The Search
Also by Geoff Dyer
Zona
Working the Room: Essays and Reviews 1999–2010
Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi
The Ongoing Moment
Yoga for People Who Can’t Be Bothered to Do It
Anglo-English Attitudes: Essays, Reviews and Misadventures 1984–99
Out of Sheer Rage
The Missing of the Somme
Paris Trance
But Beautiful
The Colour of Memory
Ways of Telling: The Work of John Berger
This paperback edition published in Great Britain in 2013 by Canongate Books Ltd, 14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE
This digital edition first published in 2013 by Canongate Books
Copyright © Geoff Dyer, 1993
The moral right of the author has been asserted
First published in Great Britain in 1993 by Hamish Hamilton
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library
978 0 85786 273 0
eISBN: 978 0 85786 341 6
Typeset in Goudy Old Style by Palimpsest Book Production Ltd, Falkirk, Stirlingshire
for Fi
Fairy-tales and legends often tell of a knight who suddenly catches sight of a rare bird of which he then sets off in pursuit, since in the beginning it seemed quite close, but
then it flies off again, until at last night falls. The knight is separated from his companions and lost in the wilderness in which he now finds himself.
SØREN KIERKEGAARD
The man who has criss-crossed every ocean has merely criss-crossed the monotony of his self. I have criss-crossed more seas than any man alive. I have seen more mountains
than most on this earth. I have been through more cities than exist and over the mighty rivers of non-existent worlds which flowed, absolute, under my contemplative gaze . . .
Did I leave? I could not swear to it. I found myself in other lands, in other ports, passing through towns which were not this one, even if neither this one nor that one were towns at all . .
.
FERNANDO PESSOA
CHAPTER ONE
The search began when Walker met Rachel.
He had been hung-over most of the day and intended taking it easy that night. Then, just as he was beginning to feel better, his brother dropped by, kitted out in an off-white tuxedo, telling
Walker to get changed and get a move on, he was coming to Charles and Margot Browning’s party.
‘I haven’t got a tux.’
‘There’s one in the car. Come on, we’re late. Let’s go.’
They were annual events, these parties, renowned throughout the bay area for the extravagant array of drink and food, the wealth of those invited to consume it. Walker had never been before and
apart from his brother – who, it emerged in the car, had come by the invite indirectly – he knew no one. He stood drinking, squeezed into a wine-stained tuxedo, wondering why he had
come. Photographers were prowling around, snapping anyone who possessed the distinctive complexion of wealth. No one had any interest in photographing Walker but several times he was caught in the
blurred background of a smiling society couple.
He had been there an hour, getting loaded, watching people talk, when a woman nudged into him and spilt half his drink. His age, a little older maybe. Brown hair piled up, earrings, no lipstick.
A dress that reached to the floor.
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
Walker dabbed at his jacket, gripping him like a velvet wrestler.
‘That’s OK.’
She was laughing. ‘It looks a little on the tight side.’
‘That’s how they’re being worn this year.’
‘A dinner jacket and surgical truss in one. Very stylish.’
‘I like to think so.’
She said her name, reached out a bare arm. Her bracelets chimed together as he shook her hand.
‘It’s a terrible party, isn’t it?’
In the first moments of meeting someone we’re attracted to we grope towards an agreement on something, however small – even if it is only agreeing to have a drink – and this
declaration of Rachel’s was enough to establish a treaty between them. They bitched about the party, the people there. Watched one of the photographers coax a grin and kiss from a rival pair
of celebrities.
‘It’s funny,’ she said. ‘Nothing means anything any more unless you’re photographed doing it. We need photos to prove to everyone else we exist, to remind
ourselves. How’s that for an unoriginal thought? What were we talking about? I forget.’
‘Photos,’ said Walker. ‘Pictures.’
‘Yes. You know when you’re on holiday and you take pictures? You always wait until you’re back home before getting them developed, even if you have time. Otherwise
they’re just postcards. But if you wait till you’re back home they’re different. Then it’s like that story of dreaming of a garden where you pick a flower – and you
wake up with petals in your bed.’
She was high or drunk, Walker guessed. ‘I never take a camera,’ he said dully.
‘So the dream goes on, even after you’ve woken up. Either that or you don’t wake up at all.’ She took a sip of red wine, holding the glass in both hands – a gesture
Walker had always been a sucker for.
‘Something like that,’ he said. Seeing his glass was empty, Rachel motioned to him to take hers. As she did so a photographer crouched down and snapped them. Walker took a gulp of
Rachel’s wine. A guy in a red-faced blazer came over and kissed her, chatted and drifted away, leaving them alone again. Moments later a woman came up and kissed Rachel on the cheek,
introduced her to a man with a millionaire haircut who in turn presented another man to her. Suddenly there was a lot of kissing going on. Eventually Walker got included in the swelling round of
introductions. Shook hands, repeated his name for those who didn’t quite catch it. He finished Rachel’s wine, mumbled ‘Excuse me’ to no one in particular and headed for the
bar.
Rachel was surrounded by a laughing group of people when he got back. He handed her a full glass and she smiled thanks. The way she laughed, looked at him. Walker wondered if he would go to bed
with her, not now, not tonight, sometime. The possibility hovered beyond the edge of what they said which was nothing, just words and smiles swapped. He shuffled on the periphery of the group and
moved off, bumping into someone as he did so.
‘Sorry!’ It was the kind of party where people were constantly stepping into each other and apologizing. On this occasion, though, the guy Walker had collided with stood there and
stared him down as if they were in a waterfront bar where an encounter like this could lead to a broken-bottle fight. A camera flashed whitely behind the guy’s head, silhouetting him briefly.
Now he was looking over Walker’s shoulder; Walker glanced around, instinctively following his gaze, thought he glimpsed Rachel looking away, startled.
Walker moved off, shoving gently through the crowd. Lifted a bottle from a waiter’s tray and resumed his solitary drinking. He was out on the terrace, looking down at the glinting waters
of the bay, when he felt a touch on his arm. He turned round and saw her.
‘I thought I’d never find you,’ she said. ‘It’s so crowded.’
‘I’m glad you did.’
‘I’m sorry, I got cornered. Is there anything more boring than a party?’
‘Hundreds of things – but at a party it’s more concentrated. And it happens on a bigger scale.’
She smiled quickly, ‘I have to leave. I wanted to say good-bye.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘Yes. I would like to have talked to you more.’
‘Maybe I’ll call you.’
‘It’s better if I call you.’
‘Yes?’
‘Are you in the book?’
‘Yes. It’s under B: B for Brush-off.’
‘I’m not giving you the brush-off – it’s a weird expression, isn’t it? Honestly.’
‘OK.’
‘I’ll call you.’
With that she was gone, leaving Walker in the mothy darkness, an empty bottle in his hand.
Two days later she turned up at his apartment. A fresh, clear morning. He had just got back from the gym and was sitting on the patio, reading the paper, when the doorbell
rang. The mailman, he guessed.
She was wearing jeans, a sweat-shirt. Her hair, neatly pinned up at the party, was all over the place today. In her hand she held a pile of letters.
‘Your mail,’ she smiled.
Walker looked over her shoulder and waved at the retreating figure of the mailman, smiling and pleased now that the good weather was here.
Walker smiled too. Everyone was smiling. ‘Come in.’
‘Is this a bad time?’
‘It’s a perfect time.’
Walker fixed a jug of orange and she followed him out to the patio. They sat in creaking wicker chairs, filling pauses with the swirl and chink of ice. He tore open one of the letters she had
handed him and glanced at the contents. Sunlight bounced white off the painted concrete. Walker squinted while she put on a pair of sunglasses. At every moment her face seemed on the brink of
answering ‘No’ to the question ‘Is she beautiful?’ But the answer never quite came and the longer he looked the more uncertain he became. Later, he saw he had got it wrong
all the time: her beauty lay precisely in this aura of uncertainty. Beside it the beauty of models and actresses seemed banal. At the time, watching her finger a strand of hair from her face, he
was aware only of the way his eyes lingered on her as they waited for each other to speak.
‘I think you said the other night that you’re not working just now,’ she said at last.
‘That’s right.’
‘So what do you do all day?’
‘You know, the time passes.’
‘Pleasantly?’
‘It passes.’
‘What did you do before this?’
‘Various things. Drifted from one thing to another. Whatever came up.’
‘You’ve never had a job?’
‘Off and on. Off mainly.’
‘And what do you do for money?’
‘Are you a social worker?’
‘I’m just interested.’
‘Odds and ends. My brother’s renovating a house just north of the bay. I work for him now and again. Maybe you met him the other night?’
She shook her head, took a sip of orange. The imprint of her lip appeared on the cold glass, fading as he noticed it.
‘You’re being too modest. I think you’ve had a more interesting life than you let on.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. I think you’ve been involved in quite a few interesting things. Not all of them quite legal.’
‘If you say so.’
‘You’re trying very hard to be enigmatic, Mr Walker.’
‘I know, I’m putting everything into it.’
‘Perhaps it would be a help if you borrowed these,’ she said, handing him her sunglasses.
‘That’s much better,’ Walker said when he had put them on.
‘They suit you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘How was prison?’
‘It was great. Bit cloudy a couple of days but the rest of the time it was terrific,’ he said and chucked the remains of his drink at her. ‘Now fuck off out of my
house.’
She brushed the melting ice from her lap, surprised but unruffled.
‘Dramatic,’ she said, only the faintest hint of nervousness in her voice. Seeing him smile she went on, ‘Do you really want me to leave?’
Walker was watching her carefully from behind the sunglasses. Her knees parted, almost imperceptibly, a quarter of an inch, no more, as she spoke. With his empty glass he gestured for her to
continue.
‘For a while you worked as a tracker.’
‘Not exactly.’
‘You found Orlando Brandon.’
‘I came across him. By accident.’
‘A very fortunate accident. For you, at any rate. People had been looking for him for three years. The buy-out must have been considerable.’
Walker waited, studying her.
‘Not so fortunate for him, however,’ she said. ‘If I remember rightly, he was dead three weeks after you found him.’
‘Four.’
She dug around in her bag and found another pair of sunglasses. Blew dust off the lenses.
‘How many pairs do you have in there?’
‘This is the last,’ she said, her eyes disappearing behind the shades. ‘I would like you to find someone for me.’
‘That’s illegal. Besides, like I told you, I was never a tracker.’
‘I appreciate that, Mr Walker, but I will, if I may, explain myself a little further.’
Walker shrugged. ‘What’s all this Mr Walker bit?’
‘The situation seems to demand it,’ she smiled. ‘Can I continue?’
Walker nodded. Shrugs, nods, smiles.