Paul Murray - The Mark and the Void

‘Yes?’

‘Yeah, I want it to be clear that I’m the one who … the one who, you know …’

‘Who what?’

‘Who … oh, come on, you know …’

‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

‘Well, okay, that I’m the one who, so to speak, goes on top.’

‘Who goes on top?’

‘Yes.’

‘You want it to be clear that whenever we have sexual intercourse, in our imaginary relationship, you are the one who goes on top.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I’d just prefer it. I’d just feel more comfortable if it were made clear that I’m the one on top.’

I roll my eyes and move back on to the path.

‘Okay, look, we don’t have to tell people, but just so we agree ourselves that that’s the way it is. Trust me, even if you don’t use the details, it’s better to have your characters’ backstories fully mapped out. That’s an old writing tip.’

We catch up with the others in a beautiful Georgian square, at the centre of which is a small, damply verdant park where cherry trees sway beneath the arms of a magnificent oak and golden light glows from Narnian lamp posts. Even the traffic noise here seems less frenetic, more polite; it is like being in a different city, in a different century, perhaps even on a different, kinder planet.

‘How did he afford this place?’ Paul murmurs, as O’Hara mounts the steps to a red-brick on the western side.

I shrug. ‘He must have sold a lot of books.’

Our host ushers us inside and down a hall until we find ourselves in an exquisite dining room. A chandelier shimmers above us; silver gleams from the sideboard; every detail bespeaks comfort and hospitality.

It is here, nevertheless, that we encounter our first setback. Two more guests are seated at the long rosewood table. O’Hara makes the introductions: the tall, slightly gaunt woman with the scintillating black eyes is Victoria Galahad, a literary agent; ‘and this, of course’ — he extends a hand to the large, jolly-looking character squeezed not entirely successfully into a wispy ecru dress — ‘is Mary Cutlass.’

Mary Cutlass! The same critic who eviscerated Paul’s novel seven years ago! She shows no sign of recognition, merely flashes us a quick, heavy-mandibled smile and returns to her conversation; Paul, on the other hand, looks like he is about to faint. I swear under my breath, and on the pretext of fetching something from his coat pull him back out into the hall.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask him. His face is parchment-white.

‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ he insists. ‘I’ve just never seen her in the flesh before. I’m a little surprised she actually has flesh. I always pictured her as a sort of floating skull.’

‘It’s not a big deal,’ I say. ‘She gave you a bad review, so what? This was a long time ago. You must not let her ruin your night.’

‘I’m telling you, I’m fine.’

‘Your hands are shaking.’

‘You haven’t heard the stories I’ve heard!’ he blurts, the façade of indifference crumbling. ‘That woman is evil, Claude! Evil! I heard about one writer she did a hatchet job on, he sent a whole package of anthrax to her office. But when she opened it up, the anthrax died! She killed that anthrax stone dead, Claude! With a look! That’s the kind of person you’re dealing with.’

What can I do, except put my hand on his shoulder and tell him that I’ll be here to help him in whatever way I can?

We return to the dining room and sit down across the table from Dodson and Victoria Galahad. ‘William and I go back years,’ the editor is explaining to Mary Cutlass. ‘When I’m in Dublin I often stay with him —’

‘Asterisk saves money wherever it can,’ Bimal Banerjee comments, from the far end of the table.

‘Who’s hungry?’ Another man, wearing a paisley apron over a striped shirt, has whirled into the room, bearing a samovar of aromatic soup.

‘Ah, bellissima !’ O’Hara rejoices. ‘Everyone, may I present my other half —’

‘ Better half, some would say,’ the new man interjects.

‘— Crispin O’Connell.’

‘ Younger half, without question,’ this Crispin remarks.

‘I see you made it out of bed at last, mia carina .’

‘Oh, I had nothing to do there once the paperboy left,’ Crispin rejoins, to a mock-scandalized gasp from O’Hara: ‘Oh! Wicked! ’

‘Ha ha,’ Paul says. ‘My Claude’s exactly the same, aren’t you, Claude? — Ah, bellissima !’ as Crispin serves him his soup. Everyone falls to, though Paul still appears on edge, and eats little.

‘So tell us, Robert, what does Asterisk have in the pipeline?’ asks Victoria Galahad.

‘Well, we’re publishing the autobiography of Jean-Pierre Lettrefits,’ Dodson says, then explains to the rest of us, ‘He was CFO at Credit Flanders, then Special Adviser to the Mitterand government, before heading the EU Commission’s task force on banking reform. Now he’s President of the International Credit Fund.’

‘And what’s his book called?’ O’Hara asks.

‘It’s called Who Da Man ,’ Dodson says.

‘And how is Jean-Pierre?’ Crispin says.

‘You know Jean-Pierre?’ Victoria sparkles.

‘I took an economics seminar with him at Oxford,’ Crispin says.

‘You were at Oxford?’ Dodson says.

‘That’s where we met,’ Crispin says, folding O’Hara’s hand in his.

‘ Bellissima ,’ Paul interjects from the edge of the conversation.

‘Robert and I were both at Oxford as well,’ Victoria explains.

‘Though sadly the only sparks were at the debating society,’ Dodson adds, to a flick of her scarf. ‘And of course Bimal was there too, some years after us — at Jesus, wasn’t it, Banerjee?’

‘Magdalen,’ Banerjee says into his soup. ‘Although its homophone would be an apter soubriquet.’

‘Ha ha ha!’ laughs Paul. ‘I hear that .’

‘Stop interrupting,’ I mutter, nudging him under the table.

‘What? I’m just joining in the conversation.’

‘You’re embarrassing me,’ I say.

‘What about you, William?’ the agent turns to our host. ‘It’s a dreadful question to ask an author, but can we look forward to new work from you any time soon?’

‘As a matter of fact, I’m just putting the finishing touches to a novel,’ O’Hara says, ‘set in the slums of Dublin’s inner city. I call it The Phoenixer .’

‘Oh, bravo,’ Victoria says. ‘I know you probably hate to talk about i—’

‘It’s the tale of a boy.’ O’Hara rests his wrists on the table and raises his head like a medium at a seance, as though addressing his response to some invisible interlocutor hovering above the door. ‘A simple boy named Whacker, who is born into one of those disgusting scabrous tenements, and it’s — it’s simply his life, do you know, in this dreadful place, as he struggles to get by, with only his penny whistle and his beloved donkey for company.’

‘My goodness,’ Victoria says. ‘It sounds terribly moving.’

‘It is moving’ — O’Hara nods — ‘and I say that without arrogance, because I very quickly stopped thinking of it as mine — it’s Whacker’s book, it’s his story, he simply made a gift of it to me, because, I feel, he wanted me to tell people what it was like in these hellholes.’

‘Oh God, you’re not chewing everyone’s ear off about “Whacker”, are you?’ Crispin comes shouldering his way through the door with a tray. ‘Can’t I leave you alone for two minutes?’

‘I think it’s tremendously important that our artists give a voice to these people,’ Mary Cutlass avers. ‘To remind us that they too have feelings, and hopes and dreams and aspirations —’