by Joël Dicker
“Who is that Roy you were talking about, my darling? Is it the naked man who was hiding in your room? You can tell me everything, you know. I’m prepared to hear anything. But why do you want to have conference calls with that dirty man?”
“Roy’s my publisher. You know him. You met him in New York.”
“You know, Markie, I had a talk with the rabbi about your sexual problems. He says that—”
“Mom, that’s enough. I’m going to hang up now. Give Dad a hug from me.”
Conference Call Number Thirteen: With the Design Team
They were engaged in a brainstorming session to create a jacket for the book.
“It could be a photograph of you,” said Steven, the head designer.
“Or a photo of Nola,” another designer suggested.
“A picture of Caleb would work, wouldn’t it?” said a third person, to no-one in particular.
“What about a photo of the forest?” another voice said.
“Yes, something dark and frightening might work well,” said Barnaski.
“How about something more understated?” I suggested. “A view of Somerset, with two shadows in the foreground that are not identifiable but that might be Harry and Nola, walking together along Shore Road.”
“You have to be careful with understatement,” Steven said. “Understatement is boring. And boring doesn’t sell.”
Conference Call Number Twenty-one: With the Legal, Design and Marketing Teams
I heard the voice of Richardson, from the legal department.
“Do you want doughnuts?”
“Huh?” I replied. “Me? No, thanks.”
“He wasn’t talking to you,” said Steven, the head designer. “He was talking to Sandra from marketing.”
Barnaski grew irritated. “Can you please stop eating and interrupting the discussion with offers of coffee and doughnuts? Are we having a party or making a bestseller?”
*
While my book was progressing, the investigation into Chief Pratt’s murder was at a standstill. Gahalowood had commandeered several detectives from the criminal division, but they were getting nowhere. Not a clue, not a single usable lead. We had a long discussion about this in a bar on the edge of town where Gahalowood sometimes came to play pool.
“It’s my hideaway,” he told me as he handed me a cue stick so I could begin the next game. “I’ve been coming here quite often recently.”
“It’s not been easy, huh?”
“It’s O.K. now. At least we’ve solved the Kellergan case—that’s the most important thing. Even if it caused a bigger shitstorm than I’d anticipated. It’s the D.A. who’s taken the brunt of it, as always. Because he’s elected.”
“What about you?”
“The governor is happy, the chief of police is happy, so everyone is happy. Actually, my bosses are thinking about starting a unit for cold cases, and they want me to lead it.”
“Cold cases? But wouldn’t that be frustrating? When it comes down to it, you’re just talking about a bunch of dead people.”
“No, you’re talking about a bunch of living people. In the case of Nola Kellergan, the father has the right to know what happened to his daughter, and Quebert was almost wrongfully put through a criminal trial. Justice has to be done, even if it happens years later.”
“What about Caleb?” I asked.
“I think he’s just a guy who lost control. You know, in this kind of case, it’s usually either a moment of madness or a serial killer—and there weren’t any similar cases to Nola’s in the region in the two years that preceded her disappearance.”
I nodded.
“The only thing that bothers me,” Gahalowood said, “is Pratt. Who killed him? And why? That’s still a big question mark, and I’m afraid we might never figure it out.”
“You still think it might have been Stern?”
“All I have are suspicions. I told you my theory, but there are gray areas there in terms of his relationship with Luther. What was the link between them? And why didn’t Stern mention that his car had disappeared? There’s something strange there. Could he have been mixed up in this somehow? It’s possible.”
“Didn’t you ask him?”
“Of course I did. He received me twice, and was perfectly nice. He said he felt better now that I knew about the painting. He told me he sometimes let Luther take the Monte Carlo for his own private use because the blue Mustang had a steering problem. I don’t know whether that’s true or not, but it’s a plausible explanation. It’s all perfectly plausible. I’ve been investigating Stern for a while now, and I haven’t found anything. I also talked to Sylla Mitchell again, and asked her what had happened to her brother’s blue Mustang. She said she had no idea; that car just disappeared. But I have nothing on Stern, nothing that might suggest he was involved in this.”
“Why would a man like Stern let himself be at the whim of his chauffeur? Giving into his wishes, letting him borrow a car … There’s something here I don’t understand.”
“Yeah, I have the same feeling.”
I arranged the pool balls inside the triangle.
“My book should be finished in two weeks,” I said.
“Already? You’ve written it quickly.”
“Not really. You might hear people saying that it was written in two months, but really it took me two years.”
He smiled.
*
I finished writing The Harry Quebert Affair toward the end of August, slightly ahead of schedule. It was time for me to return to New York, where Barnaski was getting ready to launch the book with a big media splash. By chance, I left Concord on the penultimate day of August. I made a stop that morning in Somerset so I could see Harry. As usual he was sitting in front of the door to his motel room.
“I’m going back to New York,” I told him.
“So this is farewell.”
“Don’t make it sound so final. I’ll be back soon. I’m going to restore your reputation, Harry. Give me a few months and you’ll be the most respected writer in the country again.”
“Why are you doing this, Marcus?”
“Because you made me what I am.”
“So what? You feel you owe me? I made you a writer, but since I seem to no longer be one myself, as far as public opinion is concerned, you’re trying to give me back what I gave you?”
“No, I’m defending you because I always believed in you. Always.”
I handed him a package.
“What is it?” he asked.
“My book.”
“I won’t read it.”
“I want your approval before I publish it. This book is your book.”
“No, Marcus, it’s yours. And that’s the problem.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I’m sure it’s a wonderful book.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“It’s complicated, Marcus. You’ll understand one day.”
There was a long silence.
“What are you going to do now?” I finally asked.
“I’m not going to stay here.”
“What do you mean by here? This motel? New Hampshire?”
“I want to go to writers’ heaven.”
“Writers’ heaven? What’s that?”
“Writers’ heaven is the place where you decide to rewrite your life the way you wish you had lived it. Because a writer’s power, Marcus, is that he gets to decide the ending of the book. He has power over life and death; he has the power to change everything. Writers have more power in their fingertips than they imagine. All they have to do is close their eyes and they can change an entire lifetime. What might have happened on August 30, 1975, if—”
“You can’t change the past, Harry. Don’t go there.”
“How can I not go there?”
I placed the package on the chair next to his and pretended to leave.
“Is it a good story?” he said.
“It’s the story of a man who loved
a young woman. She had so many dreams for them. She wanted them to live together, for him to become a great writer and a college professor, she wanted them to have a dog the color of the sun. But one day the young woman disappeared. She was never found. The man went back to the house to wait for her. He became a great writer, he became a college professor, and he had a dog the color of the sun. He did everything she had ever asked him to do, and he waited for her. He never loved anyone else. He waited faithfully for her return. But she never returned.”
“Because she’s dead!”
“Yes. But now this man can grieve.”
“No, it’s too late! He’s sixty-seven years old!”
“It’s never too late to love again.”
I waved.
“I’ll call you when I get to New York.”
“Don’t call me,” Harry said. “It’s better that way.”
I went down the outside stairs to the parking lot. As I was about to get in my car, I heard him call out to me from the second-floor railing.
“Marcus, what’s today’s date?”
“August 30, Harry.”
“And what time is it?”
“Nearly 11 a.m.”
“Only eight hours!”
“Eight hours until what?”
“Until 7 p.m.”
I didn’t grasp his meaning at first: “What happens at 7 p.m.?”
“We’re supposed to meet then, me and her—you know that. She’ll come. Look, Marcus! Look where we are. We’re in writers’ heaven. All we have to do is write it, and everything could change.”
August 30, 1975, in Writers’ Heaven
She decided not to take Shore Road but to walk along the ocean. It was safer. Holding the manuscript tightly, she ran over shells and sand. She had almost passed Goose Cove. Another two miles to walk and she would reach the motel. She looked at her watch. It was just after six. Forty-five minutes from now, she would be there. At 7 p.m., as they had agreed. She kept walking and reached the edge of the Side Creek forest. She climbed from the beach to the woods over a series of rocks, then cautiously walked through the rows of trees, taking care not to tear her red dress in the undergrowth. Through the trees she saw a house in the distance. In the kitchen a woman was making an apple pie.
She reached Shore Road. Just before she exited the woods, a car sped past. It was Luther Caleb, returning to Concord. She arrived at the motel at exactly 7 p.m. She crossed the parking lot and climbed the outside stairs. Room 8 was on the second floor. She ran up the steps two by two and drummed triumphantly on the door.
*
Someone was knocking at the door. He quickly got up from the bed.
“Harry! Darling Harry!” she shouted when she saw him.
She jumped up and hugged him, covering his face with kisses. He lifted her up.
“Nola … you’re here. You came! You came!”
She gave him a puzzled look. “Of course I came. What did you think I was going to do?”
“I must have nodded off, and I had a nightmare. I was in this room, and I was waiting for you. I waited for you, and you didn’t come. I waited so long. And you never came.”
She held him tightly.
“What a terrible dream! But I’m here now. I’m here, and I’ll always be here.”
They embraced for a long time. Then he gave her the flowers that had been soaking in the sink.
“Didn’t you bring anything?” Harry asked when he noticed she did not have any luggage.
“Nothing. I wanted to be discreet. We can buy what we need on the way. But I brought your manuscript.”
“I was looking for it everywhere!”
“I took it with me. I read it. I love it so much, Harry. It’s a masterpiece.” They hugged again, and then she said, “Let’s go! Let’s go now, as fast as we can!”
“Now?”
“Yes, I want to get far away from here. Please, Harry, I don’t want to risk anyone finding us. Let’s go right away.”
Night was falling. It was August 30, 1975. Two figures left the motel room, ran down the stairs to the parking lot, and got into a black Chevrolet Monte Carlo. The car took Shore Road, heading north, and sped away, vanishing into the horizon. Soon only its shape could be seen. It became a black dot, then a tiny pinprick. For a moment longer you could just see the tiny point of red made by its taillights, and then it disappeared completely.
PART THREE
Writers’ Heaven
(The Book’s Publication)
5
The Girl Who Touched the Heart of America
“A new book, Marcus, is the start of a new life. It’s also an act of great generosity: You are offering, to whoever wishes to discover it, a part of yourself. Some will love it, some will hate it. Some will worship you, others will despise you. Some will be jealous, others will be curious. But you’re not writing it for them. You’re writing it for all those who, in their daily lives, will enjoy a sweet moment because of Marcus Goldman. You may say that doesn’t sound like much, but it’s actually quite something. Some writers want to change the world. But who can really change the world?”
My book was the talk of the town. I could no longer walk the streets of Manhattan in peace. I could no longer go jogging without passersby recognizing me and calling out, “Look, it’s Goldman! It’s that writer!” Some even started running after me so they could ask me the questions that were gnawing at them: “Is it true what you say in your book? Did Harry Quebert really do that?” In the café in the West Village where I was a regular, certain customers felt free to sit at my table and talk to me. “I’m reading your book right now, Mr Goldman. I can’t put it down! The first one was good, of course, but this one … Did they really pay you two million bucks to write it? How old are you? I bet you’re not even thirty. Twenty-eight! And you’re already a multi-millionaire!” Even the doorman at my building, whose progress through my book I was able to note each time I came or went, cornered me for a long talk by the elevator once he had got to the end. “So that’s what happened to Nola Kellergan? That poor girl! But how could it happen? How could such a thing be possible, Mr Goldman?”
From the day of its publication, The Harry Quebert Affair was the number one bestseller all over the country; it promised to be the bestselling book of the year. They were talking about it everywhere: on T.V., on the radio, in every newspaper, all over the Internet. The critics, who had been waiting to ambush me, ended up lavishing me with praise. They all said my new book was one for the ages.
Immediately after publication, I began a marathon promotional tour that took me to all four corners of the country in the space of only two weeks. Barnaski believed two weeks was all we had before everyone’s attention turned full time toward the presidential election on November 4. Back in New York I had already appeared on numerous television shows, hopping from studio to studio at a frantic pace. Reporters swarmed my parents’ house. To give my parents some peace, I bought them an R.V. so they could realize one of their oldest dreams: driving out to Chicago and then down Route 66 and out to California.
An article in the New York Times referred to Nola as “The Girl Who Touched the Heart of America,” and this was how she was now known. So many people had been moved by her story—the letters I received all testified to this. Some literary experts claimed that The Origin of Evil could be read correctly only in conjunction with my book; they suggested a new approach in which Nola no longer represented an impossible love but the omnipotence of love. And so The Origin of Evil, which had been pulled from the shelves of practically every bookstore in the country four months earlier, now saw its sales soaring again. For Christmas, Barnaski was preparing a limited edition boxed set containing The Origin of Evil and The Harry Quebert Affair, along with an analysis of the text written by a certain Frank Lancaster.
I had not heard from Harry since I left him at the Sea Side Motel. I had tried to call him many times, but his cell phone was off, and when I called the motel and asked for Room 8, the telephone just
rang and rang. In fact, I had no contact with Somerset at all, which was perhaps for the best; I had little desire to find out how the book was being received there. All I knew, because my publisher’s legal department had told me, was that Elijah Stern was still desperately attempting to take Schmid & Hanson to court, claiming that the passages about him were defamatory, particularly those in which I wondered about his reasons for granting Luther’s request to paint Nola nude and for not telling the police about the disappearance of his black Monte Carlo. I had called him before the book’s publication to obtain his version of events, but he had not deigned to reply.
*
By the third week in October, the presidential election essentially took over the media, exactly as Barnaski had predicted. Requests for my time suddenly dwindled, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I had been through two very tough years: my first success, the writers’ disease, and then, finally, this second book. I felt much calmer, and had a real desire to get away for a while. Since I did not wish to go alone, and wanted to thank Douglas for his support, I bought two tickets to the Bahamas. My plan was to surprise him one night when he came over to my apartment to watch a game with me. But, to my great dismay, he turned me down.
“That would have been cool,” he said, “but I’ve got plans to take Kelly to the Caribbean then.”
“Kelly? Are you still with her?”
“Yes, of course. Didn’t you know? I’m going to ask her to marry me while we’re on vacation.”
“Wow, that’s great! I’m really happy for you both.”
I must have looked a little sad, because he said to me: “Marc, you have everything you could possibly want from life. It’s time you found a girlfriend.”
I nodded. “It’s just that … it’s been so long since I went on a date.”
He smiled. “Don’t worry about that.”
It was this conversation that led us to the evening—October 23, 2008—when everything changed.
Douglas had arranged a date for me with Lydia Gloor, whose agent had told him she still had a crush on me. He had persuaded me to call her, and we agreed to meet at a bar in SoHo. At exactly 7 p.m. Douglas came by my apartment to offer me some moral support.