Paul Murray - The Mark and the Void

‘Wait!’ I say faintly.

‘It’s too late for that!’ Paul sobs. He turns to go, then momentarily turns back; in a low, husky voice he says, ‘You made me love you.’

The staff and clientele look on, appalled; I push back my chair and lurch towards the waiter, proffering my credit card, but he flinches back as if I have just risen out of a swamp. Paul, meanwhile, has flounced over to the exit, a tiny gleam of triumph detectable beneath his ersatz heartbreak — when from a table near the door a man springs up and seizes him by the arm. ‘Paul?’ he says.

The man is in his mid forties, with curly hair greying at the temples. An array of wrinkles gives his face a kindly, careworn appearance, of a piece with his rumpled suit. Its effect on Paul, however, is Medusa-like: instant paralysis.

‘Possibly not the best time,’ the man says apologetically, in a tobacco-rich English accent, flicking a glance backwards at me and the roomful of staring diners. ‘But I just saw you there and I couldn’t, ah … I mean, how long has it been? Six years? Seven?’

Paul simply stares back at him, as if pinned to the air.

‘I’m sorry, I’m being terribly rude,’ the man says, turning to me. ‘My name is Dodson, Robert Dodson. You must forgive me for barging in on your, ah, on your meal like this. It’s just that … The thing is, you see, I’m Paul’s … I was Paul’s editor.’

His editor! A ghost from his former life — no wonder Paul looks so shocked.

‘Claude Martingale,’ I say, shaking his hand. ‘Delighted to meet you.’

‘Likewise,’ he says. He looks me up and down. ‘Yes,’ he says.

‘Look, Robert.’ Paul has begun to revive. ‘If it’s about the money, I meant to contact you …’

‘What? Oh goodness, I never — that’s all water under the bridge,’ the editor says graciously, nodding his greying head.

‘And the car, I meant to contact you about that too —’

‘Yes, yes,’ the editor says placatingly. ‘I completely understand. Sometimes things don’t, ah, especially when the old, er, artistic temperament’s involved — are you an, um, artist, Claude, or … ?’

‘I’m a banker,’ I tell him.

‘Ah.’ The editor gives me a conspiratorial smile. ‘So you pay the bills.’

For a moment I am at a loss as to his meaning; then over his shoulder I see Paul ferociously gurning at me, and I realize what is happening. After witnessing our staged fight, this man has mistaken me for Paul’s homosexual lover! ‘No, no,’ I explain, ‘I am just —’

But Paul has grabbed him by the elbow. ‘What brings you to Dublin, Robert?’ he asks.

‘I’m here with an author, as it happens — perhaps you’ve heard of him? Bimal Banerjee?’

‘Hmm.’ Paul scratches his head. ‘No, can’t say I —’

‘Bimal Banerjee, author of The Clowns of Sorrow ?’ I blurt over him. ‘And Ararat Rat Rap ?’

‘Yes, that’s him,’ says the editor. ‘Do you know his work?’

‘Very well,’ I tell him, ignoring the withering look Paul is giving me. ‘He is truly a tremendous talent.’

‘Oh! How kind of you to say,’ says the editor. ‘He’s just over there, actually.’ He gestures at a nearby table where a swarthy figure glowers at his cutlery. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come over and say hello?’

‘We’re in a bit of a hurry,’ Paul says.

‘I could go over,’ I say hopefully.

‘You’re coming with me,’ Paul says. ‘I haven’t forgotten about that waiter, you know.’

‘Might be for the best,’ Robert Dodson says, thoughtfully twisting a jacket button. ‘Caviar didn’t agree with him, he’s not in the best of humours. But he’s giving a reading later, and afterwards we’re going to William O’Hara’s for dinner — you must know William?’

‘Only by his writing,’ Paul says. ‘Tremendous talent, truly tremendous.’

‘Yes, well, his partner’s the most marvellous cook. We’re staying with them for a few days — I’m sure they’d be only too pleased if you and your, ah, if you and Claude came along?’ He looks from me to Paul and back; Paul’s ferocious gurn switches on and off in synch. Surely he is not intending that we extend this farce?

‘We’d be delighted,’ Paul says. The editor beams like the biblical father at his prodigal son. ‘I’m so happy to have seen you,’ he says. ‘Seven years!’

‘Me too,’ Paul says. ‘Well’ — he reaches for the door, but then –

‘Sir?’ The timorous waiter has reappeared beside us. ‘Ah, the, ah … ?’

‘Oh good Lord! The bill!’ Paul cries, and pats about in his pocket for a wallet whose very existence I am now beginning to doubt.

‘Won’t you let me?’ the editor suggests.

‘No, no, Robert, I couldn’t possibly — where did I put that damn wallet?’

‘Please, let me,’ Robert repeats. ‘To celebrate this serendipitous meeting.’

‘No, Robert, I won’t hear of it, I simply won’t — oh, you brute, I can’t believe you did that.’ Paul’s shoulders slump in defeat as the editor passes his card to the waiter, who retreats gratefully.

‘You can repay me by telling me about all the exciting new ideas you’ve been working on,’ the editor says, with a rumpled smile.

‘Ha ha! No shortage of those!’ Paul laughs. ‘See you at the reading!’

He pushes through the door, and I follow him on to the street. ‘Well, Claude, let the record show, I did technically buy you lunch,’ he says. ‘I mean, you came for lunch with me, and you didn’t have to pay.’

‘I suppose that it is true, if you take the word “technically” to its logical limits,’ I reply. ‘Although, one can say also that technically I did have to pay, by being humiliated in front of a crowded restaurant and then forced to pose as your homosexual lover.’

‘Yeah, well, you should be glad you’re not my homosexual lover, or you’d have some explaining to do after all that fawning. Oh, Bimal Banerjee, he’s so terrifically talented! He’s so totally titanically true!’

‘I am glad I am not your homosexual lover for many different reasons.’

As we set off along the canal back towards the Centre, Paul seems preoccupied.

‘Your editor is very charming,’ I say. ‘Why is it you have not spoken to him for so long?’

He coughs artificially, and squints over at the far bank as if searching for a landmark. ‘We had different ideas, I suppose.’

‘Different ideas about what you should do with your advance?’ I suggest.

‘I don’t really want to talk about it.’

‘Was his idea that you should use it to write your second novel, and your idea that you should sink it all into your Internet start-up?’

Paul doesn’t reply.

‘What did you do to his car?’ I ask, but he doesn’t appear to want to talk about that either. ‘Anyway, he does not seem to hold grudges,’ I say. ‘He wanted to hear about your new book.’

‘That’s just what editors say. It’s part of the job, like a priest saying God bless you.’

‘To me it sounded sincere.’

‘He was just being polite. Anyway, I told you, I don’t do that any more.’

I can’t understand it: to me the chance meeting seems pure serendipity, but Paul just scowls and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

‘So you will not go to the soirée?’

‘Oh, I’ll go all right. William O’Hara’s dinner parties are legendary. Although his books, God, they’re like taking a bath in Rohypnol. You fall asleep after a couple of pages, wake up not remembering anything but feeling somehow violated .’ He turns to me. ‘You’ll come too, I hope?’

‘Me?’

‘You’re invited, aren’t you?’