Paul, hearing this, looks guiltier than he did when apprehended stealing the painting.
‘I must say, ever since you mentioned it that night, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it,’ Dodson says. ‘Perhaps I could tease a few more details from you? Characters, a rough idea of the length, and so on?’
Paul lets out a long sigh. ‘Look, Robert, there is no Anal Analyst.’
‘There isn’t?’ The editor looks confused. I am confused too. What’s he doing? He’s been offered a lifeline, why doesn’t he grab it? And then, almost simultaneously, it hits me. Paul doesn’t want a lifeline; he has never wanted a lifeline. The real goal of the heist and his other ludicrous schemes isn’t to haul himself out of the water — it’s to scupper the ship, to find rock bottom, to rid himself once and for all of any last vestiges of hope. The failure of his last book crushed him so thoroughly that he would rather steal a painting, be caught, disgraced and imprisoned, than write another one and see it fail too.
But this time I am not going to let him sabotage himself.
‘What he means,’ I interrupt, ‘is that since we saw you, the book has been significantly changed.’
‘Oh yes?’ Dodson’s interest is piqued anew.
‘And improved,’ I say. Paul is glaring at me, but I ignore him. ‘Instead of a promiscuous gay man, the book now tells the story of a banker who … who falls in love with …’ I trail off. The implausibility, the unwritability of a love story set in the IFSC suddenly seems incontrovertible. But what to put in its place? Fragments of abandoned narratives float surreally about my mind’s eye: detectives, wombats, James Joyce firing a revolver. My mouth opens and closes. Dodson considers me doubtfully; Paul’s glower transmutes into a smirk — and then, in a moment of perfect simplicity, it comes, or rather it has been there all along.
‘It tells the story of two men,’ I say. ‘The first is a lonely banker, who spends his days making money, and his nights searching for something to spend it on, a perfect circle of meaningless consumption. He has no friends, no family. Maybe he is running from something in his past, or trying to fill some loss with possessions. Or maybe he works simply so that he doesn’t have to think. But then he meets a writer who says he wants to put him in a book. For the first time the banker begins to come out of his ennui. In reality, though, the writer is planning to rob the bank.’
‘Ha!’ Dodson barks appreciatively, while Paul twists his mouth up and mutters under his breath.
‘At first, the two men seem very different. The banker is successful, solitary; his life is dominated by money. The writer has a family, but struggles to make art in a time when everything is defined by its price tag. Beneath the surface, though, both men are driven by the same urge to escape. The writer hides behind failure just as the banker hides behind wealth. They have lost faith in the world, and in themselves.’ I avoid looking at Paul when I say this, though I can hear his ever more irritated sighs. ‘For this reason, even though his book is just a trick, the writer and the banker become friends. And with this friendship, they begin to bring each other back to life.’
‘So it’s a love story,’ Robert Dodson says with a smile.
‘I suppose you could call it that,’ I agree bashfully. ‘Through the banker, the writer is inspired to start writing his book for real —’
‘Yes!’ The editor brings his hands together. ‘I can see it. It’s all about giving, isn’t it? The writer gives the banker companionship, the banker gives the writer faith, the writer begins a new book, about the banker, the same man he once believed was nothing more than an empty shell — and he gives that to us! We realize it’s the very book that we’re now holding in our hands!’
‘Yes, yes!’ I listen to this, grinning, with a sense, joyous as it is inexplicable, that everything has come together, all problems solved.
Then Dodson looks back at me and says, ‘And the banker?’
‘What?’
‘The banker, what happens to him?’
‘What happens … ?’
‘He can’t just go back to the office after all that, can he?’
‘No, no, of course not … no, the banker …’ He can’t go back to the office, I can see that, but as to what he should do instead — ‘The banker … ah …’
Dodson slowly nods his head, willing me on, but it’s no good, my mind has gone blank, and no matter how I try, all I can see is the banker at his desk, obediently tending to his work, his terminal full of numbers. ‘The banker has to … he has to …’
‘That’s enough,’ Paul says.
I slump, gaze back at him wretchedly.
Paul turns to the editor with a stony countenance. ‘He’s just trying to cover for me. The truth is that when I said, “There is no book,” that’s exactly what I meant.’
‘There’s no book?’ Dodson’s kindly, clever face puckers in incomprehension.
‘There’s no book, Claude is not my life partner, we’ve never been to Sweden. I don’t write any more, Robert. I haven’t had a saleable idea in seven years. I didn’t come here tonight to talk to you about a manuscript. I came to steal that painting.’
‘Oh,’ Dodson says. His brows furrow and knead together, as though masticating this information — then once again the door opens, and William O’Hara enters in a state of panic.
‘The window in the alley’s smashed!’ he exclaims, then notices our presence. ‘Hullo,’ he says.
‘Bumped into these boys out for a walk,’ Dodson breezes. ‘Asked them in for a minute — hope that’s all right?’
‘Out for a walk?’ William O’Hara repeats, rainwater dripping off his coat into a pool at his feet.
‘Yes, babysitting this little chap here. Can’t sleep, poor thing — anyhow, they wanted to say hello.’
‘We were very sorry to miss the interview,’ I chip in.
‘Count your blessings,’ William O’Hara says.
He steps back, inspects us thoughtfully. Remington is chewing on his crayon; the rolled-up stocking is still perched on top of Paul’s head, like a tiny beige beret. O’Hara clears his throat. He appears on the point of asking a question, a question that I suspect will prove very hard to answer, when he is distracted by a groan.
‘Who’s that?’ he says, and then, peering over the couch, ‘What’s Banerjee doing on the floor?’
‘Touch of migraine,’ Robert Dodson says.
‘Oh,’ William O’Hara says. He sounds cheered. He takes another look at the felled author and says brightly, ‘Well! Who’s for a drink?’
‘We should bring this little boy home,’ I say.
‘Suit yourselves,’ O’Hara says. ‘I’ll let you out.’ He turns for the door — then, as if it has yanked at his sleeve, turns back again and stares at The Mark and the Void. He remains staring for what seems like a very long time. ‘You know,’ he says at last, ‘I don’t mean to sound like I’m bragging, but every time I look at that painting I see something new.’ He shakes his head proudly. ‘That’s a real work of art,’ he says.
Igor and the van are long gone, and neither of us has any cash, so there is no choice but to walk back towards the river. The rain has restarted, and descends on us in enormous drenching globules. The mood, it need hardly be said, is low.
‘You should not be disappointed,’ I tell him. ‘From what I have read, art theft is a very hard crime to pull off.’
Paul nods morosely. ‘It’s Igor I feel bad for,’ he says. ‘He was going to buy a hot tub.’
‘Dad …’ Remington is rubbing his eyes with his fists.
‘Okay, buddy, we’ll be home soon.’ He hoists the boy up, letting his small head fall on his shoulder. ‘Listen, Claude. I appreciate what you were trying to do back there, with Dodson. For the record, though, if there’s one thing people want to read about even less than a French banker, it’s a novelist struggling to write his new book.’