Paul Murray - The Mark and the Void

‘Ha!’ Dodson barks appreciatively, while Paul twists his mouth up and mutters under his breath.

‘At first, the two men seem very different. The banker is successful, solitary; his life is dominated by money. The writer has a family, but struggles to make art in a time when everything is defined by its price tag. Beneath the surface, though, both men are driven by the same urge to escape. The writer hides behind failure just as the banker hides behind wealth. They have lost faith in the world, and in themselves.’ I avoid looking at Paul when I say this, though I can hear his ever more irritated sighs. ‘For this reason, even though his book is just a trick, the writer and the banker become friends. And with this friendship, they begin to bring each other back to life.’

‘So it’s a love story,’ Robert Dodson says with a smile.

‘I suppose you could call it that,’ I agree bashfully. ‘Through the banker, the writer is inspired to start writing his book for real —’

‘Yes!’ The editor brings his hands together. ‘I can see it. It’s all about giving, isn’t it? The writer gives the banker companionship, the banker gives the writer faith, the writer begins a new book, about the banker, the same man he once believed was nothing more than an empty shell — and he gives that to us! We realize it’s the very book that we’re now holding in our hands!’

‘Yes, yes!’ I listen to this, grinning, with a sense, joyous as it is inexplicable, that everything has come together, all problems solved.

Then Dodson looks back at me and says, ‘And the banker?’

‘What?’

‘The banker, what happens to him?’

‘What happens … ?’

‘He can’t just go back to the office after all that, can he?’

‘No, no, of course not … no, the banker …’ He can’t go back to the office, I can see that, but as to what he should do instead — ‘The banker … ah …’

Dodson slowly nods his head, willing me on, but it’s no good, my mind has gone blank, and no matter how I try, all I can see is the banker at his desk, obediently tending to his work, his terminal full of numbers. ‘The banker has to … he has to …’

‘That’s enough,’ Paul says.

I slump, gaze back at him wretchedly.

Paul turns to the editor with a stony countenance. ‘He’s just trying to cover for me. The truth is that when I said, “There is no book,” that’s exactly what I meant.’

‘There’s no book?’ Dodson’s kindly, clever face puckers in incomprehension.

‘There’s no book, Claude is not my life partner, we’ve never been to Sweden. I don’t write any more, Robert. I haven’t had a saleable idea in seven years. I didn’t come here tonight to talk to you about a manuscript. I came to steal that painting.’

‘Oh,’ Dodson says. His brows furrow and knead together, as though masticating this information — then once again the door opens, and William O’Hara enters in a state of panic.

‘The window in the alley’s smashed!’ he exclaims, then notices our presence. ‘Hullo,’ he says.

‘Bumped into these boys out for a walk,’ Dodson breezes. ‘Asked them in for a minute — hope that’s all right?’

‘Out for a walk?’ William O’Hara repeats, rainwater dripping off his coat into a pool at his feet.

‘Yes, babysitting this little chap here. Can’t sleep, poor thing — anyhow, they wanted to say hello.’

‘We were very sorry to miss the interview,’ I chip in.

‘Count your blessings,’ William O’Hara says.

He steps back, inspects us thoughtfully. Remington is chewing on his crayon; the rolled-up stocking is still perched on top of Paul’s head, like a tiny beige beret. O’Hara clears his throat. He appears on the point of asking a question, a question that I suspect will prove very hard to answer, when he is distracted by a groan.

‘Who’s that?’ he says, and then, peering over the couch, ‘What’s Banerjee doing on the floor?’

‘Touch of migraine,’ Robert Dodson says.

‘Oh,’ William O’Hara says. He sounds cheered. He takes another look at the felled author and says brightly, ‘Well! Who’s for a drink?’

‘We should bring this little boy home,’ I say.

‘Suit yourselves,’ O’Hara says. ‘I’ll let you out.’ He turns for the door — then, as if it has yanked at his sleeve, turns back again and stares at The Mark and the Void . He remains staring for what seems like a very long time. ‘You know,’ he says at last, ‘I don’t mean to sound like I’m bragging, but every time I look at that painting I see something new.’ He shakes his head proudly. ‘That’s a real work of art,’ he says.

Igor and the van are long gone, and neither of us has any cash, so there is no choice but to walk back towards the river. The rain has restarted, and descends on us in enormous drenching globules. The mood, it need hardly be said, is low.

‘You should not be disappointed,’ I tell him. ‘From what I have read, art theft is a very hard crime to pull off.’

Paul nods morosely. ‘It’s Igor I feel bad for,’ he says. ‘He was going to buy a hot tub.’

‘Dad …’ Remington is rubbing his eyes with his fists.

‘Okay, buddy, we’ll be home soon.’ He hoists the boy up, letting his small head fall on his shoulder. ‘Listen, Claude. I appreciate what you were trying to do back there, with Dodson. For the record, though, if there’s one thing people want to read about even less than a French banker, it’s a novelist struggling to write his new book.’

‘If I ever pretend to submit a book proposal again I will keep that in mind.’

‘Seriously, I know you mean well, but you’re box-office poison,’ he says. Then he adds, ‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out.’

‘Me too,’ I say.

We reach the quays. The wind batters us as we cross the river; below us, the water foams seawards, throws spume up over the walls to deluge the bronze figures of the Famine sculpture and their modern-day doubles a few yards away, the city’s cadaverous addicts, huddled in the negligible shelter of the trestle bridge, while from the roof of the Custom House the golden statue of Commerce looks over the city.

‘What will you do now?’ I say, when we get to the far side.

‘I’m not sure,’ he admits. ‘I’d go back to Myhotswaitress, but right now I need something that’ll bring in money, like, tomorrow.’

‘How much is it you’re looking for?’

‘More than you’ve got, Claude.’ He says it with a smile, as if he wants to reassure me, as if I might have felt compelled to pay off his mortgage for him, had I the funds, though this isn’t something that really happens, is it, even between friends? Not in the real world?

‘We’ll muddle through somehow,’ he says, ‘we always do.’ At that moment there comes a bleep from his pocket; with his free hand he takes out his phone. ‘Well, there’s some good news,’ he says, reading the message. ‘Clizia’s won her volleyball game. That means they’re through to the final.’

‘How wonderful,’ I say, as my lungs fill up with cement.

‘You know, win or lose, I think she’ll be glad when it’s finally over. All these late nights?’ He chuckles to himself. ‘And the other night she got an elbow right in the face, swelled up into a massive shiner.’

‘Yes,’ I say, betraying no emotion.

‘The point is, I suppose I should look on the bright side. I might be unemployed and broke and about to be evicted, but I still have my family, right? I mean, in some ways I’m probably the richest man you know.’

‘Definitely,’ I say, looking away to where the river, gorged with the night’s rain, charges triumphantly, like an army putting its enemies to rout.