Paul Murray - The Mark and the Void

‘Tell them what you told me, that first day we met,’ I encourage him.

He looks round at me wildly.

‘About the bank. All that.’

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Exactly. It’s about a banker, working in an investment bank in the IFSC.’

‘Just what we’ve been talking about,’ Mary Cutlass notes.

‘So you don’t think it’s unrepresentable,’ Robert Dodson says with a smile.

‘With all due respect to Bimal,’ William puts in, ‘I don’t think you can just write off a whole swathe of the modern world like that.’

‘Exactly,’ Paul says. ‘The way I see it, it’s the writer’s job to try to find the meaning in it, find the humanity in people like Claude here. And if it’s not there, to try and understand where it’s gone.’

‘Hear, hear,’ William says.

‘Well said,’ Victoria Galahad smiles.

Ariel just gazes at him, as though from the bed of a swoon.

‘What’s it called?’ Mary Cutlass says.

‘Called?’ Paul repeats.

‘You must have a title, a working title at least?’

‘Of course,’ Paul says, a little hoarsely, as the table’s eyes swivel on to him again. ‘It’s called, ah … it’s called Anal Analyst .’

There is a moment of silence.

‘ Anal Analyst ,’ Dodson says, trying it out.

‘ Anal Analyst ,’ Mary Cutlass repeats to herself.

‘Well, it’s certainly memorable,’ O’Hara concludes.

‘He’s a poofter, is he?’ Crispin asks. ‘Your banker.’

‘He’s gay, he’s been promiscuous, as so many of us have,’ Paul improvises. ‘But now all that meaningless sex turns out to have a consequence, a terrible consequence. And in his isolated world of money and accumulation, he doesn’t have the tools, as it were, to deal with it.’

The heads around the table nod solemnly.

‘It sounds fascinating,’ Dodson says. ‘Has anybody seen it?’

‘To be honest, Robert, I’m trying to keep it quiet for now. You know, focus on the writing, get the book finished before the whole market frenzy takes over.’

‘That’s wise,’ Dodson agrees. ‘Still, if you wanted to give me an outline, or just have a general chat — Bimal and I are going back to London tomorrow, but we’ll be here again for the Black & White Festival in a couple of weeks. William’s going to be doing an interview with him …’

‘I’d like that, Robert,’ Paul replies. ‘I’d like that very much.’

‘You would be better off setting fire to your manuscript and throwing the ashes in the Liffey than publishing it with Asterisk Press.’ A caustic voice behind us signals that Bimal Banerjee has returned. ‘And if you’ve been bewitched by the Whore of Bloomsbury here, I should warn you that she can never deliver on her false promises, because she is a creature made entirely of ice.’

‘My dear, I don’t think you need worry about any of us running off with your woman,’ Crispin says, leaning back in his chair. ‘But I can’t say I haven’t wondered if you’re going to finish that cake?’

The party winds down shortly after midnight; Robert Dodson explains apologetically that he and his author have an early flight tomorrow. As we leave, William promises to send tickets for the upcoming festival, and Dodson repeats his offer of a private meeting. Walking down the street, Paul seems buoyant. Is it just that he’s enjoyed two free meals today? Or something more?

‘Well, Claude,’ he says after a while. ‘We didn’t snag any investors. Still, I suppose I should thank you for not letting the cat out of the bag.’

‘You’re welcome,’ I say. ‘I enjoyed the evening very much. At the dinner parties I usually go to, everyone just talks about golf.’

‘Yeah, writers don’t play much golf. Though mostly because they can’t afford the green fees. Otherwise they’d never pass up an opportunity to procrastinate like that.’

‘Is that right.’

‘Probably that’s why the clubs keep the subs so high, because they don’t want the place clogged up with writers day and night.’

We walk a little further, and then, as it doesn’t seem that he will raise it himself, ‘ Anal Analyst ?’ I say.

‘It was all I could think of,’ he says apologetically.

‘Still, it does not seem to have done any harm,’ I say. ‘I mean, your editor still wants to see it.’

He doesn’t reply. I don’t understand — why is he so determined to downplay what has happened? ‘He wants to meet you and talk about it — this is a big opportunity, no?’

‘ Anal Analyst doesn’t exist, remember? I just said that to get him off my case.’

‘But it’s a positive sign, isn’t it?’

‘A sign of what? You think he’s going to pay big money for a novel that I just made up?’

‘Aren’t all novels made up?’

Paul rolls his eyes.

‘I’m serious,’ I persist. ‘If you know he likes the idea, why not try to write the book?’

‘Books don’t pay, Claude. I’ve got a family to support.’

‘How can you say they don’t pay? Look at the house we have just been in! With a Texier on the wall worth half a million euro!’

Paul comes to a stop, there on the street. ‘Half a million? For that thing?’

‘More, after the retrospective in New York next year.’

‘Half a million euro!’ He puts his head in his hands. ‘I can’t believe you stopped me from bilking them.’

‘Aha, you admit it, you were trying to bilk them!’

‘I was bilking them into making the best financial decision of their lives! With that kind of money behind it, there’s no way Myhotswaitress could have failed. We could all have been rich, and had hideous paintings in our living rooms. And had living rooms.’

‘That’s not the point. The point is that it is still possible to support yourself and your family by writing. And now there may be a chance to do so. Why not take it?’

‘Haven’t we discussed this?’

‘Yes, but you have never given me any plausible answer.’

He lets out a gasp of exasperation. ‘Because I don’t like being reminded I’m obsolete. How about that, for starters?’

‘But if you write the truth about our time? How can the truth ever be obsolete?’

‘People don’t want the truth,’ he says, waving a hand at the streets around us. ‘They want better-quality lies. High-definition lies on fifty-inch screens. I wrote the damn truth already, Claude. Maybe I didn’t write it well, but I wrote it. And not only did no one want to see it, they made me feel like a fool for even trying. They laughed out the window at me as they sped away on the gravy train.’

‘That was during the boom. Now the gravy train has stopped.’

‘Yeah, well, I can’t unsee what I saw. The money poured in, and it was like suddenly everyone in Ireland took off their masks, and they were these horrific, rapacious alien beings who if you fell down in the street would just leave you there to die.’

‘Maybe it was the rapacious alien that was the mask. And now they need someone to help them find their true faces again.’

He doesn’t reply to this.

I pace alongside him a moment, considering what he has said. Then, slowly, I nod in agreement. ‘No, you’re right. It’s just as Banerjee said: the world we live in has fallen too far to be saved by art.’

‘It’s not as Banerjee said ,’ Paul objects. ‘It’s got nothing to do with Banerjee.’

‘Of course not. I only mean that his point was well made, that in this environment you should not feel bad to have failed as a writer.’

For a second time, Paul stops in the street. ‘ Failed as a writer. Can you believe he said that?’

‘Although in some ways it is a shame,’ I reflect. ‘Robert was very excited to read your new work.’