Sascha Arango - The Truth and Other Lies

“Please try not to hate me, my darling.”

“I love you. How’s our baby?”

“It just moved. I can feel it.”

“Have you told Moreany anything about us?”

“Of course not. Are you sure she’s dead?”

Disconcerted, Henry gave her an icy stare. “Do you want her to come back?” he whispered.

Henry’s studio smelled of cold tobacco. The manuscript was next to the typewriter on his desk. A broken elastic band was rolled up beside his fountain pen. The slats of the blinds at the enormous picture window were half-closed. Notes and crumpled-up paper lay scattered all over the floor.

Henry had spent all morning shuffling things around in his studio and decking it out with creative mess. To indicate the trace elements of complex thought, he’d made little stacks of unread books, inserting a bookmark here and there. He’d even remembered a half-full coffee cup and a chewed cigar butt. All the sports supplements and men’s magazines had vanished, and he’d rolled the drilling rig into a corner underneath the Botero painting of fat children. It looked like a place where work was done. Apart from the manuscript it was all his.

Betty caught sight of the manuscript immediately and made a beeline for it, her hand outstretched.

“Don’t touch!”

She stopped in her tracks.

“Please don’t. It’s not finished yet.”

“Sorry. You work on a typewriter ?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“There is a copy of the text, isn’t there?” Moreany put in.

“Not yet. That’s the original. It goes in the safe every evening.”

Moreany and Betty exchanged glances. “That’s risky, Henry, to put it mildly.”

Henry opened a bottle of single malt and filled three glasses. Moreany disappeared briefly into the visitors’ restroom, walking unsteadily. Betty looked around herself. The room had been very tidy when she’d examined it in the dark the night before. Now everything was a mess and it reeked of tobacco. She scrutinized the hairy dog blanket next to the desk chair and the wastepaper basket overflowing with rejected ideas, probably worth millions even half-full. In the darkness she’d discerned the drilling rig as an unidentifiable structure standing in the room. Now it had vanished.

Moreany came back looking even worse, his hands smelling of soap. Henry handed him a glass.

“Ice?”

“One cube, if you have some.”

“Martha didn’t leave a note.” Returning from the kitchen with the ice, Henry began his report. “Her bike was on the beach.”

Moreany stirred the ice in his glass with his index finger. “Did you find her?”

“No one’s found her. The current pulled Martha out to sea. Her rubber sandals, her things, the bike — everything was still there.”

“On the beach?” Betty asked.

Henry saw her astonished look.

“Yes. Down in the little bay next to the harbor where she always goes swimming.”

Henry took a large swig of scotch, sucked the ice cube briefly and spat it back into the glass. He didn’t seem to be suffering overmuch, Betty thought, but then what does suffering look like?

“When she didn’t come back for lunch, I went to the beach. Down by the water there was a woman in Martha’s green parka, but it was someone else.”

Again Henry saw Betty’s astonished look. “The wind had blown it over the beach and she was cold. She’d put it on.”

“How old was she?”

“A little younger than you.”

“Do you know her?”

“No. Does it matter?”

Moreany cleared his throat. “Excuse me for blurting this out, but is it out of the question that Martha’s still alive? I mean, couldn’t something unusual have happened?”

“And what might that be?” Henry asked.

“Well… you live here without any kind of security at all. Isn’t it conceivable that Martha”—Moreany paused to formulate the thought—“was kidnapped in order to blackmail you?”

“Who’d be that stupid, Claus? Any sensible person would kidnap me and then blackmail Martha, wouldn’t they?”

Betty lit a cigarette and snapped the lighter shut with a flourish.

“Such people exist, Henry. Stupid, evil people.”

Henry didn’t like her tone. “And who might they be?”

For a while it was quiet in the room. Henry saw smoke streaming out of Betty’s narrow nostrils like dragon’s breath. She was punishing him, because she knew he was lying.

“Who called the police?” It was Moreany who broke the silence.

“No one so far.”

“I’m going to do it now,” Moreany said, patting his pockets.

Henry put his glass down. “I think I’d better do that.”

He went into the kitchen to make the call. He should have done it ages ago. How annoying. He had clean forgotten.

Betty was playing with the hovawart in the garden while Moreany and Henry waited in the kitchen for the police. The dog jumped up at her; she threw a stick. Word must have gotten around among dogs that, if you bring human beings sticks or balls, they will throw them tirelessly. Betty’s immaculate skin shone in the sun; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The two men watched her, each deep in his own thoughts.

Henry noticed that Moreany was clutching the countertop, swaying slightly. He’d grown old in the last few months and had lost weight. Tiny beads of sweat glistened at his hairline. His fingers had felt cold when Henry had handed him the scotch.

“Would you like a bite to eat, Claus? I’ve made some lentil soup. It won’t take a moment to warm up.”

Without waiting for a reply, he got the bowl of soup out of the fridge, peeled off the foil, and sniffed it.

“Today’s not the day to talk about this, Henry, but I was going to propose to Betty earlier on.”

“What?”

Henry turned his back to Moreany, put the bowl in the microwave, and wondered whether the news was bad or absurdly good. He could see Moreany’s distorted outline reflected in the microwave door.

“You heard me. I’d like to marry Betty. I know I’m too old for her, but I love her. What do you think about that?”

Henry peered out the window. Betty was nowhere to be seen.

“This was today ?”

“A little while ago in my office. She comes in and I want to ask her if she’d like to be my wife, but I’m completely tongue-tied. Instead I ask her twice what’s the matter with her car. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

I don’t deserve to be this lucky, Henry thought. “What is the matter with her car?”

“She has some problem or other with it. And then you rang up, and then it was too late.”

“What kind of problem?”

“You’ll have to ask her yourself. I don’t know.”

Again Henry looked into the future. Assuming this unlikely stroke of luck really did happen and Betty married Moreany, he would of course be best man. Betty would give birth to his child, who was sure to be a beautiful baby. Henry would be godfather to his own child, and would of course be the best godfather in the world. All these interpersonal problems would be solved — at least in part. But how to convince Betty of a marriage of convenience in this day and age? With the secret joy of a prospector who’s found a nugget as big as a fist, Henry laid both his hands on the shoulders of his friend and publisher.

“I’m so pleased for you, Claus. It’s never too late. Just follow your heart and pop the question.”

Moreany embraced Henry. Even in such desperate circumstances, Henry was magnanimous enough to be pleased at the happiness of others. Moreany couldn’t say anything, he was so touched.

The microwave chirped. Henry took out the soup bowl and set it down on the table in front of Moreany. Henry was visibly moved too.