by Joël Dicker
Children were no longer allowed to travel alone. The golden age when the streets were filled with happy, shouting kids was over: There were no more street hockey games on driveways, no more jump-rope contests, no more giant hopscotch courts drawn in chalk on asphalt; on the main street there were no longer bicycles scattered all over the sidewalk in front of the Hendorf family’s general store, where you could buy a small bag of candy for a quarter. Soon the streets would take on the disturbing hush of a ghost town.
The front doors of all the houses were locked, and at nightfall the town’s men, organized into citizen patrols, walked the streets to protect their neighborhoods and their families. Most of them carried baseball bats; a few had their shotguns. They said they would not hesitate to shoot if necessary.
Trust had been shattered. Anyone passing through—truck driver and deliveryman alike—was treated with suspicion and watched constantly. But the worst thing of all was the mistrust that grew among Somerset’s residents. Neighbors, friends for twenty-five years, now spied on one another. And everyone wondered what everyone else had been doing early in the evening of August 30, 1975.
Police cars constantly patrolled the town’s streets; if there were no police, people worried, but too many police made them frightened. And when a very recognizable black Ford, an unmarked state police car, parked in front of 245 Terrace Avenue, everyone wondered if it was Captain Rodik, come to deliver the bad news. The curtains in the Kellergan house were drawn for days, weeks, and then months. With David Kellergan no longer performing his duties, a substitute pastor was summoned from Manchester to take over the services at St James’s.
*
Then came the late-October fog. The region was covered by thick, gray, damp clouds, and soon a cold rain fell day after day. At Goose Cove, Harry wasted away, alone. He had not been seen anywhere for two months. He spent his days locked away in his office, working at his typewriter, absorbed by the pile of handwritten pages that he was meticulously revising and typing up. He woke early and went through the motions, shaving and dressing every morning, even though he knew he would not leave his house or see anyone. He sat at his desk and got to work. He took a break only rarely, to brew more coffee; the rest of the time was spent typing, rereading, correcting, tearing up pages, and starting over.
The only thing that disturbed his solitude was Jenny. Every day after her shift was over, she came to see him, worried by his slow decline. She usually arrived about 6 p.m.; by the time she had made it from her car to the porch, she was already soaked by the rain. She brought him a basket filled with provisions from Clark’s: chicken sandwiches, egg salad, macaroni and cheese that she kept warm in a metal dish, filled pastries that she had to hide from her customers to make sure there would be some left for Harry. She rang the doorbell.
Harry sprang from his chair. Nola! Darling Nola! He rushed to the door. There she was, standing before him, radiant and beautiful. They threw themselves at each other, and he took her in his arms. He swung her around him, around the world, and they kissed. Nola! Nola! Nola! They kissed again, and they danced. It was high summer; the sky was painted with the dazzling colors of sunset, and above them clouds of seagulls sang like nightingales. She smiled, she laughed, her face was the sun. There she was: He could hold her to him, touch her skin, caress her face, smell her scent, run his fingers through her hair. There she was, alive. They were both alive. “But where were you?” he asked, holding her hands. “I waited for you. I was so afraid! Everyone thought something bad must have happened to you. They say Mrs Cooper saw you covered in blood near Side Creek. There were police everywhere. They searched the forest. I thought something terrible had happened, and I was going crazy not knowing.” She squeezed him tightly; she held him close to her and comforted him: “Don’t worry, darling Harry. Nothing bad happened to me. I’m here. Look, here I am! We are together, forever. Have you eaten? You must be hungry. Have you eaten?”
“Have you eaten? Harry? Harry? Are you O.K.?” Jenny asked the pale, emaciated ghost who answered the door.
The young woman’s voice brought him back to reality. It was dark and cold outside, the rain was falling in torrents. Winter was almost here. The seagulls were long gone.
“Jenny?” he asked, his eyes wild. “Is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me. I brought you some food. You have to eat. You don’t look well at all.”
He looked at her, wet and shivering. He let her in. She stayed for only a brief while: just the time it took to leave the basket in the kitchen and pick up the dishes she had left the day before. When she noticed that he had hardly touched the food she’d brought, she scolded him gently.
“Harry, you have to eat!”
“I forget sometimes,” he replied.
“How can you forget to eat?”
“It’s because of the book I’m writing. I live inside the book and forget everything else.”
“It must be a wonderful book,” she said.
“A wonderful book.”
She didn’t understand how a book could put someone in such a state. Each time she came, she hoped he would ask her to stay for dinner. She always brought enough for two people, and he never noticed. She stayed a few minutes, standing between the kitchen and the dining room, not knowing what to say. He always thought about asking her to stay for a while, but decided against it because he did not want to give her false hope. He knew he would never love anyone else. When the silence became embarrassing, he said, “Thank you,” and opened the door to let her out.
She went home, disappointed and worried. Her father lit the fire in the living room and made her a hot chocolate with a marshmallow melting in it. They sat on the couch, facing the fireplace, and she told her father how depressed Harry seemed.
“Why is he so sad?” she asked. “You’d think he was dying.”
“I don’t know, sweetie,” Robert Quinn replied.
*
He was afraid to go out. On the rare occasions when he left Goose Cove, he came back to find those horrible letters waiting for him. Someone was spying on him. Someone wanted to hurt him. Someone was watching out for his absences and then jamming an envelope into the frame of the door. And inside the envelope, always those same words:
I know what you’ve done with that 15-year-old girl.
And soon the whole town will know.
Who? Who could have a grudge against him? Who knew about him and Nola? Who now wanted to destroy him? It made him ill; each time he found a letter he felt feverish. He had headaches and felt anxious. Sometimes he vomited, and he suffered from insomnia. How could he prove his innocence? He started imagining worst-case scenarios: the horror of being locked in the high-security ward of a federal penitentiary until the end of his life, or of being strapped to a gurney and given a lethal injection. He gradually developed a fear of the police: the sight of a uniform or a police car was enough to put him in a nervous state. One day, coming out of the supermarket, he noticed a state police car in the parking lot, with an officer inside watching him. He forced himself to remain calm and increased his pace as he walked to his car, carrying his groceries. But then he heard someone calling. It was the policeman. He pretended not to hear. There was the sound of a door closing behind him: The policeman was getting out of his car. Harry heard the man’s footsteps, the sounds made by his handcuffs, gun, and nightstick as they jingled on his belt. When he reached his car, he put the groceries in the trunk so he could get away more quickly. He was trembling, drenched in sweat, his vision blurred; he was in a total panic. For God’s sake, stay calm, he told himself. Get in your car and disappear. Do not go back to Goose Cove. But he didn’t have time to do anything: He felt a powerful hand grip his shoulder.
He had never been in a fight. He didn’t know how to fight. What should he do? Should he push the policeman away, to give himself time to get into his car and speed out of the parking lot? Should he punch him? Grab his gun and shoot him? He turned around, ready for anything. And the policeman handed him a
twenty-dollar bill.
“This fell out of your pocket, sir. I called you, but you didn’t hear. Are you alright, sir? You look very pale.”
“I’m fine,” Harry replied. “I’m fine. I was … I was thinking about something and … Anyway, thank you. I … I should go.”
The policeman gave him a friendly wave and returned to his car. Harry was shaking.
Following this episode, Harry joined a boxing class; he practiced assiduously. Eventually he decided to see someone. Having done some research, he contacted Dr Roger Ashcroft, in Concord, who was apparently one of the best psychiatrists in the region. They agreed to meet weekly, on Wednesday mornings, from 10.40 to 11.30. He didn’t talk about the letters, he talked about Nola. Without ever mentioning her. But for the first time he was able to talk to someone about Nola. That did him a world of good. Ashcroft, sitting in his upholstered chair, listened attentively, his fingers drumming softly on a desk blotter whenever he launched into an interpretation.
“I think I see dead people,” Harry said.
“So your friend is dead?” Ashcroft concluded.
“I don’t know. That’s what’s driving me crazy.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy, Mr Quebert.”
“Sometimes I go to the beach and shout out her name. And when I don’t have the strength to shout anymore, I sit on the sand and cry.”
“I think you’re going through a grieving process. Your rational, lucid, conscious self is battling another part of you that refuses to accept something that is, for it, unacceptable. When reality is unbearable, we try to turn it away. Perhaps I could prescribe you some relaxants to help you calm down.”
“No, certainly not. I have to concentrate on my book.”
“Tell me about your book, Mr Quebert.”
“It’s a love story. A beautiful love story.”
“What is it about?”
“A love affair between two people that should never have happened.”
“Is it about you and your friend?”
“Yes … I hate books.”
“Why?”
“They cause me pain.”
“It’s time to stop. I’ll see you again next week.”
“Alright. Thank you, Doctor.”
One day, from the parking lot, he saw Tamara Quinn coming out of the doctor’s office.
*
The manuscript was finished in mid-November, on an afternoon so dark you could hardly tell whether it was day or night. He straightened the sheaf of pages and carefully reread the title he had written in capital letters on the first page:
THE ORIGIN OF EVIL
by Harry Quebert
He suddenly felt the need to tell someone, so he went to Clark’s to see Jenny.
“I finished my book,” he told her, feeling euphoric. “I came to Somerset to write it, and now I’ve done exactly that. It’s finished. Finished!”
“That’s wonderful,” Jenny replied. “I’m sure it’s a great book. What are you going to do now?”
“I’ll go to New York for a while. To offer it to publishers.”
He sent copies of the manuscript to five of the biggest publishers in New York. Less than a month later, the five publishers got back in touch with him, certain that the book was a masterpiece and bidding for the rights. This was the beginning of a new life. A few days before Christmas he signed a six-figure contract with one of the publishers. Fame and fortune were within his grasp.
*
He went back to Goose Cove on December 23, behind the wheel of a brand-new Chrysler Cordoba. He had been eager to spend Christmas in Somerset. In the doorframe he found another anonymous letter, evidently left there several days earlier. It was the last one he would ever receive.
The next day was devoted to the preparation of the evening meal: He roasted a gigantic turkey, sautéed some green beans in butter and some potatoes in oil, and made a chocolate cake. “Madame Butterfly” played on the stereo. He set the table for two, next to the Christmas tree. He did not notice Robert Quinn watching him through the steamed-up window and resolving, that day, not to leave any more letters.
After dinner Harry excused himself to the empty place that faced him and slipped away to his office for a moment. He returned with a large box.
“Is that for me?” Nola squealed.
“It wasn’t easy to find, but I got there in the end,” Harry said, placing the box on the floor.
Nola knelt next to the box. “What is it? What is it?” she said, lifting up the box’s flaps, which were not sealed. A muzzle appeared, quickly followed by a little yellow head. “A puppy! It’s a puppy! A dog the color of the sun … Oh, Harry, my darling! Thank you! Thank you!” She took the little dog out of the box and held it in her arms. It was a Labrador, no more than ten weeks old. “You’ll be called Storm,” she told the dog. “Storm! Storm! You’re the dog I always dreamed of.”
She put the puppy on the floor. Yapping, it began exploring its new home, while Nola hugged Harry.
“Thank you, Harry! I’m so happy. But I feel bad that I didn’t get you a gift.”
“All I want is your happiness, Nola.”
He held her in his arms, but she seemed to slip away from him, and soon he could no longer feel her, no longer see her. He called her, but she did not reply. He found himself alone, standing in the middle of the dining room, hugging himself. At his feet the puppy had escaped from its box and was playing with his shoelaces.
*
The Origin of Evil was published in June 1976. It was a huge success, right from the start. Acclaimed by the critics, the prodigious Harry Quebert, thirty-five years old, was from that point on considered the greatest writer of his generation.
Two weeks before the book came out, already aware of the impact it was going to have, Harry’s editor came all the way to Somerset to see him.
“Harry, what’s this about your not wanting to come to New York?”
“I can’t leave,” Harry said. “I’m waiting for someone.”
“You’re waiting for someone? What are you talking about? The entire country is waiting to see you. You’re going to be famous.”
“I can’t leave. I have a dog.”
“Then let’s take it with us. Don’t worry: It’ll have its own nanny, its own chef, someone to take it for walks, someone to groom it. Come on—pack your suitcase.”
So Harry left Somerset for a nationwide book tour that lasted several months. All anyone talked about was him and his amazing novel. Jenny followed his success, on radio and television, from the kitchen at Clark’s or from her bedroom. She bought every newspaper she could find and religiously kept every article about him. Each time she saw his book in a store, she bought it. She had more than ten copies, and she had read every one. Sometimes she wondered if he would come back for her. Whenever the mailman came, she hoped there would be a letter from Harry. Whenever the telephone rang, she hoped it would be him.
She waited all summer. Whenever she passed a car that looked like his, her heart beat faster.
She waited all fall. Whenever the door of Clark’s opened, she imagined it was him, come to take her away. He was the love of her life. To occupy her mind while she waited, she remembered those glorious days when he would come to work at Table 17. Right there, close to where she stood, he had written that great masterpiece. If he wanted to continue living in Somerset, he could keep coming here every day; she would stay here to work as a waitress, for the pleasure of being near him. She would save that table for him, always. And, ignoring her mother’s protests, she ordered, at her own expense, a metal plaque that she had screwed to the top of Table 17, engraved with the words:
IT WAS AT THIS TABLE, IN THE SUMMER OF 1975, THAT HARRY QUEBERT WROTE HIS FAMOUS NOVEL,
“THE ORIGIN OF EVIL”
She celebrated her twenty-sixth birthday on October 13, 1976. Harry was in Philadelphia; she had read that in the newspaper. He had not been in touch at all since his departure. That evening Travis Dawn, who had been
having Sunday lunch with the Quinns every week for the past year, got down on one knee—in the family living room, in front of her parents—and asked Jenny to marry him. And because she had no hope left, she accepted his proposal.
July 1985
Ten years on, the specter of Nola and her kidnapping had faded. In the streets of Somerset, life had long returned to normal: Children noisily played street hockey again, the jump-rope contests had restarted, and giant hopscotch courts had reappeared on the asphalt. On the main street, bicycles were once more blocking the storefront window of the Hendorf family store.
At Goose Cove, late one morning during the second week of July, Harry sat on the deck in the warm sun, correcting the proofs of his new novel; his dog, Storm, lay close by, asleep. A flock of seagulls passed overhead. He watched them as they swooped down and landed on the beach. Immediately he got up and went to the kitchen to look for the stale bread that he kept in a tin box emblazoned with the words SOUVENIR OF ROCKLAND, MAINE, then walked down to the beach so he could toss it to the birds. Storm followed in his footsteps, the dog walking painfully due to its arthritis. Harry sat on the sand to watch the birds, and Storm sat next to him. He petted the dog for a long time. “Poor old Storm,” he said. “You can hardly walk now, can you? You’re not a young pup anymore. I remember the day I bought you; it was just before Christmas, 1975 … You were just a tiny ball of fur, no bigger than my two fists.”
Suddenly he heard someone calling him.
“Harry?”
On the deck of his house, a visitor was waving. Harry squinted and recognized Eric Rendall, the president of Burrows College in Massachusetts. The two men had met at a conference a year earlier, and they had kept in regular contact ever since.
“Eric? Is that you?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t move. I’m coming up.”
A few moments later, Harry, with the old Labrador hobbling behind, joined Rendall on the deck.
“I tried to get hold of you,” his friend explained, justifying his impromptu visit.