And Then There Was No One (20 page)

‘That’s not true,’ I moaned, ‘it’s simply not true. I won’t let you say what you just did. My books, my earlier books, they were all widely reviewed, well-reviewed too, very well-reviewed, sometimes out-and-out raves.
A Closed Book,
for example.
A Closed Book
was a bestseller in Germany.’

‘The translator probably got more out of it than you put into it.’

‘So was
The Dreamers
in Italy.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, you’re right,
The Dreamers
was a bestseller in Italy. But why was that, Gilbert?’

‘Why? Because … because …’

‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Your legendary love of words would suddenly appear to be unrequited. Well, I’ll tell you why. Because Bernardo Bertolucci turned it into a film. The good reviews you received for the novel were all thanks to him. The sales likewise. It’s true that when you were a film critic yourself you championed the director as
auteur
–
“autoor”, as Philippe Françaix would put it. According to you, the writer existed merely to serve the director’s every whim, or so you claimed, and you were probably sincere, except that, when it came to your own script, adapted from your own novel, it hurt, it smarted, that it was Bertolucci who got all the attention. Admit it.’

‘I won’t!’ I shouted back, no longer caring how easily I could be overheard. ‘You’re wrong, quite, quite wrong! I was pleased to – I was pleased –’

‘You’re growing weaker,’ said Evie, ‘tragically weaker. You’re beginning to stutter and stammer, and on the pages of your own book too. You know what that means, don’t you? It means that your powers as a writer are waning, they’re slowly, slowly ebbing away. Don’t worry, though, I’m going to take you under my wing.

‘That grotesque notion of yours of writing what you had the unmitigated nerve – at your Q & A, remember – to call “a work of genuine depth and ambition”? As though a thriller were a mere frippery, a piffling piece of hackwork, a trifle tossed off on a wet Sunday afternoon when one has nothing better to do! Well,’ she said, grinning grimly, ‘that’s the first change I mean to make.’

‘No …’ I whimpered.

‘What I see is a whole series of whodunits starring me. There are plenty more Agatha Christie titles you’ll be able to pun on.
Evil Under the Sun,
for instance. That’s just crying out to be retitled
Evie Under the Sun.
And then there’s that
personal favourite of mine among her books,
Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?.
All you need do is give that name a tweak or two, Gilbert, and, hey presto,
Why Didn’t They Ask Evadne?.
Child’s play.

‘Wait, I see things more clearly now. Not just starring me,
by
me. “By Gilbert Adair and Evadne Mount”. That’s only fair, it seems to me. Hold on, hold on. Even fairer would be “By Evadne Mount and Gilbert Adair”. Ladies first, after all. Age before beauty. Now there’s a compliment, Gilbert. Take it when it’s offered you. Actually, the more I think about it, yes, the more I think about it, fairest of all would be “By Evadne Mount with Additional Dialogue by Gilbert Adair”. Don’t you agree? It’s certainly how I envisage our future
modus operandi.’

This was hideous, this was the worst yet. I had always suspected that Evie was mad. Now I knew it. Our future
modus operandi
? The prospect was unendurable. And
that,
yes, I could do something about.

While she was gearing up for yet another tirade, I quickly walked over to the edge, took a few seconds to gaze down into the Falls’ azure, into that tremendous abyss ‘from which the spray rolled up like the smoke from a burning house’, and without uttering another word, without even addressing a swift silent prayer to my own Creator, my own Author, my own Autoor, I leapt out into space.

The very last thing I saw in this world was Evie flapping her podgy hands in the air. The very last thing I heard, just
before I disappeared beneath the river’s spumy surface, a rash of bubbles rushing up to fill to their brims the inviting sevenfold void of my mouth, nostrils, eyes and ears, was her cry of ‘Great Scott Moncrieff!’, faint and far-off but still too terrifyingly audible.

And then there was no one.

Gilbert Adair published novels, essays, translations, children’s books and poetry. He also wrote screenplays, including
The Dreamers
from his own novel for Bernardo Bertolucci. He died in 2011.