Adam Hall - Quiller Balalaika

I sit at his desk for the first time. In front of me, on the shelves spanning the entire room, is his life's work.

On the desk is his typewriter which he will never use again. Dust is already gathering on the keys. This is too much and I sit here in a veil of tears. There is something so horribly final about this typewriter that will never form words again. And when I look at the awesome body of work in front of me – over a hundred novels, dozens of foreign editions, the awards, ten motion pictures – I see a labour of more than fifty years of creating worlds for other people to share. I realise I am looking at my father and I feel buried in grief.

I return to his room. All I want to do is take his weary head in my hands and hold it for a long time, but I don't. I lean forward, put my face next to his.

'I've always loved you,' I tell him.

'I've always loved you, too.'

It floods out of me.

'Go ahead, let it rip,' my father says while I hold him in my arms.

Chaille and I sit on his bed, my father between us. We talk about his leaving. In the Rembrandt light of the desert evening reflecting off the outside wall, I sit next to my father and time doesn't mean much anymore.

He slept better last night and wears his red kimono. His eyes are open and look at somewhere far beyond the walls. He might hear the wind chimes outside.

Slowly, over the following hour, my father turns his head slightly around and upwards, focusing on something not in this world. Chaille and I don't say much. Are words important now?

Just the three of us in this room. Waiting for a signal.

He stays looking up into his Universe, like Wednesday's child, shallow breathing, almost not visible, but still there.

Chaille and I are on either side of my father. There are almost no sounds – Katrina's bell collar, our breathing. I pray.

My father lies under a lake of pink blanket looking like a noble Tibetan monk. Charlie, the soft-toy bear I bought him, on his knee.

'It's safe, you're safe,' I say to him.

I briefly look at Chaille because I don't think I saw his last breath. She looks back, not certain.

Another breath.

I hold mine.

My father swallows twice, gently with no sound.

Chaille says something to me but I don't hear it.

Now it comes. The storm breaks loose in my body and I bury my face in his pillows.

Finally I understand the meaning of the last words of his last novel, Quiller Balalaika…

At 4.10 p.m. on July 21, 1995 my father spread his great wings and took his final flight.

On July 31, Chaille and I took my father's ashes in a beautiful casket to the top of a 7000-foot mountain in north east Arizona where we sipped Fernet Branca – Quiller's favourite drink.

Jean-Pierre Trevor Los Angeles, September 1995