Paul Murray - The Mark and the Void

The whole world is becoming angrier and angrier — but not me. Paul is coming over tomorrow night to lay out his initial plans, and already it seems I can feel Ariadne’s warmth stealing into my life, like the first rays of light creeping into a room as outside the sun wheels into view.

On the day of the dinner, however, he calls to tell me there’s a problem. ‘Remember that volleyball try-out Clizia went to the other night? Well, she made the team.’

‘Oh,’ I say neutrally. ‘That’s good.’

‘Yeah, only the thing is, she’s got a game tonight, so I have to babysit Remington.’

‘Oh,’ I say again.

‘You know, make him his food and so on.’

I realize he’s angling for something. ‘I would be happy to prepare something for Remington too.’

‘Why, Claude, that’s very kind of you,’ Paul says, with painfully false surprise. ‘But I don’t want to impose on you.’

‘No imposition, I don’t very often have the chance to cook for others.’

‘Fantastic — listen though, Igor’s probably going to come over too —’

‘Igor?’

‘Yeah, but don’t worry about him, he’ll eat anything. Except fish. He hates fish. And chicken. But don’t go to any trouble.’ He tells me he will see me at seven, then ten minutes later calls again to say that it might be closer to half seven, and also that Igor doesn’t eat beef but does eat veal.

I put the phone down, not sure what to do. A part of me wants to tell him about the perfume in the stairwell, the clothes stuffed in the bag. But what business is it of mine? Anyway, it’s not impossible that there really is a volleyball game. Isn’t it?

They arrive at 7.45. Paul apologizes again for the change in plan. ‘This whole Cleaners’ Volleyball League is all a bit out of the blue.’

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘And how are you, Remington?’

‘Remington’s got a joke, haven’t you, Remington?’ Paul prompts him.

‘Will you tell me your joke?’ I ask, bending down to the boy.

‘What do you call a man who’s been attacked by a cat?’ Remington mumbles.

‘I don’t know, what do you call a man who’s been attacked by a cat?’

Remington sways shyly back and forth a moment, then goes to hide himself behind his father’s leg.

‘It’s funnier when he does the punchline,’ Paul says.

‘Not to worry,’ I say, and then to Remington, ‘Do you like hamburgers?’

He nods solemnly, then tugs his father’s trouser and whispers in his ear. ‘Oh, right — Claude, we’re wondering if it would be possible to watch a little Rainbow Mystery Epic ?’

A minute later Remington is installed on the sofa, the serenity of his attention in almost exactly inverse proportion to the blizzard of lightning flashes, screeching robo-animals and epileptic scene shifts issuing from the TV screen.

‘Jeez, Claude, where’s all your stuff?’ Paul says, gazing around the apartment at the abundance of white surfaces.

‘I left most of my things in Paris.’ In fact it had been a relief to get away from them — the artworks, antiques, juicers and coffee-makers, the shelves of unread books, unwatched DVDs, unlistened-to compact discs, all carefully arranged in alphabetical order: everything that had promised to be the final piece of the jigsaw, and then wasn’t. Now, apart from one or two objets , I just download everything; it sits unseen and forgotten on my hard drive, an alternative life I can own instead of living or even needing to think about.

‘These your parents?’ Paul flashes a photograph at me.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I have been putting the family pictures on computer — how do you say, making an archive?’

‘Your father looks like a pretty serious individual,’ he says, leafing through a stack of old Polaroids. ‘Look at those arms. What did he do?’

‘He was a blacksmith.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Does it seem funny?’ I strip the foil away from the neck of the bottle he has brought.

‘No, no, it’s just …’ He looks down at the picture again. ‘I mean, talk about a dying art. Can’t be many of those left.’

‘No, there are not many,’ I say.

‘So what was it like?’

‘What was what like?’

‘Being the son of a blacksmith?’

I shrug. ‘It was just his job. I didn’t pay so much attention. I was busy with my studies.’

‘Of course. You were his greatest creation.’

‘I don’t think he saw it that way.’

‘Old father, old artificer,’ he says obscurely, gazing at the picture. ‘Maybe there’s a book in you after all.’

‘That’s his story, not mine,’ I say, handing him a glass of wine, delicately taking the photographs with the same movement and replacing them on the shelf. ‘So, you have had a chance to think of some ideas?’

‘I sure have. But I’d rather wait till the big guy gets here.’

‘About that,’ I say. ‘Why are we involving Igor, exactly?’

‘Well, he could really use the money,’ Paul says. ‘I mean, he’s having a hard time getting by at the moment. By the way, I told him to invoice you separately, is that okay? He’s going to put it down as a termite infestation.’

‘I don’t intend to be rude,’ I say, going to the hob and rattling pots to cover up any trace of anger in my voice, ‘but I am not sure that Igor has something to contribute to this project.’

‘I fully understand what you’re saying. You don’t need to worry. Igor’s an extra pair of hands, that’s all. Also, he’s the one who knows how to use all the equipment.’

‘Equipment?’

‘The surveillance equipment. He’s got a real knack for it. Back in the Communist days, he did quite a bit of work in that field. Say what you like about the Soviets, in terms of surveillance, those guys were the gold standard.’

I stare at him in mystification, but before I can ask for clarification, the intercom sounds.

‘That must be him!’ Paul says.

With great reluctance, I go to the speaker.

‘Hello! Hello!’ shouts Igor’s voice.

‘Push the door,’ I tell him.

‘Hello! Hello! Can you hear? Igor calling!’

Eventually he manages to get in. I have not seen him since his plot with Paul was exposed, and it seems to me a guilty look crosses his face as I open the door; but then, he may have many other things to be guilty about. His furtive appearance is accentuated tonight by a large, clinking bag and a beige rain mac of the kind favoured by perverts in films; he enters the apartment shoulders hunched, head bowed, legs taking long, loping strides, as though stealing down an alleyway.

‘There you are!’ Paul greets him. ‘You remember Claude?’

Igor brandishes his stained teeth at me in the kind of duplicitous smile one might employ while secretly installing surveillance equipment in the home of a friend in the former Soviet Union.

‘You are very welcome,’ I say coldly.

‘Make yourself at home, Igor,’ Paul encourages. ‘There’s wine on the counter, and some really nice cheese. Hey, Remington, look who’s here! Say hello to your Uncle Igor!’

‘Hello, little Remington!’ Igor crooks his knees and spreads his arms out wide, like a degenerate bear. On the couch, Remington starts to cry. Igor, unhugged, creaks to his feet again. ‘Well!’ he says to me. I do not reply. He hovers uneasily between couch and kitchen; I sense that he wants to say something about the bank deception, but he just shifts from foot to foot, as if suppressing a bowel movement. Then he asks me where the bathroom is, and I realize with horror that he is suppressing a bowel movement.

I hurriedly point him in the right direction.

‘The flush, in this house, she is good?’ he asks urgently.