The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair

by Joël Dicker

  “We’ll get up again,” I repeated. “You’ll see. You remember that massive beating I took in Lowell, in that boxing ring in the hangar? I never felt better than when I got up from that.”

  He tried to smile, then asked, “What about you? Have you received any more threatening letters?”

  “Let’s just say that every time I go back to Goose Cove, I wonder what will be waiting for me.”

  “Find out who’s doing it. Find him and give him the beating of his life. I can’t stand the idea that someone is threatening you.”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “What about your investigation?”

  “I’m making progress. Harry, I’ve started writing a book.”

  “That’s fantastic!”

  “It’s a book about you. I’ll write about you, about Burrows. And I’ll write about you and Nola. It’ll be a love story. I believe in your love story.”

  “That would be a wonderful tribute.”

  “So you’ll give me your blessing?”

  “Of course. You know, you were probably one of my closest friends. I’m flattered to be the subject of your next book.”

  “Why are you using the past tense? Why did you say I was one of your closest friends? We still are, aren’t we?”

  He looked at me sadly. “I just said it like that.”

  I grabbed him by the shoulders. “We will always be friends! I won’t abandon you. This book is the proof of my unfailing friendship.”

  “Thank you, Marcus. I’m touched. But friendship shouldn’t be the motive behind this book.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You remember our conversation the day you graduated?”

  “Yes. We went for a long walk across campus, then ended up at the boxing gym. You asked what I was planning to do now, and I said I was going to write a book. And then you asked why I wrote. I answered that I wrote because I liked it, and you said …”

  “Yes, what did I say?”

  “That life had very little meaning. And that writing gave life meaning.”

  “That’s it exactly. And that’s the mistake you made a few months ago, when Barnaski was demanding a new manuscript. You started writing because you had to write a book, not because you wanted to give your life meaning. Doing something just for the sake of doing it never works. So it isn’t surprising that you were incapable of writing a single line. The gift of being able to write is a gift not because you write well, but because you’re able to give your life meaning. Every day people are born and others die. Every day, hordes of anonymous workers come and go in tall gray buildings. And then there are writers. Writers live life more intensely than other people, I think. Don’t write in the name of our friendship, Marcus. Write because it’s the only way to make this tiny, insignificant thing we call life into a legitimate and rewarding experience.”

  I stared at him for a long time. I had the impression I was listening to the master’s final lesson, and that was unbearable.

  Finally he said: “She loved opera, Marcus. Put that in your book. Her favorite was ‘Madame Butterfly.’ She said the most beautiful operas were tragic love stories.”

  “Who? Nola?”

  “Yes. This little fifteen-year-old kid was crazy about opera. After her suicide attempt, she spent about two weeks at Charlotte’s Hill, which was a psychiatric hospital. I went to visit her secretly. I took her opera recordings that we played on a portable record player. She was moved to tears. She said that if she didn’t become a Hollywood actress, she would be a singer on Broadway. You know, Marcus, I think Nola Kellergan could have made her mark on this country.”

  “Do you think her parents might have killed her?” I said.

  “No, that seems unlikely to me. And then the manuscript, and that note in it. Anyway, I find it hard to imagine David Kellergan murdering his daughter.”

  “But she did have those bruises …”

  “Those bruises … That was a strange story.”

  “And Alabama? Did Nola talk to you about Alabama?”

  “Alabama? That’s right—the Kellergans came from Alabama.”

  “No, there’s something else. I think something happened in Alabama, something probably related to their move here. But I don’t know what. And I don’t know who could tell me.”

  “I’m sorry, Marcus. I get the impression that the deeper you dig into this case, the more mysteries you discover.”

  “That’s not just an impression. Oh, and I found out that Tamara Quinn knew about you and Nola. She told me that she went to your house the day Nola attempted suicide. She was mad because you didn’t show up at her garden party. But you weren’t home, so she searched your office. She found a note you’d just written about Nola.”

  “Now that you mention it, I remember that one of my pages did disappear. I spent a long time searching for it. I thought I’d lost it, which really surprised me at the time because I’d always been so organized. What did she do with it?”

  “She said she lost it.”

  “Was she the one sending the anonymous letters?”

  “I doubt it. She never even imagined there was anything between you and Nola. She thought you were just fantasizing about her. Speaking of which, did Chief Pratt question you about Nola’s disappearance during the investigation?”

  “Chief Pratt? No, never.”

  This was strange. Why had Chief Pratt never questioned Harry? Tamara said she had told him what she knew.

  Next, without mentioning Nola or the painting, I decided to bring up Elijah Stern.

  “Stern?” Harry said. “Yes, I know him. He used to own Goose Cove. I bought it from him after I sold The Origin of Evil.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “Not well. I met him a couple of times that summer. The first time was at the gala. We were sitting at the same table. He was a likeable man. I saw him a few times afterward. He was generous. He believed in me. He did a lot for culture. He’s a good man.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “The last time? That must have been at the closing for the house. But why on earth are you asking about him all of a sudden?”

  “No reason. By the way, Harry, the gala you’re talking about—is that the one that Tamara Quinn was hoping you’d take her daughter to?”

  “Yes. I went on my own in the end. What a night that was—I won first prize in the raffle: a weeklong vacation on Martha’s Vineyard.”

  “Did you go?”

  “Of course.”

  *

  That evening, when I got back to Goose Cove, I found an e-mail from Roy Barnaski.

  From: rbarnaski@schmidandhanson.com

  Date: Monday, June 30, 2008—17:54

  Dear Marcus,

  The book is great. Further to our phone conversation this morning, please find attached a draft of a contract that I don’t think you’ll be able to refuse.

  Send me more as soon as possible. As I told you, I intend to publish this fall. I think it will be a huge success. I am sure of it, in fact. Warner Brothers has already expressed interest in adapting it into a movie. The movie rights to be negotiated with you, of course.

  In the contract, he promised me an advance of two million dollars.

  I was awake for a long time that night, my head swirling with all kinds of thoughts. At 10.30 p.m., I got a call from my mother. There was a lot of background noise, and she was whispering.

  “Markie! Markie, you’ll never guess who I’m with.”

  “Dad?”

  “Yes. But that’s not what I mean! Listen: Your father and I decided to go to the city tonight, and we went to an Italian restaurant in Columbus Circle. And who do you think we bumped into in front of the restaurant? Denise! Your secretary!”

  “Wow, really?”

  “Don’t play the innocent! Do you think I don’t know what you’ve done? She told me everything! Everything!”

  “Everything about what?”

  “About how you sent her
packing!”

  “I didn’t send her packing, Mom. I set her up at Schmid & Hanson. I didn’t have anything else to offer her: no more books, no more projects, nothing. I had to help her plan for her future, didn’t I? I found her a plum job in the marketing department.”

  “Oh, Markie, we had a big hug together. She says she misses you.”

  “Please, Mom …”

  She whispered some more. I could barely hear her.

  “I have an idea, Markie.”

  “What?”

  “You know Solzhenitsyn?”

  “The writer? Yes. What does that have to do with me?”

  “I saw a documentary about him last night. And what an amazing coincidence that I did! Guess what? He married his secretary. His secretary! And who should I bump into today? Your secretary! It’s a sign, Markie! She’s not ugly, and, more important, she’s full of estrogen! I can tell—women can smell that kind of thing. She’s fertile, docile … she’d give you a child every nine months! I’ll teach her how to raise the children, and that way they’ll all be the way I want them to be! Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “Forget it, Mom. She’s not my type—she’s too old for me. And in any case she already has a boyfriend. And nobody marries their secretary.”

  “But Solzhenitsyn did. That means it’s O.K.! She was there with a guy, I know, but he’s a drip! He smells like supermarket cologne. You’re a great writer, Markie. You’re Marcus the Magnificent!”

  “Marcus the Magnificent was knocked out by Marcus Goldman, Mom. And it was in that moment that I started to live.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind. But please let Denise eat her dinner in peace.”

  An hour later, a patrol car stopped by to make sure everything was O.K. There were two cops—very likeable, about my age. I offered them some coffee, and they told me they were going to stay awhile in front of the house. It was a warm night, and I heard them chatting and joking through the open window, sitting on the hood of their car, smoking cigarettes. Listening to them, I suddenly felt very lonely, cut off from the world. I had just been offered a massive amount of money for the publication of a book that would undoubtedly put me back at the forefront of the literary scene; I was leading an existence that was the envy of millions of Americans. But there was something I didn’t have: a real life. I had spent the first twenty-eight years of my life fulfilling my ambitions, and I was beginning the next part by attempting to keep those ambitions afloat. Now that I thought about it, I wondered when exactly I would decide just to live. I went on Facebook and scrolled down the list of my thousands of virtual friends; there was not a single one I could call to go for a beer with. I wanted a group of friends whom I could follow the hockey season with and go camping with on weekends; I wanted a girlfriend who could make me laugh and inspire me. I didn’t want to be alone anymore.

  In Harry’s office, I spent a long time looking at the photographs I had taken of the painting; Gahalowood had given me a couple of enlarged prints. Who was the painter? Caleb? Stern? It was a very good painting, in any case. I turned on my minidisc player and listened again to that day’s conversation with Harry.

  “Thank you, Marcus. I’m touched. But friendship shouldn’t be the motive behind this book.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You remember our conversation the day you graduated?”

  “Yes. We went for a long walk across campus, then ended up at the boxing gym. You asked what I was planning to do now, and I said I was going to write a book. And then you asked why I wrote. I answered that I wrote because I liked it, and you said …”

  “Yes, what did I say?”

  “That life had very little meaning. And that writing gave life meaning.”

  Following Harry’s advice, I sat at my computer to write.

  Goose Cove, midnight. A light sea breeze enters the room through the open office window. It smells of vacation. Outside, the bright moon illuminates everything.

  The investigation is progressing. Or at least Sergeant Gahalowood and I are gradually discovering the extent of our task. I think there’s much more to this than a tale of forbidden love, or a sordid case of a runaway girl abducted by a prowler. There are still too many unanswered questions:

  In 1969, the Kellergans leave Jackson, Alabama, where David, the father, has a flourishing congregation. Why?

  Summer 1975: Nola has an affair with Harry Quebert, which will inspire him to write The Origin of Evil. But Nola also has a relationship with Elijah Stern, who asks her to pose nude for a painting. Who is she, really? A sort of muse?

  What is the role played by Luther Caleb, who Nancy Hattaway told me used to pick up Nola in Somerset in order to drive her to Concord?

  Apart from Tamara Quinn, who knew about Nola and Harry? Who could have sent Harry those anonymous letters?

  Why did Chief Pratt, who was leading the investigation into Nola’s disappearance, not question Harry after hearing Tamara Quinn’s revelations? Did he question Stern?

  Who the hell killed Deborah Cooper and Nola Kellergan?

  And who is that elusive shadow attempting to prevent me from telling this story?

  EXTRACTS FROM THE ORIGIN OF EVIL BY HARRY L. QUEBERT

  The tragedy had occurred on a Sunday. She was miserable, and she had tried to kill herself.

  Her heart no longer had the strength to keep beating if it was not beating for him. To live, she needed him. Because he had understood that, he came to the hospital every day, in secret, to see her. How could someone so pretty have wanted to kill herself? He blamed himself. It was as if he were the one who had harmed her.

  Every day he sat on a bench in the park adjoining the hospital, and secretly waited for the moment when she would come outside to enjoy the sunshine. Then he took advantage of her absence from her room to slip a letter under her pillow.

  My sweet darling,

  You must never die. Angels never die.

  See how I am never far from you. Dry your tears, I beg you. I can’t bear knowing that you are sad.

  I send you kisses to soothe your pain.

  Dear love,

  What a surprise to find your note as I went to bed! I am writing to you in secret: We are not allowed to stay up after curfew, and the nurses here are real bitches. But I had to reply as soon as I read your letter. Just to tell you that I love you.

  I dream of dancing with you. I would like you to ask me to the summer gala, but I know you don’t want to. You say that if they see us together, then that would be the end. I don’t think I will be out of here by then, in any case. But why live, if we can’t love each other? That was the question that tormented me when I did what I did.

  Eternally yours …

  My wonderful angel,

  We’ll dance together one day. I promise. A day will come when love will triumph and we’ll be able to love each other openly. And we’ll dance, we’ll dance on the beach. Just as we did on the day we first met.

  Dear love,

  Dancing on the beach. That is all I dream about.

  Tell me we will dance on the beach one day, just you and me …

  18

  Martha’s Vineyard

  (Massachusetts, Late July, 1975)

  “In our society, Marcus, the most admired men are those who build bridges, skyscrapers, and empires. But in reality, the proudest and most admirable are those who manage to build love. Because there is no greater or more difficult undertaking.”

  She danced on the beach. She played in the waves and ran on the sand, the wind blowing her hair. She laughed. She was so happy to be alive. From the hotel balcony, Harry watched her for a moment, then went back to the pages that covered the table. He had written forty or fifty pages since they had gotten here. He was writing fast, and well. It was thanks to her, to Nola, darling Nola. Finally he was writing his great novel. A love story.

  “Harry,” she called up to him, “take a break! Let’s go swimming!” Deciding he could interrupt his work, he wen
t up to their room, where he put away the pages in his briefcase and put on his bathing suit. He joined her on the beach, and they walked along the shore away from the hotel and the other guests. They crossed a line of rocks and found themselves in a remote cove. He held her and she clung tightly to his neck. Then they dived into the ocean and splashed around happily before drying themselves in the sun, stretched out on the large white hotel towels. She placed her head on his chest.

  “This is the most wonderful vacation of my life,” Harry said.

  Nola’s face lit up.

  “Let’s take a picture! That way, we’ll never forget! Did you bring your camera?”

  He took the camera from his bag and handed it to her. She squeezed against him, held the camera out at arm’s length and, just before pressing the button, she gave him a lingering kiss on the cheek. They laughed.

  “I think this will be a beautiful picture,” she said. “You must keep it with you all your life.”

  “All my life. It will always be with me.”

  They had been there for four days.

  Two weeks earlier

  It was the third Saturday in July, the traditional day of the summer gala. For the third consecutive year, it took place not in Somerset but at the Montburry Country Club, the only venue worthy of hosting such an event, in the opinion of Amy Pratt, who—since taking the helm—had strived to make it an evening of great standing. She had stopped using Somerset High School’s gymnasium, dropped the buffet in favor of a sit-down dinner with assigned seating, made it mandatory for men to wear ties, and introduced a raffle between the end of dinner and the beginning of dancing as a way to liven up the atmosphere.

  In the months leading up to the gala, Amy Pratt could be seen around town selling her raffle tickets at top dollar; nobody refused to buy them, for fear of being given a bad table. According to some, the considerable proceeds from the ticket sales went straight into her pocket, but no-one dared to speak openly of this; it was essential to remain on good terms with her. Apparently one year she had deliberately neglected to designate a seat to a woman with whom she had had a disagreement. When it came time to eat, the lady found herself standing in the middle of the room.