Paul Murray - The Mark and the Void

‘It says here that Banerjee is reading in Dublin next week. Do you want to go along?’

‘Why would I want to go to that?’

‘Maybe your editor will be there. You could catch up on old times.’

Paul is silent for a spell; then he says, in a quieter tone, ‘No, I don’t think that’d be such a good idea.’

‘You don’t think he would be glad to see you?’

‘We had a sort of falling-out.’

‘Artistic differences?’

Paul waves his hand vaguely. ‘Who knows? It could have been anything. These publishing people are totally inscrutable. But anyway,’ he says, rolling up into a sitting position and rapping on the floor, ‘why are we even talking about this stuff? We’ve got work to do.’

The fact that the Minister is not going to get better, unavoidably apparent every time he speaks on camera, seems to have woken the Irish from their state of denial regarding the future of the country. Now they have gone to the opposite extreme: rumours are circulating that the government will very soon run out of money and require an intervention.

‘What does that mean, intervention?’ Yet another panicked investor on the line.

‘If Ireland can’t pay its bills, the International Monetary Fund will step in as they have done in Greece. They’ll take over all major political and economic decisions until the books are balanced again.’

Most of my clients, whose patriotism doesn’t extend beyond the bounds of their golf club, quite like the sound of this, although if they turn on their televisions they will see the IMF’s current project is not running so smoothly: another day, another riot in Athens, thousands of citizens waving banners, hurling projectiles, collapsing to the ground in paroxysms as canisters of tear gas clatter around them. Though for me, this footage has taken on a romantic light, sparking fantasies of Ariadne and me running hand-in-hand from a masked and baton-wielding policeman …

‘Claude? You there?’

‘Oh. Yes. We don’t think the IMF’ll need to come here. Ireland’s not Greece. The Minister’s issued a robust denial. Seemed plausible.’

I have arranged to meet Paul at lunchtime for what he terms ‘initial blocking’. It’s only when I let him into my apartment that I discover this means he wants me to go and talk to Ariadne.

‘Now? Today? But we have not prepared,’ I remonstrate, following him into my bedroom, where he starts rifling through the wardrobe.

‘Of course we’ve prepared! What were we doing last night? Jesus, Claude, how many black suits can one man own?’

‘But we have not decided — I have not thought this through …’

‘You don’t need to think it through! That’s why I’m here, remember?’ Paul turns, places his hands on my shoulders and in a sonorous voice says, ‘ “Claude adjusted his stylish black suit in the mirror and smiled. The moment had come, and he was ready. Striding across the plaza, he threw open the door. The beautiful waitress started, then blushed. Taking her hand, he said —” ’ The doorbell sounds. ‘That’ll be Igor.’

‘ “He said that’ll …”? Oh,’ I say, as he bustles past me to the door, and then, ‘Wait, what’s Igor doing here?’

‘I ran into him last night in Private Desires — come on up!’ he shouts into the intercom.

‘Private Desires?’

‘Yeah, it’s a little lap-dancing club on Capel Street.’

‘What were you doing there?’

‘I’m barred from Velvet Dream’s, remember? Don’t look at me like that, Claude. Getting a lap dance helps me think.’

‘You told me you had no money.’

‘It’s one of the cheaper places. Mostly Romanians. Anyway, while I was there I ran into Igor, who had also come there to think, and we agreed that we shouldn’t let some silly misunderstanding get in the way of the three of us working together.’

‘Oh, I am very glad you agreed that.’

‘I promise, he’s got it all straight this time,’ he says. A moment later, Igor lurches in with his clinking bag. If he is feeling remorse or embarrassment about last night’s events, he does not show it. Placing the bag on the coffee table, he unzips it and removes a series of grey objects, rather like bleak industrial flowers with long metallic stamens. I presume this is the surveillance equipment he talked about.

‘I asked you to do this because I wanted an artist’s perspective,’ I tell Paul quietly. ‘Not all this technology.’

‘This is the artist’s perspective,’ Paul insists. ‘It’s the twenty-first century, you think writers are still running around with inkwells and quills?’

‘I think you are introducing a lot of unnecessary complication to give Igor something to do.’

‘Listen, maybe hiding behind a bush and whispering to his buddy worked for Cyrano in the seventeenth century, but if your girl, or for that matter any of the numerous security guards patrolling this place, catch sight of me hissing at you from under a table it’s not going to look good for either of us. Look, relax, this time out I won’t even speak. I just want to get a read on how the two of you interact. Think of it as a dry run.’

‘Hold still,’ Igor says. He leans in to affix a bulky plastic earpiece. Paul says something unintelligible about radio signals; Igor responds with something opaque about transmitters, and goes to tap on an antediluvian laptop.

‘Now remember,’ Paul says, clasping my shoulders, ‘you’re the hero. The whole story flows from you. Plot is just the illustration of character, your character. You’re the guy making it happen.’

‘What am I going to say?’

‘It doesn’t matter what you say. What matters is that she knows you’re in charge. Women don’t want some wishy-washy type who doesn’t know his own mind. They want someone authoritative, manly, who’s not afraid to take control.’

‘Are you sure an authoritative, manly man is what Ariadne is looking for? Given that she works in a feminist cooperative.’

‘Pff, this feminism is all an illusion,’ Igor rumbles. ‘Only for depressed womans who cannot find man, and so must dress like lesbian, and not the good kind of lesbian.’

‘What Igor’s saying is that a strong narrative appeals to everyone, no matter what their politics or persuasion. I’m not suggesting you go in there and hit her over the head with a club. Just be direct, confident. Own the scene.’

I try to break into my new masterful persona by squinting manfully into the middle distance. Spots dance before my eyes.

‘Testing.’ As he speaks, Igor’s voice is fuzzily replicated in my earpiece. ‘Can you hear me?’

‘Yes, I can hear you, you are standing right beside me.’

‘And I can hear you,’ Paul confirms, cupping his hand around his own earpiece. ‘Okay, looks like we’re ready to go.’

‘Are you sure that thing is safe?’ I look dubiously at the ancient transmitter humming ominously on the balcony. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier just to use my Bluetooth?’

‘Stop delaying,’ Paul says. ‘Let’s do this.’

It must be said that as I make my way towards the café, I feel even less authoritative than usual. Out here, away from my models and spreadsheets, everything feels flimsy and contingent, at the mercy of riptides and crosswinds, the random vicissitudes of nature.

‘How are you getting on there?’ Paul’s voice sounds in my ear.

‘Fine,’ I say tightly.

‘That’s great. Now you just keep cool. Remember, she’s a character in your story. She’s there for you. And we’ll be with you too, every step of the way.’

I turn and look back up at my balcony. Two figures wave down at me, like mocking, malefic insects. What am I doing? Am I really going to go up to her and just start talking? It feels so crude and anachronistic! To my left, Transaction House croons to me seductively. I could go back to my desk, think this through properly; maybe I could friend her online, find out her likes and dislikes, then in six months or so take the next step, it wouldn’t be so dramatic in terms of the story, of course, but realistically –