A Closed Book (8 page)

‘Jazz! Jazz! Jazz!

‘Oh, give me no Creole cookery,

No dinner at Antoine's, no Vieux Carré!

What I want is a hosanna,

A blast of Armstrongiana

From old Louisianaaaa

's favorite son Louis!

‘Jazz! Jazz! Jazz!

‘Now the music sounds Scarlattian

On the island of Manhattian

Where the rhythms are blasé

And bluesy and jazzy

And razzamatazzy

Like the “Rhapsody in Blu-é”!

‘Jazz! Ja –'

‘Hello?'

‘Who is it?'

‘Who is that? Is someone there?'

‘Is that you, Ryder?'

‘John? Is that you? Are you there? Is someone there?'

‘Good morning, Paul. Sleep well?'

‘No, I didn't.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that. I hope I didn't wake you coming in? I tried to be as quiet as I could.'

‘Tell me. Just when did you come in?'

‘Late. After midnight. Closer to one. I had dinner with a friend in Notting Hill, then drove straight down here afterwards.'

‘So you weren't back about eleven?'

‘Eleven? Eleven last night?'

‘Of course, eleven last night! What other eleven could I possibly be talking about?'

‘Well, don't bite my head off. I told you not to bother waiting up.'

‘I didn't wait up. Oh look, I – I'm sorry, John. I'm very rattled this morning. I had a rather eerie experience.'

‘Why, what happened?'

‘Nothing. It's too silly for words.'

‘Tell me what happened.'

‘Let's just drop it, shall we? I was probably imagining things. I do sometimes. Did you manage to get the information I asked you for?'

‘I got the postcard. I bought three of them, just in case. And the jigsaw puzzle.'

‘The jigsaw puzzle? Of Rembrandt's self-portrait?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Really? You amaze me.'

‘It was on sale alongside the others you mentioned.'

‘Well, that
is
a windfall. I fully expected to have to ask you to improvise – to have you cut a jigsaw-shaped piece out of one of the postcards.'

‘Sorry, I'm not with you on this. You remember, you
never did tell me what the jigsaw puzzle was going to be for? Would you like me to refill your cup, by the way?'

‘Thanks. A dab of sugar with this one, if you don't mind.'

‘Sure thing.'

‘Here you are. Now. The jigsaw puzzle?'

‘Oh well, it's the sort of thing that may or may not work. But I wanted you – or rather, I
want
you, since you unexpectedly did come up trumps – I want you to put the puzzle together except for the pieces where the eyes are. You know, a self-portrait without eyes? Something along those lines.'

‘I see.'

‘As I say, it may work. What about Trafalgar Square?'

‘Ah, now that
was
interesting.'

‘Yes?'

‘Well, I had no difficulty finding the identities of the three statues. Hold on. I've got my notes somewhere. Unless you'd prefer to wait till after breakfast?'

‘Please. If you've got your notes on you, read them to me now.'

‘Here they are. They're a bit rumpled but legible. All right. At the top right-hand corner of Trafalgar Square the statue, as you guessed, is of George IV.'

‘Uh huh.'

‘Bottom right-hand corner is one Major-General Sir
Henry Havelock, K. C. B., whatever that stands for. King's something, I suppose. King's Cross?'

‘Don't know. Go on.'

‘There's a quotation from him inscribed on the plinth, dating from the Indian Campaign of 1857. Would you like to hear it?'

‘I suppose so.'

‘“Soldiers!'”

‘Please, John, I've told you before. You don't know the power of your own voice.'

‘Sorry. “Soldiers. Your Labours Your Privations Your Sufferings and Your Valour will not be forgotten by a Grateful Country”.'

‘Peuh! Note how he rates privations and sufferings over valour. Typical military slimeball. Probably a bloodthirsty butcher.'

‘Lower left-hand corner is Charles James Napier. That name seems to mean something.'

‘Another general.'

‘Really? I'd have said a scientist. His dates were MDCCLXXXII to MDCCCLIII. If you like, I can work them out for you.'

‘Don't bother. So, as you thought, the unoccupied plinth is the top left-hand corner one?'

‘Ah but, Paul, that's what's interesting. It only goes to show how out of touch you can get even when you aren't –'

‘What's interesting about it?'

‘It's no longer unoccupied.'

‘What!'

‘I'd vaguely heard that plans had been mooted, but I'd no idea they'd already been carried out.'

‘What
are
you talking about?'

‘They've erected a new statue on it.'

‘A statue? Of whom?'

‘Who do you think?'

‘John, I'm in no mood, or condition, for guessing games.'

‘Diana!'

‘Who?'

‘Diana. Princess Diana? You know, she was killed in an accident in Paris? About eighteen months ago?'

‘Yes, thank you, John, I
was
aware of Diana's death. I'm blind, not deaf. Even I have to take notice when the entire cosmos weeps. But what are you telling me? That there's now a statue of Diana in Trafalgar Square?'

‘That's right.'

‘But that's unbelievable. How could such a monstrosity have been permitted?'

‘I believe they held some sort of nationwide poll – what are they called? – a referendum – and Diana was way ahead of the field.'

‘Well!'

‘You know, John, this has come as quite a shock to me. I'm starting to wonder whether I'm actually cut out to be a hermit.'

‘It must have happened very quickly. Even I didn't know.'

‘What's it like?'

‘The statue? I'm afraid it
is
something of a monstrosity. Head held high, hair streaming in the wind, skirt billowing around her legs. And she's holding a baby in her arms.'

‘One of her own?'

‘Own what?'

‘Babies, man, babies! Is it one of her own offspring? Or some kind of African baby?'

‘Ah, well, African, I'd say. Or Indian. The image is very much Diana the angel of mercy. Mother Diana of Calcutta.'

‘Well, well, well. That rather puts the kibosh on my little conceit.'

‘What conceit was that?'

‘Oh, I thought I might get some symbolic mileage out of the empty plinth. Probably just as well it's been filled. It risked being intolerably pretentious.'

‘Look, Paul –'

‘Yes?'

‘Well … Well, shoot this idea down if you think it silly.'

‘I will.'

‘But, well, couldn't you do something instead with the symbolism of Diana's statue?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘The accident … the car crash … the fact that both you and she …'

‘Why, John, you may just have something there.'

‘Thanks. I was worried you might find it –'

‘It wouldn't be too crass, do you think? No, I don't see why. Not the way I'd handle it. Fact, it might even be rather haunting. And – and yes, of course! – I can finally place that article I wrote that they never used.'

‘Sorry, what article?'

‘A piece about the whole Diana cult that I wrote a few years back. Arsehole editor of the
Sunday Times
turned it down because it was too “literary”. Naturally, it was literary! Why in heaven's name commission me at all unless you expect to get literature!'

‘John?'

‘Sorry. I was thinking of something.'

‘You know, John, when you're in the company of a blind man, you've got to take care not to fall silent too often. The blind take silences extremely seriously. They interpret each one – each silence, I mean – just the
way you, for example, might interpret a stray remark at a dinner table. “What exactly did he mean by that?” you think. And it nags at you all the evening. And you lie awake in bed worrying at it. Well, for a blind man, silence is just like that. Sometimes – in fact, too bloody frequently – Charles, my dear friend Charles, would abruptly fall silent when we were out on a stroll together and we actually had rows, quite serious rows, when I tried to get him to tell me what was on his mind.'

‘I've no objection to telling you what's on mine.'

‘I'm listening.'

‘It's just that I was shocked when you said you were thinking of using a piece you'd already written.'

‘Shocked? Heavens, why were you shocked?'

‘Well. Well, I've come to think of this – what we've been working on – as your most personal book, a book written out of your pain, out of your solitude, your –'

‘Yes, yes. Get on with it, man.'

‘Now you've decided to put something in it you've done before. Well, with respect, that strikes me as a bit cynical, somehow.'

‘I must say, John, I'm touched by your naïveté.'

‘You think I'm naïve?'

‘I think it's sweet that you have so romantically high-minded a view of the literary vocation. Much,
though, as I hate to destroy your illusions, I have to tell you that we writers are the most environmentally friendly creatures you could ever imagine. We're constantly looking for ways of recycling our work.'

‘Serving up as brand new something you wrote years ago? Isn't that cheating the public?'

‘The public? Who are they? What do they know? The idea the public has of the birth of a work of literature is
exactly comparable
, exactly comparable, to that which infants have of the birth of a baby. Most people think books are brought by the stork.'

‘Pardon me, Paul. But why do I have the feeling you've said that before?'

‘Really, John, this is too much. As I recall, there was nothing in my advertisement about the suitable candidate being required to advise me on how to write my own book.'

‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. But a few of my past suggestions you
have
found helpful.'

‘Is it acknowledgement you want? Do you want me to insert a footnote crediting you with the Diana idea? Which, frankly, I'm starting to think is just not worth the hassle.'

‘Very well, Paul, I won't say another word. I'll just take dictation like the secretary you hired me to be.'

‘Now don't go all sulky on me, please. As I said, as I
have
said, John, I'm delighted with our collaboration, really delighted. In this instance, however, I can't help feeling you've overstepped the bounds of what you should or should not feel free to say.'

‘It won't happen again, I assure you.'

‘Oh please.
Please
. No huffs. I can't bear them. Let's just forget it happened at all. And actually, John, actually, on reflection I have to say you're right. There. I've admitted it.'

‘Right about what?'

‘For a book like this, it's true, I shouldn't be using something second-hand. It
is
cynical. Not just cynical but defeatist. And the tone of the article would be all wrong. Too journalistic, too “topical”. You're quite right. If I don't have anything new to say, I ought not to be writing such a book. So will you accept my apologies? Yet again?'

‘Of course I accept.'

‘Good. Now. I think I told you the other day I wanted you to help me ring up my agent. I haven't spoken to Andrew in an age. Naturally, I haven't told him anything about the new book. Or about you. We've rather lost touch, he and I.'

‘Ah. So you can't make telephone calls by yourself?'

‘Mrs Kilbride usually makes them for me. Not that there are many these days. Would you mind dialling for me?'

‘Not at all.'

The number is 631.3341. His name is Andrew Boles. And, John, before you dial –'

‘Yes?'

‘I'll speak only to Andrew himself. No secretaries, please. If he's not in, just ring off.'

‘Right.'

‘Another thing. Don't tell him it's me.'

‘Don't tell him it's you? Who am I supposed to say it is?'

‘It's been so long since we've spoken I imagine he's forgotten all about me, quite written me off. I'd like the call to be a surprise. Whether it's likely to be a pleasant surprise or not is another matter.'

‘Oh, I see. Okay. Sorry, what was that number again?'

‘6, 3, 1.'

‘Yes?'

‘3, 3, 4, 1.'

‘Ringing.'

‘Hello? Yes, could I speak to Andrew Boles, please?'

‘Yes, hello. I wonder if I could speak to Andrew Boles, please?'

‘Oh, he is? Can you tell me for how long?'

‘I see.'

‘No. No, I'll call again when he's back. Thanks anyway.'

‘Bye.'

‘He's out?'

‘Away.'

‘Away? Where?'

‘The Far East. Hong Kong, Australia, then back home by way of San Francisco and New York. He'll be gone at least another fortnight.'

‘Ah. Oh well. At least it means the book will have a real existence when we finally do talk. Pity, though. It would have been nice to catch up with him after all these years. Yes, it's been almost four years. Good Lord, so it has.'

‘Uh, Paul, shall we get going?'

‘Well, I'll tell you, John. I'm tired, I'm very, very tired. Frankly, the more I think of the work we have to do today, the less I feel up to it. I slept so badly last night. Naturally, you'll have noticed few of the usual telltale signs of fatigue. Bloodshot eyes, to take the
obvious example. But I rather feel I need to rest a little this morning. Rest and think. Do you mind?'

‘Course not. Is there something I can do in the meantime?'

‘Yes, there is. You can tell me about the Rembrandt. That's what I'll be thinking about. I can't just launch into the text without giving it some prior consideration.'

‘All right.'

‘Then, while I'm resting, maybe you'd like to have a go at the jigsaw puzzle? How does that sound?'