Sascha Arango - The Truth and Other Lies

There is no silence like another person’s absence. Drained of anything familiar, it is a silence that is hostile and reproachful. The shadowy figures of memory surface noiselessly and begin their picture show. Hallucinations mingle with reality; voices call us, and the past returns.

For a long time after he’d closed the door behind him, Henry stood there in the dark and listened. It was no longer the same house. Martha was gone — and he was pitifully alone, locked up with a demon of guilt that was bound to torture him. He’d killed the wrong woman and stripped himself of everything, destroyed it pointlessly in an act of rashness. His punishment had already begun; each day when he awoke, the memory would wake with him and be renewed. To keep a secret, you should never lose concentration; tell nobody and never forget . That was how Martha had begun the first chapter of Aggravating Circumstances . She must have meant him. Who else could she have meant?

His dramatically staged search on the beach had been convincing. His encounter with the young woman was a gift of serendipity, for what can be more authentic than coincidence? An unsuspecting woman is gathering pebbles on the beach and witnesses a tragedy. She scours the area with the man who is out of his mind with grief; she calls the coast guard and gathers up Martha’s orphaned clothes; she cries with him, suffers with him, sees everything in every detail. That is authentic.

The liars among us will know that every lie must contain a certain amount of truth if it’s to be convincing. A dash of truth is often enough, but it’s indispensable, like the olive in the martini.

The idea of going to look for Martha had come to Henry just as he was about to call the police. Clutching the telephone receiver, he had reflected that anything you want to believe in is best experienced firsthand. Made-up stories are soon forgotten; lies need remembering, which requires effort. Eventually every lie becomes an unexploded bomb lurking beneath the surface, rusting away, ready to detonate. You grow careless, inattentive, you forget. But other people don’t forget, so that anyone who no longer knows where the forgotten lies are buried should avoid the whole area. Henry’s biography was full of these dangerous things; his past was a minefield, which is why he never set foot in it. But anything you’ve experienced is stored in your memory for a long time. Trusting this wisdom, Henry had set out in search of his dead wife, in order to re-create the growing distress that any self-respecting husband would surely have felt. And so it came about that he really was in a bad way when he broke down on the beach. He felt real despair; he wept bitterly and from the bottom of his heart. And the young woman saw it all. So far, so good.

Still very touched by himself, Henry sat down on the marten trap and pulled off his sand-filled boots; his wet socks dripped on the wood. He glanced up the stairs. The bottom stairs were visible in the faint moonlight, but higher up they disappeared into the darkness. No one lived up there anymore, except the marten; that was something he’d have to deal with soon enough. From now on he would live with his memories. There would be no more novels.

Henry leaped up from the box. The novel! He had promised Moreany the finished manuscript in August. Where was the manuscript? Had he overlooked it in all the excitement?

Henry took the stairs two at a time. Outside Martha’s closed door lay the dog, its nose pressed to the wooden floor. The manuscript wasn’t on the little table next to the typewriter as it usually was. The wastepaper basket was as empty as ever. Henry threw himself to the floor and looked under the bed; he rummaged through the cupboard and the bed and the bathroom — the manuscript wasn’t there. He opened the window, unbuttoned his shirt — he was unbearably hot — and sat down on Martha’s bed. Poncho trotted into the room and began to groom himself at Henry’s feet.

Martha had known everything. Before driving to Betty’s yesterday she had burned the novel in the fireplace — or no, worse still, she’d sent it to Moreany. Registered, with a little postcard message in her lovely, curvy, feminine hand. Something like this:

Have fun reading, Claus. Henry didn’t write a line of this. He’s never written anything. He can’t even write a school essay. This isn’t a joke; I’m deadly serious. The only thing my husband has produced in the years of our marriage is a bastard. If you of all people, Betty, should happen to edit my last novel, you can be sure that the child in your belly will turn out like its father — a creature of no significance, worthless from the moment it’s born. By the way, Henry killed his father. And ask him where his mother’s buried when you get the chance. Do me a favor, Claus — if I’m no longer alive tomorrow, be so good as to inform the authorities, would you?

Henry got up from Martha’s bed. No. She wouldn’t do that to him; public denunciation wasn’t her style. Resentment and retribution were as alien to her as the desire for fame. Henry wouldn’t even have dreamed of marrying a woman with such base instincts. Martha’s revenge would be the silence that already covered everything like a poisonous dust. And there it was again, that ugly gnawing. You could hear it through the wall. The marten must be directly above him.

Henry searched the house until dawn. There was no paper ash in the fireplace — only little balls from Martha’s melted swimsuit. In the meticulously sorted kitchen rubbish there was nothing to be found either. In the end he gave up and, tired and at a loss, went into his bedroom to lie down. On his pillow he found the manuscript, held together with a rubber seal from a preserving jar. White Darkness , it said in pencil on the title page. Martha had found a title. Henry tore off the rubber band. The last chapter was missing. Darling , Martha had written in pencil on the last page…. hang on a little while longer. Can you guess how it ends? Kisses, Martha.

——

Betty didn’t come. Claus Moreany put the latest MRI scan in his desk drawer and locked it. The metastases had already spread from his hip to his spine, but there was still time. In August, Henry’s manuscript would be there. That left enough time for a late-summer honeymoon in Venice before the book was published. Betty loved Venice. She loved Renaissance art, the seaweed-green water of the lagoons, and the Italian sun. If she were his wife, she’d inherit his entire fortune — why would she say no? In return, Moreany wouldn’t expect or demand anything of her except the occasional privilege of having her near him. She didn’t even have to touch him. He could still recall the revulsion of the young at the odors of old age. He’d smelled old age again only recently when he had shared his opera box with a classmate from his last year at school. Her bullish, down-covered neck protruded from her evening dress, and the smell of life that’s slipped away ruined the whole of La Traviata for him. He was particularly troubled by the thought that he too might smell like that without being able to do anything about it.

Moreany was now seventy-one, almost forty years older than Betty. Chemotherapy was out of the question; it would cost him his hair and all that remained of his manliness. He might gain a year that way, but at what cost? Happily, the cancer was carrying out its destructive work with slow deliberation, as if it too wanted to see Venice again before the end. Moreany didn’t believe that he would live to see next summer — let alone father a child. But Betty was young; she could marry again after his death, have children with another man, start a family. Her children would live in Moreany’s house, play in his garden, and grow up in the shade of the maple trees that his father had planted in the middle of the last century. Betty would be financially secure for the rest of her life, and she would run the publishing house and watch over it with the same devotion she now brought to her work. Claus Moreany was quite convinced of that.