Paul Murray - The Mark and the Void

‘Winston Churchill co-wrote War and Peace ?’

‘Just little bits here and there. Details. Like I say, writers generally prefer not to talk about it.’

‘And what is Igor’s specialism?’

‘Places. He’s a master. Big places, small places, indoors, outdoors. He can do mountain ranges and lakes; he could write a paragraph about a broom cupboard that would have you bawling your eyes out. I suppose you could say he has an intuitive grasp of structure. ’

‘Which you feel has evaded you in the bank,’ I say.

‘Exactly. It’s an unfamiliar environment — to be frank, not one that readily yields up its inner poetry.’

‘That’s true,’ I concede.

‘So I thought, okay, time to call in the expert. Given that I have this incredible access — which I am so, so grateful for — I might as well take advantage of it. So Igor’s going to be concentrating on the location details. The character stuff, plot, all that will still be me.’

This does make sense. ‘And you have known Professor Struma for long?’

‘That man taught me everything I know,’ he says simply.

‘Oh …’ I say, struggling to conceal my surprise. Perhaps I have misjudged him.

At that moment the door opens; Paul waves and Igor lumbers, creaking, towards us. He takes off his ancient rain mac, releasing a cloud of pungent inner odours, and gives the waitress his order with a dry, smacking mouth; he stares after her as she leaves, like a cat watching a pigeon.

‘So I was just telling Claude something about the collaborative process,’ Paul says.

‘There is nothing wrong with collaborating,’ Igor says, rather confrontationally.

‘I mean in the book. You’re going to help me out with the book.’

‘Eh?’ Igor says.

‘The book,’ Paul repeats. ‘Set in the bank. The tale of the Everyman.’

‘Oh yes, yes,’ Igor says. ‘Everyman, James Joyce, real life.’ His bloodshot eyes swivel over to me. ‘You are the Frenchman,’ he says. ‘Paris.’

‘That’s right,’ I say uncomfortably.

Igor stares at me without speaking, his head weaving ever so slightly from side to side. ‘Lately I have watch excellent film about Paris,’ he says. ‘In this film, three horny guys are going there and diddle many French prostitutes. Title of film is, Ass Menagerie II: French Connection . You have seen?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Is sequel to first Ass Menagerie .’ He thinks about this, then adds, ‘Though story is very similar.’ He retreats into a prolonged, cacophonous cough, a sound like shovelling coal.

‘So Igor was wondering whether he might be able to see some floor plans of the bank,’ Paul says.

‘Floor plans?’ I say, surprised.

‘To help him with his descriptive passages,’ Paul says.

I glance over at Igor. He glares back at me with his basilisk eyes. I don’t know what to say; then, to my relief, the waitress comes along with his coffee, and he is distracted once again by her departing posterior. ‘Very nice,’ he comments, and then asks Paul a question I don’t quite catch, but which sounds something like, ‘Have we got a file on her?’

Paul clears his throat in a way that might or might not be artificial, then says, ‘So maybe I should explain a little more about Igor’s process —’

‘I am sorry,’ Igor cuts in, ‘I must move seats. I cannot look at this fucking painting any longer.’

With much clattering, he rises and drags his chair to the opposite side of the table, so that his back is to the offending artwork.

‘ Simulacrum 18 ,’ I read from the label. ‘Our friend Ariadne Acheiropoietos again.’

‘So the way Igor likes to work —’ Paul persists.

‘Oh, Jesus Christ, this one is even worse!’ Igor says, discovering he has moved seats only to find himself staring directly at Simulacrum 33 .

‘Is everything all right?’ the waitress asks, hurrying over.

‘He’s just having a strong reaction to the art,’ Paul explains.

‘I feel like I have fingers in my brain,’ Igor laments, rubbing his eyes.

‘Oh,’ the waitress says. ‘Well, let me know if you need anything.’ She beats a retreat to the kitchen.

‘So about these floor plans,’ Paul says.

But Igor has turned his gaze to me again. ‘What does this mean, this simulacrum ?’ he demands. Is he serious? Didn’t Paul say he was a professor of contemporary art? Or is he trying to catch me out?

‘It is a term from philosophy,’ I say reluctantly. ‘It means a bad copy or false image of something.’

‘Why are they covering the wall with fucking simulacrums, in this place where people are trying to eat?’ The reptilian stare bores into me again.

‘Ah,’ I stammer, ‘well, I imagine the artist is making some comment about fakes and counterfeits. Maybe by calling her painting Simulacrum she is pointing to some much bigger falseness in the world around us. “Art is the lie that shows us the truth”, didn’t someone say this? Though I am sure you know more about it than I do.’

For a moment I think I have satisfied him. Slowly he sets down his cup and appears lost in contemplation. Then he leans over the table. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ he says, in a low, guttural voice.

And I see he has curled his fingers into a fist.

Back at the bank the situation only gets worse. ‘He keeps poking at the ceiling,’ Gary McCrum complains. ‘Prodding at it with some sort of a rod, right over my head.’

Joe Peston storms over. ‘That fucking Russian of yours unplugged my terminal!’

‘He’s researching a novel,’ I tell them both.

Computers are interfered with, files misplaced. Kimberlee approaches me in a state of disquiet to report that she sat down at her computer only to find Igor under her desk, apparently sniffing her seat. ‘He is examining the structure,’ I say. But the truth is that I have no idea what he is doing. As for Paul, he barely speaks to me; he is too busy lifting furniture, pulling up floor tiles, taking paintings from the walls and staring at the blank pale spaces that are revealed. When I approach him, he snaps at me, or nods without listening. Whatever has eluded him about BOT until now, Igor’s appearance hasn’t helped find. In the short time he has been here, he has aged visibly.

‘It’s not your fault,’ Ish says. It’s the next morning; we are in the canteen with the door closed, eating cereal bars. It feels strange to be hiding from our own narrator. ‘It’s what Jurgen said. The artistic process. Writing a book is hard. That’s all.’

‘Maybe a bank isn’t the right setting for a novel.’

‘Well, he’s got to make it the right setting, hasn’t he?’ Ish says. ‘That’s his job, not yours.’

‘I keep thinking he should’ve written about Howie. Cocaine, hookers, multimillion-dollar trades.’

‘He didn’t want that, Claude. He wanted an Everyman.’

‘It could be that he has not found the right one.’

‘You’re crazy!’ Ish exclaims. ‘You’re a brilliant Everyman.’

‘You think so?’

‘Definitely.’ She nods. ‘I’ve been watching you, Claude, and you’re doing a great job.’ She squeezes my hand in hers. ‘Just be yourself,’ she says. ‘Anyone would want to read a book about you.’

I am touched by her words, but it is increasingly clear that my non-life in Dublin has defeated Paul’s powers of representation — that there is simply not enough here for his art to gain a foothold. And when I emerge from the canteen, the final blow descends. Liam English, the head of the department, calls me over. ‘Look at this,’ he says. On the other side of the room, Igor is holding the water cooler steady while Paul balances on top of it, unscrewing the vent over the air conditioning, apparently with the intention of inserting some kind of camera into the interior. I try to make light of it, remarking on the incredible concentration that artists bring to bear on things that we take for granted, such as air vents. ‘Wrap it up,’ Liam English says.