Russell Hoban - Her Name Was Lola

‘I do too,’ says Lola, ‘but I guess we’ll have to make do with whatever aspects come to hand.’

‘You’re very gracious,’ says Max. ‘And for the rest of my life I’ll remember how you looked at me when you took off your jumper.’

‘I’m glad you appreciated that,’ says Lola. ‘I didn’t take it off lightly. And bear in mind that we’ve now been warned about unchecked gaiety and passionate drives.’

‘Right,’ says Max. ‘Will you stay here tonight?’

‘OK,’ says Lola. ‘But first I’ll have to check your gaiety.’

‘I think you’ll find it in good working order,’ says Max.

February 1997. ‘All this with two women is going to end in tears,’ says Max’s mind.

‘I know,’ says Max. ‘I’ll have to sort myself out. I’ve been wondering, if I were writing about a guy in this situation, what would be the worst that could happen?’

‘Well, he could lose his Lola, couldn’t he. What could be worse than that?’

‘Lola isn’t with him every moment,’ says Max. ‘Much of her presence, her belovedness, is in his memory. And out of his memory comes his anticipation of the next time with her. If Lola leaves him he can still remember her. But if he loses his memory he loses her completely. So that’s even worse. Maybe I could use that in a novel.’

‘There might be some mileage in it,’ says his mind.

‘In Hindu mythology,’ says Max, ‘there’s a dwarf demon of Forgetfulness called Apasmara Purusha. If this guy’s Lola gets really pissed off she might find a way of putting Apasmara on to him to wipe out the memory of her.’

‘That’s really nasty,’ says his mind. ‘I like it. But what would get her that pissed off? Would sleeping with another woman one time do it?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Max. ‘It was just a passing thought. I doubt that I’ll do anything with it — I’m not sure I like this guy well enough to write about him.’

February 1997. ‘What is it with you and Max Lesser?’ says Basil to Lola. They’re having lunch at The Cheshire Cheese in Fleet Street. Lots of newspaper people there, upholding pints and their reputation for alcohol consumption while analysing the latest scandals, sports, and political news. Cheerful noises all around.

‘Basil,’ says Lola, ‘I’ll try to put this as gently as I can.’

‘Put what?’ says Basil.

‘If,’ says Lola, ‘I were to ask my boyfriend to stand up, you’d have to remain seated.’

‘It’s like that, is it?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘This is a very sudden dismissal.’

‘Not really. You and I have not been an item for quite a long time. What we had was more of a lifestyle thing than a romance.’

‘And you’re serious about Lesser, are you?’

‘That’s nothing you need concern yourself with.’

‘I think it is. I’ll always care about what happens to you.’

‘That’s sweet of you but try not to care too much.’

‘Do you think you’ll be happy with him?’

‘Can we talk about something else? Have you had any interesting new cases?’

‘I think this Jewish-intellectual fling of yours is a delayed adolescent revolt,’ says Basil. ‘This guy is no one for you to give your heart to. Let alone other parts. There’ll come a time when you’ll wish you still had good old suitable Baz.’

‘When that happens,’ says Lola, ‘you’ll be the second to know.’

‘Have you read his books?’ says Basil.

‘I’ve read the most recent one.’

‘ Any That You Can Not Put Downe came out almost four years ago,’ says Basil. ‘He seems to be having a dry spell.’

‘Three and a half years don’t make a dry spell.’

‘Have you read Ten Thousand Several Doors and Turn Down An Empty Glass ?’

‘No.’

‘You should. They’re long since out of print but I borrowed them from one of our clerks. Lesser always writes about the same thing: himself.’

‘Lots of writers do that,’ says Lola.

‘But they don’t all stick to a pattern the way Lesser does. In all three novels the protagonist betrays the woman who loves him and then she goes out of his life and he tries to win her back. In this last novel she’s topped herself and put a curse on him and he’s trying to get her ghost to lift the curse. I doubt that Ladbroke’s would give very good odds on Lesser in the Fidelity Stakes.’

‘You’ve really done your homework,’ says Lola, ‘but then you always do. It’s nice to see you so excited about something. I’m sure that one of these days you’ll find a woman who appreciates you.’

‘I think you’re going to be sorry about the choice you’re making.’

‘Maybe,’ says Lola. ‘But I won’t be bored.’

February 1997. While Lola and Basil are at The Cheshire Cheese Lula Mae is at The Garibaldi in High Holborn with Irma Lustig of Everest Technology Accounts. Like Lula Mae, Irma, originally from Stuttgart, is a head-turner of noble proportions. Herbert Wise, Personnel Manager at Everest, is known in the organisation as Herbie the Eye. He denies discrimination and claims that he rarely receives job applications from plain women.

‘Who was that man I saw you with?’ says Irma. ‘Shorter than you.’

‘The shorter ones try harder,’ says Lula Mae.

‘He looked tired.’

‘He doesn’t spare himself.’

‘Will you be seeing him again?’

‘Probably. I’ve never had a man who didn’t come back for more and it might be fun to be his muse for a while. He’s a writer.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Max Lesser.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Neither had I but I don’t think he’s the kind of writer too many people hear of. There’s a sadness about him that appeals to me. When I met him he was with this upper-class girl who seemed a little too sure of herself.’

‘So you’re going to make her less sure?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Any future in this for you?’

‘I’m not thinking futures at the moment. He’s interesting and I’m interested. He’s more appreciative than the kind of men I’m used to and I like that.’

‘You should invest your time more wisely,’ says Irma. ‘One day men will stop sighing when you pass.’

‘That won’t be for a while yet,’ says Lula Mae.

Irma lowers her eyes to her empty glass for a fraction of a second and a red-shirted waiter instantly appears with two more grappas. ‘ Prosit ,’ she says.

‘Likewise,’ says Lula Mae. ‘So how are things with you?’

‘I’m building a careful portfolio, very conservative,’ says Irma, ‘and I’m acquiring the odd property. I expect to be financially independent by the time I’m thirty-five.’

‘What about affairs of the heart?’

‘I get one or two offers every week to be somebody’s trophy wife and there are always plenty of men who want to get into my knickers but that isn’t where my heart is. The kind of men I might like to meet are usually afraid to approach me. I envy you your interesting Max, even if it comes to nothing.’

‘It’s a funny thing,’ says Lula Mae. ‘He’s not really my type but for years he’s been craving recognition from my kind of woman.’

‘What happens if you stop giving it to him?’

‘Who knows what the future holds?’

‘Just be careful, Lula Mae.’

‘Sometimes I get tired of being careful,’ says Lula Mae.

March 1997. Here’s Max at his desk. Except for the odd engagement or research [sic] trip, this is where he puts in ten hours a day, seven days a week. All those hours and no Page One? Life is hard but today Max has the feeling that there’s going to be a breakthrough. The wallpaper on his Fujitsu/Siemens screen is Winslow Homer’s The Gulf Stream . In it a black man leans on his elbow on the slanting deck of his dismasted and rudderless boat while sharks circle him. Maybe there’s been a hurricane. The sea is wild and there’s a waterspout in the distance. The boat can’t be much more than twenty feet. No visible damage to the hull. Will he make it? Sometimes Max thinks yes, sometimes no. Today he’s thinking yes.