Paul Murray - The Mark and the Void

‘What?’ I say, but he doesn’t expand, instead hastening away.

‘That Igor,’ Paul says fondly, shaking his head. ‘I could tell you some stories.’

‘There is no need,’ I say, and remove myself to the safety of the cooker.

Not long after, the bathroom door opens and Igor saunters back into the room with an unconcealed air of unburdenment. ‘Very nice facility! Toilet roll soft like velvet! I feel like it should be wiping its ass with me !’ He stretches, then sets himself down on the couch. Remington edges in the opposite direction. ‘Why you bring the boy, eh?’ Igor says.

Paul explains that Clizia has gone to play volleyball.

Igor makes a tsk noise, and wags his finger. ‘You are playing a dangerous game, my friend,’ he says. ‘Sports can give these womens crazy notions, as well as unsafe muscle mass.’

‘She’s never been the sporty type,’ Paul concurs. ‘But she’s been so damn angry lately. I’m hoping this’ll help her relax.’

‘In old days of Ectovia, no sport for the women,’ Igor reflects. ‘Unless incest! Ha ha! If incest is Olympic sport, Ectovian womens win every gold medal!’

‘I told you before, Igor, I don’t like you spouting all that Soviet BS about Ectovia. There was no more incest there than anywhere else.’

‘Ach, you are right. Incest is everywhere, and it is just the political correctness gone mad that peoples must say they do not incest, when everyone is incesting all the time.’

‘Dad, what’s incest?’

‘Dinner is served,’ I say quickly, even though it is not, quite. The television is silenced and Remington reluctantly seats himself at the table; it feels odd to hope that a four-year-old boy will have a civilizing effect on the conversation.

‘Sorry, Claude, I should explain. Igor’s from Transvolga, and when the Ectovians seceded, they took most of the carpet manufacturing business with them.’

‘Ha!’ booms Igor, pounding his meaty hand on the table. ‘We do not want them or their shitty carpets! What is Ectovia, only the shithole city of Karakel, and a few crappy fields where the fey menfolk practise their gymnastics and the women walk their dogs that are like little furry gays!’

‘As you can see, it’s still something of a sore point.’

‘They are short bastards too, these Ectovians,’ Igor adds judiciously.

‘Bastards,’ Remington repeats.

‘That’s right, little one!’ Igor chuckles, reaching over to stroke the boy’s cheek.

‘This looks fantastic, Claude,’ Paul says, as I deliver the plates.

‘ Escalopes de veau cordon bleu ,’ I say. ‘It is the characteristic French dish.’

‘I’ll tell you what, if you ever get as far as cooking a meal for Ariadne, you’ll be home free.’

‘So,’ I say, seating myself, and ignoring Remington’s mistrustful stare from under the bun of his burger, ‘your plan.’

‘Okay. Well, without blowing my own trumpet, I think I’ve had a breakthrough. What happened was, I looked up that play you mentioned, Cyrano de Bergerac . And it turned out to have all these great ideas! What happens is, there’s this guy who likes this girl, but he’s shy, so he gets this other guy —’

‘I am familiar with the story.’

‘Right — so what I’m thinking is, we do a Cyrano of our own! Like, I give you the lines, and you say them to Ariadne!’

‘This is your breakthrough?’

‘You don’t like it?’

‘It just sounds very similar to what I proposed to you already.’

‘Well, superficially, maybe, but see, with the surveillance equipment I can not only give you lines, I can also monitor her response to — what’s up, buddy?’

Now Remington needs the toilet. Apologizing, Paul goes to escort him, leaving me alone at the table with Igor, who fixes me with a silent, ghoulish smile. I try to think of something to say but the smile is too disturbing, so instead I get up from the table on the pretext of fetching something from the fridge — only for Igor to rise too and stroll around the living room, appraising my sparse possessions with a nakedly avaricious eye.

‘Nice place,’ he says, picking up a conch shell from the dresser. ‘Very nice.’

‘Thank you,’ I reply, cracking open the oven.

‘Nice, expensive objects,’ he muses, moving closer. ‘They are pay you many moneys at this bank, eh?’

I pretend I haven’t heard him, and hunker down, bustling about meaninglessly with the racks.

‘I think I will go over here and cut some more cheese,’ Igor declares, and I am just wondering why he felt the need to announce this, when my arm is twisted behind my back and a blade pressed to my throat.

‘Don’t move, dog!’ Igor hisses, his rancid breath in my nostrils like an encyclopedia of stenches.

‘What are you doing?’ I hear Paul cry in horror from behind him.

‘Quick, tie his hands!’ Igor commands. And then, to me, ‘Talk, pig!’

‘Talk about what?’ I am genuinely at a loss.

‘The safe, where is it?’

‘What safe?’

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Paul shouts.

‘I am trying to find out where the safe is.’

‘Jesus, Igor, would you let it go? There is no safe, I explained that to you a month ago.’

‘But … you say we come here for the plan,’ Igor says. He sounds confused, though he keeps the blade to my throat.

‘The new plan, Igor! The new plan! I told you, we’re helping Claude to get with the waitress, remember?’

‘Oh,’ Igor says. He lays the knife down on the counter. There is what may be safely described as an awkward silence.

‘Why was Igor killing Claude?’ Remington whispers to his father.

‘It was a joke,’ Paul tells him, and then, inspired, says, ‘Right, Igor? It was a practical joke!’

Igor hoists his lips into an unconvincing grin. ‘Look, not even sharp!’ He waggles the cheese knife at me with what is meant to be a comical expression. ‘No way to cut a man’s throat with this! Only child’s throat!’

‘Ha ha ha!’ laughs Paul.

‘Ha ha ha!’ laughs Igor.

‘Ha ha!’ Remington joins in. Now all three of them are laughing.

‘I think it might be better if Igor left now,’ I say.

‘No more veal?’ Igor’s eyes well with disappointment.

Paul shakes his head. Igor turns to me for clemency. With a gasp of disgust, I look away.

‘May I use bathroom once more before I go?’ he asks humbly.

‘You may,’ I reply, still without looking at him.

Igor trudges to the bathroom. The awkward silence prevails again.

‘Dad, was Uncle Igor ever a person?’ Remington asks.

The toilet flushes, and Igor shambles sheepishly back into the room. His rain mac is on again and has been buttoned right up to the throat; with difficulty he stoops and picks up his bag. At the door he turns. ‘No hard feelings,’ he says, and lifts his hand in farewell. Four fresh toilet rolls and a veal cutlet tumble from under his coat. The four of us look at them on the ground. ‘Okay,’ Igor says, and lets himself out.

I make coffee, and Remington returns to the television.

‘So, all’s well that ends well,’ Paul says.

‘From now on, I prefer if it is just you and me working together,’ I tell him.

‘What are you saying?’

‘I am saying, no more Igor.’

‘What? Why? Because he came at you with a cheese knife?’ Paul attempts to work up a plausible tone of incredulity. ‘We’re trying to make art here, Claude! It’s not going to be like working in the bank! Some days you’ll feel inspired, some days you won’t! Some days Igor will come at you with a cheese knife, some days he won’t! That’s the creative process!’