Paul Murray - The Mark and the Void

‘Her benefactor,’ I repeat, trying out the word. ‘How would I become her benefactor?’

‘Well, how about you tell her you’re thinking of opening a gallery? A gallery devoted to feminist art. You want to exhibit her, in the meantime you’re going to bankroll her painting. She can’t believe her ears! It’s what she’s been dreaming about all this time — the regular customer who reveals himself to be the guy with the magic wand. So she goes and paints, and for a while you stay in the shadows, being munificent and mysterious. But then at last you arrange to meet her, and you confess that being around her amazing paintings has made you realize you’ve got all these other, deeper feelings for her. Which is practically true! You’re just tweaking the chronology a little bit.’

‘It sounds like I am paying her to love me,’ I say, flipping my ID at the Transaction House security guard.

‘What are you talking about? It’s a classic love story. Two people from different walks of life, who realize they each hold the key to the other’s dream. It’s straight out of Hollywood.’

‘But if your idea is that she will love me only because she feels obligated …’

‘ Grateful , Claude. Grateful. What’s wrong with that? In many ways it’s like a traditional marriage. You protect her financially. She rewards you with love. Everybody wins.’

I decide I can work on the moral mechanics later. The truth is that I am quite taken by his art-gallery idea. But how would it work?

‘Don’t worry about those details for now. That’s all Act Two stuff. Just buy her a few dinners, show her your chequebook, make encouraging noises. See how it goes.’

‘Hold the lift!’ A tanned arm thrusts itself between the closing doors, followed by a patent-leather pump with a charm bracelet dangling over it. ‘Hey Claude! Oh, you’re on the phone, sorry.’ Slowly but inevitably I feel myself turning bright pink, as though Ish has caught me engaged in some crime.

‘Well,’ I say to Paul. ‘That is most satisfactory. I will proceed as instructed, and revert to you —’

‘One more thing,’ Paul cuts in. ‘She’s going away.’

‘Ariadne?’ I blurt; and then, more quietly, ‘For how long?’

‘She told me she’s going back to Greece for a fortnight. She’s leaving tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’ I blurt again. Beside me, Ish is examining her phone in the way one does when one is pretending not to be listening in.

‘Yeah. So, look, I said you might call in, just to put the whole you-being-mad thing to bed once and for all. But it’d need to be — actually, I suppose it’d have to be this afternoon.’

‘How can I see her this afternoon?’ I demand, feeling Ish’s eyes flick on to me and back again and experiencing a wave of irrational fury.

‘I don’t know, call in for a muffin or something. You don’t have to bring the benefacting up yet. Or you could just advert to it.’

‘Advert to it?’

‘Yeah, you know, mention it in passing.’

‘While I am explaining to her that I am bipolar, but in a good way.’

‘Yeah, exactly.’

I end the call. The lift eases to a halt and the doors glide open.

‘I didn’t know you were bipolar,’ Ish says as we step out.

‘I’m not.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with it, Claude. My Uncle Nick’s bipolar. For a while there he was convinced he was a koala bear. Used to hang off the satellite dish all day, thought it was a eucalyptus.’

‘I’m not bipolar,’ I insist, and then, because I am too flustered and irritated to think of a plausible lie, ‘That was Paul,’ I say.

‘Oh, right.’ Ish keeps a commendably straight face. ‘What did he want?’

‘Ariadne’s going away. He wants me to go and talk to her before she leaves.’ I groan, scrub my face with my hands. ‘Aaargh, it is all so ridiculous and embarrassing!’

‘You must really like her, to put in this much effort,’ Ish says neutrally.

‘I do like her,’ I say, staring at my shoes. ‘I don’t know why it is so hard to tell her. I am not twelve years old.’

Ish looks at me for a moment. ‘It just is, Claude,’ she says. ‘It just is.’ Then she glances at her watch. ‘Tell you what, though, if you want to see her at the café you’d better get your skates on.’

I look up at the clock on the wall of the Research Department. She’s right, the Ark will be closing in a few minutes. ‘Maybe I should just wait till she comes back from her holidays.’

‘No way, Claude, you’ve got to seize the day with these things,’ Ish says firmly. ‘Otherwise they drag on and on and on.’

‘But I have so much work —’

‘You’ve been mooning over this girl for weeks, just go and talk to her!’

‘All right, all right.’ With a swiftly deepening sense of unreality — as if it were water pouring into a leaking boat — I pull my coat back on and smooth down my hair. ‘Wish me luck.’

‘You don’t need luck!’ she says. But as I am waiting by the lifts I hear her calling my name. I turn and see her hurrying towards me, in her hand a small porcelain jar.

‘What’s that?’

‘I was going through a crate of old stuff last night and I found it,’ she says, opening the jar and pouring into her palm a hillock of white powder. ‘It’s from Kokomoko. They call it bila . If you inhale it it’s supposed to work as an aphrodisiac.’

‘I thought you said I didn’t need luck.’

‘Go on, give it a go, just for the laugh. What you do is, you blow it in her face like this — oh cripes! Sorry, Claude!’

‘Aaargh!’ My eyes blaze.

‘Oh God! Oh God!’ Through tears I see a vaguely Ish-shaped blur bounce fretfully around me.

‘I’m fine,’ I gasp, feeling my throat begin to reopen. ‘Honestly.’

‘I’m sorry!’ she says. ‘Strewth, I must have blown half the jar at you. Are you sure you’re okay?’

‘I think so …’

‘Like you don’t feel … different or anything?’ Slowly her face comes back into focus, peering concernedly into mine.

‘I’m not sure,’ I admit. ‘It’s hard to tell.’

‘Look into my eyes a second, Claude … look into my eyes …’

‘I think I am feeling better now.’

‘Hmm, I don’t know, you look a bit weird. Maybe you should leave Ariadne till tomorrow.’

‘She’s going away tomorrow.’

‘Oh, right,’ Ish says, still holding my gaze.

‘I’d better go,’ I decide and, turning, stumble for the lift.

In the mirrored wall of the lift I examine myself. Bila clings to my lapels and shoulders, glowing faintly like magical dandruff. I brush it away as best I can, though I can do nothing about my eyes, which are red and streaming, and instead of a sophisticated gallery owner make me look authentically deranged. Nevertheless, as I descend, I feel exhilarated, transfigured, as if I have found my way at last into Paul’s unwritten book, waiting here all along at an invisible angle to the truth …

The café is empty of customers, and in one corner the chairs have been lifted on to the tables. ‘We’re just about to close,’ the blonde waitress tells me.

‘I have a message for Ariadne,’ I say.

The girl goes to fetch her. A moment later Ariadne emerges from the kitchen, carrot peelings stuck to her hands; what a thing, to envy a carrot peeling. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she says, in what strikes me as a slightly louder voice than is necessary. Behind me I sense her golden-haired colleague stop what she is doing in order to monitor the situation.

‘Yes,’ I say, trying to maintain my composure over my pounding heartbeat, the bila chattering in my veins. ‘I just wanted to …’ But my attempt at an apology is exploded by a violent sneeze, and my apology for this first sneeze is overwhelmed by a second, even more violent, which ushers in a fit of minor sneezes and sneezelets. With a tsk of concern, Ariadne hurries over with a bouquet of paper tissues.