if Quebert was Jewish? Suddenly she had an idea. She looked at her watch. She had just enough time to go to the general store before he arrived. She went off in a hurry.

  • • •

  At 3:20 p.m., a black Chevrolet Monte Carlo parked in front of the Quinns’ house. Robert Quinn was surprised to see Harry Quebert get out of it; it was a model Robert particularly liked. He also noted that the Great Writer was dressed very casually. In spite of this, he greeted him formally and immediately offered him a drink of great chicness, just as his wife had told him to.

  “Champagne?” he said.

  “Um, to be honest, I’m not really a champagne kind of guy,” Harry said. “Maybe just a beer, if you have one.”

  “Of course!” Robert said, suddenly informal and enthusiastic.

  He knew about beer. He even had a book about all the beers made in America. He ran to grab two cold bottles from the fridge and, in passing, announced to the ladies upstairs that the not-so-grand-as-all-that Harry Quebert had arrived. Sitting on the porch, shirtsleeves rolled up, the two men toasted the day by clinking their bottles together and talking about cars.

  “Why the Monte Carlo?” Robert said. “I mean, given your situation, you could have chosen any model you liked.”

  “It’s sporty and practical. And I like its style.”

  “Me too! I came close to buying one last year.”

  “You should’ve gone for it.”

  “My wife didn’t want me to.”

  “You should’ve bought the car first and asked her opinion afterward.”

  Robert laughed; in fact, this Quebert was a simple, friendly, and likable guy. At that moment, Tamara burst out, carrying what she had gotten from the general store: a plate of miniature ham sandwiches. “Hello, Mr. Quebert! Welcome! Would you like a ham sandwich?” Greeting her, Harry helped himself to a sandwich. Seeing her guest eat, Tamara felt a sweet wave of relief wash over her. He was the perfect man: neither a black nor a Jew.

  Regaining her composure, she noticed that Robert had taken off his tie and that the two men were drinking beer from the bottle.

  “What are you doing? You’re not drinking champagne? And you, Robert, why are you half undressed?”

  “It’s hot!” Bobbo complained.

  “I prefer beer,” Harry said.

  And then Jenny arrived, overdressed but beautiful in her evening gown.

  • • •

  At the same time, at 245 Terrace Avenue, David Kellergan found his daughter in tears in her bedroom.

  “What’s the matter, Nola?”

  “It’s Mom . . .”

  “Don’t say that . . .”

  Nola was sitting on the floor, her face contorted. The pastor felt so sorry for her.

  “Why don’t we go to the movies?” he suggested, to console her. “You, me, and a bucket of popcorn! The movie starts at four—we still have time.”

  • • •

  “My Jenny is a very special girl,” Tamara explained, while Robert took advantage of his wife’s divided attention to stuff his face with ham. “Did you know that at
only ten years old, she had already won all the beauty contests in the area? Do you remember, Jenny darling?”

  “Yes, Mom,” Jenny said with a sigh, ill at ease.

  “How about we look at the old photo albums!” Robert suggested, his mouth full, reciting the line his wife had made him learn.

  “Oh yes!” Tamara said. “The photo albums!”

  She hurried to fetch a pile of albums that documented the first twenty-four years of Jenny’s existence. Turning the pages, she cried out, “But who is this beautiful girl?” And she and Robert would chorus: “It’s Jenny!”

  After the photos, Tamara ordered her husband to fill the champagne flutes, then she talked about the garden party she was planning for the following Sunday.

  “If you’re free, come and have lunch with us next Sunday, Mr. Quebert.”

  “I’d like that,” he replied.

  “Don’t worry—it won’t be anything fussy. I mean, I do realize that you came here to escape the pressures of New York society. It will just be a country lunch with a few nice people.”

  • • •

  At ten minutes to four, while the black Chevrolet Monte Carlo was parking in front, Nola and her father entered the lobby.

  “Go find us a couple seats,” David Kellergan suggested to his daughter. “I’ll get the popcorn.”

  Nola went into the theater at the very moment that Harry and Jenny were entering the lobby.

  “I’ll meet you inside,” Jenny said to Harry. “I’m just going to visit the restroom.”

  Harry went into the theater and, suddenly, amid the crush of people, found himself face-to-face with Nola.

  As soon as he saw her, he felt his heart explode. He missed her so much.

  As soon as she saw him, she felt her heart explode. She had to speak to him. If he was dating Jenny, she needed to hear it from him.

  “Harry,” she said, “I—”

  “Nola—”

  At that instant Jenny moved through the crowd toward them. Nola saw her and realized she had come with Harry, so she fled.

  “Everything okay, Harry?” Jenny asked. She had not seen Nola. “You look a little strange.”

  “Yes . . . I . . . I’ll be back. You can find us some seats. I’m going to buy popcorn.”

  “Oh yes! Popcorn! Ask for lots of butter.”

  Harry went out through the swinging doors. He saw Nola cross the lobby and climb up to the mezzanine, which was closed to the public. He rushed up the stairs to catch her.

  The second floor was deserted; he caught up with her, grabbed her hand, and held her against a wall.

  “Let me go,” she said. “Let me go or I’ll scream!”

  “Nola! Nola, don’t be mad at me.”

  “Why are you avoiding me? Why don’t you come to Clark’s anymore?”

  “I’m sorry . . .”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were involved with Jenny Quinn?”

  “What? I’m not involved with her. Who told you that?”

  She released a huge sigh of relief. “Jenny and you—you’re not together?”

  “No! I’m telling you we’re not.”

  She smiled. This whole thing was nothing but a misunderstanding! “Let’s not talk about this anymore,” she whispered. “Hold me tight.”

  “I can’t, Nola . . .”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re a child.”

  “I’m not a child!”

  “Nola . . . you and me, it’s impossible.”

  “Why are you so beastly to me?”

  “Nola, I . . .”

  “Leave me alone now. Leave me alone, and don’t talk to me anymore. Don’t talk to me anymore or I will tell everyone that you’re a pervert. Go back to your little darling! She was the one who told me you were together. I know everything! I know everything and I hate you, Harry! Go away! Go away!”

  She pushed him away, hurtled downstairs, and ran out of the building. Harry gloomily returned to the theater. As he pushed open the door, he bumped into David Kellergan.

  “Hello, Harry.”

  “Reverend!”

  “I’m looking for my daughter. Have you seen her? I had asked her to find seats for us, but she seems to have disappeared.”

  “I . . . I think I saw her leaving.”

  “Leaving? But the movie’s about to start.”

  • • •

  When the movie was over, they went to eat pizza in Montburry. Driving back to Somerset, Jenny was aglow: It had been a wonderful evening. She wanted to spend all her evenings—her whole life—with this man.

  “Harry, don’t take me home right away,” she begged him. “It’s all been so perfect. I’d like to make this night last a little longer. We could go to the beach.”

  “The beach? Why the beach?”

  “Because it’s so romantic! Park near Grand Beach—there’s never anyone there. We could flirt like students, lying on the hood of the car. We could look at the stars and enjoy the night. Please . . .”

  He wanted to refuse, but she insisted. So he suggested the forest instead of the beach; the beach was for Nola. He parked near Side Creek Lane, and as soon as he turned off the engine, Jenny threw herself at him, kissing him full on the mouth. She held his head and stuck her tongue down his throat. Her hands touched him all over. She made a loathsome groaning noise. In the cramped confines of the car, she climbed on top of him, and he felt her nipples hard against his chest. She was a beautiful woman. She would have made a perfect wife. He could have married her the next day without hesitation. Lots of men would have killed for a woman like Jenny. But another’s name was already engraved on his heart. Four letters that left no space for any others: N-O-L-A.

  “You’re the man I’ve always dreamed of,” Jenny said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you happy with me?”

  He did not reply, but merely pushed her gently away.

  “We should go back, Jenny. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

  He started the car and headed toward Somerset.

  When he dropped her off at her house, he didn’t notice that she was crying. Why had he not answered her? Didn’t he love her? She wasn’t asking for all that much. All she wanted was a nice man who would love and protect her, give her flowers occasionally, and take her out to eat. Even for hot dogs if he didn’t have much money. What did Hollywood matter, in the end, if she could find someone she loved and who loved her in return? Standing on the porch, she watched the black Chevrolet disappear into the night, then she broke into sobs. She put her hands to her face so her parents would not hear her. Particularly her mother—she didn’t want to have to tell her what had happened. She was waiting for the lights upstairs to go out before she entered the house, when suddenly she heard the sound of an engine, and she lifted her head, hoping it would be Harry, coming back to hold her tight and console her. But it was a police car, stopping in front of the house. She recognized Travis Dawn, brought here by chance during his patrol.

  “Jenny? Is everything okay?” he asked through the car’s open window.

  She shrugged. He cut the engine and opened his door. Before getting out of the vehicle, he unfolded a piece of paper that had been in his pocket and quickly reread the words written on it:

  ME:Hi, Jenny. How are you?

  HER:Hi, Travis! What’s up?

  ME:I just happened to be passing by. You are beautiful. You’re looking well. You’re looking well. I was wondering if you had a partner for the summer gala. I was thinking we could go together.

  --- IMPROVISE ---

  Suggest a walk and/or going for a milkshake.

  He joined her on the porch and sat next to her.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” Jenny said, wiping her tears.

  “It’s no
t nothing. I can see you’ve been crying.”

  “Someone is hurting me.”

  “Who? You can tell me everything . . . I’ll take care of him for you!”

  She smiled sadly and rested her head on his shoulder.

  “It doesn’t matter. But thank you, Travis—you’re a nice guy. I’m glad you dropped by.”

  He dared to place a comforting arm around her shoulders.

  “You know,” Jenny said, “I got a letter from Emily Cunningham—remember, from high school? She’s living in New York now. She found a good job and she’s pregnant with her first child. Sometimes it seems like everyone’s left this place. Everyone except me. And you. Why did we stay in Somerset?”

  “I don’t know. It depends . . .”

  “But you . . . why did you stay?”

  “I wanted to stay close to someone I like a lot.”

  “Who? Do I know her?”

  “Well, actually, you know, Jenny, I wanted to . . . I wanted to ask you . . . I mean, if you . . . What I mean is . . .”

  He crunched up the piece of paper in his pocket and tried to relax. But at that moment the front door crashed open. It was Tamara, in bathrobe and curlers.

  “Jenny, darling, what are you doing out here? I thought I heard voices . . . Oh, but it’s you, Travis. How are you?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Quinn.”

  “Jenny, you’re just in time. Come in and help me, would you? I need to take these things out of my hair, and your father is useless. You’d think the good Lord had given him feet instead of hands.”

  Jenny stood up and waved good-bye to Travis, then disappeared into the house. Travis sat alone on the porch for a long time afterward.

  • • •

  That same evening, at midnight, Nola climbed out of her bedroom window and left her house to go see Harry. She had to know why he didn’t want her anymore. Why had he not even replied to her letter? Why didn’t he write to her? It took her a good half hour to walk to Goose Cove. She saw a figure on the deck, light from the house illuminating him. Harry was sitting at his big wooden table, looking out at the ocean. He jumped when she called his name.

  “Jesus, Nola! You scared me!”

  “That’s how I make you feel? Scared?” She started to weep. “I don’t understand . . . I love you so much. I’ve never felt like this . . .”