‘I’m not sure you’ve said that before,’ says Anna.
‘Well I’ve said it now,’ I say. ‘The best thing.’
‘Then think of today as a gift from your father,’ says Anna. ‘And give him his right of reply.’
‘You mean read his letter.’
Anna nods.
The truth is that I don’t want to be angry at all, nor bitter, nor resentful, nor unforgiving. But at the same time my claim to every one of those feelings is rightful, and before I can quench them I need to have their rightfulness affirmed. I’ve thought about the letter already, and the letter can only fall short.
‘You’re afraid to,’ says Anna, one step ahead of me always. ‘And it might be disappointing, it’s true.’
‘I can’t see that it might be anything else.’
‘Before today,’ says Anna, ‘could you ever have imagined any of this?’
‘Now you’re being unfair,’ I say.
‘Patatas bravas,’ says the different waiter who delivers our starter, and then, while refilling our glasses, ‘You like some olives while you wait for paella?’
‘No thanks, but some bread would be nice,’ says Anna.
‘Tell you what,’ I say. ‘If I decide I’m not ready to read it, I promise I’ll give it to you for safekeeping. But now it’s your turn, we’ve talked enough about me. Let’s talk about you for a change.’
‘About my own little part in your story,’ smiles Anna.
‘It’s not little at all,’ I say, ‘and I hope it’s getting bigger…’
Anna laughs.
‘That sounds like one of your riddles,’ she says.
‘Bread,’ says the same different waiter.
‘Tell me about ghosting,’ I say. ‘How did you get into it?’
‘I was always writing essays for people at college,’ says Anna.
‘You mean helping them to cheat.’
‘I suppose so, but the cheating was at least conscientious. First we’d have a proper chat, so I’d know what they thought, and then I’d try and put it into words. It was actually fun, and it helped me work things out for myself. I think it made me a much better student.’
‘And did they always get good marks?’
‘Sometimes better than mine,’ says Anna. ‘Which was fair, their ideas were more original than mine. I was just better at expressing them than they were. It also made me realize that I couldn’t be a writer, or not a very good one at least. And there are so many people who think they have an interesting story to tell.’
‘So you became a ghost-writer instead.’
‘I drifted into it, more or less. I had some good contacts, people seemed to like the way I write…’
‘Any bestsellers?’
‘A couple,’ Anna says. ‘Just dreadful Celebrity stuff.’
‘No fiction?’
‘Not my thing,’ says Anna. ‘I’d rather just read it.’
‘The Single Man,’ I say.
‘The Metamorphosis,’ says Anna. ‘And more recently The Ledger.’
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘So you know about The Ledger.’
‘Be careful, is very hot,’ says our original waiter, and in a blackened metal dish sizzles colourfully our seafood paella for two.
Phenomenon
‘You like it?’ Anna asks.
‘I do,’ I say, ‘but I think I must’ve had it before. The taste of the rice is very familiar.’
‘Atavistic déjà vu,’ laughs Anna. ‘Something else that’s in your genes.’
‘You speak Spanish fluently, don’t you?’
‘Of course,’ says Anna. ‘My Spanish is as good as my English.’
‘So you can ghost in both languages.’
‘And I have.’
‘You really think we’ll find a publisher for this?’
‘Easily,’ says Anna. ‘I’ll need just five minutes to pitch it to my agent.’
‘You’re very confident,’ I say.
‘It’s quite a story,’ says Anna.
‘I’m not so sure,’ I say.
‘About?’
‘There’s no resolution,’ I say. ‘I know it’s not fiction, but isn’t that how people will read it?’
‘What kind of resolution would you like?’ asks Anna. ‘We can either start at the beginning or we can start at the end and go back.’
‘Go back to what? My father’s infidelity? My birth? Bea’s murder?’
‘It’s all part of who you are,’ says Anna.
‘But it’s hardly resolution.’
‘It depends how we write it.’
‘And if the story ends at the beginning, where should it begin?’
‘Same place it would end if we wrote it the other way around.’
‘And where would that be?’
‘Eat your paella,’ says Anna.
‘Answer me,’ I say.
‘Today,’ says Anna. ‘I think that’s a good place to end.’
‘To end or to begin?’
‘We should begin at the beginning and end with today.’
‘But today hasn’t ended,’ I say.
‘That’s the best kind of resolution,’ says Anna. ‘When the end isn’t really the end, when there’s at least the possibility of another beginning.’
‘It’s none of my business, I know,’ I say, ‘but I want to ask you something. How come you’re not with someone? Or are you? With someone, I mean.’
Anna winces.
‘Where did that suddenly come from?’
‘I’ve never been with anyone,’ I say. ‘So I’m not sure how to ask the right questions.’
Anna’s laughter is playful.
‘Indirectly,’ she says.
‘I wouldn’t know how to ask that indirectly.’
‘I’m not with anyone, no. But how come I’m not with anyone, I’m not sure I can answer. It’s just not been a priority recently, and that’s the best I can come up with, I think. These things tend to happen unexpectedly, don’t they?’
‘Might they happen unexpectedly today?’
Anna’s laughter is impassive.
‘Are you asking me out?’
‘I’m only thinking of the story,’ I say. ‘How it should end.’
‘Resolution,’ says Anna.
‘The best kind of resolution,’ I say.
Anna’s laughter is teasing.
‘So let’s not make today the end,’ she says. And then, ‘I’m only thinking of the story too. Now let’s finish the paella.’
‘Really, I’m stuffed.’
‘Then I’ll finish it myself while you tell me about The Ledger.’
‘Is that how you found me?’
‘Well, you did submit it under your name, address included.’
‘Leon Cheam,’ I say. ‘Not Jack Faro.’
‘But when I read it I knew straight away. That Leon and Jack must be one and the same.’
‘How come you read it at all? I mean, Legible Words isn’t exactly Granta.’
‘It’s not exactly Granta but the Editor’s my friend, and she called me to tell me about this absolutely extraordinary thing that someone had sent in, a phenomenon she called it, a story as truly Kafkaesque as anything written by Kafka. “And it’s not an imitation,” she said. “I mean it’s obviously not Kafka, but it is genuine Kafka, just in English instead of in German. I honestly can’t quite believe what I’m reading,” she said, “but I have it here in front of me and I need you to see it.” I was there that same afternoon, and Eva sat me in her chair and hovered anxiously overhead while I pored over The Ledger - not once but twice - in a silence so oppressively overfilled with expectation that it seemed to have suspended our breathing. And when eventually I did put your manuscript down, I looked up to see Eva staring down at me from across the other side of her desk like some otherworldly creature frozen in suspense.’
‘You’re making your friend sound deranged,’ I say. ‘Goggle-eyed and foaming at the mouth after reading my twenty-page story.’
‘You’re lau
ghing,’ says Anna, ‘but she was a bit deranged that afternoon, not quite foaming at the mouth but definitely goggle-eyed. Eva’s grandmother is German, and Eva herself is just as bilingual as I am. We were at college together, I read History and English, and she read History and German.’
‘And she’s read Kafka in both languages,’ I say. ‘In fact she wrote her thesis on the difficulties of translating him from German into English.’
‘So it wasn’t by chance you sent The Ledger to Legible Words. You were testing yourself.’
‘I was testing The Ledger.’
‘But The Ledger had a problem,’ says Anna. ‘It was just too good to be true, or that’s what Eva thought. “So?” she asked me, “are you going to tell me I’m imagining things?” I thought of you almost immediately. No one else could’ve written The Ledger, except Kafka himself, of course, but Kafka would’ve written it in German, and probably he would’ve called it Das Hauptbuch, according to Eva. I was as honest as I could be without giving you away. “You’re not imagining things,” I said. “It’s definitely as good as Kafka.” But Eva wasn’t satisfied with that. “No,” she said, “that’s not right. It’s not ‘as good as Kafka’, because ‘as good as Kafka’ implies it’s something else, and it’s not something else. This is Kafka one hundred per cent.” It was like the whole familiar Picasso debate all over again – it is, but it can’t be, but it is - with me playing devil’s advocate just to buy myself some time.’
‘Finish with the paella,’ the gruff waiter either asks or demands with his flat intonation.
‘No, not yet,’ Anna answers firmly, ‘and we’d like another bottle of wine, please.’
‘Really?’ I say, and the waiter indifferently lingers.
‘Same one,’ says Anna, showing the waiter the bottle.
Kafka’s wish
‘You were playing devil’s advocate,’ I remind her when he’s gone. ‘Buying yourself some time.’
‘That’s right,’ says Anna, ‘I needed time to think, but there wasn’t any time. I needed to find out first of all where the story had come from, but I couldn’t ask Eva directly, not without some excuse, I definitely didn’t want you brought into the conversation by mentioning Picasso, and I couldn’t make my mind up if Eva should publish The Ledger or not - if I wanted her to publish it, I mean.’
‘You were thinking ahead,’ I say.
‘Yes I was, I’m not going to deny it,’ says Anna frankly.
‘You had a letter to deliver,’ I say. ‘Secrets and lies to reveal.’
‘Ever since my mother told me your story, which was also part of hers, and of mine…’
‘You wanted to tell it.’
‘I wanted us to tell it together, but I also wanted to meet you. I’d spent years looking for you already, and after every tiny lead there was always just another brick wall, but then suddenly this fell into my lap out of the blue, and it was big. It was big and it was mine. I know it sounds bad, but after all the effort I’d put in, trying to find out what’d happened to you, I thought I’d earned it.’
‘You thought I was rightfully yours.’
‘Don’t laugh,’ Anna says, ‘that’s exactly what I thought.’
‘Would you like to taste the wine?’ a third waiter cheerfully asks in impeccable English.
‘I’m sure it’s fine,’ says Anna.
‘But let me get you fresh glasses,’ the waiter insists, and he’s already disappeared with the old ones. ‘There we are,’ he says when he comes back, and while he’s pouring us the wine, ‘how was your paella tonight?’
‘Very good,’ says Anna, ‘but I think we’re finished with it now.’
‘Too much food,’ I offer inanely, but the waiter gives me a gracious smile, and then he’s off with the leftover paella, humming happily an unhappy song.
‘It wasn’t what I wanted, you know, to just switch from Picasso to Kafka. I wanted to write with a voice recognizably mine, not someone else’s. To be influenced by Kafka, for sure, but not to write… how did Eva describe it?’
‘Kafka one hundred per cent.’
‘And at first I just couldn’t decide what to make of The Ledger. I mean, it was good, I liked it, but was it mine or was it Kafka’s? I found it really hard to be objective.’
‘So you sent it to Eva.’
‘I sent it to Eva and I carried on writing. And then I knew for sure. I wasn’t writing as myself, and Kafka had his wish after all.’
‘You destroyed what you wrote.’
‘Shredded it, just like Billy said. But I haven’t given up, I’m still writing. Who knows, one day I might send something else to your friend and hopefully she’ll publish it even though it isn’t by Kafka.’
‘“Whoever wrote this,” I said to Eva, “if you’re right and it’s not just a good imitation, they’ve obviously translated it from German.” “But that’s just it, you see,” said Eva, “this is more, much more than just a good translation, I don’t know how to say this without sounding crazy, but it’s… it’s actual Kafka, yes in a different language, but not in translation.” “Eva, just listen to yourself,” I said. “You’re getting too carried away, and it’s perfectly understandable, what you’ve been sent is a remarkable story. And you’re the expert, so if you think Kafka wrote it, then I have to believe you. But if Kafka wrote it, this has to be a translation. I mean, come on. Let’s not get too metaphysical here. So if that’s our starting point, what does it actually mean? That an original Kafka manuscript must’ve existed somewhere…” “There was a court case in Israel,” Eva suddenly remembered, “a dispute over Kafka’s literary estate, and rumours of undiscovered manuscripts locked away in safe-deposit boxes.” “You see?” I said. “That’s the likeliest explanation. That someone somehow got hold of an unknown Kafka manuscript, that it was translated into English by someone who’s as much of an expert on Kafka as you are, and then was sent to you probably through a totally unconnected intermediary… what did you say was the name of the person who sent it?” “I have his details here somewhere,” said Eva, “a covering letter with a name and address.” She rummaged through the papers on her desk and she found it. “Leon Cheam,” she said, “does the name ring any bells? He lives in N19, so somewhere in North London, I presume. No phone number, no email, just his name and a postal address.” “No photo?” I dared to ask, but Eva was quick to give the notion short shrift: “Photos are of no use whatsoever to a serious publication, and we’ve made that very clear in our submission guidelines.” She passed your letter over to me, and when I saw your name typed out in capital letters, something made me juggle them about in my head, and there it was - the anagram that made my suspicions conclusive. I copied your address in my notebook, and when I looked you up later on, your number was listed. “I don’t care where the manuscript’s come from,” said Eva, “I’m going to publish and be damned.” She sounded so determined that I didn’t even try to put her off. “Then publish it,” I said. “Just don’t attribute it to Kafka. If you do, you’ll either get yourself into trouble or you’ll make yourself a laughingstock.” “Of course I can’t attribute it to Kafka,” Eva said. “This Leon Cheam, he’s claiming to have written The Ledger himself, and I don’t have any proof that he hasn’t.” “Then if you’re sure you want to publish it, that’s who you have to say is the author,” I said.’
‘And she followed your advice, so when The Ledger was published, no one actually read it.’
‘Or at least paid much attention to it,’ says Anna. ‘And you were none the wiser, I suppose.’
‘Except that your friend sent me a letter.’
‘Eva?’
‘Inviting me to lunch. To discuss The Ledger, she said.’
‘And you went?’
‘I didn’t even reply.’
‘Good!’ says Anna.
‘And then she sent me another letter.’
‘She did?’
‘Which I also ignored.’
‘Any more letters after that?’
&nbs
p; ‘No more letters,’ I say. ‘But she did turn up on my doorstep one day.’
‘She didn’t!’
‘No, I’m just having you on.’
‘Very funny,’ says Anna.
‘So now I know how you found me,’ I say. ‘Things are falling into place bit by bit.’
‘I gave myself a couple of weeks, just to think it over and be as sure as I could be I’d be doing the right thing if I called you.’
‘But really you were always going to call me,’ I say.
‘I’m glad you’re still writing,’ says Anna.
‘Writing and shredding,’ I say.
‘Would you like to see the menu for desserts,’ asks the friendly waiter. ‘We have excellent home-made flan.’
‘What’s flan?’ I ask.
‘It’s similar to crème caramel,’ says the waiter. ‘But better.’
‘Let’s share one,’ says Anna.
‘Okay,’ I say.
‘And I’d like an espresso,’ says Anna.
‘I’ll have a double,’ I say.
‘Then I’ll have a double too,’ says Anna.
‘Muy bien,’ beams our excellent waiter, as he pours us the last of the wine.
‘I don’t suppose I could persuade you to stop,’ says Anna. ‘Shredding Kafka’s stories, I mean.’
‘It’s too late for that,’ I say.
‘But you needn’t do anything with them. Just put them away in a drawer.’
‘And be the author of my own misfortune,’ I say.
10
A Long Night’s Journey into Morning
The sky must be you
‘I’m serious,’ says Anna. ‘If you carry on shredding, one day you’ll shred the wrong thing, and it’s easy enough to shred, but once you’ve shredded there’s no going back.’
‘The wrong thing like how?’ I ask.
‘You said yourself you found it hard to be objective. A story isn’t like a painting, and you’re writing in a different language to Kafka’s. The transition isn’t likely to just happen overnight, and when it does start happening, perhaps even imperceptibly at first, if you’re impatient you mightn’t even notice.’
‘It’s unlikely to happen at all,’ I say.
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