The Tyrant's Novel (3 page)

Matt McBrien, a very talented young man nearly ten years younger than me, told me that as he presented the draft sections of his novel to Billy, Billy's calm, sage, avuncular comments were all about Matt's need to ensure his future as a writer in receipt of the commission's largesse. Billy would present Matthew with editorial notes which, in terms of subtlest propaganda, out–Great Uncled Great Uncle. Though the oratory of state might itself be an interesting art form, Old Billy was suggesting prose of a kind that he would have once mocked. But his eyes gleamed these days. He had found his vocation as a functionary.

Sonia McBrien, though young, had sometimes displayed the haunted look of a woman whose husband suffered from unpredictable moods. Sometimes, at the Kennedys', Matt would defend his past submission to Old Billy, and any future ones he might have to make. How much different is it, he asked, than having a Western publisher who wants to smarten up a manuscript according to what's fashionable? Besides, there's always something wrong in a novel. A few sentences from Old Billy, a required shift of emphasis for the sake of the McBriens' safety and Matt's work security—these were not major intrusions in a book of over three hundred pages, the young writer would argue. He never talked about fleeing, but I had a strong instinct he daydreamed about it. He had a first cousin in Los Angeles, and Sonia had a brother in Melbourne. Facing the giant task of displacing themselves, people often wore the sort of aged weariness one had seen recently in Sonia's young eyes. As she could work out for herself, beyond the possible, dangerous exodus and the harshness of processing in some other country lay the destiny of a career as a hotel maid in some New or Old World city; and for the barely exportable literary talent of Matt, a future as parking attendant or cabdriver.

Sarah and I parked our Fiat and were on the way to the door together when, choosing her moment, in view of how much I enjoyed these get-togethers and forgot all other problems while I was at them, Sarah told me Mrs. Carter had called again. You think we could go and see her, together?

She watched me sideways, knowing that the name Carter created in me an unreasoning flurry of irritation. In my eyes, this crow of a mourning woman, mother of Private Carter, harassed me, wanting to see in me her lost son. And every few months she wanted us to go and visit her. It had been more than six months since we last did, because I hated these meetings. When we visited her, Mrs. Carter would look at Sarah, who was innocent of any battlefield secrets, and clutch at her wrist and say, My son would have married a woman as good and handsome as you, had he not been captured by the Others. But there may still be time.

Indeed, tens of thousands of our troops were still prisoners in the POW camps of the Others, and as much as the Red Cross and our government tried, they remained for years on end over there, beyond the straits.

What I hated was the crazy glitter of hope in the old lady's eyes, the subtle chastisement of her berserk smile. I'd often thought of bribing someone in the Ministry of War to send a telegram saying Hugo Carter had died in captivity, and thus put paid to the reproach of that daft, lips-parted smile. But I knew she would want to retrieve the body, and feared that this resolution of the matter would bind her to me more solidly still.

With a tentative grin, not daring to look at me for long, Sarah said, Mrs. Carter suggested Saturday afternoon.

Fuck her, I said. I could feel the blood in my cheeks. That old witch! That succubus!

Don't be angry, she urged me. It's only for an hour. I'll say we have an appointment afterwards. Maybe you could have a glass of vodka before we go.

Mrs. Clarke, the Kennedys' housekeeper, met us at the door, created a restraint on my anger, and led us through the house and out to the pool, its apron, its cabana, its cocktail bar—all painted by the last rich pink of the low, dusty sun. Grace Kennedy, Andrew's full-bodied, mothering wife, greeted us and accepted our order for drinks. Sarah, her hand firm on my wrist, asked for apple juice. I asked for a bludgeoning Scotch to suppress the memory of the crowlike, carnivorous, parted lips of Mrs. Carter. But I was already charmed to see a pair of Andrew's familiars, Toby Garner, the architect, and Hope, his wife, with glasses in their hands, sitting on lounges, looking content. Andrew Kennedy himself bowled up with his casual brand of fraternal courtesy. In what I was sure was an entirely paternal way, he was besotted with Sarah. When I asked him how he was, he said, Thank God for the European soccer semifinals. They have Great Uncle transfixed.

He coughed then, and Sarah obliged him by walking away to greet Hope Garner.

Collins is gone, Andrew told me. Three days ago. Got into Istria in a chartered Cessna.

He shook his head at this further attrition amongst his friends. The dead and fled were too numerous for a moment. Peter Collins was a cultural favorite of the people, a poet who cooperated with rock bands and folk musicians to give his verse the extra dimension of music. He had written some good novels as well, translated into English, French, and German, and when I was younger I had very much envied and been impressed by him. His going was devastating but in a way hard to define. It certainly made me forget Mrs. Carter and left a rent in the air. If Robert Frost had left Maine to live in Lapland, or Philip Larkin had left Hull for Tajikistan, the shock could not have been greater.

Kennedy continued. I think his German editor helped him with the necessary, he explained. Maybe we should all have such friends. The whole thing is, he took his wife with him.

Wilf Apple, a slim figure though fifty years old, emerged from the cabana, a wet towel in his hand, beside his young boyfriend, Paul. He came with purpose to where Kennedy and I were standing. He asked, Did you tell Alan? I nodded to let him know I had the news, and did not need a further recital. I shook my head with wonderment, tilted it back, and opened my throat to the acidic comfort of liquor.

He took his wife, Wilf insisted on telling me. He was separated from her, and he ended up taking her instead of his girlfriend.

Andrew had an opinion on that. He said, The editor in Frankfurt must have told the wife. Not knowing about their split and that young singer of his. And once the editor let her know . . . well, dear God, did she have a weapon?

Andrew said, He loved that little singer though. He idolized her. And so why did he take the opportunity to go just now? I mean, the fellow's so popular with the kids even Great Uncle has to pretend to be a fan. The Overguard adopted one of his songs as their own. And I didn't know he was under any sort of threat. Even if the German editor said, Here's a packet of U.S. dollars, so go and charter a plane . . . why would he need to go? And take that bitter wife of his?

Wilf Apple had his ideas. He said the Germans probably had a chair lined up for him at Tübingen or Konstanz or somewhere else. All those literary theorists loved Collins's work. He could speak German too. He could perform for them. He could write his own ticket.

No dishwashing for Peter, said Wilf. Straight into the heart of the intelligentsia, and an instant rock star as well. Elvis Collins meets Derrida Collins. And he can bring his little chanteuse to him later maybe.

Andrew Kennedy shook his head. If the Overguard don't decide to interrogate her, he said.

Andrew's bafflement and Wilf's knowingness added wings to my depression. I wanted at least another half glass of Scotch. A man does not take the trouble to come amongst his friends for the sake of getting as blue as I now felt. There was anger as well. I, who rarely had a fight with Sarah, felt as if I wanted now to take her home and start one over Mrs. Carter and Peter Collins.

The young McBriens appeared on a pathway—they had been walking amongst the pines. This evening, they both looked cheerful and animated. They started speaking to the Garners, the architect and his wife, and slowly we all coalesced over in that direction, some standing, some sitting on the sun lounges.

As we moved, I saw Sarah semaphore to me with a small wave her regret at having piled Mrs. Carter on top of the story of Collins's absconding. Beloved, I thought—though a minute earlier I'd wanted to take issue with her.

To the group, Andrew said, Whatever you thought of him, you have to agree the cultural landscape's changed for good.

Toby Garner agreed. You're going to have a few gaps in your programming, all right, Andrew.

Grace Kennedy said, He could be a pompous shit.

Yes, said Andrew, but he had gifts which nearly justified it.

In the midst of this anxious hubbub, Matt McBrien seemed possessed of a rare serenity. There's always someone to step into the breach, he told us. Even genius isn't indispensable. I wonder did he think of his audience, anyhow, before he left them in the lurch?

A certain uneasiness overtook the company, and many began to abandon their reverence for the escaped icon.

To hell with him, said Wilf Apple, with a stuttering laugh. Some of his lyrics were absolute crap.
Love of the twilight, love of the night, love of the East in predawn light . . .
Only the music saved them from banality.

Some of us nodded. He was too prolific. But we were, in the end, not consoled. To help us out, Hope Garner said, Toby's had an interesting few days. Cheer them up with your story, Toby!

Garner was the supervising architect on the Northbourne Palace restoration. He always had interesting tales about Overguard officers turning up with new and, to a normal person, gratuitous demands from Great Uncle. A poor sleeper, Great Uncle, who had determinedly developed a gift to read English, would skim through
Architectural Digest
or books of architectural pictures late at night, and by morning would issue orders that an entire terrazzo floor be pulled up, or that the molding of the state banquet hall—there was one such in each of Great Uncle's twenty palaces—be done in the style of the Frick museum.

But before Toby Garner could tell us his latest experience of the way absolute power encourages absolute gratuitousness in architectural taste, the housekeeper and caterers appeared with our dinner of rice and salad, fish and lamb. Set out on tables by the pool, it consumed our time, as we advanced one by one along the line asking the normal questions of the buffet—what mayonnaise is this? Is this a marinade? I carried my refilled glass of Scotch, pecking away at it, feeling its false but vivid consolation behind my sternum and thinking as ever, Why do you need consolation? You have Sarah.

When we were all seated attacking the food, and Mrs. Clarke, the housekeeper, moved around filling wineglasses, Toby Garner sat up with the anticipatory glow of the storyteller who has the chair. But Sonia McBrien, sitting on the same side of the table and thus not able to see Toby's move to begin, said in a shrill, young voice, We have news. Matt has news.

Matt waved the statement away, but it was apparent the news was effervescing in him too, and must froth forth soon. Almost aggressively, Grace Kennedy asked that Matt McBrien cough it up. Matt still pursed his lips in amusement and shook his head as if he didn't want to. Sonia said, Tell them.

You tell them, said McBrien.

The two of them were annoying us more than was customary.

Sonia announced, Old Billy Salter has asked Matt to take the appointment of Acting Commissioner of Culture.

If they had worked themselves into a state where they expected us to be prolix with congratulations, they were a bit confused by the silence this announcement produced. Why shouldn't we be enthusiastic though? After all, Andrew had achieved a big state job, and the house to go with it. We said, Well, that's remarkable. Congratulations, Matt. You must be proud, Sonia!

But Wilf quickly got to the point. Don't do it, he advised.

Matt's smile frosted. Do you say that, he asked, because you're not in favor at the moment?

Wilf declared, I say it because I have not sought favor. I haven't consented to become an apparatchik.

And when was your last feature film? asked Sonia, offended for her husband's sake.

I make my films with handheld cameras. So do my assistants. We are documenting this age, and it will be interesting to those who come after us.

Sonia said, So you look for your rewards after you're dead?

Wilf Apple said, No, I get my rewards now. By being free of people like Old Billy Salter.

As the dialogue grew poisonous, Toby Garner sat forward, a genial soul. As much as I admire that, Wilf, he said, we have to live. After all, like Matt, I took Great Uncle's shilling, I'm afraid. But whose shilling am I to take if not his?

Wilf Apple said, Your work is not as censorable as ours.

Toby Garner cast his hands up, passing judgment on no one. Of everyone at this table, he said, you'd be the hero of the future, Wilf. Your name will be justly honored. You create the record of intolerable times.

Wilf Apple murmured, It's not only Great Uncle. The Western sanctions are shit too.

Garner said, I should perhaps welcome young Matt to the circle of government employees, but my story, the story I want to tell—listen to it well, Matt, because you're not just joining a payroll. You'll find yourself squeezed, sooner or later. I thought I was squeezed by having to alter a colonnade here and there. But what happened to me two days ago, it was the true damn squeeze!

He laughed confidingly in his wife's direction. He said, It made me light-headed with exhilaration, because I could be dead now, the bullet angled up into my brain. So I'm ecstatic.

This compelled our attention.

He told his two-days-old tale. At the Northbourne Palace he had supervised the installation of Courtney Witt's brilliantly designed bronze gates: dazzling with the reflected sun, opened and closed by means of electronic devices embedded in their stone columns. So that something so brilliant would not be tarnished, he had left a road, a gap in the stone wall, either side of the gates for the trucks bringing their cement and steel, their milled cedar, their mosaic tiles, to enter and exit, all without the risk of collision with Witt's lovely work.