by Joël Dicker
“On the boat with Teddy. Alone. She said I was with them so Teddy’s parents would let them take the boat.”
“So her mother thinks she’s with you, and your mother thinks you’re with Nancy. So if they call each other, the stories will hold up.”
“Exactly. It’s a foolproof plan. I have to be home by eight. Will we have time to go dancing? I really want to dance with you.”
*
It was 3 p.m. when Jenny arrived at Goose Cove. As she parked her car in front of the house, she noticed that the black Chevrolet was not there. She rang the doorbell anyway, but there was no reply. She walked around the house to check that he was not out on the deck. He must have gone out to clear his head, she thought. He had been working very hard; he needed to take breaks. He would undoubtedly be very happy to find a nice snack on his table when he returned: roast beef sandwiches, hardboiled eggs, cheese, raw vegetables with an herb dip that she had made herself, a slice of pie, and some fruit.
Jenny had never before seen the inside of the house at Goose Cove. She thought it was beautiful. The place was vast and tastefully decorated. There were exposed beams on the ceilings, large bookcases against the walls, varnished wooden floorboards, and wide bay windows offering a clear view of the ocean. She could not help imagining herself living here with Harry: summer breakfasts on the deck, cozy winters spent by the fireplace, with Harry reading to her from his new novel. Why yearn for New York? Even here, together, they would be so happy. They would not need anything but each other. She set her meal on the dining room table and then sat in a chair and waited. She was going to surprise him.
She waited for an hour. What could he be doing? Bored, she decided to wander around the house. The first room she entered was the office. It was somewhat cramped but nicely furnished, with a closet, an antique ebony writing desk, shelves on the wall, and a wide wooden desk cluttered with pens and papers. This was where Harry worked. She did not want to snoop or betray his trust; she simply wanted to see what he spent all day writing about her. And nobody would ever know. Convinced she was within her rights, she took the first sheet from the top of the pile and read it, her heart pounding. The opening lines were crossed out in black felt tip, so she could not read any of the words. But below that she could read quite clearly:
I go to Clark’s only to see her. I go there only to be close to her. She is everything I have ever dreamed of. I am possessed. I am haunted. She is forbidden. I should not. I should not go there. I should not even stay in this miserable town. I should leave, run away, never come back. I am not allowed to love her. It is forbidden. Am I crazy?
Aglow with happiness, Jenny hugged the sheet to her chest. Then she did a little dance and cried out: “Harry, my love, you’re not crazy! I love you too, and you can do anything you want with me. Don’t run away! I love you so much!” Excited by her discovery, she quickly put the sheet back on the desk, fearing that she might get caught, and walked back into the living room. She lay down on the couch, lifted the hem of her skirt so her thighs were showing, and unbuttoned her blouse to reveal the tops of her breasts. Nobody had ever written anything so beautiful about her. She would give herself to him as soon as he returned. She would offer him her virginity.
*
At that very moment David Kellergan walked into Clark’s and sat at the counter where, as always, he ordered a large glass of iced tea.
“Your daughter isn’t here today, Reverend,” Tamara Quinn told him as she brought him his iced tea. “She took the day off.”
“I know, Mrs Quinn. She’s out sailing, with friends. She left at dawn. I offered to drive her, but she wouldn’t have it. She told me to rest, to stay in bed. She’s such a kind girl.”
“She certainly is, Reverend. I’m very happy with her.”
David Kellergan smiled, and Tamara thought for a moment about this jolly, gentle-faced man in round spectacles. He had to be fifty, and he was thin and rather frail, but he radiated great strength. He never raised his voice, which was calm and composed. She liked his sermons, in spite of his strong southern accent. His daughter was a lot like him: gentle, friendly, obliging, affable. David and Nola Kellergan were good people, good Americans and good Christians. They were well liked in Somerset.
“How long have you been living here now, Reverend?” Tamara Quinn asked. “I feel like you’ve been here forever.”
“Nearly six years, six wonderful years.”
The pastor glanced at the other customers and, a regular himself, noticed that Table 17 was free.
“Hey, the writer isn’t here,” he said.
“Not today. He’s a charming man, you know.”
“I know. I met him here. He kindly came to see the end-of-year high school show. I would very much like to make him a member of the congregation. We need people like him to take this town forward.”
Tamara thought of her daughter then and, smiling, could not stop herself from sharing the big news. “Don’t tell anyone, Reverend, but he and my Jenny are maybe an item.”
David Kellergan smiled and took a long drink of iced tea.
*
Rockland, 6 p.m. On a deck overlooking the harbor, drenched in late-day sunlight, Harry and Nola sipped glasses of fruit juice. Nola wanted Harry to tell her about his life in New York. “Tell me everything,” she said. “Tell me what it’s like to be a celebrity there.” He knew she was imagining a life of cocktails and canapés, so what could he tell her? That he bore no resemblance to the version of him they had dreamed up in Somerset? That his first book had vanished without a trace? He might lose her. So he decided to invent, to play to the full his role as a gifted, respected artist, weary of red carpets and the excitements of New York, come to find the breathing space necessary for his genius in a small New Hampshire town.
“You’re so lucky,” she said when she heard his story. “What an exciting life you lead! Sometimes I wish I could run away, far from Somerset. I feel like I’m suffocating here, you know. My parents are difficult people. My father is a good man, but he’s religious: He has some strange ideas. My mother is so hard on me! You’d think she had never been young. And it’s so boring, having to go to church every Sunday! I don’t know if I believe in God. Do you believe in God? If you believe in Him, I will too.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.”
“My mother says we have to believe in God, or He will punish us very severely. Sometimes I think that if there’s any doubt the safest thing is to be very good.”
“Ultimately,” Harry retorted, “the only one who knows whether or not God exists is God Himself.”
She laughed. A simple, innocent laugh. She held his hand tenderly and asked, “Is it O.K. not to love your mother?”
“I think so. Love is not an obligation.”
“But it’s in the Ten Commandments. Love your parents. It’s the fourth one, or the fifth. I can’t remember. Then again, the First Commandment is to believe in God. So if I don’t believe in God, that means I don’t have to love my mother, doesn’t it? My mother’s so harsh. Sometimes she locks me in my bedroom. She says I’ve been corrupted. I’m not corrupted, though—I just want to be free. I want to be able to dream a little. Oh, my God, it’s six o’clock already! I wish I could stop time! I have to go home now, and we didn’t even have time to dance.”
“We’ll dance, Nola. We’ll dance one day. We have our whole lives for dancing.”
*
At 8 p.m. Jenny woke up with a start. She had fallen asleep waiting for him. The sun was setting; it was evening. She was sprawled on the couch, a thread of drool hanging from the corner of her mouth. She had bad breath. She pulled up her panties, buttoned her breasts away, quickly packed up the picnic and fled Goose Cove in a cloud of shame.
*
They reached Somerset a few minutes later. Harry stopped in a back street near the marina, so that Nola could meet up with her friend Nancy and they could go home together. They stayed in the car for a moment. The street was deserted; the day w
as ending. Nola took a package from her bag.
“What’s that?” Harry asked.
“Open it. It’s a gift for you. I found it in a little store in the center of town, near where we had those fruit juices. It’s a souvenir, so you never forget this wonderful day.”
He unwrapped it. It was a blue painted tin emblazoned with the words SOUVENIR OF ROCKLAND, MAINE.
“It’s for putting dry bread in,” Nola said. “So you can feed the seagulls at your house. You have to feed the seagulls—it’s important.”
“Thank you. I promise I’ll always feed the seagulls.”
“Now say something sweet to me, Harry. Tell me I’m your darling Nola.”
“Darling Nola …”
She smiled, and moved her face close to his for a kiss. He pulled back suddenly.
“Nola,” he said abruptly. “We can’t do this.”
“Why not?”
“You and me—it’s too complicated.”
“What’s complicated about it?”
“All of it. You should go meet your friend now—it’s getting late. I … I don’t think we should see each other again.”
He got out of the car quickly then, to open the door for her. She had to leave now. It was so difficult not to tell her how much he loved her.
*
“So that’s the breadbox in your kitchen?” I said.
“Yes. I feed the seagulls because Nola asked me to.”
“What happened after Rockland?”
“That day was so wonderful that I became afraid. It was wonderful but too complicated. So I decided I had to distance myself from Nola and make do with another girl.”
“Jenny?”
“You got it.”
“So?”
“I’ll tell you another time, Marcus. We’ve done a lot of talking, and I’m tired.”
“Of course—I understand.”
I turned off the recorder.
24
Memories of Independence Day
“Get in the guard position, Marcus.”
“The guard position?”
“Yes. Go on! Raise your fists, place your feet, get ready to fight. What do you feel?”
“I … I feel ready for anything.”
“That’s good. You see, boxing and writing are very similar. You get in the guard position, you decide to throw yourself into battle, you lift your fists, and you hurl yourself at your opponent. A book is more or less the same. A book is a battle.”
“You have to stop this investigation, Marcus.”
These were the first words Jenny spoke to me when I went to Clark’s to ask her about her relationship with Harry in 1975. The fire at Goose Cove had been reported on television, and news of it was gradually spreading.
“Why would I stop?” I said.
“Because I’m worried about you. I don’t like this kind of thing.” Her voice had a mother’s tenderness. “It starts with a fire and who knows how it will end.”
“I’m not going to leave this town until I’ve understood what happened thirty-three years ago.”
“You’re unbelievable! You’re stubborn as a mule, just like Harry!”
“I take that as a compliment.”
She smiled.
“Alright, what can I do for you?”
“I’d like to have a talk with you. We could go for a walk outside, if you like.”
She left Clark’s in the hands of one of her employees and we went down to the marina. We sat on a bench, facing the sea, and I looked at this woman, who, according to my calculations, must be fifty-seven years old. Life had left its mark on her: Her body was too thin, her face lined, her eyes sunken. I tried to imagine her the way Harry had described her to me: a pretty young blonde with a voluptuous body, a prom queen during her high school years. Out of nowhere she asked: “What’s it like?”
“What’s what like?”
“Fame.”
“It’s painful. It can be enjoyable, but it often hurts too.”
“I remember when you were a student and you used to come to Clark’s with Harry to work on your writing. He made you work like a dog. You spent hours there, at his table, rereading, scribbling, starting over. I remember seeing you and Harry running at dawn with that iron discipline. You know, he looked so happy when you came. He wasn’t the same person. And we knew whenever you were coming, because he would tell everyone, days in advance. He would repeat, ‘Did I tell you Marcus is coming to visit me next week? What an extraordinary kid he is. He’ll go far—I’m sure of it.’ We all knew how lonely Harry was in his big house. The day you came into his life, everything changed. He was reborn. As if the lonely old man had finally succeeded in being loved by someone. Your visits did him so much good. After you left, he would go on and on about you: Marcus this and Marcus that. He was so proud of you. Proud like a father is proud of his son. You were the son he never had. He talked about you all the time—you never left Somerset. And then one day, we saw you in the newspaper. The big new author, Marcus Goldman. A great writer was born. Harry bought all the newspapers in the general store, he bought rounds of drinks in Clark’s. Three cheers for Marcus! And we saw you on T.V., we heard you on the radio … people around here talked about nothing but you and your book. Harry bought dozens of copies and gave them to everyone. And we asked him how you were doing and when we were going to see you again. And he replied that he was sure you were doing very well, but that he hadn’t heard from you. That you must be very busy. You stopped calling him overnight, Marc. You were so busy being famous that you dropped Harry like a stone. He was so proud of you, just waiting for a little sign from you, but it never came. You had succeeded, you had found fame, so you didn’t need him anymore.”
“That’s not true!” I protested. “I did get carried away by success, but I still thought about him. Every day. I didn’t have a second to myself.”
“Not even a second to call him?”
“Of course I called him!”
“You called him when you were up shit creek, sure. Because, having sold I don’t know how many millions of books, Marcus the Great Author got scared and couldn’t remember how to write anymore. We got the news about that as it happened too. How do you think I know all this? Harry sat at the counter of Clark’s, worrying because he’d had a phone call from you, saying that you were depressed, that you didn’t know what to write for your next book, that your publisher was going to take all his money back. And suddenly, there you were again, in Somerset, with your sad puppy-dog eyes, and Harry doing everything he could to raise your spirits. Poor sad little writer, what on earth can you find to write about? And then … a miracle, two weeks ago: The story breaks, it’s a big scandal, and who turns up? Harry’s good friend Marcus. What the hell are you doing in Somerset, Marcus? Looking for inspiration for your next book?”
At first, somewhat stunned, I made no reply. Then I said, “My publisher wants me to write about it. But I won’t do it.”
“But that’s the point: You can’t not do it! Because a book is probably the only way to prove to the world that Harry is not a monster. He didn’t do anything—I’m sure of it. Deep down inside, I know. You can’t abandon him—you’re the only one he has. You’re famous. People will listen to you. You have to write a book about Harry, about your years together. Tell everyone what an amazing man he is.”
“You love him, don’t you?” I whispered.
She lowered her eyes. “I don’t think I know what love means.”
“I think you do. It’s obvious from the way you talk about him, despite all your efforts to hate him.”
She smiled sadly, and in a broken voice said, “I’ve thought about him every day for more than thirty years. Seeing him so lonely, when I would have loved to make him happy. And as for me … look at me, Marcus. I dreamed of being a movie star, but all I am is a queen of french fries. I have not had the life I wanted.”
I sensed she was ready to confide in me, so I said, “Jenny, tell me about Nola, if you would …”
She smiled sadly.
“She was a very sweet girl. My mother really liked her, and that annoyed me. Because, until Nola, I had always been the pretty little princess of this town, the one all the men looked at. She was nine years old when she moved here. At that point, of course, nobody cared. And then, one summer, as often happens to girls when they reach puberty, all the men noticed that Nola had become a pretty young woman, with beautiful legs, full breasts, and the face of an angel. And this new Nola, in her swimsuit, stirred up a lot of desire.”
“Were you jealous of her?”
She reflected for a moment.
“Oh, what the hell, it doesn’t matter now, so I may as well be honest: Yes, I was a little jealous. Men looked at her, and a woman notices that.”
“But she was only fifteen.”
“She didn’t look like a little girl—believe me. She was a woman. A beautiful woman.”
“Did you suspect anything between her and Harry?”
“Not in the slightest! Nobody here imagined anything of the kind. Not with Harry or with anyone else. She was beautiful, but she was fifteen years old—everyone knew that. And she was the pastor’s daughter.”
“So there was no rivalry between you for Harry?”
“God, no!”
“And was there anything between you and Harry?”
“Not really. We went out a few times. He was very popular with the women here. I mean, a celebrity from New York turning up in a place like this …”
“Jenny, I have a question that may surprise you, but … did you know that when he arrived here, Harry was a nobody? Just a high school teacher who’d spent all his savings to rent the house at Goose Cove?”
“What do you mean? He was a writer, though—”
“He had written a novel, but it wasn’t a success at all. I think there was a misunderstanding about how famous he was, and he used that so that he could be in Somerset what he had wanted to be in New York. And because he then published The Origin of Evil, which really did make him famous, the illusion was perfect.”
She laughed, almost amused.