Black Chalk (22 page)

But the thought wouldn’t go away. Because it was undoubtedly true that if Emilia knew what they had planned for her, she might run from the Game. And in all honesty, forewarning would be an act of kindness, much better for her to know in advance than to have to go through with it. Why should he feel guilty for the simple recognition of a clever strategy?

But first of all there was Friday to get through. He would worry about everything else after that.

When he got back to the house below the river, Mitzy was in the kitchen, perched cross-legged on a dining chair. Although it was nearly five o’clock she was eating Honey Nut Cheerios from a large bowl cradled between her thighs. She had on a pair of red terrycloth shorts and a grey T-shirt, Notre Dame, where her brother played football. Somehow, despite the sludgy weather in Britain, she had maintained her deep tan, her legs the colour of the strong tea Chad was trying to acquire a taste for.

When she saw Chad she became excitable. Bouncing on crossed legs she told him she had just taken a phone call from the liaison officer about Friday’s event. She relayed the message, everything had been OK’d and arranged. ‘So then, Mr Mysterious, do I get an invite?’

‘Of course,’ said Chad, resisting the urge to tag on the observation that it was a public event in any case.

‘Awesome, Chad. Friday’s gonna be awesome. I’m so proud of you.’

‘Thanks, Mitzy,’ said Chad. The word
proud
seemed inappropriate between them. But never mind, it was sweet of her. Mitzy
was
sweet, the sort of girl he should love, a simple sort of love for his first.

‘Hey, how about when it’s over, like to show you how awesome you’ve been, I mean only if you haven’t already arranged something with your English friends, because I like totally understand if you have, how about I take you out to dinner? Just you and me, Chad. To celebrate. What do you think?’

‘I think definitely, Mitzy,’ said Chad. ‘That really would be great.’

Mitzy clapped her hands, a small fluttering motion. And then she sang out the word awesome, pitching it at the highest note she could reach. Chad noticed the milk from her spoon dripping as she held it like a microphone, dripping and splashing and running down her thighs.

*   *   *

XLI(i)
   I leave a bunch of gerberas and a short note for Dee before I head out of my apartment at noon. My beard has been itching hideously for days. I think it might be time for a shave. A haircut as well.

OK, between you and me, dear reader, the truth. I would like to look good for Dee. But please keep this to yourself. All I can think of is Dee. Dee Dee Dee.

Chop chop chop and enough hair on the barbershop floor to stuff a large cushion. Next the beard – first a buzz cut with clippers, then the scrape of the blade. And now I look better than I have done in years. Not that I have spent much time admiring myself in the mirror. Because when I get home I find Dee’s letter.

*   *   *

XLI(ii)
   Oh, Jolyon, thank you for the flowers and the very dear note. You are utterly sweet and I feel truly blessed having you back in my life. And thank you for agreeing to the rules. I’m sorry, the FRAMEWORK.

This is now my third version of this letter. The first two were terribly coy and they just didn’t work. This time I have decided to tell you the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, because I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here in New York.

Deep breath.

For the past fourteen years, sometimes for as many seconds as any day has to offer, I have been writing. Writing and rewriting, ripping everything up, starting all over again. Tormenting myself, tormenting those around me. Fourteen long, barren years.

And what else could I do with my life but try to write? I was raised by books, Jolyon, a pack of writers weaned me, like Mowgli brought up by his wolves. And without bewailing too much my Little Orphan Annie story, perhaps I should explain.

As a child, aged twelve perhaps, I began to regard Jane Austen as my mother and Charles Dickens as my father. These were the only two constants in my life, the only two people to whom I gave my unconditional love. Austen and Dickens whispered bedtime stories to me, made me laugh, taught me all about life. And soon came three sisters: Anne, Charlotte and Emily. This was my family and between them they couldn’t do anything wrong. I loved them for their words as others love, without question, for blood or lust or family ties. As I got older I unearthed thrilling aunts and uncles. Greene, Nabokov, Woolf, Updike. Each would come to visit with fascinating tales from worlds a million miles away. And they too earned my love, my adoration. Here was a family I could choose, not the other way round. I read and I read and I loved.

So perhaps I write because I want to earn the sort of love I felt for others as a child: that utter and unconditional sense of devotion to another human being. And what else could I write about but the Game? Just like you, Jolyon. What else is there for us to say?

I tried telling it straight, then skew-whiff, back-to-front and oblique. I tried to be Dickens then Austen. I tried Greene then Nabokov. I even tried to be myself. Then I tried you. And then Chad.

But every time I failed. And why? I think the reason is because I never truly worked out what our story was about. This story wasn’t about jealousy, malice and spite. No, it transpires that our story wasn’t a tale about hatred at all, it was always a story about love. Yes, there are some satellite love stories circling the tale. And of course
all
of us loved each other in some way. But at its centre, at the heart of it, ours was a singular tale of love. The love story of Jolyon and Chad. And this is the thing I could never understand. The curious, complex, ill-explored, secretive, unspoken and venomous love between men.

Mark was so utterly wrong. Of course you cared what Chad thought. You cared too much. (I’m sorry, Jolyon, I’m not here in New York to accuse.)

So, writing and writing and failing. And how have I supported myself throughout these fruitless years? Well, there have been men. There were always men. Not artists or authors, but bankers and businessmen, barristers and bean counters. (B for bed and board, B for bread and bored.) And I even loved one of them, the only one who left me, a bookkeeper with the soul of a poet.

I gave myself to them, my body in exchange for my mind. And they took care of me, looked after the minutiae of life, everything in the world that is not the blank page.

Writing and writing and failing. But I could never give in. Oh, I made friends, joined writers’ groups, people liked me. I could have written fluff for magazines, collaborated on children’s books, read slush piles of chick lit. But no, I could never sell out. And why?

Well, for two reasons, one surface and one underlying (but both the same, it transpires). I feel slightly ashamed to admit this, but I think the surface reason for not giving in was because, had I done so, it would have proved Jack right, because then Jack would have won. I denied myself all but the most serious of work because of the memory of a pub joke. Just another one of Jack’s skits. Except to me it wasn’t just another joke, Jack’s Psychic Sue was the only dagger he thrust that ever stabbed close to my heart.

Write seriously and fail. Write commercially and succeed.

Jack had a way of getting under your skin with his jokes, an intuition for raw nerves.

And here is my raw nerve: the reason why I had to write seriously, why I could never give in, is because unconditional love can only be earned through the most serious and heartfelt work. The love I feel for Dickens, Austen, Greene … this is not a love that has ever been earned by any commercial writer. People might LIKE populist books very much, but they don’t ADORE them, they don’t suck them down into their souls. There is a difference between success and love, and so it seems that the reason why I could never give up writing seriously is this: I write not because I want to sell but because I want to be loved. I want to be wholly adored.

Now have your way with Little Orphan Annie, Mr Freud.

So this is why I came to New York, it has nothing to do with Chad, I had no idea. I came here only to write, Jolyon. One of my Bs, a businessman with whom I managed to remain friends after our break-up, lent me his New York apartment. He knows all about my struggles and thought a change of scene might do me some good.

And, quite by chance, how right he was. Only my third night here and I was struggling to sleep. I could see the bar from the bedroom window. I went in and, two drinks down, took a cigarette break. And there you were, walking along the pavement towards me. I swear I nearly died of shock.

Do you believe that the universe brings people together, Jolyon, people who need each other? Well, I do, because I know for a fact it’s true. And what did I need in my life but a saviour? The universe threw us together before and we failed to stick. It had to intervene one more time.

I am broken, Jolyon, broken like you. But this is our chance. We can mend each other. Sticky tape, stitches and storybooks. Not all the king’s horses or all the king’s men, just you and me, Jolyon, the two of us.

Another thing of which I’m certain is that the universe sent me also to make sure you finish your book. You must, Jolyon, you have to. I am enjoying it hugely. You tell it so truthfully, I wouldn’t debate a single word. (Please please please, treat me not too unkindly when it comes to it.)

And then, when you finish, I will be free of having to tell the story of the Game. I will be free to write about love, beauty, silken catkins afloat on dark mountain lakes. I will be free to live my life.

Oh, and on the subject of freedom, there is a small something you can do for me. Yes, we will meet, we absolutely must. But first I have to ask you a favour. Will you promise me something, Jolyon? There is something, a very small something, I wish to ask of you.

Kisses,

Dee xxx

*   *   *

XLI(iii)
   Dearest Dee, ask away. For you, Dee, anything.

Of course it was the universe that brought us together, I don’t doubt it for even one second. We are entangled. I’m sure if we understood half the laws of physics it wouldn’t seem the slightest bit strange we’ve been thrown back together.

Anything you did to me all those years ago … Well, you thought I had betrayed you, I understand now how it looked. Of course I won’t treat you unkindly.

I’m so sorry to hear of your unhappiness. Broken pieces of something once beautiful. But we can do it, you and me, Dee. And one day nobody will be able to see our cracks, or will think it is only the charm of old glaze.

Ask me ask me ask me. Anything, Dee, I promise.

Jolyon

*   *   *

XLI(iv)
   I’m so happy to have Dee back in my life that I write and I write and I write. But when I am done, I feel thirsty and strangely sickened by my evening pills. So many to swallow. Three pink pills, two yellow, three blue. They make me feel so muddy these days, not the way they once made me feel.

But must trust my routine. Must trust Dee. I’d do anything, for you, Dee, anything.

And how hard the whisky is to swallow tonight. Half a large glass, all the way up to the line, and it feels like such toil.

Suddenly my mouth fills with sweetness. I run and vomit in the toilet bowl, forewarned just enough by a surge of saliva. I once read that this is how our bodies save our teeth from the corrosive burn of our guts. To keep us away from the dentist. And have you noticed how the dentist always arranges the most painful procedures to take place at two thirty? Ha,
tooth hurty
! Starts drilling at tooth hurty two. Where is my lucky tooth? Need some strength, need Dee. Oh, I’d Dee anything, dee dee dee anything. What’s the time anyway? Tooth hurty heaven?

What’s the time, Mr Wolf?

What’s the time, Mr Wolf?

What’s the time, Mr Wolf?

Dinner time.

*   *   *

XLII(i)
   ‘Wake up,’ said Emilia. ‘Chad, wake up.’

In Jolyon’s room the afternoon sun had lifted above the dormered roof of Pitt’s neighbouring college. Daylight cast itself in abstract wedges against the pinched corners of the rooms. It lit the coffee table amber and danced in a marble swirl where it shone through a bottle of whisky.

‘How many has he had?’ Emilia held her hand to Chad’s forehead.

‘That many,’ said Jack, pointing to the bottle, two-thirds full. ‘I don’t know. Six, maybe seven shots’ worth.’

‘That’s plenty,’ said Emilia. ‘Stop now. How can he –’

‘I’ve seen him put at least twice that much away,’ said Jolyon. ‘This is what might be termed a tactical pass-out.’

Chad opened one eye and laughed. ‘You can’t blame a guy for trying,’ he said, his words scuffed at their edges.

Jolyon poured him another glass and Chad started to work his way through it.

Tallest was in the room, he had finished reading two magazines and they lay at his feet, the
London Review of Books
and
Literary Review
. Next he opened an old book with no dust jacket and Jack showed enormous interest in its title. When Tallest wearily displayed its cover,
The Prince
, Machiavelli, Jack declared it Tallest’s greatest ever joke.

Dee tamped her pipe tobacco and brushed its chaff from her trousers, tartan and held up with bright red braces ‘It feels weird for one of us to be drinking and the others not,’ she said. ‘Like a funeral in reverse.’ She struck a match and held it to her pipe. Chad watched the jump of the flame as he finished what was left in his glass.

Jolyon looked at the clock and began to perform calculations in his head. ‘Another quarter-bottle in the next hour,’ he said, ‘and then a final quarter just before you’re due to start, Chad.’

Each of Chad’s eyes seemed to be trying to focus on a different object. But then a thought gripped him and held him rigid for a moment. ‘Hey, Jolyon, what’s happening with Mark?’ he said. ‘Is the guy still following you?’

‘He is,’ said Jolyon, ‘but yesterday brought an exciting new development.’