Джон Бойн - A Ladder to the Sky

‘Well, I’m not an actor,’ you said, after a lengthy pause. ‘I prefer to create the words, not just stand on a stage and parrot them like a… like a…’ You struggled to finish the simile.

‘Like a parrot?’ suggested Rebecca, delighted by how her lover had scored such an easy victory over you.

‘Actually, I read your novel,’ continued Arjan, and it seemed that he’d built up his confidence now. We both looked up to see which one of us he was talking to.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You didn’t have to.’

‘I didn’t read it because I was meeting you today. I’d already read it before I met Rebecca. Maybe two years ago? I liked it very much.’

‘What did you like about it exactly?’ you asked, and I turned to look at you, surprised by the question. Were you trying to catch him out in a lie, was that it?

‘I liked the story,’ he replied. ‘I liked the characters. And I liked the way it was written.’

‘Could you be a little more specific?’ you asked, and I felt my stomach sink, certain that, having given such a bland response, the chances were that he couldn’t be. ‘You see, it’s always helpful for a writer to know which passages particularly impressed a reader. We’re such bad judges of our own work.’

He looked at you silently for a few moments and I could see that he knew you were trying to take him down a peg or two. You held each other’s gaze before he turned back to me, placing his wine glass down on the table.

‘The moment where the girl takes her uncle’s car,’ he said. ‘And she’s been drinking and crashes into a ditch. The doors, they were…’ He thought about it. ‘What’s the word? They couldn’t open the doors because they were squashed between two trees, yes?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘I liked the tension in that scene. And when she climbed into the back seat to escape. I did something like that myself once. Took my uncle’s car, I mean, without him knowing. And I was in a crash. The girl I was with, a girl I liked very much, she was badly injured. And she never forgave me.’

‘What happened to her?’ I asked.

‘The windscreen smashed and hundreds of slivers of glass went into her face. She needed a lot of surgery.’

‘And did it work?’ I asked. ‘The surgery, I mean?’

‘Yes, but there were still some scars. Anyway, I liked this passage very much. You write about fear very well.’

‘Well, that is the title of the novel, after all,’ you muttered irritably. ‘ Fear .’

‘Yes, but the novel isn’t really about that, is it?’ continued Arjan. ‘In fact, I think the novel has very little to do with fear. In my view, it’s about bravery.’

‘You’re very perceptive,’ I said. ‘Not everyone recognizes that.’

‘I wouldn’t be too flattered,’ said Rebecca. ‘As an actor, Arjan is obviously very interested in literature, so he reads a lot.’

‘Something tells me that when you were in school, you were the boy who always came to class well prepared,’ you commented, and I threw you a look, annoyed by your peevishness.

‘I suppose I was,’ admitted Arjan, refusing to rise to your bait. ‘I wanted to pass my exams and to—’

‘Yes, yes,’ you said, dismissing him now with a wave of your hand.

‘Rebecca tells me that you used to be a writer too,’ said Arjan, and I winced at his choice of words.

‘I beg your pardon?’ you said.

‘She says that you wrote a novel once,’ he replied.

‘I’ve written two actually,’ you told him, and Six , I thought.

‘There must be some competition between you then?’ he asked, looking back and forth between us, and I shook my head.

‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘Nothing like that. My husband has been publishing much longer than I have and is highly respected. I’m pretty new to it all.’

‘And yet your book was such a success,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I admitted, for once wanting to accept the compliment. ‘Yes, it was.’

‘It’s your use of the past tense that bothers me,’ you said.

‘I don’t understand this?’ said Arjan, narrowing his eyes.

‘You mentioned that I used to be a writer. I didn’t used to be anything. I am .’

‘Just like I’m an actor,’ said Arjan. ‘Perhaps you’re resting too. I hear a lot of writers do that. Anyway, I look forward to reading your next book. Eventually, I mean. If it finds a publisher.’

Before you could respond to this, Mum came in and clapped her hands to tell us that dinner was ready. I don’t think I’d ever been so happy to see anyone in my entire life.

Later, I found you brooding in the hallway, staring at some old family photographs. I felt a rush of anxiety that you were angry with me but this eased when you smiled, leaned forward and kissed me.

‘How about next year we don’t go to your family or mine for Christmas?’ you suggested. ‘We could go away on holiday instead. Somewhere hot. Just the two of us.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ I said. ‘How are you doing, anyway?’

‘Fine,’ you said. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘You were very quiet during dinner.’

‘I was eating.’

I hesitated for a moment, uncertain whether I should bring this up or not. ‘You know Arjan wasn’t trying to be rude to you,’ I said at last. ‘He was probably just—’

‘I don’t give a fuck about Arjan,’ you said. ‘There’s something sort of tragic about him, don’t you think?’

‘No, not really,’ I said.

‘You don’t think he’s a bit deluded?’

‘In what sense?’

‘His dreams of making it big in Hollywood.’

I said nothing for a moment, wondering whether you actually believed this or had simply decided to spin his remarks to fit your own design. ‘Actually, I thought he seemed quite realistic about his future,’ I replied finally.

‘You fancy him, don’t you?’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Please tell me you’re joking,’ I said, hating where this conversation seemed to be leading.

You stared at me for the longest time and then broke into a wide smile. ‘Of course I’m joking,’ you said. ‘Lighten up, Edith! It’s Christmas!’

I pulled away from you but, before I could say anything, the doorbell rang and I heard Mum call out to me from the living room, asking me to answer it.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, trying to move around you, but you were pressing me against the wall. ‘Maurice, you’re in my way,’ I said, raising my voice a little, and now you stepped a little to the side, just enough to let me pass, and I walked towards the front door and opened it. Standing outside, the light from the overhead bulb shining down on him as it snowed, was Robert. He was wearing a grey overcoat that looked brand new and the sort of scarf that could only have been a present from his mother. He’d had a haircut too. The style was a little too youthful; it would have looked good on someone ten years younger but, on him, it seemed a little desperate.

‘Hello, Edith,’ he said. ‘Happy Christmas.’

‘Robert,’ I said, standing back a little, surprised to see him there. ‘Nobody mentioned that you… Is Rebecca expecting you?’

‘I may have forgotten to tell her that I would be stopping by.’

‘Right.’ I stood there, staring at him, uncertain what I should do next, which was when you appeared behind me.

‘Hello, Robert,’ you said.

‘Maurice.’

‘You look cold, mate.’

‘Well, I’m freezing my bollocks off, actually. Can I come in?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I replied. ‘Do you think it’s a good idea?’

‘Of course you can,’ you said, opening the door wider. ‘You’re still family. Come in.’

I stepped aside as he walked into the hallway, taking off his coat and scarf before reaching forward to give me an awkward kiss on my cheek. His cold lips made me shiver a little. ‘You haven’t been drinking, have you?’ I asked. ‘You’re not here to cause any trouble?’