Джон Бойн - A Ladder to the Sky

‘Sort of,’ said Garrett, growing a little more confident now. ‘We’re not sure yet. Anyway, I didn’t mean to interrupt you.’

‘You’ve said.’

‘I just wanted to say hello.’

‘I’m glad you did,’ I said. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you on Wednesday.’

He smiled and nodded. The expression on his face as he walked away was one of humiliation crossed with disappointment. I turned to remonstrate with you but before I could open my mouth he’d returned.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt you,’ he said.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ you said, looking away in irritation.

‘It’s just’ – and now he was looking at you, not me – ‘didn’t you used to be a writer too?’

I felt a sudden spasm in the pit of my stomach, like someone had just pushed me from a great height and I was tumbling down, unable to grab hold of anything to prevent me from falling.

‘What do you mean used to be ?’ you asked.

‘It’s just that when I knew Miss Camberley was going to be the course tutor—’

‘Please call me Edith,’ I said.

‘I read her novel. Or re-read it, I should say. And then I looked up some interviews with her and they mentioned your name. It’s Maurice Swift, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right,’ you said.

‘I think I read your novel too.’

‘Which one?’

‘ Two Germans .’

‘You think you read it?’

‘When I was in school, I mean. I think I borrowed it from the library.’

You smiled a little. ‘But you’re not sure?’ you asked. ‘It might have been something else? It might have been Murder on the Orient Express , for example? Or War and Peace ?’

‘I’m fairly certain it was Two Germans . It’s just that I can’t really remember what it was about, that’s all.’

‘Well, it was about two Germans. The clue is in the title, you see.’

‘Yes, of course. I suppose what I mean is that I can’t remember the plot.’

‘Well, never mind,’ you said. ‘There wasn’t much of one, anyway.’

‘And are you working on a second book?’

‘My husband’s second novel was published in 1991,’ I said.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Garrett. ‘I must have missed it. So you’re working on your third, then?’

You breathed in deeply through your nose and then exhaled. For a few moments, I felt as if the entire restaurant had turned to dust. ‘I’m afraid I never talk about work in progress,’ you said. ‘And my wife and I are celebrating our wedding anniversary so perhaps you would be so kind as to stop apologizing for interrupting us and just fuck off.’

I looked down at the table. I couldn’t apologize to the boy because to do so would have been to take his side over yours. But I felt badly for him. He gave a slight laugh, as if the whole thing had been a terrific joke, but walked away without another word, returning to his table and his maybe-boyfriend.

‘Did you have to?’ I asked, looking across at you. ‘I haven’t even taught my first class yet and already you’ve alienated one of my students.’

‘Arrogant cunt,’ you said, waving a hand in the direction of the waiter for the bill, and I knew, even as you said it, that you were being deliberately vague as to whom you were referring, Garrett or me.

You see, Maurice, you might not have been very good at coming up with ideas for your books but no one could ever have denied that you had a way with words.

Three weeks into term, I was reminded of an incident that took place during our first year together. The catalyst for the memory was a short story submitted to workshop by one of my weaker students detailing an unpleasant encounter between two old friends, many years after their estrangement. The story itself was not very good and received a negative reception in class. Garrett, the boy you tried to humiliate during our anniversary dinner, was particularly harsh, which disappointed me for I had hoped that his shyness might mask a degree of empathy, but in fact it was simply a cover for the brutal ambition that would reveal itself as the year went on.

But the student’s story is neither here nor there. It simply recalled to me the time, a few months after we started dating, when I accompanied you to a literary festival in Wales. It hadn’t taken long for me to become infatuated with you and the opportunity to present myself in public as your girlfriend boosted my hopes that ours would not be a casual relationship but something more long term. I’d been to literary festivals before, of course, but always as a reader and had never found myself in the secret rooms where writers and publishers gathered in advance of their events. As I was sketching out ideas for my first novel at the time and wondering whether I would ever find myself part of this world, the experience was an exciting one.

There was still some time before your event was due to begin and, as we sat with a glass of wine, I noticed how you kept glancing towards the entrance from where, every few minutes, another writer would appear. You offered waves to some, ignored others, and a few came over to say hello, but then I noticed your eyes open wide and your face fall as you leaned forward, reaching for the programme that sat on the table between us and flicking through it for the schedule of the day’s events.

‘Fuck,’ you said, as your finger stopped on a listing.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘It can’t be nothing. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

It was obvious that something was wrong. I looked around and noticed an elderly man staring in our direction, an expression on his face that I’d never witnessed before. It seemed to combine humiliation, regret and acceptance all at once. He came towards us slowly, walking with the aid of a stick.

‘Maurice,’ he said in a strong New York accent when he reached our table. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’

‘Hello, Dash,’ you replied, standing up to shake his hand. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘Just over five years. You haven’t changed much. A little older, of course, but still as handsome as ever.’

‘Thank you,’ you said, smiling, and as it became obvious that he was not going to walk away, you invited him to sit down, which he did, pushing me a little to the side as he took the seat opposite you. You both sat silently for a moment, simply staring at each other, and as things began to grow awkward I introduced myself and he shook my hand, offering his name too. Of course, I recognized it. I hadn’t actually read any of his books, although I’d always meant to as he’d been publishing for decades and had a good reputation.

‘Did you two read together somewhere?’ I asked, looking from one to the other. ‘Is that how you know each other?’

‘Oh no,’ said Dash. ‘Maurice would never share a stage with someone as long in the tooth as me. No, we met many years ago when he was still trying to get his foot on the ladder. Seville, wasn’t it?’

‘Madrid,’ you said.

‘That’s right, Madrid. Erich Ackermann was receiving an award of some sort, I think—’

‘It wasn’t an award,’ you told him. ‘It was just a lunch.’

‘My goodness, your memory!’ he said, bringing his hands together, and I noticed thick liver spots on both that discoloured the skin. ‘You remember it as if it were only yesterday. Can you remember what we ate too?’

You smiled at this but said nothing.

‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘Maurice and I met that afternoon and became firm friends. For a time, anyway. He lived in my apartment in New York for… how long was it, a year? Eighteen months?’

‘Less than that,’ you replied. ‘Ten months at most.’