Paul Murray - The Mark and the Void

‘ Feelings , yes, “Whacker” certainly has no shortage of those,’ Crispin says. ‘Ever since William began writing this book, it’s been, “These pedal-pushers are just the sort of thing Whacker might wear,” “This Pot Noodle is all Whacker might eat for a week,” “Whacker would understand why those boys broke the antique lantern on the porch —” ’

‘But he would understand,’ O’Hara protests. ‘A boy like Whacker simply has no concept of antiques.’

‘Those hideous pedal-pushers,’ Crispin remembers with a shudder. ‘ That was the last straw. I told him, “Darling, I have no objection to a ménage à trois , if it’s tidy, but I will not cohabit with culottes.” ’

‘It sounds like a most worthy endeavour,’ Mary Cutlass tells O’Hara.

‘There but for the grace of God,’ he replies with a sigh.

‘The slums of Dublin are like a five-star hotel compared to New Delhi,’ Bimal Banerjee sneers.

‘Yes, but try getting room service after ten o’clock,’ Crispin says.

Banerjee has barely tasted his food, although he is making inroads into the wine; instead he occupies himself staring across the table at Ariel, the editorial assistant, who blushes into her soup bowl, as if the bisque were making improper suggestions to her. Attempting to draw him into the conversation, or distract him from whatever episode is unfolding, or not unfolding, Robert Dodson clears his throat and says, ‘I should have mentioned before, Bimal — Paul here is a writer too. In fact, we published his first novel, seven years ago.’

‘My condolences,’ Banerjee says, swivelling his heavy-lidded eyes on Paul.

‘Hmm …’ Mary Cutlass brings her finger to her lip and away again. ‘Yes, I think I remember … a thing about … ah …’

Paul issues her a watery smile.

‘And what have you been doing since, Paul?’ Victoria asks. ‘Working on another novel?’

‘Well, Victoria, interesting you should ask me that. No, I’m actually in business these days, and as it happens I’ve been working on a proposal you might fi—’

‘Clowns!’ exclaims Mary Cutlass. ‘Wasn’t it about clowns or something?’

‘You’re thinking of Bimal’s first book,’ Victoria tells her.

‘No, no, it’s coming back to me now. Gosh, I think I may even have reviewed it.’ She covers her mouth with a beefy hand and twinkles merrily at Paul. ‘I hope I didn’t say anything too awful.’

Paul offers no response to this, other than the same thin smile.

‘You should feel no regret at having failed as a writer,’ Banerjee says to Paul. ‘It is the dying art of a dying civilization.’

Paul looks surprised, then his eyes narrow.

‘You believe the novel is a dying art?’ Mary Cutlass presses Banerjee.

‘I believe art is a dying art,’ he says. ‘What we are witnessing in twenty-first-century Western society is nothing less than the death of subjectivity. We are in Dublin, so I will quote to you a Dubliner, George Bernard Shaw, who said that man looks in a mirror to see his face, and at art to see his soul. But modern man has no soul to see. He has become little more than a conduit for the transfer of wealth between corporations.’

‘That seems a bit pessimistic,’ Victoria notes gently. ‘Given that modern man has bought several hundred thousand copies of your book.’

‘People will always need art,’ William O’Hara declares. ‘What is it they say? Art exists to keep the truth from killing us.’

‘You have to be alive for something to kill you,’ Banerjee snaps back.

‘I don’t think that’s true.’

We all turn; Ariel, the beautiful editorial assistant, blushing a deep pink, lays down her cutlery and speaks tremulously to her plate. ‘I just mean …’ Her voice is barely louder than a whisper. ‘I think we need art to remind us we’re alive. To remind us of the beauty around us. And the people around us. And that they need us. Sometimes we forget. And that’s what kills us.’

Hearing this, Banerjee’s face utterly transforms: his severe expression disappears, melting into tragic puppy-dog devotion.

‘Has anyone read the other books on the shortlist?’ Dodson says hurriedly, as the Indian seems on the point of making some sort of declaration. ‘I had a look at the Conway Inchbold title, Antelope Crimes . Really quite impressive. Built up a genuine sense of menace. The antelope itself was bloody terrifying.’

‘Oh yes,’ Mary Cutlass agrees. ‘The claustrophobic atmosphere, the constant sense of threat — reminiscent of the Russians. Gogol in particular. Don’t you adore Gogol?’ she says to Paul.

‘I’m more of a Yahoo man myself,’ Paul says.

Mary Cutlass looks blank.

‘Conway Inchbold is a cancer,’ says Banerjee.

‘All right.’ Crispin throws down his napkin. ‘I’d like to announce that I’ve just invented a new rule of etiquette, which is that whoever cooked the meal gets to choose the topic of conversation. And my decision is, no more books.’

‘What are we supposed to talk about?’ his partner says, looking rather affronted.

‘There are several topics available,’ Crispin replies blithely.

‘Such as?’

‘Well, for starters, I’d like to hear more from this mysterious gentleman,’ Crispin says, and my blood freezes as I realize he means me. ‘Who is he? Who are you? You’re not a writer, are you?’

‘I’m a banker,’ I say.

‘Oh, snap!’ O’Hara exclaims.

‘You work in finance?’ I say to Crispin.

‘I dabbled, that’s all. Anyway, I’ve retired.’ He says this without irony, though I doubt he is even forty years old; but before I can ask what he did, he has pointed his fork at Paul and me. ‘And the two of you are a pair?’

Does he suspect? I stare back at him, words dying in my throat.

‘That’s right,’ Paul steps in. ‘A pair, that’s what we are. A pair of men, two men, in a relationship.’

‘And tell us, where did you meet?’

‘In a sauna,’ Paul says. ‘A gay sauna.’

‘Which one?’ Crispin says.

‘Hmm, which one …’ Paul says, drumming his fingers and contemplating the chandelier. ‘Darling, do you remember which one?’

‘No,’ I say.

‘It was in San Francisco,’ Paul says, with a flash of what I suppose we must call inspiration. ‘I’d gone over for research. Claude was working as a go-go dancer, weren’t you, Claude? Claude, weren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I say, through gritted teeth.

‘He was just out of the French navy,’ Paul continues. ‘They called him the Arse de Triomphe. Our eyes met in the steam room. Next thing, we fell in love.’

‘Ah, che bello ,’ William O’Hara says fondly.

‘Now we do everything together,’ Paul continues; it is like watching a runaway train, a runaway train that is pretending to be gay. ‘Holidays to Sweden to buy furniture, London every year for Fashion Week, the opera —’

Crispin pounces on this. ‘What’s your favourite opera?’

Paul, put on the spot, goes blank. His mouth opens and closes; the runaway train abruptly comes off the track, and with a certain amount of enjoyment I watch it fly through the air, wheels spinning fruitlessly. ‘That would have to be … ah … Mamma Mia! ’

Crispin and William look at each other in surprise, then dissolve into guffaws. ‘Us too!’ Crispin squeals. ‘It’s our terrible secret!’

‘And Paul — did you say that you were working on a business venture?’ William inquires.

‘Yes, William, I did. In fact, it’s something you might find inter— ow!’ He looks accusingly at me. ‘Darling?’

‘You promised you wouldn’t discuss business tonight, darling,’ I say to him.