by Joël Dicker
“I’m not hiding anything.”
“Don’t lie to me! Don’t you think I’ve noticed? Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“Oh no—I would never think that!”
“You think I haven’t noticed how happy you are, that you’re out all the time, that you put makeup on your face?”
“I’m not doing anything wrong—I promise.”
“You think I don’t know you went to Concord with that little slut Nancy Hattaway? You’re a wicked girl, Nola! You make me ashamed of you!”
Her father had left the kitchen to lock himself in the garage. He always did that when there were arguments at home; he didn’t want anything to do with them. And he’d turn on his record player in order not to hear the beating.
“I promise I’m not doing anything wrong,” Nola repeated.
Louisa Kellergan stared at her daughter with a mixture of disgust and contempt. Then she sneered, “Nothing wrong? You know why we left Alabama … You know why, don’t you? Do you want me to refresh your memory? Come here!”
She grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into the bedroom. She forced her to undress in front of her, then watched as the girl trembled in her underwear.
“Why do you wear brassieres?” Louisa Kellergan demanded.
“Because I have breasts.”
“You should not have breasts! You’re too young! Take off that brassiere and come here!”
Nola stripped naked and moved closer to her mother, who grabbed a metal ruler from her daughter’s desk. First she looked her daughter up and down, and then, lifting the ruler, she smacked the girl’s breasts. She smacked very hard, over and over again, and when her daughter curled up in pain, she ordered her to stand up and remain calm or she would get even more. And the whole time she was beating her daughter, Louisa repeated: “You must not lie to your mother. You must not be a wicked girl. Do you understand? Stop treating me like an idiot!” Jazz blasted at full volume from the garage.
The only reason Nola had found the strength to work her shift at Clark’s was that she knew she would see Harry there. He was the only one who gave her the strength to keep going, and she wanted to keep going for him. But he hadn’t come today. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, lifting her blouse and examining her breasts, which were covered in bruises. Her mother was right, she thought: She was wicked and ugly, and that was why Harry no longer wanted her.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door.
“Nola, what are you doing?” she heard Jenny say. “The restaurant is packed! You have to come out and serve!”
Nola opened the door in a panic, thinking that Jenny must have been phoned by another employee, angry that Nola had spent so much time in the bathroom. But Jenny had come to Clark’s by chance. Or, rather, in the hope of seeing Harry. On arriving, she had noticed that nobody was waiting on the customers.
“Have you been crying?” Jenny asked when she saw Nola’s face.
“I … I don’t feel well.”
“Splash some water on your face and join me out there. I’ll help you during the rush. They’re going crazy in the kitchen.”
When the lunch hour was over and everything had calmed down, Jenny poured Nola a lemonade.
“Drink that,” she said kindly. “You’ll feel better.”
“Thank you. Are you going to tell your mom that I screwed up today?”
“Don’t worry—I won’t breathe a word. Everyone gets down sometimes. What happened to you?”
“I’ve had my heart broken.”
Jenny smiled. “Come on, you’re still so young! You’ll meet the right guy someday.”
“I don’t know …”
“Come on, look on the bright side! You know, not so long ago, I was in the same situation. I felt lonely and miserable. And then Harry arrived in town …”
“Harry? Harry Quebert?”
“Yes! He’s so wonderful! Listen … it’s not official yet and I shouldn’t really be telling you this, but you and I are kind of friends, right? And I’m so happy to be able to tell someone: Harry loves me. He loves me! He’s writing a book about me. Last night, he took me to Concord for the fireworks. It was so romantic.”
“Last night?”
“Yes, we watched the fireworks above the river. It was beautiful!”
“So, Harry and you … Are you … You’re together?”
“Yes! Oh, Nola, aren’t you happy for me? Whatever you do, don’t tell a soul. I don’t want everyone to know. You know how people are: They get jealous so easily.”
Nola felt her heart contract. So Harry loved someone else. He loved Jenny Quinn. It was all over—he didn’t want her anymore. He had even replaced her. In her head, everything was spinning.
At 6 p.m., having finished her shift, Nola stopped off quickly at home, then went to Goose Cove. Harry’s car was not there. Where could he be? With Jenny? The mere thought of that made her feel even worse; she forced herself to hold back her tears. She climbed the few steps that led to the porch door, took from her pocket the envelope she had addressed to him, and wedged it in the doorway. Inside the envelope were two photographs, both taken in Rockland. One showed a flock of seagulls by the sea. The second was a picture of the two of them taken during their picnic. There was also a short letter, a few lines written on her favorite paper:
Darling Harry,
I know that you don’t love me, but I will love you forever.
I am giving you a photo of the birds that you draw so beautifully, and a photo of us so you will never forget me.
I know you don’t want to see me anymore. But please write to me, at least. Just once. Just a few words, so I have something to remember you by.
I will never forget you. You are the most amazing person I have ever met.
I love you forever.
She ran away as fast as she could. She went down to the beach, took off her sandals, and ran into the water, just as she had the day she met him.
EXTRACTS FROM THE ORIGIN OF EVIL, BY HARRY L. QUEBERT
The letters had begun when she left a note on the door of the house. A love letter, expressing all she felt for him.
My darling,
I know that you don’t love me, but I will love you forever.
I am giving you a photo of the birds that you draw so beautifully, and a photo of us so you will never forget me.
I know you don’t want to see me anymore. But please write to me, at least. Just once. Just a few words, so I have something to remember you by.
I will never forget you. You are the most amazing person I have ever met.
I love you forever.
He had replied a few days later, when he found the courage to write to her. Writing was hard enough anyway. Writing to her was an epic feat.
My darling,
How can you say that I don’t love you? Here, for you, is a message of love, an eternal message mined from the most profound depths of my heart. A message to let you know that I think about you every morning when I awake and every evening when I fall asleep. Your face is etched upon my memory: When I close my eyes, you are right there with me.
Today, I came to your house at dawn. I have to confess, I often do this. I kept watch over your window. There were no lights on. I imagined you, sleeping like an angel. Later on, I saw you, I admired you in your pretty dress. A flowered dress that suits you so well. You look a little sad. Why are you so sad? Tell me and I will be sad with you.
P.S.: Send me your letters by mail—it’s safer.
I love you so much. Every day, and every night.
My darling,
I have just read your letter, and I’m replying right away. To tell the truth, I read it ten times, maybe a hundred! You write so well. Each word of yours is a wonder. You have so much talent.
Why don’t you want to come see me? Why do you stay hidden? Why don’t you talk to me? Why come all the way to my window if you are not coming to meet me?
Show yourself, I beg you. I have been sad ever since you st
opped talking to me.
Write to me quickly. I can’t wait for your next letter.
He knew that, from now on, writing to her would be his way of loving her, since he could not be physically close to her. They would kiss the paper the way they burned to kiss each other. They would wait for the mailman like lovers waiting at a railway platform.
Sometimes, in absolute secrecy, he would hide at the corner of her street and wait for the mailman to pass. He watched her rush out of the house and throw herself upon the mailbox to seize the precious letter. She lived only for these love letters. It was, at once, a beautiful and a tragic scene: Love was their greatest treasure, but they were denied it.
My sweet darling,
I can’t show myself to you because that would cause us too much harm. We are not from the same world; people would never understand.
How I suffer from my low birth! Why must we live according to other people’s rules? Why can’t we simply love each other in spite of our differences? This is the world today: a world where two beings who love one another cannot hold hands. This is the world today: full of codes and rules. But they are dark rules that tarnish and imprison people’s souls. But our souls are pure; they can’t be imprisoned.
My love for you is infinite and eternal, and it has been since the very first day.
My love,
Thank you for your last letter. Never stop writing: It is so beautiful.
My mother wants to know who is writing to me so often. She is suspicious that I am constantly hanging around the mailbox. To calm her down, I told her it was a friend I met at summer camp last year. I don’t like lying, but it’s simpler this way. We cannot tell anyone. I know you are right: People would make trouble for us. Even if it hurts me so much to send you letters when we are so close.
21
On the Difficulties of Love
“Marcus, do you know what is the only way to know how much you love someone?”
“No.”
“By losing them.”
On the road to Montburry there is a small lake, known throughout the region, and on cloudless summer days it is invaded by families and children’s summer camps. The banks of the lake are covered with beach towels and sun umbrellas, parents lying slumped beneath them while their children splash noisily in the green, lukewarm water. Trash from picnics, dropped in the water and carried away by the current, piles up in parts of the lake, turning the water to foam. The Montburry local government has endeavored to clean up the shores of the lake ever since the regrettable incident, two years earlier, when a child stepped on a used syringe. Picnic tables and barbecue pits have been provided to avoid the many open fires that made the lawn look like a lunar landscape; the number of trash cans has been doubled; toilets have been installed in prefabricated buildings; the parking lot, which adjoins the edge of the lake, has been enlarged and paved over; and, from June to August, a maintenance team comes every day to clear trash, used condoms, and dog shit from the shore.
The day I went to the lake, for the purposes of my book, some children had caught a frog—probably the last one alive in this body of water—and were trying to dismember it by pulling on its two hind legs.
Ernie Pinkas says that this lake is a good illustration of the decline of humanity. Thirty-three years earlier, the lake was unspoiled. It was difficult to reach: You had to leave your car on the roadside, cross a patch of woodland, and then walk for a good half-mile through tall grass and wild rosebushes. But all the effort was worth it in the end: The lake was beautiful, covered in pink water lilies and overhung by immense weeping willows. Through the clear water, you could see the trails left by shoals of golden perch, which were hunted by herons that waited amid the roses. At one end of the lake, there was even a small beach of gray sand.
It was to this lakeside that Harry came to hide from Nola. He was here on Saturday, July 5, while she was leaving her first letter at the door of his house.
Saturday, July 5, 1975
It was late morning when he arrived at the lake. Ernie Pinkas was already there, lounging on the bank.
Pinkas laughed when he saw him. “So you finally came. It’s a shock to see you anywhere other than Clark’s.”
Harry smiled.
“You’ve told me so much about this lake that I couldn’t not come.”
“Nice, isn’t it?”
“Beautiful.”
“This is New England. It’s protected, and that’s what I like about it. Everywhere else in the country they’re building and concreting all over the place. But here it’s different; I can guarantee you that, thirty years from now, this place will still be unspoiled.”
They cooled down in the water together, then dried themselves and talked about literature.
“On the subject of books,” Pinkas said, “how is yours coming along?”
Harry shrugged.
“Don’t be like that. I’m sure it’s very good.”
“No, I think it’s very bad.”
“Let me read it. I’ll give you an objective opinion—I promise. What don’t you like about it?”
“Everything. I have no inspiration. I don’t know how to begin. I’m not even sure I know what my subject is.”
“What kind of story is it?”
“A love story.”
“Ah, love …” Pinkas sighed. “Are you in love?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s a good start. I was wondering—don’t you miss your life in New York a little?”
“No. I’m happy here. I needed some tranquility.”
“But what do you do in New York, exactly?”
“I … I’m a writer.”
Pinkas hesitated to contradict him. “Harry … don’t take this the wrong way, but I talked to one of my friends who lives in New York …”
“And?”
“He says he’s never heard of you.”
“Not everybody knows me. Do you know how many people live in New York?”
Pinkas smiled to show that there was no malice in what he was saying.
“I don’t think anyone knows you. I contacted the publisher who put out your book—I wanted to order more copies. I hadn’t heard of that publisher, but I thought that was just my own ignorance until I found out it was actually a print shop in Brooklyn. I called them, Harry. You paid a print shop to publish your book.”
Ashamed, Harry lowered his head.
“So you know the truth,” he muttered.
“I know the truth about what?”
“That I’m an impostor.”
Pinkas placed a friendly hand on his shoulder.
“An impostor? Come on, don’t be ridiculous! I loved your book! That’s why I wanted to order more copies. You don’t have to be a famous writer to be a good writer. You have a huge amount of talent, and I am sure you will soon be successful. Who knows? Maybe the book you’re writing now will be a masterpiece.”
“What if I don’t write it?”
“You will. I know you will.”
“Thank you, Ernie.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s just the truth. And don’t worry—I won’t tell a soul. All of this will remain between us.”
Sunday, July 6, 1975
At exactly 3 p.m., Tamara Quinn positioned her husband on the porch. He was wearing a suit and holding a glass of champagne, a cigar in his mouth.
“Don’t move a muscle,” she ordered.
“But my shirt is making me itch, honey bunny.”
“Shut up, Bobbo! Those shirts are expensive, and expensive clothes don’t make you itch.”
Honey bunny had bought the new shirts in a fashionable Concord store.
“Why can’t I wear my other shirts?”
“I already told you: I don’t want you wearing your disgusting old rags when a great writer is coming over!”
“And I don’t like the taste of cigars …”
“Other way around, numbskull! You put it in your mouth the wrong way. Can’t you see that the band shows where you
r mouth goes?”
“I thought it was a lid.”
“Don’t you know anything about chicness?”
“Chicness?”
“It means chic things.”
“I didn’t know chicness was a word.”
“That’s because you don’t know anything! Harry will be here in fifteen minutes. Please try to behave as if you’re worthy of him. And try to impress him.”
“How?”
“Smoke your cigar thoughtfully. Like a great businessman. And when he talks to you, act superior.”
“How do you act superior?”
“Very good question. Since you’re stupid and don’t know anything about anything, you’ll have to make do with being evasive. Answer his questions with questions. If he asks you, ‘Are you for or against the war in Vietnam?’ you reply, ‘If you’re asking me that question, obviously you have a very clear view on the subject?’ And there you go, boom! You serve the champagne! That is what is called a ‘diversion tactic.’”
“Yes, honey bunny.”
“And don’t disappoint me.”
“No, honey bunny.”
Tamara went back into the house and Robert sat down in a wicker chair, feeling dejected. He hated Harry Quebert, who was supposedly a great writer but seemed more like a great stuffed shirt to him. And he hated seeing his wife put on these elaborate courtship dances for him. He was doing what she asked only because she had promised he could be her Naughty Bobbo this evening and that he could even sleep in her room. The Quinns had separate bedrooms. In general, once every three or four months, she would agree to have sex, usually after a long period of pleading, but it had been a long time since he had been allowed to spend the whole night with her.