A Closed Book (16 page)

‘Yes, of course.'

‘Paul, I'm hurt.'

‘Oh, come on.'

‘No, really, Paul, I'm hurt.'

‘What on earth are you talking about?'

‘Why is it only now I'm hearing about this wonderful new masterwork?'

‘Come, come, Andrew, own up. You know quite well you're interested in my books only when they're finished. When there's money to be made out of them.'

‘A lie, a barefaced lie. I'm interested in everything you do, whether it's likely to make me money or not. Just so happens it always does.'

‘Hah! I hope you aren't about to pretend you've ever read any of my novels? I mean, all the way through?'

‘What! Well, really, Paul, I won't even dignify that unforgivable slur with a reply.'

‘I know you of old. You take ten per cent of my royalties and you read ten per cent of my books. If that.'

‘Another lie! Hah, you old devil! You haven't changed a bit. But listen, listen. Even if I grant what you say is true – which I don't, mind you, not for an instant
I don't, but, okay, for the sake of the argument and to allow us to go on with this conversation – well, you still might have let me know what was in the offing.'

‘Actually, Andrew, I did try to call you a few weeks ago.'

‘So why didn't we speak?'

‘You were away.'

‘What? Out of the office?'

‘No, away. Out of the country.'

‘Out of the country? When did you say you tried to call?'

‘Oh, two or three weeks ago.'

‘Well, Paul, I don't know who you spoke to, or what you were told, but what with the new baby I haven't been out of the country since – ouf, it must be since Frankfurt last year.'

‘What about your trip around the world?'

‘My what?'

‘Your trip around the world?'

‘If only, old boy.'

‘What?'

‘Paul, I haven't been around the world. Ever.'

‘Weren't you in Hong Kong? Australia? San Francisco?'

‘Well, yes, I
have
been to all these places, but not all at once and not for years. Last time I was in San Francisco was with you, remember? In 19 – oh, 1990, I'd say.'

‘Paul?'

‘Paul? What is it?'

‘Paul, what's that sound I hear?'

‘That sound, Andrew, is the sound of scales falling from my sockets.'

‘Falling from –?'

‘I'm going to hang up now, Andrew.'

‘Paul? Paul, tell me what's going on? Suddenly you seem –'

‘Forgive me. I'm going to have to go. And please don't try to contact me. Goodbye, Andrew.'

‘Paul?'

‘Goodbye.'

How could I have been so blind! Yes, blind! For now, as God is my witness, and as I am God’s witness, now I am no longer playing with words. What a shallow, sentimental myth it is, that a blind man’s functioning senses gradually learn to compensate for the loss of his sight! If some poor, filmy-eyed wild beast were as insensitive as I have been to all the signs with which I’ve been bombarded for the past month, it would not survive for long in this vale of tears. For there were so many signs after all, and I was so gullible! Oh, John Ryder, John Ryder, JohnRyder! I gave myself up to you as I would have done to my son, to my own prodigal son. No one blessed with eyes would have accorded you such licence. Yet I, eyeless, I opened my home to you, and you abused me, humiliated me, degraded me. A blind old man! Why? For Christ’s sake, why? Who are you, John Ryder? Who are you? What is it you want of me? Are you some motiveless sadist who, as a child, enjoyed stripping the wings off flies and have now graduated to tormenting the old and blind and disabled? Or is it my money you hope to gain? Impossible, ludicrous, preposterous. However this story is destined to end, that, you must know, you will never have. Then – my life? Again, why? What conceivable reason could you have for wanting the life of a lonely, defenceless old man? Oh God, I don’t know! I don’t know! And there’s no one to whom I can turn for an answer. No one but you yourself, no one but the wretch that you are and that delights in stripping the wingsoff a blind man.

Well, so be it, John Ryder. If it’s from you alone that enlightenment comes, then so be it. We shall see what we shall see.

‘There you are.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Get everything you wanted?'

‘Finally. It's uphill work in Chipping Campden. Shopping, I mean.'

‘Is it really?'

‘Everything all right here?'

‘Oh. Fair, fair.'

‘Why are you sitting in the study?'

‘I really don't know. Waiting for you, I suppose.'

‘Want me to make some coffee?'

‘Not unless you yourself want some.'

‘I had one in Chipping Campden.'

‘Then shall we set to?'

‘Is something the matter, Paul?'

‘Why should anything be the matter?'

‘Okay. I'll switch on.'

‘Need to be reminded where we left off?'

‘Don't bother.'

‘No?'

‘No. While you were out, you see, I had an idea.'

‘Ah.'

‘A brilliant idea, if I say so myself. I don't yet know, to be honest, where it's going to fit into the book – though, given how disjointed the structure has been so far, that's of no consequence in itself. I expect it'll find its place in the scheme of things. But I do believe
that when one gets an idea this good it ought to be put to use as rapidly as possible.'

‘Sounds exciting.'

‘We can only hope.'

‘Shall I create a new document?'

‘Why not? It
is
a new departure.'

‘What'll we call it?'

‘Well, you know, John, I was thinking, just for this section, that I might revive the title I dropped a couple of weeks ago. You remember, the title I originally planned to give the whole book?
Truth and Consequences
?'

‘Good idea. I'll just call it
Consequences
, then, shall I? Unless you find that too hard to live up to?'

‘No. No,
Consequences
is fine. And, as you'll see, really rather appropriate.'

‘Okay. I've already typed it in. Ready when you are.'

‘All right. I'm starting –
now
. “It was Thomas Mann” – two n's, by the way.'

‘Yes, thank you, Paul, I fancy I knew that already.'

‘“It was Thomas Mann who once defined a writer as” – open quotes – ‘someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people'.” Close quotes. “One knows, even if one is not a writer oneself, what he means. Yet definitions, aphoristic definitions, constitute what might be termed a genre and one of
the absolutely immutable properties of that genre is that each definition in question be invested with what might be called an allure of improbability, even of paradox. It must, in short, be aback-taking.” That's “aback” – hyphen – “taking”.'

‘Uh huh.'

‘“In the case of Mann's definition, for example, a far more sensible formulation would be, as we are all secretly aware, that a writer is someone for whom writing is
less
difficult than it is for other people.” Italicize “less”. “Yet, had Mann actually made such a statement, then no one would of course have thought it worth quoting.” Full stop. “And, to be fair, since mining one's way to a pertinent paradox, which is what he did, is inherently more difficult than parroting a near-tautologous platitude, which is what I have just done, it could be argued that his definition of a writer is a nicely self-illustrating example of what it in fact proposes.” Ah, repetition there. Change the earlier “for example” to “for instance”.'

‘Changed.'

‘I'm going on now. “In any event, whenever a writer defines a writer, he cannot do other than define himself” – dash – “not just in a generic but in an exclusively subjective sense. Mann's definition thus cannot be made to apply to Henry James” – semi-colon – “just
as Henry James's would be unlikely to apply to, say, Ronald Firbank” – F, i, r, b, a, n, k – “nor Ronald Firbank's to me.”'

‘Would you like a second semi-colon? Between “Firbank” and “nor”?'

‘I'll tell you when I want a semi-colon.'

‘So how should I punctuate it?'

‘I said nothing and nothing is what I want. No semi-colon, no colon, no comma. Is that understood?'

‘Paul, have I –'

‘I'm going on. “Take my own case. I am blind. Not only am I blind, I have no eyes. Hence –”'

‘Paul?'

‘What is it now?'

‘Well, only that – well, I just thought I ought to point out that the very first sentence you ever dictated to me for the book was “I am blind”.'

‘
And
? In your opinion,
and
?'

‘It's the repetition, that's all. You're usually so strict about repetition. I just wondered if you'd noticed? Or maybe you'd forgotten?'

‘You were wondering if I'd noticed I was blind? If I'd forgotten I was blind? Is that what you were wondering?'

‘Answer me. Is that what you're saying?'

‘You know that's not what I'm saying.'

‘I know nothing of the kind.'

‘All I said was that you were repeating yourself. I may not be much of a literary critic, but I simply felt I should point out the repetition. That's all.'

‘You're right.'

‘Well, thanks.'

‘You're not much of a literary critic.'

‘How dare you. How dare you offer me advice on how I should or shouldn't write my book. How dare you “remind” me – me! – that I'm repeating myself. Repeating myself? As though repetition, premeditated repetition, were not one of the most venerable stylistic tropes to which a writer may have recourse. “My love is like a red, red rose” – get rid of that second “red”, Rabbie Burns, you rank amateur you, you piddling mediocrity, can't you see you're repeating yourself! You forget yourself, Ryder. Frankly, I don't know what mail-order course in creative writing you once subscribed to, but I'm not about to be given a lesson in the nuances and niceties of literary style by a second-hand car salesman.'

‘By a
what
?'

‘Or whatever you are. Can you really suppose that your opinion of my prose matters a jot to me? I shall write “I am blind” as often as I think fit. And you will type it out on that infernal machine of yours and keep your night-class insights to yourself.'

‘Very well. Very well, I'll do that.'

‘Good.'

‘But, before I do – before I do – I'm going to make one last comment.'

‘If you must.'

‘In my opinion, you make too much of your eyes.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘You make too much of your eyes. What you call your eyelessness. In the book – and, when I think of it, in person, too.'

‘Now just –'

‘What I'm about to say, and I know you won't agree with it, and I also know it's going to sound smug and sanctimonious, but what I'm about to say I believe I'm saying for your own good. And if it means you decide to dismiss me on the spot, well, so be it. I'll have said what I thought, and I won't regret it. You make too much of your eyes, Paul. You make too many self-deprecating little witticisms about your blindness. Too many puns, too many jokes. Yeah, yeah, at first it's all very impressive, this ability you have to shrug off your own predicament. You think, my God, if I had his problems, could I be that brave? But I have to tell you, Paul, it wears off. Christ, does it wear off! It becomes tiresome and mechanical and you begin to dread the next little wink and the next little eye-joke
and you begin to think it would be better if he actually did whinge. That at least would be, I don't know, it would be sane. Healthy. Human.'

‘There. That's all I wanted to say. The ball's back in your court.'

‘I'm going on. Ready?'

‘Yes.'

‘“Take my own case. I am blind. Not only am I blind, I have no eyes. Hence any insight” – dash – “an odd word in the circumstances” – dash – “that I might offer my readers into the writer's condition and vocation cannot but be influenced by that flatly terrifying fact. And, plunged as I am in the endless nocturnality” – n, o, c, t, u, r, n, a, l, i, t, y – “which my life has become, I have had time to reflect a great deal on the strangely intimate correspondence that exists between blindness and fiction.” Full stop.'

‘Uh huh.'

‘“For one day” – dash – “indeed, this very day, the day on which I am writing, or rather dictating, the passage that you, the reader, are reading” – dash – “one day –”'

‘I assume the repetition of “one day” is deliberate?'

‘“One day it struck me that the blind man gains access to the world around him exactly as the reader of a novel gains access to the imaginative world conjured
up by the writer.” Full stop. “Which is to say, essentially through dialogue and description.” Italicize “essentially through dialogue and description”.'

‘Done.'

‘“Consider.” Full stop. “The reader can know nothing of the milieu in which a novel is set except for that rigidly restricted zone, that prescribed and proscribed precinct” – that's “p – r – e -scribed” followed by “p – r – o -scribed” followed by “p – r – e -cinct”.'

‘Right.'

‘“That prescribed and proscribed precinct, that codified plot of fictional terrain, of which the writer deigns to apprise him. If the writer, who may have his own good reasons, elects to leave the outward aspect of his settings or characters sketchy in the extreme, then that is all the reader is ever destined to know of them. He cannot peek over the tops of the words on the page, as he might endeavour to peek over the bobbing heads of a crowd of sightseers goggling at a passing parade, in order to get a better view of the world beyond them, for there is of course no world beyond.” New paragraph. “Similarly with dialogue. It is above all, perhaps, through exchanges of dialogue that the reader comes to know the characters in a work of fiction. Only if the author elects to assume a first-person voice in his own narrative, by the device of an interior monologue, is that same reader granted privileged
access to the intimate mindset, to the moods and motivations, of any one character.” Read those last two sentences back to me, please.'

‘“It is above all, perhaps, through exchanges of dialogue that the reader comes to know the characters in a work of fiction. Only if the author elects to assume a first-person voice in his own narrative, by the device of an interior monologue, is that same reader granted privileged access to the intimate mindset, to the moods and motivations, of any one character.”'

‘New paragraph. “Consider, now, the blind man. Like the reader of a novel, he, too, if he is ever to gain a meaningful purchase on the otherwise inaccessible world around him, will find himself totally dependent upon the two most prominent stylistic parameters of the traditional novelistic discourse” – dash – “description and dialogue. By description, I mean the running commentary offered the blind man by some real-life narrator, some companion, perhaps, either paid or unpaid, who takes his arm, figuratively but also literally, and whose role is to describe to him the shifting spectacle of the external world just as a commentator might describe the progress of a cricket match on the wireless. And, by dialogue, I refer to the fact that, as with the reader of conventional fiction, it is primarily by virtue of what they have to say, either to him or to each other, that the blind man understands the psychology
of those in with whom” – yes, “in with whom” – “he has thrown his social and emotional lot.” End of paragraph.'

‘Are you still with me, John?'

‘Of course.'

‘For a while there it seemed to me you'd stopped typing.'

‘I've been typing throughout.'

‘Good. Then I'll go on. Did I say a new paragraph?'

‘Yes, you did.'

‘“Both reader and blind man, then, rely absolutely on the accuracy and sincerity” – emphasize “sincerity”.'

‘Do you mean italicize it?'

‘Yes, I do. I'm going on. “The accuracy and
sincerity
of the information communicated to them by, respectively, the writer and the paid companion. If, however, either said writer or said paid companion should prove to be less than wholly reliable, then they are both of them, reader and blind man, marooned in the dark.”

‘John?'

‘Yes?'

‘You
are
getting this, are you?'

‘Yes, yes. Go on.'

‘I must be going deaf. Or else you've become an extraordinarily discreet typist.'

‘Very well, I'm going on. “The issue is by no means a purely theoretical one, of interest solely to critics and scholars. Bizarre paradox as it may appear, a writer is capable of lying” – emphasize “lying” – “a writer is capable of
lying
in a work of fiction” – colon – “the examples are legion, notably in the current postmodern era. Here, however, my analogy with the condition of the blind man breaks down, or so at least one trusts. Certainly, it would be hard – it would be hard – it would be
very
hard – to conceive of the imaginary companion whom I have described above deliberately choosing to lie” – emphasize “lie” – deliberately choosing to
lie
to a blind man about the realities of the world which he is supposed, and has doubtless been handsomely paid, to describe. What would one think of a –”'

‘Now, John, you
really
aren't taking any of this down. I can hear. I mean, I can't hear. I can't hear any typing at all.'