by Joël Dicker
As the town of Somerset slowly awoke in a state of shock, its inhabitants read and reread the articles in the newspapers. The house landline rang constantly, while some angry people came to knock at my door in search of explanations. I had to choose between facing up to them or hiding: I decided to face up to them. At ten o’clock, I downed two double whiskeys and went to Clark’s.
As I walked past the restaurant’s main window, I felt the eyes of the regulars staring daggers at me. I sat at Table 17, heart pounding, and Jenny, looking furious, rushed over to tell me that I was the lowest of the low. I thought she was going to throw the contents of the coffeepot in my face.
“So you came here just to make money out of our suffering?” she exploded. “Just so you could write filth about us?”
She had tears in her eyes. I tried to calm her: “Jenny, you know that’s not true. Those notes should never have been published.”
“But did you really write that crap?”
“I admit that those phrases, taken out of context, seem appalling.”
“But did you write them?”
“Yes, but—”
“There is no but, Marcus!”
“I can promise you I never meant to cause any harm to anyone.”
“You didn’t mean to cause any harm? Shall I quote your masterpiece to you?” She unfolded a newspaper. “Look, here it is: ‘Jenny Quinn, the waitress at Clark’s, fell in love with Harry at first sight …’ Is that how you define me? As a waitress, as a slutty serving wench drooling with lust every time she thinks about Harry?”
“You know that’s not true.”
“But that’s what you wrote, for God’s sake! It’s printed in every newspaper in this goddamn country! Everybody is going to read that! My friends, my family, my husband.”
Jenny was screaming. The other customers watched in silence. To let things cool down, I decided to leave, so I went to the library, hoping to find an ally in Ernie Pinkas, as he was the most likely to understand how words badly used could end in disaster. But he was not particularly happy to see me either.
“So, it’s the great Goldman,” he said when he saw me. “Have you come to look for more insults to write about our town?”
“I’m appalled by this leak, Ernie.”
“Appalled? Give me a break. Everyone is talking about your book. You’re the number one news item. You should be happy. Anyway, I hope you did well with all the information I gave you. Marcus Goldman, the omnipotent god of Somerset—Marcus, who turns up here and says to me: ‘I need to know this, I need to know that.’ Never a word of thanks, as if this were all perfectly normal, as if I were just the servant of the great Marcus Goldman. You know what I did this weekend? I’m seventy-five years old, and every other Sunday I have to work at the supermarket in Montburry to make ends meet. I collect carts from the parking lot, and I return them to the entrance of the store. I know there’s no glory in it, I know I’m not famous like you, but I deserve a crumb of respect, don’t you think?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? Bullshit. You’re not sorry at all. You didn’t know because you’re not interested. You’ve never shown any interest in anyone in Somerset. All you’ve ever cared about is being famous. But fame has a downside!”
“I am genuinely sorry, Ernie. Why don’t we go get some lunch?”
“I don’t want lunch! I want you to leave me in peace! I have books to put away. Books are important. You are nothing.”
I went back to Goose Cove to hide out. Marcus Goldman, adopted son of Somerset, had, without meaning to, betrayed his own family. I called Douglas and asked him to publish a denial.
“A denial of what? All the newspapers did was summarize what you wrote. It’ll be published in two months anyway.”
“The newspapers twisted everything! Nothing they printed corresponds to my book.”
“Come on—don’t make a big deal of this. You need to concentrate on your writing. That’s what matters. You don’t have much time. I hope you haven’t forgotten that three days ago you signed a two-million-dollar contract to write a book in seven weeks.”
“I know! I know! But that doesn’t mean it has to be garbage.”
“A book written in a few weeks is a book written in a few weeks.”
“That’s how long it took Harry to write The Origin of Evil.”
“Harry is Harry, if you know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t know.”
“He’s a truly great writer.”
“Oh, thanks very much. And what am I?”
“You know that’s not what I meant. You are a—how can I put this?—a modern writer. People like you because you’re young and dynamic. And hip. That’s what you are—a hip writer. Nobody expects you to win the Pulitzer Prize; they like your books because they’re cool, they’re entertaining, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Is that really what you think? That I’m an entertaining writer?”
“That’s not what I said, Marc. But you must be aware that some of your popularity comes from you being young and good-looking.”
“Good-looking? Are you serious?”
“Come on, Marc, you convey a certain image. As I told you, you’re cool. Everybody likes you. You’re like a good friend, a mysterious lover, the ideal son-in-law, all wrapped up in one friendly package. That’s why The Harry Quebert Affair will be such a big success. Think about how crazy this is—your book doesn’t even exist yet, but people are fighting over it already. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“The Harry Quebert Affair?”
“That’s the title of the book.”
“What do you mean?”
“You wrote it yourself in your notes.”
“It was a provisional title. I made that perfectly clear: provisional title. Pro-vi-sion-al. Ever heard of it? It’s an adjective meaning not definitive, temporary.”
“Didn’t Barnaski tell you? The marketing department thinks the title is perfect. They decided that last night. There was an emergency meeting due to the leak. They decided they ought to use it as a marketing tool and they launched the advertising campaign this morning. I thought you knew. Go look online.”
“You thought I knew? For fuck’s sake, Doug, you’re my agent! You shouldn’t think, you should act. You should make sure I know everything that’s happening with my book, goddamn it!”
I hung up in a rage, and went to check my computer. The first page of the Schmid & Hanson website was devoted to my book. There was a big color photograph of me and some black-and-white pictures of Somerset, along with these words:
THE HARRY QUEBERT AFFAIR
Marcus Goldman’s account of the
disappearance of Nola Kellergan
Coming this fall
Pre-order your copy now!
The hearing ordered by the judge following the results of the handwriting analysis was scheduled for two o’clock that afternoon. Journalists had taken over the steps of the courthouse in Concord, while television newscasters, covering the event live, rehashed the latest revelations. There was now talk of charges being dropped.
One hour before the hearing, I called Roth to tell him I would not be at the courthouse.
“Are you hiding, Marcus?” he taunted. “Come on, don’t be shy. This book is a blessing for everyone: Harry’ll be acquitted, your career’ll be on the upswing, and mine will get a huge boost. I’ll no longer just be Roth from Concord, I’ll be the Roth who’s mentioned in your bestseller! This book is perfectly timed, especially for you. What is it, two years since you last wrote anything?”
“Shut up, Roth! You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, cut the crap. You know as well as I do that your book’s going to be a huge hit. You’re going to tell the whole country that Harry’s a pervert. You were lacking inspiration, you didn’t know what to write, and now you’re writing a book that is a surefire success.”
“Those pages should never have reached the newspapers.”
“But you wrote those pages. Don’t feel guilty, though: Thanks to you, I expect to get Harry out of prison today. No doubt the judge reads the papers, so I shouldn’t have any trouble convincing him that Nola was a slut who consented fully to what she did with Harry.”
“Don’t you dare, Roth!” I shouted.
“Why not?”
“Because that’s not what she was. And he loved her. He loved her!”
But he had already hung up. I saw him soon afterward on my T.V. screen, climbing the courthouse steps with a triumphant grin plastered all over his face. Reporters thrust their microphones at him, asking if what had been written in the press was true: Had Nola Kellergan been having affairs with all the men in town? Was the investigation back to square one? He cheerfully answered yes to every question that was thrown at him.
This was the hearing that would give Harry his freedom. In barely twenty minutes the judge rattled off the flaws in the prosecution’s case, and the whole thing fell like a bad soufflé. The main piece of evidence—the manuscript—was completely undermined as soon as it was established that the message Goodbye, darling Nola had not been written by Harry. The remaining pieces of evidence were blown away like feathers: Tamara Quinn’s accusations could not be backed up by any material proof, while the black Chevrolet Monte Carlo had not even been considered incriminating during the original inquiry. The investigation was nothing but a big mess, and the judge decided that, in light of new evidence, he would release Harry Quebert on half a million dollars bail. The door was now open for charges to be dropped completely.
This spectacular twist provoked hysteria among the journalists. Now the D.A.’s motives in arresting Harry were widely questioned. Had he merely been seeking a publicity boost by throwing the famous writer to the lions of public opinion? In front of the courthouse, the cameras followed the parties as they descended the steps. First came Roth, jubilantly proclaiming that by tomorrow—the deadline for posting bail—Harry would be a free man. Then came the D.A., who attempted in vain to explain the logic of his investigations.
When I’d had enough of watching these developments on television, I went out for a run. I needed to run far, to challenge my body. I needed to feel alive. I ran until I reached the small lake in Montburry, which was swarming with children and families. On the way back, not far from Goose Cove, I was passed by a fire truck, immediately followed by another and by a police car. That was when I noticed the thick, bitter smoke billowing from the tops of the pines, and I understood at once: The house was on fire. The anonymous letter writer had finally carried out his threat.
I ran faster than I had ever run before, desperately hoping to save the house that I loved so much. The firefighters were hard at work, but the huge flames were devouring the front of the house. Everything was burning. A hundred feet from the blaze, by the path, a policeman was inspecting the words painted in red on the hood of my car: Burn, Goldman, burn.
*
At 10 a.m. the next day, the house was still smoldering. Most of it had been destroyed. State police forensics experts were examining the ruins, while a team of firefighters was on hand to ensure that the blaze did not start up again. The size and intensity of the flames suggested that gasoline or something similarly flammable had been poured over the porch. The fire had spread immediately. The deck and the living room had been completely destroyed, as had the kitchen. The second floor had escaped the worst of the flames, but the smoke and particularly the water had caused irreparable damage.
I felt like a ghost, still dressed in sweat pants, sitting on the grass and contemplating the devastation. I had spent the night there. At my feet was a bag that the firefighters had managed to rescue from my bedroom: Inside were a few clothes and my laptop.
I heard a car arrive, and a murmur among the crowd of ghouls behind me. It was Harry. He had just been freed. I had called Roth, and I knew he had told Harry about the fire. He walked toward me in silence, then sat on the grass and said, “What got into you, Marcus?”
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Don’t say anything. Look what you’ve done. There’s no need for words.”
“Harry, I …”
He noticed the writing scrawled on the hood of my Range Rover.
“Your car’s not damaged?”
“No.”
“Good. Because I want you to climb in it and get the hell out of here.”
“Harry …”
“She loved me, Marcus! She loved me. And I loved her in a way I have never loved anyone else. Why did you write all that shit? Huh? You know what your problem is? You’ve never been loved. You want to write love stories, but you don’t know anything about love. I want you to leave right now. Goodbye.”
“I never described or imagined Nola the way she was depicted in the press. They twisted my words, Harry!”
“But why the hell did you let Barnaski send that crap to the press in the first place?”
“It was stolen!”
He laughed cynically.
“Stolen? Don’t tell me you’re so naive that you believe whatever bullshit Barnaski is feeding you. I can assure you that he copied and sent those damn pages out himself.”
“What? But—”
“Marcus, I think it would have been better if I’d never met you. Leave now. You’re on my property and you’re no longer welcome here.”
There was a long silence. The firefighters and policemen were watching us. I picked up my bag, got in my car, and drove away. I called Barnaski right away.
“It’s good to hear from you, Goldman,” he said. “I’ve just seen the news about Quebert’s house. It’s all over the T.V. I’m glad you didn’t get hurt. I can’t talk for long—I have a meeting with the heads of Warner Brothers. They’re already considering various screenwriters to write a movie of The Affair based on your first pages. They love it. I think we’ll be able to sell them the rights for a small fortune.”
I interrupted him. “There will be no book, Roy.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“It was you, wasn’t it? You sent my pages to the press! You’ve fucked everything up.”
“You’re fickle, Goldman. Worse than that, you’re a diva, and I can’t stand divas! You make a big deal of playing detective, and then, on a whim, you give it up. You know what? I’m going to put this down to the bad night you’ve just had and forget all about this phone call. There will be no book? For Christ’s sake, who do you think you are?”
“A real writer. To write is to be free.”
He forced a laugh.
“Bullshit! Who’s been putting that crap in your head? You’re a slave to your career, your ideas, and your success. You’re a slave to your condition. To write is to be dependent. Not only on the people who read your books, but on those who don’t. Freedom is complete bullshit. Nobody’s free. I hold part of your freedom in my hands, just as the company’s shareholders hold part of mine in theirs. Such is life, Goldman. Nobody’s free. If people were free, they would be happy. How many genuinely happy people do you know?” I didn’t reply, so he went on: “Freedom is an interesting concept. I knew a guy who was a trader on Wall Street, one of those golden boys, you know, rolling in money. One of those guys on whom fortune always seems to smile. One day he decided he wanted to be a free man. He saw a T.V. documentary about Alaska, and he decided he was going to be a hunter, happy and free, living in the open air. He quit his job, sold his apartment, and moved to southern Alaska. And guess what? This guy, who had always been successful at everything he’d done, was successful in this too; he became a genuinely free man. No attachments, no family, no house—just a few dogs and a tent. He was the only truly free man I ever knew.”
“Was?”
“Yes, was. The poor bastard was free for four months, from June to October. And then when winter came, he ended up dying of exposure, having first eaten all of his dogs to stave off starvation. Nobody’s free, Goldman, not even hunters in Alaska. We’re
prisoners of other people and of ourselves.”
While Barnaski was talking, I heard a siren behind me: I was being chased by an unmarked police car. I hung up and pulled over to the shoulder, thinking that I was about to be arrested for using my cell phone while driving. But it was Sergeant Gahalowood who got out of the car.
He came to my window. “Don’t tell me you’re going back to New York, writer,” he said.
“What gave you that idea?”
“You were heading in that direction.”
“I was just driving without thinking.”
“Hmm. Survival instinct?”
“That’s more true than you could imagine. How did you find me?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, your name is painted in red letters on the hood of your car. This is not the right time to go home, writer.”
“Harry’s house burned down.”
“I know. That’s why I came. You can’t go back to New York.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re not a quitter. I have rarely seen anyone so tenacious in my whole career.”
“They pillaged my book.”
“But you haven’t written that book yet. Your fate is still in your own hands. You can still do anything you want. You have a gift for creativity. So get to work and write a masterpiece. You’re a fighter, and you know it. You’re a fighter, and you’ve got a book to write. And if you don’t mind my bringing this up, you’ve got me up to my neck in shit. The D.A. is responsible for this, and so am I. I was the one who told him he had to arrest Harry quickly. I thought that thirty-three years after the murder, a surprise arrest would show confidence. A rookie mistake. And then you turn up, with your patent-leather shoes that would cost me a month’s salary. I don’t want to turn this into a love fest, here on the side of the road, but … don’t go. We have to finish this investigation.”