Russell Hoban - Her Name Was Lola

November 2001. No letters on the mat this morning. Thirty or forty flyers for Thai, Chinese, Indian takeaway, Pizza, Painting & Decorating, various car services but no letters. Was there something yesterday? Max can’t remember.

He goes down to the kitchen for breakfast, then up to his desk. He turns on the modem and computer, checks his e-mail. One offer to make him a millionaire, one to make his penis three to four inches longer overnight. He trashes both, then looks at what he did yesterday. Max writes novels that don’t sell, children’s picture books that do. His last novel, Any That You Cannot Put Downe , was published eight years ago. He’s been working every day but he hasn’t got anything that looks like Page One of a new novel. On the children’s book front he’s also without a Page One. He’s had considerable success with a series about a hedgehog called Charlotte Prickles but at the moment Charlotte isn’t telling him anything.

‘Give it a rest,’ says his mind. ‘We have a lunch date.’ It’s almost time to leave so Max puts his Underground book in his rucksack: A Beleagured City and Other Tales of the Seen and the Unseen by Margaret Oliphant. Also two videos lent by his friend Seamus Flannery, Living in Oblivion and Being John Malkovich , and off he goes. To Earls Court on the District Line, then the Piccadilly to Russell Square. Max has got a seat and is absorbed in A Beleagured City . In it a dark cloud separates the city of Semur from the daylight around it and the inhabitants are driven out by the invisible presences of the dead. ‘Absent friends,’ says Max’s mind.

‘Why did you say that?’ says Max.

‘I don’t know,’ says his mind. ‘Don’t let me distract you from your book.’

Max comes out of Russell Square station and heads for Southampton Row and II Fornello where he’s going to meet Seamus for lunch. Just then the world becomes not there and he has to stop in his tracks while he sees nothing but moving shapes of black. ‘Shit,’ he says.

‘Try to be calm,’ says his mind. ‘Just stand there until the world comes back.’

Max stands there for what seems a long time. The shapes of black keep moving and changing. The way they do it scares him. He’d like to think it’s his mind playing up but this feels as if it’s coming from somewhere else. The black shapes are as sharp as double-edged razor blades and Max fears that if he makes a wrong move blood will come out of his eyes and ears and nose and mouth. What would be a wrong move? A wrong thought? He pays close attention to the shapes of black. The distances between them are not always the same. A woman he can’t see touches his arm and says, ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m OK, thanks,’ he says. ‘I was just trying to remember if I turned off the cooker.’

‘And did you?’

‘Not sure but I’ll find out when I get home.’

‘Good luck,’ says the woman, and she’s gone.

Is one of the black shapes moving away from the others? Is it something recognisable? Suddenly the world comes back. With a stench of desolation. It smells like a backed-up toilet in an empty house with broken windows. Out of the corner of his eye Max sees something following him. Is it a dog? A cat? It’s a little man, black as ebony, long body, very short arms and legs, large head, big ugly baby-face. He’s inching along on his belly and writhing like a dog that’s been run over. Max looks around. Lots of foot traffic but nobody is stepping on the dwarf. Nobody is taking any notice at all. The smell is almost making Max throw up but he wants to do the decent thing. He says to the dwarf, ‘Are you all right?’

‘Closer,’ says the dwarf. His voice is like dead leaves skittering on the floor of that empty house with the backed-up toilet.

‘Not sure this is a good idea,’ says Max’s mind.

Max comes closer. Like a jumping spider the dwarf springs off the pavement and there he is in Max’s arms. ‘Hold me,’ he says, sobbing a little. This is a very heavy dwarf. Max tries to put him down but his arms and hands have lost the ability to let go.

Again Max looks around. Again nobody’s taking any notice. ‘OK,’ he says to the dwarf. ‘Nobody else can see you. Nobody else can hear you. Probably they can’t smell you either. You’re a hallucination.’

‘So?’ says the dwarf. He sniffles, belches, farts, then like a baby he goes to sleep in Max’s arms. What about the razor blades? Still there? Max isn’t sure.

‘Now what?’ he says to his mind.

‘I don’t know,’ says his mind. ‘We’ll just have to play it by ear.’

‘And nose,’ says Max.

Max can’t put the dwarf down but he manages to sling him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He moves on, rounds the corner into Southampton Row. Now it’s a beautiful blue-sky day. The Russell Hotel looking absolutely real. Fresh wind blowing brown leaves from Russell Square. Hard sunlight glinting off the traffic. Tourists thick on the ground. Young ones with backpacks as big as steamer trunks, mineral water, London maps. Old ones with trolley bags. Ordinarily Max wishes they’d go away. Today he’d like to see more of them. The London Pride sightseeing bus is waiting for punters in its usual place. The luggage shop a little farther along is offering backpacks and trolley bags at SALE prices. The shop that sells electronic marvels of all kinds is flaunting its hand-held DVD players and other erotica. So things are fairly normal but although the sunlight is hard and bright there doesn’t seem to be enough light in the day for Max.

At Il Fornello he gets a hearty greeting from the staff. ‘ Dottore Max!’ says Bruno at the till. ‘How are you?’ Max isn’t a doctor but at Il Fornello any regular patron over forty is Dottore and those over sixty are Professore. ‘Dottore !’ says Juliano, coming to shake his hand. ‘Have you hurt your back?’

‘Heavy lifting,’ says Max. He wonders if he’ll be able to put the dwarf down to take his jacket off. Bad move? Paco comes to help him. The dwarf wakes up, drops to the floor, waits until the jacket is hung up, then he does his jumping-spider thing again. Max slings him over his shoulder and heads for Seamus who’s already in their regular booth.

Seamus, also a Dottore , says, ‘Hi.’

‘Heavy lifting,’ says Max.

‘Best avoided,’ says Seamus.

Max wonders if he can get the dwarf off his shoulder and on to the seat between himself and the wall. He can, with the dwarf asleep again and snoring quietly. Max sighs, sits down, takes the two videos he’s returning to Seamus out of his rucksack and puts them on the table. Seamus puts out three that Max lent him: Field of Dreams, The Devil’s Backbone , and The Princess and the Warrior . Juliano brings them each a half-pint of lager and as they clink glasses Seamus says, ‘Absent friends.’

‘Why’d you say that?’ says Max.

‘Who knows?’ says Seamus. ‘There are bound to be some out there.’

‘How’s work?’ says Seamus. ‘Page One?’

‘Not yet,’ says Max. ‘What about you? Episode Four?’

‘Slow going,’ says Seamus.

‘Gentlemen?’ says Juliano.

‘Scampi,’ say Max and Seamus.

‘Problems?’ says Max to Seamus.

Seamus nods. ‘Gwendoline’s realer than Daniel.’