Джон Бойн - A Ladder to the Sky

‘Makes one wonder what?’ asked Maurice.

‘How you ,’ said Gore, pointing a finger at the boy, ‘ended up sleeping in it. A Yorkshire lad, barely in his twenties, with not much to show for his life so far.’

‘Well, except a fairly successful novel.’

‘Yes, but I’m not sure that means very much any more.’

Maurice rolled his eyes and Gore felt a stab of irritation. He was a giant and would not be dismissed by a boy who had barely started to shave. ‘You’re not going to tell me that literature is over, are you?’ Maurice said. ‘We’ve argued that point already.’

‘I wasn’t going to say anything of the sort,’ replied Gore, trying to control his annoyance. ‘You must remember that I published Williwaw when I was nineteen. And I was only your age when The City and the Pillar appeared, provoking a scandal. E. P. Dutton told me that I’d never be forgiven for it and for years the New York Times blacklisted me and wouldn’t review any of my books. I had to go to work in Hollywood to earn my living on account of their puritanism. And believe me, you don’t know what it’s like to roll around in the shit until you find yourself driving in and out of a studio gate every day.’

‘I have no interest in film,’ said Maurice carelessly. ‘I only want to write novels.’

‘So, no, literature is far from over,’ continued Gore, ignoring the interruption. ‘What you’re doing to Dash, you know. It’s deeply unkind.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Of course you do. Don’t play the fool.’

‘And have you always been kind, Gore? Because from what I’ve read about you, I suspect that you’ve hurt many people along the way.’

‘That’s probably true. But I don’t believe I’ve ever deliberately set out to ruin a man. No, I don’t believe I’ve ever done that.’

Maurice said nothing, but returned to his packing.

‘But you haven’t answered my question,’ said Gore.

‘What question was that?’

‘How a young man like you ended up sleeping in a bed like that.’

‘Howard told me to use it. He said it was more comfortable than the one he was giving Dash.’

Gore smiled. ‘Some might say that your mentor should have been assigned the better room.’

Maurice frowned. ‘I’m not sure I’d describe Dash as my mentor.’

‘No? How would you describe him then?’

‘I told you last night. A friend. Someone I admire. He’s a good writer, is Dash.’

‘ He’s a good writer, is Dash ,’ repeated Gore, mimicking the sudden appearance of the boy’s accent. ‘Be careful, Maurice. Your roots are showing.’

‘Yes, and that’s all he’ll ever be. Let’s not pretend he’s Proust.’

‘No, he’s not Proust,’ admitted Gore. ‘But he’s shown a generosity of spirit towards you for which you should feel grateful.’

‘And I do,’ said Maurice. ‘Have I done something to make you think otherwise?’

‘The way you look at him. The contempt with which you treat him. How you keep him dangling on a string, desperate for some affectionate word from you. I assume you’re finished with him now and are ready to move on to pastures new?’

Maurice shrugged. ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘My life has become rather busy of late. And Dash can be… How shall I put this? Very needy. It becomes exhausting after a while.’

‘I can only imagine. I have to hand it to you: you know what you want out of life and you’re determined to get it. Perhaps I wasn’t so very different to you when I was your age. Although I was better-looking, of course.’

Maurice smiled. ‘I’ve seen the pictures,’ he said. ‘And yes, you were.’

‘So, is this it?’ asked Gore. ‘Being a writer. This is all you’ve ever wanted? There’s nothing else?’ Maurice hesitated, and Gore noticed him biting his lip. Was there a weakness in there somewhere, a chink in the boy’s armour? ‘There is something, isn’t there?’ he said. ‘There’s something more that you want? I took you for utterly single-minded, but no. Tell me, I’m intrigued.’

‘You’ll laugh,’ said Maurice.

‘I won’t.’

‘It will seem ridiculous.’

‘Probably. But everything seems ridiculous to me these days.’

‘I’d like a child,’ said Maurice.

‘A child?’

‘Yes, a child.’

Gore sat back in his chair, his eyes opening wide. ‘A child ?’ he repeated.

‘God, is it so unusual?’

Gore stared at the boy, uncertain what to make of this declaration. ‘I thought I could see right through you,’ he said finally. ‘But I must admit I hadn’t expected that. What on earth do you want a child for? What good is a squealing infant to anyone? They demand instant attention. A puppy, I could understand. But a child? Really?’

Maurice shook his head and smiled. ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ he said. ‘You’ve obviously never wanted one.’

‘I don’t even like passing them in the street. Children are banned here at La Rondinaia.’

‘Well, there you are. You met me for the first time twenty-four hours ago, Gore. Don’t presume to understand me. You don’t.’

‘All right. But you know what they say in Italy, yes? Quando dio vuole castigarci, ci manda quello che desideriamo .’

‘Which means?’

‘When the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers.’

A long silence ensued, one that neither man seemed keen to break. Gore could scarcely remember any of his writer colleagues over the years talking about children. Not even the women. Especially not the women.

‘Well,’ he said finally, unwilling to leave the room while he was still one game down. ‘You know, I stayed up late last night.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes, I decided to read your novel.’

Maurice sat down on the bed now and ran a hand across his chin, looking a little apprehensive. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘And what did you think of it?’

Gore glanced up towards the ceiling for a few moments as he considered his answer. ‘You write well,’ he said. ‘You’re very good on place. The dialogue rings true, even though it must have been difficult for you to recreate it from such a distance of time and geography. I struggled with that too on Burr and Lincoln , but you work through it successfully. Perhaps you’re a little too fond of alliteration and you’ve clearly never met a noun that you didn’t think would look better all dressed up in an adjective. But there’s a strong erotic element to the book that works very well. The moment where Erich and his friend go to the lake and Oskar strips off, it’s rather arousing on a purely physical level.’

‘I wanted to write Oskar Gött as shameless about these things.’

‘I didn’t read him as shameless so much as proud. But also a little naïve. It wouldn’t have crossed his mind that Erich wanted to touch him. I liked when they both woke up on the bank afterwards, tumescent, and were uncertain how to explore the moment. Yes, it’s a good book, I really can’t offer any major criticisms. I’m not surprised it’s doing so well for you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Maurice, looking relieved. ‘It means a lot to hear you say that.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Why does it mean a lot?’

Maurice shrugged, as if the answer was so obvious it was hardly worth pointing out. ‘Well, because you’re you, of course. And I’m only me.’

‘And what does it mean for me to be me and for you to be you? What is it that you think separates us, other than forty years?’

‘You’re a significant figure in twentieth-century literature. You’ll be remembered.’