Ian Sansom - The Bad Book Affair

“I’m meant to be doing the obit later this week. I don’t know where to start.”

Israel laughed.

“What?”

“Where to start with Pearce, that’s a good question.”

“You knew him quite well, didn’t you?” said Veronica.

“Yes,” said Israel. “I do. I mean, I did.”

The waiter reappeared with the wine, Israel approved it-and they raised their glasses.

“Cheers,” said Veronica.

“L’chaim,” said Israel.

“Whatever. Are you ready to order?”

“I might just need a few more minutes,” said Israel.

“Of course,” said the waiter, raising his eyes to heaven and wandering off.

“Anyway,” said Veronica. “You’re looking well.”

“Right,” said Israel.

“Seriously, though,” said Veronica. “Have you been working out?”

“No!” said Israel. “Just-”

“You’re not on a diet, are you?”

“No, not really.”

“Have you been going to the gym?”

“Do I look like I’ve been going to the gym?”

“Yes, actually.”

“And the beard?”

“Yes,” said Israel. “What do you think?”

“I’m not sure about the beard,” she said. “What’s that all about?”

“I’m…cultivating my mind,” said Israel.

“Well,” said Veronica, “that doesn’t necessarily mean you have to be cultivating your beard at the same time, does it?”

Israel took the opportunity to draw Veronica’s attention to the venerable history of learned beards, arguing that it was in fact only a recent twentieth-century phenomenon that sophistication should be associated with beardlessness: shaving, he argued, being merely a sign of a male vanity that is directly linked to the West’s military-industrial-puritan complex.

“My brother, Esau, is an hairy man, but I am a smooth man!” he said.

“Whatever,” said Veronica.

There was a silence as they looked at each other.

“This is where you’re supposed to compliment me on how I’m looking,” said Veronica.

“Gosh. Sorry,” said Israel. “I mean, of course you’re looking well.” Veronica looked more than well.

“Well, thank you. We do our best,” she said.

The reason Israel liked Veronica was because she was so candid. She was the sort of person who cut to the chase.

She cut to the chase.

“So do you want to talk business or pleasure first?”

“Erm,” said Israel. “Can we order first?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Silly me.”

“What are you going to have?”

“I can’t decide,” said Israel.

“I’m having the Caesar salad,” said Veronica.

“Oh,” said Israel, slightly disappointed.

“What?”

“Ladies always have Caesar salad.”

“We have to think of our figures.”

“Right.”

“Don’t let that stop you having something else. The steak’s good.”

“I’m vegetarian.”

“Oh, I forgot.” And then, without waiting further for Israel, she called over the waiter and ordered her Caesar salad. Israel, under pressure, went for what looked like the least-worst option-the vegetarian lasagna.

“So, shall we get down to business?” said Veronica.

“Here?” said Israel, who’d been rather buoyed by Veronica’s compliments about his newfound svelte figure. He decided he rather liked it here. He had an unusual sense of ease. Glass of wine in hand. Beautiful woman paying him compliments. He felt dangerously wonderful and alive.

“Not that sort of business, Armstrong,” said Veronica.

“Sorry,” he said.

“So?” she said.

“What?”

“Do you want to tell me all about it?”

“About what?”

“Israel! About the police investigation into the disappearance of Lyndsay Morris, of course!”

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t really know anything about it. I don’t have anything to do with it, obviously,” said Israel.

“Obviously!” said Veronica, in a way that suggested not so much Israel’s welcome innocence as that he was clearly destined to be only a bit-part player in the theater of life, and so was incapable of being responsible for any action, good or bad.

“Oh god, what’s this music?” Veronica said suddenly.

“I don’t know,” said Israel.

“You do, you do. It’s the Kings of Leon! I love the Kings of Leon.”

Israel felt very much his almost-thirty.

“I saw them at Glastonbury,” said Veronica. “They were fantastic!” She looked Israel in the eye.

“Can I be honest with you, Israel, as a friend?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I need this story,” she said.

“What story?”

“The Lyndsay Morris story.”

“The Lyndsay Morris story? It’s hardly a story, is it? She’s a young girl who’s-”

“Everything’s a story, Israel.”

“Right. Well.”

“And I need your help.”

“Well, I don’t know how I can help, but of course if I can-”

“I need to know everything the police told you.”

“They didn’t tell me anything, really,” said Israel, swirling the wine around in his glass. “Anyway, how have you been? What have you been up to?”

“No, Israel. Concentrate.”

“I am concentrating.” He was concentrating for that moment on her pretty face and her lips.

“I need this story,” she was saying. “I really need this story.”

She suddenly reached down under the table. Israel wondered what was happening. She pulled her handbag up onto her lap. There was a book poking out the top.

“What are you reading?” said Israel.

She pulled out a copy of The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho.

“Oh,” he said, involuntarily.

“What?”

“Paulo Coelho.” He pronounced it “Co-el-you.”

“Is that how you pronounce it?”

“I think so.”

“I love Paulo Coelho.” She pronounced it “Coal-Ho.” “Have you read any?”

“God, no. It’s shit.”

“It’s not shit, actually, Israel. You just don’t like it.”

“Well, there are objective critical standards.”

“Yeah, sure, if they’re yours.”

“Not just if they’re mine. Lots of people think Paulo Coelho is shit.”

“Look.” Veronica pointed the book out to him. “It says on the back here that the book has been translated into sixty-four languages and sold twenty million copies worldwide.”

“That still doesn’t mean it’s not shit. Hitler was pretty popular too.”

Veronica tutted.

“Israel! Anyway. I was going to show you this. Here.” She pulled a newspaper from her bag, flicked through, and pointed to a page. It was a copy of last week’s Impartial Recorder.

“What?” said Israel. He read the headline. “‘Solar Heating Firm Wins Prestigious Award.’ So?”

“What’s the byline?”

“‘By Our Reporter.’”

“That’s me.”

“Uh-huh,” said Israel, not understanding.

“What about that one?” She pointed to another story.

“‘Local Dairy Export Farm Praised for Its Marketing.’”

“Guess who?”

“You?”

“Correct.”

Israel flicked through the rest of the paper-the birth of a very large pig, a school recycling art project, and twelve jobs saved at the local meat-wrapping plant.

“So?”

“Israel. I am twenty-eight years old. I have been working on this newspaper for almost ten years. I have no intention of working on this paper for the next ten years. I need this story.”

“Well, you’re a journalist, can’t you-”

“I need this big story.”

“Right. Well, can’t you just sort of write it up, or whatever you usually do?”

“I don’t have any source or any inside information.”

“Ah.”

“Which is where you come in. You’re the closest thing I’ve got to a source.”