Paul Theroux - My Secret History

“Mr. Slee is not here at the moment. You’ll have to ring back some other time.”

“Can you tell me where he is?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m just up here feeding the cat.”

“You see, it’s an emergency. There’s been a break-in at the bank. Criminals, I’m afraid. It is absolutely vital that I get hold of Mr. Slee.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, audibly weakening. “Who are you anyway?”

“Officer Remington,” I said, glancing at my typewriter. “I’m a police constable. Crime Squad.”

“You sound like a Yank,” the woman said in a blunt bewildered way.

“That is correct, madam. Federal Bureau of Investigation. This an external matter. I must ask you to keep it absolutely confidential.”

“He’s at Mr. Wilkie’s for the weekend. I’ve got the number here somewhere—”

She dropped the phone with a clang, then returned, rustling paper and panting, and read me a ten-digit number.

“Can you tell me where that is?”

“Afraid not,” she said, and then she protested, “You said you only wanted the number!”

“Of course. I was just curious. Thank you, madam.”

After I put the phone down, Jack called out, “What are you laughing at, Daddy?”

Jenny appeared at about nine. I brought her a drink. She sat quietly, in the mute recuperating way she always did when she returned home. I left her to herself for a while, and then I sat next to her and we watched the news.

The main story was of a bomb in a milk churn in Northern Ireland — footage of a country lane, with a five-foot crater beside a hedgerow. In the background was a lovely meadow, a stone farmhouse, and farther on blue wintry hills.

“I wonder what it would be like to live in the country.”

“Very boring, I imagine,” Jenny said. “And it takes ages to commute. South London is bad enough.”

“Doesn’t Wilkie live in the country somewhere? I remember your mentioning it.”

“Kent,” she said. “That’s different. He’s on the main line.”

“Where’s his house, anyway?” I asked lightly.

“Sevenoaks. Don’t even think of moving there. I’d never go.”

Greville Lodge, Wilkie’s house just outside Sevenoaks, was of gray stone and it had the odd sunken look of solitary houses in the English countryside, as if it were slipping into the soft earth. In the meadow next to it were a dozen browsing cows, and in its circular driveway four cars. It was a house party, and on this rainy afternoon the guests were inside, probably having tea and looking forward to a drink, and then dinner — the English ritual of feeding and drinking to fill the time.

I had told Jenny I was going to Folkestone.

“For my book,” I said. My book was my excuse for everything. But there was no book.

I reflected on what I was doing: I was standing on the outskirts of Sevenoaks, in a narrow lane, in a light drizzle, in the early deepening dark of a February afternoon. The patter of the dripping trees was like soft applause.

My heart was racing. I was very excited, because this was the place I most wanted to be, and I was on the attack, facing the problem head-on. I also felt a wicked and irresponsible thrill at the thought that I might be crazy. I had gone to such lengths to be here, made such a mystery of it. Standing under the dripping tree, and hiding behind the hedge on this drizzly Saturday afternoon, seemed both absurd and appropriate. But I didn’t need to explain my behavior to anyone, and I giggled, thinking: My craziness is my excuse. But I also saw that my insanity was my personal and unique logic for living.

I walked the nearby lanes in the dark, letting the rain fall on me. No one must see me here, I thought. I put my head down each time a car went by. I could have spent the time drinking in The Horse and Groom, which I passed three times, but then I would have risked being seen. And: If I am seen I will be recognized — they will remember me later and the photo-fit picture of a dripping American would be shown on the news.

Keep this mission secret until the moment of action, I said to myself, and I laughed at my own words.

Then it was eight or so, and I was drenched. The lights were blazing in Greville Lodge. I mounted the steps, smiling, and reminded myself not to smile.

The bell chimed inside, and the door was opened by a woman in a white blouse and black skirt.

“Telegram for Mr. Wilkie,” I said. “I need his signature.”

I had first taken this woman to be Wilkie’s wife, but when she said softly, “Just a moment, sir. I’ll tell him you’re here,” I realized she was a servant.

Stepping softly on the long carpet, I followed her down the hall and into the dining room. It was not until I entered this lovely house that it struck me how ugly I looked. I caught sight of my raw wet face and wild hair in the mirror.

“Something about a telegram—”

The woman twitched when she saw I was just behind her.

Wilkie stood up. He was small and angry, and his size, and the way his standing up hardly mattered, gave him a peculiar fury.

“Who are you?” he said.

The room was warm, and fragrant with food; another mirror, and bright lights and pictures. Eight of them were seated around the table — Slee at the far end. He looked almost amused. He did not recognize me. I knew he was thinking: Wilkie’s got a problem. I watched him as I spoke.

“Message for a man named Slee,” I said.

His face went smooth and bright with anxiety. He started to stand up. There was a twitch in his cheek.

“Sit down,” I said, and drew a pistol out of my pocket.

One woman breathed hard in a pumping motion, nodding and moving her shoulders, and another screamed like a cat. The men were petrified and silent — afraid to do anything because they would reveal the extent of their fear. And the thing was a water pistol I had taken from Jack’s toy box. I held it half inside my sleeve. Just an hour before, in the rain, I had pissed into it, dribbling into the small hole.

I said, “I don’t want to use it, so don’t make me.”

Wilkie was fussing, but more carefully now. He was saying, “See here. If this is a robbery—”

“Shut up,” I said.

I loved the frightened way he backed up and made his mouth square.

“This isn’t a robbery,” I said. “I’m Andre Parent—”

Someone whispered, “Jenny’s husband.”

“And that man, Slee,” I said, pointing with my pistol and making him wince, “has been fucking my wife!”

“That’s rubbish!” Slee said, speaking to a woman across the table, obviously his companion, possibly fiancée.

“While I was away,” I said. I was dripping on the food, my sleeve over the table. I liked the suspense, the way they listened and gave me room. “This bastard came to my house. Messed around with my son, and got into bed with my wife. Yes, you did.”

Wilkie was staring at Slee.

I said, “That’s unprofessional, you slimy fucker.”

“Please calm yourself, Mr. Parent,” Wilkie said. “I can take care of this. Come to my office. We can discuss—”

“Shut up,” I said.

A woman started to cry and so I skipped the rest of my speech and said, “I’ve got a message for you.” I took a piece of paper out of my pocket.

I hated the way Slee glared at me. I guessed he was thinking, I’ll get you .

With my coat steaming and my hair over my eyes and water dripping from my elbows I read the paper.

“ ‘I would like to say in the nicest possible way that I love you in the nicest possible way.’ ”

Slee’s face hardened.

“You wrote that to my wife.”

He said, “What if I did?”

Surprised by his arrogance, I menaced him with the pistol, making him squirm. I said, “Take it,” and handed him the wet paper.