That was where the notebooks finished.
Harry told her that he’d worked out from Mamoon’s friends that under Ruth’s instruction Mamoon headed for London, where he found people talking about the new Britain made by immigration, and a younger generation who wrote about multiculturalism, ethnicity and identity. Mamoon had never thought about his identity. He had always been who he was. That was, conceivably, his problem. In London he couldn’t find anyone new to get along with, and his friends bored him. He tried to pick up women, but the charm was intermittent; he was too old and didactic, too needy, out of practice.
Because he couldn’t go back defeated, he pushed on. He travelled in Europe — Prague, Vienna, Madrid, Budapest, Ljubljana, Trieste — writing in hotel rooms, sitting in cafes alone with the newspaper and a notebook, as alienated as he had been as a student in Britain. He got on a train to Rome.
One day he found, at last, a woman, and brought her back — Liana. It was instant, magnetic, their attraction for one another. Their excitement was high.
Now, you can imagine it, Harry went on. Liana charging around Prospects House, amazed by everything she had married into, shouting, brightening the place up, throwing things out, putting up new curtains until everything was transformed. A new woman, a new world. An opening out. Ruth, Julia and Scott became ‘servants’ or ‘staff’ again. Mamoon had written ahead, instructing them to return to their house. Mamoon was no longer the surrogate father. He just dropped the family; everything was different. Mamoon was not a great explainer.
Scott was devastated, but what could he say? He still came to work in the garden, and did all the odd jobs. He slashed his legs until they ran with blood. He chased and beat the father of a Somali immigrant family with a cosh. But Mamoon continued to see Scott and listen to him; he was interested and firm, giving him guidance, but no money.
Liana, even today, had little idea of the family drama which took place before she arrived. Mamoon knew she would be too jealous. She would never have allowed the family to work at the house. ‘No woman would, frankly,’ said Harry.
‘But Harry, what you’re doing is forcing her to see all this — you’re pushing it in Liana’s face.’
He said, ‘Alice, I promise, this book will introduce her to things she had no idea about.’
‘But Liana is happy. Why disturb her? This is much too dangerous, Harry. I’ve said it all along.’
Harry told her that there was a peaceful passage coming up since, for a time at least, back in the house with his new wife, Mamoon was cheerful and optimistic. He wrote well and was happy to be alive.
‘Only for a time?’
‘Is he cheerful now, or is he restless again?’
‘How would I know? Oh God,’ she went on. ‘This book is going to give them nightmares. He’ll blame her. He can be tough, vicious even. Can’t we forget it and just be friends with them?’
‘I’m not being paid to be a friend.’
‘But they’re my friends now. They’ve done nothing but treat me with affection and kindness.’
‘Alice, I am warning you — keep your distance.’
‘What’s made you so brutal, Harry? I’m not staying long, but thank God I brought them some lovely things.’
Alice had been rushing around in London, finding tablecloths, glasses, cutlery, good vodka, earrings, hazelnut cake, and a print of a pig for Liana. After Alice and Harry had driven into the yard, and lugged the swag into the house, Alice made a fuss of the dogs. Eventually she and Liana sat down to gossip while examining the presents.
Mamoon didn’t come out. Through the window Harry saw the old man watching the news. He was, after all, just a man, and not merely a narrative. Mamoon just nodded when Harry appeared in the doorway.
‘All well, sir?’ said Harry, striding in with a bottle.
‘All it takes to cheer me is a bright smile from Alice, and my favourite vodka, as you well know.’
‘Let me thank you for your kind assistance, sir, with Marion.’
‘Yes, my spirits rather dropped when I noticed that you seemed cheerful. Is she well?’
‘Formidable, but frail.’
‘Ah. She was full of life, before.’
‘Mamoon, she told me everything.’
‘Everything, eh? Did that take long?’
‘She showed me some letters and told me how much she loved and admired you as a man and writer. She said you were generous with your time and affection. It was the bitterest moment of her life when you came back here.’
‘I feel a but coming at me between the teeth of a rabid dog.’
‘She said your life changed when you were with her. You refound your sexuality, and developed it. Mamoon, sir, she described events which involved other men, as well as her female friends.’
He laughed. ‘Casanova claimed that Dante forgot to include boredom in his description of hell. As you might have heard during your research, I suffer from ennui as an illness, and this can make us sadists. I do recall Marion attempted some feeble tricks to keep me interested. I blame her for nothing. Say what you like about me, Sherlock, but I will question you severely if you condemn her for this nonsense.’
‘When you were writing she kept a diary. She’s working on a book about her adventures with you.’
‘She is?’
‘You had no idea?’
‘If every semi-literate fabulator scribbles away non-stop why would it be my concern — or yours, for that matter?’
Harry said, ‘She says there’s a publisher willing to take it if she tells all. I guess’, he went on, ‘the only way to stop her would be for you to talk to her. To persuade her. I am sure she would love to hear your voice.’
It took a lot to make Mamoon spark up, but this information made his eyes dart about. He composed himself before saying, in his slow sonorous voice, ‘As the genius Nietzsche told us, “The eternal hourglass of existence will be turned again and again, and you with it, you dust of dust.”’ He looked at Harry. ‘And you are dust of dust.’
He pulled himself up out of the chair and left the room.
Harry went to Alice upstairs and shut the door behind them.
Twenty
Harry sat close to Alice and confessed how mad and discouraged this part of Mamoon’s story was making him. It was true, you couldn’t just say anyone was a sexual sadist. Mamoon, predictably, was already hostile, and Marion wouldn’t let him quote from the letters — not that they confirmed much. Unless there was more than Marion’s allegations to go on, he would have to drop the material and write a bland book.
‘I will pull out of the project if I can’t do the sort of intimate, psychological portrait we’ve talked about,’ he said. ‘The archaeology of a whole man. He speaks; they all speak. I can’t bear the idea of just being mediocre, Alice. I would rather die than be ordinary.’
‘What can we do?’
‘You could go to him and ask if Marion told the truth.’
She looked horrified. ‘Why would he tell me, Harry?’
‘The old fool flatters himself he can seduce you. Haven’t you been prancing in the woods with him?’
‘Not prancing, no. He can’t walk far. As we go, we discuss the nature of love and art.’
Harry said, ‘Let’s turn it around. If you can persuade the old man to own up, you will help me out, and indeed the family we will have. Our future together could be secured.’
She was biting her nails. ‘Why are you pulling me into this, Harry?’