Nick Hornby - Juliet, Naked

“Oh, God,” said Duncan.

“What?”

“I can’t think of any good reason why that man would introduce himself as Tucker Crowe unless he actually was.”

“Really?”

“Annie’s not really a cruel person. And the person on the beach looked a little bit like the person in that picture. Except older.”

“And did she explain how she knew him?”

“She said he wrote to her. Out of the blue. After she posted that review of Naked on our website.”

“If that’s true,” said Gina, thoughtfully, “then you must want to hang yourself.”

Unfortunately, Duncan was not physically capable of jogging through the streets of Gooleness for the second time in less than an hour, so he had to settle for a brisk walk, with occasional pauses. He needed the time to think, anyway; there was a lot to think about.

Duncan had not been a regretful man, not until recently. However, over the last few weeks, he had found himself wishing that he had done a lot of things differently. He had been impulsive, and overeager, and lacking in judgment. He’d got a lot of things wrong, and he hated himself for it. And the thing he’d got most wrong, he’d come to realize, was Juliet, Naked . What had he been thinking of? Why had he responded like that? After about five more plays, the songs in their acoustic form had started to pall; after ten, he’d decided he didn’t want to hear the album again. Not only was it a weak, malnourished, puny thing, but it had started to diminish the magnificence of Juliet : who wanted to see the rusty old innards of a work of art, really? It was of interest to scholars, and he was a scholar. But how had he come to the conclusion that it was better than the original? He knew part of the answer to that question: he’d had access to Naked before any of his peers, and to post a review saying that it was dull and pointless would have thrown away his advantage. But then that’s what art is, sometimes, he always felt: something that confers advantages. His had come at a cost, though. He’d had currency, but the exchange rate turned out to be dismally low. Why hadn’t he just taken the wretched review down? He turned back—to run home to his computer—and then spun around again. He’d do it later.

All that, and now this. If it was true that Tucker Crowe was in Gooleness— staying in his old house —then he had many other reasons to mourn the temporary desertion of his critical faculties. If he hadn’t been so irritated by Annie’s indifference, they might not have split up, and they might have met Tucker together. If he’d posted the same kind of review that Annie had written, Tucker might have e-mailed him. It was all too much, really. He’d lived his whole life cautiously, and on the one occasion when he’d screwed his caution up into a ball and thrown it to the wind it had ended like this. (And there was Gina, too, of course, which was another narrative strand in the same story. Gina was, metaphorically, Naked , and her literal nakedness, or the offer of it, had only served to underline the aptness of the metaphor. He’d jumped too quickly there, too.)

Most of his adult life he’d wanted to meet Tucker Crowe, or at least to be in the same room, and here he was, possibly on the verge of realizing that ambition, and he was scared. If Tucker had read Annie’s piece, then the chances were he’d have read Duncan’s, too. Presumably he’d hated it, and hated its author. Tucker Crowe knows who I am, thought Duncan, and he hates me! Is that possible? Surely he’d recognize and appreciate the passion for the work, at least. Wouldn’t he? Or would he hate that, too? It would be better for everyone if, after all, Annie were playing some kind of cruel and juvenile trick. He turned toward Gina’s place for a second time, thought better of it again.

And in the middle of all these doubts and anxieties, all this self-loathing, Duncan found himself trying to think of test questions that would either prove Tucker was who he said he was or expose him as a fraud. It was difficult, though. Duncan had to concede that Tucker Crowe was an even greater authority on the subject of Tucker Crowe than Duncan Thomson. If he were to ask him, say, who played that pedal steel on “And You Are?” and Tucker insisted that it wasn’t Sneaky Pete Kleinow, that the album sleeve was wrong, then who was he to argue? Tucker would know, surely. He could win those arguments every time. No, he needed something different, something that only the two of them could possibly know about. And he thought he had it.

When Annie saw Duncan skulking on the other side of her front hedge, obviously trying to summon up the courage necessary to knock on what was, until comparatively recently, his own front door, and trying to peek through the window without anybody noticing, she almost hooted at the irony. Less than two hours before, she’d been quietly lamenting his lack of passion for her, her inability to provoke in him the desire to hide behind her hedge trying to catch a glimpse of her; and now here he was, doing exactly that. And then very quickly she realized that there was no irony here at all. Duncan was hiding behind her hedge because Tucker Crowe was in her kitchen. She was still not enough, in exactly the same way she hadn’t been enough before.

She opened the front door.

“Duncan! Don’t be an idiot. Come in.”

“I’m sorry. I was just…” And then, unable to come up with any plausible explanation for his behavior, he shrugged and walked down the path into the house. Jackson was at the kitchen table, drawing, and Tucker was frying bacon for their brunch.

“Hello again,” said Duncan.

“Hello there,” said Tucker.

“There is a possibility that I might perhaps owe you an apology,” said Duncan.

“Okay,” said Tucker. “And when will you know for sure?”

“Well, it’s all very difficult, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“I’m beginning to think that there’s no real reason for you to tell me you’re Tucker Crowe if you’re not.”

“That’s a good start.”

“But as I’m sure Annie has explained… I’m a, a long-term admirer of your work, and for some years now I’ve been under the impression that you don’t look like that.”

“That’s Fucker,” said Jackson, without looking up from his drawing. “Fucker is our friend Farmer John. A man took a photo of him and told everyone it was Daddy.”

“Right,” said Duncan. “Well. I can see how… It’s plausible, I grant you.”

“Thanks,” said Tucker, genially. “If it helps, I have a passport.”

Duncan looked stunned

“Oh,” said Duncan. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” said Tucker. “You were probably thinking more along the lines of some exhaustive trivia questions. But there’s your world, which is full of, you know, rumor and conspiracy theories and scary photos of people who aren’t me. And there’s my world, which is all passports and PTA meetings and insurance claims. It’s pretty banal in my world. There’s plenty of paperwork.”

Tucker went to a jacket hanging over the arm of a chair, and pulled his passport out from the inside pocket.

“There.” He handed it to Duncan.

Duncan flicked through it.

“Yes. Well. That all seems to be in order.”

Annie and Tucker burst out laughing. Duncan looked startled, and then forced a smile.

“Sorry. That probably sounded a little officious.”

“You want to see Jackson’s? I can see you might think that I’ve forged this one. But would I go to all the trouble of forging a passport for a kid just so he has the same last name as me?”

“Can I use your loo, Annie?” said Duncan. And he left the room, without receiving permission.