A Closed Book (15 page)

‘Read it back to me. I promise not to interrupt.’

‘All right. I’m starting. “I myself heard of the Princess of Wales’s death in a way likely to have been repeated up and down the country. On the Sunday morning in question, early, very early – I had only just emerged from my bath – a friend rang me up. His voice sounded bizarrely guttural.

‘“‘
Well
,’ he said, without any of the expected telephonic pleasantries and preliminaries, ‘and what do you think of the news?’

‘“‘News? What news?’

‘“‘You mean you haven’t heard?’ he exclaimed with feigned incredulity. (I say ‘feigned’, because, considering my ‘What news?’, he could hardly have been in doubt that I had not heard.)

‘“The news burst forth in a loud firework display of exclamation marks.

‘“‘Diana’s dead! Dodi Fayed’s dead! They were being pursued by paparazzi! Their limousine crashed in a tunnel in Paris! The paparazzi have been arrested!’

‘“Like the entire country, I was caught off guard.
What was shocking was less the mere fact of Diana’s death than how utterly out of the blue it had come. Even so early, however, I was already conscious of a faintly jarring note. My acquaintance was genuinely distraught: as I was later to learn, he would spend the remainder of that same Sunday in front of his television set. During his initial phone call, nevertheless, I could detect in his voice what I can only call a
terrible elation
, the elation of someone who knows himself to be the bearer not simply of bad news but of
thrillingly
bad news. He was aghast, but he was also audibly exhilarated. And, no matter that he himself would indignantly deny such an allegation, I am convinced that he would have been obscurely frustrated, even downright disappointed, had I replied to his opening question by murmuring, ‘Yes, it
is
dreadful, isn’t it?’

‘“Everyone knows what I mean: the hair-raising excitement that we feel when communicating, to someone who has not yet been apprised of it, devastatingly bad news about mutual friends, colleagues and, of course, household-name celebrities. It is a species of excitement which has nothing to do with
schadenfreude
, the perverse satisfaction we (some of us) take in the reversals suffered by our friends. It can perfectly well coexist with authentic grief. But if anything can be securely filed away under the rubric of ‘human nature’, it is surely that half-suppressed frisson experienced
when we find ourselves in a position to impart information – information that, like paint, is still wet – relating to an acquaintance’s sacking, divorce, accident, arrest, suicide or terminal cancer.

‘“To my knowledge, there is not, although there ought to be, a word for such a frisson, especially now that it has definitively gravitated on to the stage of world affairs. For take the case, precisely, of Diana. Whatever else there was to be said about it, the international response to the circumstances of her fatal accident was a vindication of McLuhan’s theory of the contemporary world as a global village, one in which, by virtue of the ubiquitous electronic media, anything that happens somewhere will happen everywhere else as well at the same time. And just as a real village would be abuzz with the sudden, violent death of its most glamorous and stylish inhabitant, so the global village seemed to be engulfed by the – dare I call it ‘gleeful’? – frenzy which surrounded Diana’s.

‘“It is not as though any of us wished for that death. Even I, profoundly hostile as I am to the brainless culture of celebrity, found myself saddened that someone so young and beautiful – someone, moreover, who appeared truly not to wish to fritter her life away – had met with so horrible an end. But there is no getting away from it. Diana’s death, tragic, pointless, ironic or (grisly word) iconic, call it whatever you will, was also
a phenomenon. It was tremendously
interesting
.

‘“Nor was it unique, being, rather, only one in a lengthy series of recent newsworthy disasters which have had the effect of shaking a sluggish world out of a torpor of eternal sameness. For many of us, Pete Townshend was no more than a name, an irrelevant one at that, until he was slain in a Soho street. The Reverend Ian Paisley no more than an obnoxiously foul-mouthed (
sic
!) demagogue until he, too, was gunned down in his turn. Tony Blair no more than a toothily vacuous nonentity until he was enhaloed by the venomous spectre of AIDS. As for O. J. Simpson, there was, worldwide, an explosion of outrage at his acquittal, but there was equally (who will deny it?) a wonderfully galvanizing undercurrent of
relish
in that outrage, a relish of which the world would have been deprived if he had been sent to prison. The subsequent fact that he committed suicide was hence doubly gratifying, for it not only eliminated what vestiges of resentment might have lingered on from the patent – indeed, flagrant – injustice of his trial, it also offered yet another sensational item of news in which the collective, ever anxious to escape the cyclical ruts and routines of its humdrum, single-channelled existence, could revel without either guilt or responsibility.

“‘What does it mean, though, to become oneself, as I modestly and briefly became, the focus, the cynosure, of
such attention? What does it mean to become oneself the sensation, oneself the ten days’ wonder? I have sometimes pondered on the perceptional abyss that separates the nervous flier – as he sits with fastened seat-belt and scrotum-tightening rigidity inside an aircraft – from some idly ambling pedestrian far below on the ground who, for no particular reason, happens to glance up at the sky and observes a minuscule, streamlined object gracefully traversing it. And I have wondered, too, whether death might not be a little like that. For the individual who is experiencing death, the individual
to whom it is happening
, it must feel like being
inside
a plane, inside a vast, hollowed-out metal cylinder. For the attendant observer, by contrast, it must feel like being
outside
a plane, watching it pass overhead, so far, so very far overhead, and so tiny, so very tiny, it becomes virtually impossible for him to imagine that there might be anyone inside it. There, perhaps, is the difference between death as perceived by a dying man and death as perceived by another who watches him die. And there, too, perhaps, is the difference between being, and merely revelling in, a sensational news item.”’

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it.’

‘How many words? I’d say a thousand. No, twelve hundred.’

‘One thousand and ninety-two.’

‘Not bad, not bad. For a morning’s work, that’s not bad at all. Repetition of “ten days’ wonder” and “I have wondered”, but we can fix that. What do you think?’

‘I think it’s good.’

‘You think it’s good?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Why, then, do I seem to detect a ghostly question-mark loitering with intent, as a policeman would say, at the end of that sentence?’

‘No. I really do think it’s good. Very good.’

‘Come on, John.’

‘What?’

‘What do you actually think?’

‘Oh well, if you insist. It just struck me as, well, as being more – I’m not quite sure how to put this – more … more journalistic, somehow, than the rest of the book so far.’

‘Your point being?’

‘I couldn’t help wondering if …’

‘Out with it.’

‘Well, I couldn’t help wondering – I mean, while you were dictating – I couldn’t help wondering if you’d decided after all to recycle the article we talked about, remember? The article you wrote for the
Sunday Times
? The article about Diana? Adapted here and there, you know, to fit the new context, but basically the same. Am I right?’

‘No. What’s for lunch?’

Why is it I'm glad, why is it I'm relieved, that John is out? What is it about him that makes me eternally ill-at-ease? Oh, God, for an old friend. Oh, for notnecessarily a close friend but an old one. Someone for whom I haven't always been blind and disfigured.

‘Let me see – where – here it is. Now. Now this shouldn't be too difficult. Let's – oh damn, of course, they've changed over to these bloody – what are they called again? – what? what? what? what are they called? – oh shit, trying to find a word on the tip of your tongue, it's like – it's like a – it's like waiting for a sneeze to break. What
are
the fuckers called? Ah, ah – wait – touch-tone! Touch-tone phones. Yes, touch-tone … Dialling used to be so easy and so – so specific to phoning. But, no, naturally, naturally, they can't leave anything alone, they've got to fiddle with everything, even with the few things that miraculously do work. Oh well, let's go. Andrew's number, Andrew's number, Andrew's number. Oh no, I don't believe it! Come on. Remember, remember! What a time to forget!
Ohhhh, wait, wait, 631 something. Uh, 631 – 631 – 631.3341! 631.3341! All right now, don't forget. 631.3341. Now, let's see, here's 1, and here's – here's 3 – so this must be 6. Okay, that's good for 631. Now – 3341 – all right, all right now – 3 is here – and again – and 4 is on the other side – as so – right – right – and then 1 is directly above 4. Okay, right. Let's have a dry run. 6 – 3 – 1 – ohhhhh, no, that's 4 – no, no, it
is
1, it
is
1 – do it again. 6 – 3 – 1, right. Shit, what comes after 1? 6 – 3 – 1 – 3 – 3 – 4 – 1. So. 3 – 3 – 4 – 1. 3, 3, 4, 1. 3, 3, 4, 1. Okay. Now – go! 6 – 3 – 3 – damn, stop! All right, calm, calm, just keep calm –
and
– 6 – 3 – 1 – uh – 3 – and the second 3 – 4 – 1.
Et voilà
. Nothing to it.'

‘The number you have dialled has not been recognized. Please check and try again.'

‘What?'

‘The number you have dialled has not been –'

‘All right, all right. Okay, let's just check this again. 6, yes – 3, yes – 1, yes – 3, yes – 3 again, yes – 4 – 1. That seems all right. So. 6 – 3 – 1 – 3 – 3 – 4 – 1.'

‘The number you have dialled has not been recognized. Please –'

‘Stupid cunt!
Why
hasn't it been recognized? Don't you even know your own numbers? 631.3341. So what the hell's the matter with that?'

‘Uh oh. London. London, of course. It's 0171! 0171.631.3341! Now. Oh God, now where the fuck's the 7? Wait. 1 – 2 – 3 – new line – 4 – 5 – 6 – then 7. Two rows directly under 1. Right. 0 – 1 – 7 – 1 – 6 – 3 – 1 – 3 – 3 – 4 – 1. Here goes nothing. 0 – 1 – 7 – 1 – eh, eh – 6 – 3 – 1 – 3 – 3 – 4 – 1.'

‘Ah, at last.'

‘Please hold the line while we try to connect you. The number you are calling knows you are waiting.'

‘Now what?'

‘Please hold the line while we try to connect you. The number you are calling knows you are waiting.'

‘Yes, darling, I heard you the first time.'

‘Wait, wait. I think – yes, I think I know what this is. It's – it's the – it's the – the call-waiting thingamabob. Call-waiting facility. Yup. Another useless gadget. Why
do
they do it? And what would happen, I wonder, what would happen if I dialled my own number? What? Let's see. I'd get the message first. “Please hold the line while we try to connect you. The number you are calling knows you are waiting.” Then – then, yes, as the person being phoned, I'd find myself cutting in. Then what? Would I be put through to myself? Hah?'

‘Wait, though, wait. Damn. I should have held the line and someone would eventually have answered it. That's what you're supposed to do, isn't it? Hold the line? Start again. 6 – 3 – 1 – no, no, damn it – start again – 0 – 1 – 7 – 1 – 6 – 3 – 1 – 3 – 3 – 4 – 1.'

‘Please hold the line while we try to connect you. The number you are calling knows you are waiting.'

‘Uh huh.'

‘Please hold the line while we try to connect you. The number you are calling –'

‘Hello?'

‘I want to speak to Andrew Boles.'

‘Sorry? Andrew who?'

‘Andrew Boles.'

‘I'm sorry, there's no one of –'

‘Don't be silly. He's only the senior agent, you know.'

‘No, he isn't.'

‘Yes indeed he is.'

‘I say he isn't. And I'll tell you why. Because this is a private number. And you – whoever you are – you're an asshole.'

‘Oh God. What have I ever done to deserve this?'

‘Could I have got the number wrong? 631.3341. 631.3341.'

‘No! 631.
4 – 3 – 3 – 1
. 631.4 – 3 – 3 – 1. Now, now I've got it. 631.4331. Oh God, after all this, Andrew, after all this, you'd bloody better be in. Here we go. 0 – 1 – 7 – 1 – 6 – 3 – 1 – hold it, hold it – 4 – 3 – 3 – 1.'

‘Hello. Boles and Whitmore here. How can I be of help?'

‘Ah. Yes, I'd like to speak to Andrew Boles, please.'

‘Putting you through.'

‘Hello. Mr Boles's secretary speaking.'

‘Give me Andrew, please.'

‘What is the matter regarding?'

‘It's personal. Just put me through.'

‘I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I'll have to –'

‘I tell you it's a personal matter. Don't worry. Andrew will want to speak to me.'

‘Nevertheless. Before I can disturb Mr Boles, I've got –'

‘I'm telling you for the very last time. Andrew will want to take the call. Just do as you're told and stop fucking around.'

‘Who shall I say is calling?'

‘Ohhhhh. Look, tell him it's a face from his past. No, no, wait. Tell him – tell him – it's a ghost at whose feet he once sat.'

‘Hold the line. I'll see if he can take the call.'

‘Paul? Paul? Can that really be you?'

‘Hello, Andrew.'

‘Good Lord, it
is
you! Paul, how
are
you?'

‘Oh well. I am what I am, you know.'

‘Paul, this is terrific! I can't believe it's really you on the other end of the line! My God, I mean, after all these years!'

‘Four years, Andrew.'

‘Four years. Hmm. That
is
a long time, that's a very long time. And you haven't changed an iota, you old devil! At least, your telephone manner hasn't changed. You'll be pleased to know, I'm sure, that I have one very distressed secretary here. I can't imagine what you said to her. Or should I say, I can well imagine. Devil, you!'

‘I assure you I was no more than my sweet reasonable self.'

‘I'll bet. Oh, anyhow, what does that matter? What matters is that here you are, after all these years, on the phone just as though – I can't get over it!'

‘It
has
been a long time, Andrew. Longer, I suspect, for me than for you.'

‘Probably so, probably so. But, you know, Paul, I did try to ring you. I mean, I hope you know that. That I
tried several times to ring you. Just after the –'

‘I do know, Andrew, and – Well, let's just say that, even though I refused to speak to you, I was very touched by the fact that you'd called. In fact, I'd have been extremely hurt if you hadn't. It's just that back then, as you can imagine –'

‘Yeah. Yeah, I
can
imagine, old chap. And, well, I'm not going to bring it up now because I'm sure it's the very last thing you'll want to talk about. But I'd just like you to know that I – well, what can I say? I've thought a lot about you these last four years. Jane, too, I know.'

‘Thank you, Andrew, I appreciate that.'

‘Sorry. Can you hold on a sec, Paul?'

‘Yes, yes, I know. Oh, look, get his number and tell him I'll call him back as soon as I'm free. Oh, and Daria, hold all my calls, will you? Sorry, Paul, where were we?'

‘Paul?'

‘I was telling you how much I appreciated your not having forgotten me.'

‘Well, of course, it's perfectly true. And what I'd really love now is to see you. Of course – of course I don't know how
you'd
feel about that?'

‘I'm going to surprise you, Andrew, and say I'd love
to see you too. Yes. I do think maybe one day soon we might get together, just the two of us. Don't misunderstand me. I'm not suggesting you fix up a date now, so don't bother riffling through your – your –'

‘My Filofax?'

‘When I'm ready, I'll give you a call. If I may.'

‘If you may? You must! You must! I absolutely insist on it, chum! Jane, too. I know Jane's dying to see you again.'

‘Well, Andrew, she may think she is. But I'm not a pretty sight, you know.'

‘You never were, old boy. Look, Paul, I respect what you're saying to me. I understand, I do. You must take your own good time and when you're ready – I mean, when you're ready to start seeing a few of your old, close friends again – well, you know what I mean – just pick up the phone. By the way –'

‘Yes?'

‘Just now? You did pick up the phone yourself, did you? I mean, it
was
you who made the call, was it?'

‘Yes, it was. After several false starts.'

‘Why, Paul, that's wonderful! That's really wonderful! And it's just the beginning, you'll see! There's no knowing what you're going to be able to do when you put your mind to it!'

‘Maybe. Don't forget, though, that eyelessness is
what you might call an incurable disease. I mean to say, there's always going to be a ceiling on anything I achieve.'

‘A higher ceiling than you may think now, old boy.'

‘Maybe, maybe. Anyway, Andrew, I truly did need those dreadful years of solitude. I had to get them behind me before I could even contemplate doing anything new with my life.'

‘I know, I know.'

‘It's a bit like winning a set in tennis. All the effort you put into winning the set – then you finally do win it – and you wipe the slate clean and – I don't mean this in a pejorative sense – but then you can start all over again from square one. You follow me?'

‘Of course I do, Paul. And I'm delighted that the – that the period of adjustment seems to be coming to an end. To be blunt, Paul, it's true I don't know what you look like, but you certainly sound as though you're back on form.'

‘Thanks. And I'd like to thank you, too, Andrew, for not patronizing me. Even though I couldn't help noticing that the strain of
not
patronizing me, the strain of being so frank and all, so deliberately brutal, was just, shall I say, was just a wee bit audible, just a teensy bit self-conscious, no? Even so, I'm touched, I'm very touched.'

‘God, no one can ever get anything past you. Still as
sensitive as ever to nuances, I see. Isn't that how you once defined a writer? As an entomologist of nuances?'

‘Once? Many times, Andrew, many times.'

‘Which brings us neatly to – dare I ask?'

‘What?'

‘No chance of a new book in the pipeline, I suppose?'

‘Well, Andrew, since you do dare ask, the answer is yes.'

‘Yes? Why, that's absolutely wonderful, Paul! That's wonderful news! I can't tell you how happy I am! And how excited! Happy for you and excited for myself!'

‘It
is
rather exciting, isn't it?'

‘And how! But what are we talking about precisely? What stage is it at? Is it still just a project? Still just a twinkle in … well, in …'

‘Awkward, isn't it, Andrew?'

‘Anyway, no. It's already considerably more than just a twinkle.'

‘God, how exciting this is! A novel, I assume?'

‘No. No, in fact it isn't a novel.'

‘No?'

‘I suppose we're going to have to call it an autobiographical memoir.'

‘Better still! Better still! You know, Paul, even years
ago when – you remember, I tried to persuade you to write your autobiography?'

‘Yes, except –'

‘I tell you I just can't believe what I'm hearing. Has it got a title yet?'

‘
A Closed Book.
'

‘Sorry, what?'

‘
A Closed Book
. The title's going to be
A Closed Book
.'

‘Oh, Paul …'

‘Why, don't you like it?'

‘Don't I like it? I
love
it! I. Love. It.
A Closed Book
, it's genius! And listen – listen, Paul – you know, I think I can already begin to see the cover. Just listen. Tell me what you think. A closed book – I mean, the jacket illustration would be a picture of a closed book – and on the jacket of that book – I mean the book on the cover – there would be an illustration of another closed book – a smaller book, naturally – and then, on the cover of the smaller book, yet another closed book – and so forth.
Ad infinitum
!'

‘Only potentially, Andrew.'

‘Potentially?'

‘Only potentially
ad infinitum.
'

‘Pedant! You always were a pedant!'

‘And proud to be one.'

‘But don't you think that would make a wonderful cover?'

‘Well, let's not get carried away. There's so much more to be written than already has been written.'

‘Already has been written?'

‘Why, yes.'

‘You've already started the thing?'