Hanif Kureishi - The Last Word

Harry said, ‘She gave him everything he wanted, and plenty of what he didn’t want. There was so much of it, he had to run for his life, even if it meant going back to the moaning lush Peggy who’d swallow anything, except his semen.’

‘No wonder he hid in the shed writing.’

‘He regrets the hiding, I suspect. It did him no good to miss out on the kisses. Still, it cheers me to think what a torment the bastard endured with both of them. It must have been a relief when Liana turned up, his escape from the labour of love. He must have believed everything would get easier.’

‘Did it work out for Mamoon? What’s it really like down there in the country with him? I guess I’ll find out later tonight.’ Harry must have looked surprised. ‘But I’m already packed. And this is juicy stuff, Harry. I can’t wait to hear more!’

‘In due course.’

‘What the fuck?’ said Rob. ‘Aren’t you going to let me sniff the sock?’

‘Rob, you sound a little manic. Your words are too close together. You don’t look at your all-time best.’

He said, ‘Did you get objective confirmation of the Mamoon violations? You can’t just stick any fucking gossip in one of my books: the lawyers will rip it right out.’

‘I understand that.’

Rob said he was rereading Mamoon’s second book, which was improving with age. He saw it all: how Marxism and fundamentalism both require and enjoin silence, and that where there is silence evil is done. Far from fading, the writer had become a more crucial figure. He and Harry should shout out to the world that Mamoon still existed and people should hear him. Rob went on to say that things were not good for him either. ‘The wife’s thrown me out of the house. We had an altercation involving violence — on her side. She says I’m a paranoid alcoholic with a personality disorder.’

‘Who’d have thought it?’

‘I am narcissistic, too, apparently, as is anyone who doesn’t think about her continuously. I’m going to get treatment for depression. If the pills don’t work, I’m going to ask to have electricity put through me to jolt me into full health. Will you hold my hand when I’m plugged into the AC/DC?’

‘Rob, it was you who suggested that things were not good for me .’

‘Sorry, I forgot. They are not good for you. They couldn’t be worse, no.’ He leaned towards Harry. ‘Watch out all around — from behind, the side and the front.’

Harry laughed. ‘For what? I’ve just been in New York discussing the book with the American publisher. I’m full of ideas. He was pleased.’

Rob leaned towards him. ‘There’s a young gun, just out of college, more businesslike, less drippy and dreamy than you. When you left the country Liana hopped off to London to meet with him secretly. She told him how difficult you are, with your unusual hard-on for the truth, and she gave him encouragement.’

‘She did that to me?’

‘The young gun was guaranteeing he could turn the biography around in a year, and give Mamoon a lovely fresh gloss — the last of the post-war literary geniuses, there being only blogs, trolls and amateurs from now on. I could hear Liana’s vagina clapping with enthusiasm.’

‘You’re joking, Rob. I signed a contract.’

‘If Liana gives the word, you’re gone like a used condom. Me and Lotte, my super-soft sidekick, are making a superhuman effort to hold you in place.’

‘How?’

‘We’re using threats — among other things. Liana has to trust me: I said the young gun doesn’t have half your brain or ability. It sounds as if you’ve been doing good work. I bought you more time. You must press on, friend. Without my protection it will get dirty. I wouldn’t want to see you on antidepressants. What’s up? Your coat is going on. You’re looking away. You’re dashing off tonight — but, please, not without me.’

‘Sorry, Rob, I don’t want to be rude, but I need to see Alice properly.’

When Rob said he did too, Harry got up, paid the bill and started to walk away. Rob followed him, still talking. ‘I say — let’s meet soon, with the material in front of us. Perhaps on site. I could feel purified down there amongst the goats, fish and dung.’ He went on, ‘And if I can’t confirm the material’s decent, it’s curtains and creative writing for you, dude. You get me?’

Harry got away from Rob, and hid a bit. At last Alice, who’d been shopping for two days, came to the station with the car stacked with gifts. After tea, they drove to Mamoon’s.

‘You’re in a good mood,’ said Alice. ‘I haven’t heard about the trip in detail. Did you get what you wanted?’

‘I might have a story. Let me talk it through. There’s some kind of centre to the book. Similar events to the ones Marion described occur in two of Mamoon’s later novels. One of his guilt-filled terrorists likes the same stuff, degrading the woman with other men and so on. Mamoon describes him as “moral filth”, which confirms it for me.’

She asked if that was enough, and he told her that ‘the Marion time’ had been a crucial period for Mamoon. After temporising over the matter for weeks, Mamoon deserted Marion in America to return to Peggy and help her die. She had begged him; she had no one else, apart from Ruth, who’d supervised the house for years and was her only friend nearby. A nurse came in every day, and Julia, a girl then, not yet a teenager, ran errands. But it was lonely.

Peggy had also made it clear, at Ruth’s urging, that a Mamoon no-show would ensure that he forfeited the property, which was in her name. His belongings would be dumped in the yard and the house would go to her sister. Mamoon owned nothing. He’d never had to think where he should live, or what he should have for supper. Peggy was maternal, at least. She’d enabled him to become an artist. What was marriage but sex plus property — property being the thing here.

So, corpse-tied, Mamoon slunk back. It was toxic; a fateful, blackmailing wrench for him and an interrruption of the new life he was exploring. He had promised Marion he would go back to her. He thought and thought about her, but he didn’t return, and he didn’t ask her to join him. He let it go — for a bit. And then for longer. .

Peggy’s diaries were sparse here, unsurprisingly, but she noted how kind Mamoon was, when pushed. She had been alone too much, and now couldn’t bear it. The moment he walked back in through the door her heart leapt. He had come home, her prince. She praised and thanked him, her husband, a thousand times. He put down his bag. She had him where she wanted him.

While she rested and slept, he sat with her and wrote at the desk across the room — and he kept on writing: fiction, diaries, and notes on his life. Harry told Alice he’d discovered several of Mamoon’s scruffy notebooks among Peggy’s things in the barn, which he was going through. These notes, given to him, in fact, by Julia, were a fascinating insight into his method, as Mamoon served her: the description of a body shrinking into death, her hands, her mouth, how he washed her, and her suffering and humiliation. Also — his memories of India, political and philosophical ideas, characters, ideas for essays, and so on. For a time he became a zombie, to survive. He had stopped loving her a long time ago, and she knew it.

Mamoon confessed that Peggy’s whole being made him ill. Her voice turned his stomach; the way she pulled at him made him cringe. The terror was that she wouldn’t die. The combination of hate and duty did him in: he was out of control, passionately unhappy, half mad, drinking, wondering why he was so loyal to her. Shouldn’t he have stayed with Marion and let Peggy down?

Peggy did die. He went into his room, eating and weeping at his desk, crying for Marion too, with whom he had also broken — at least in his mind. So: he was done with her, too. But what did it mean to be ‘done’ with so many people? Who, or what, was left?