The Terrible Privacy of Maxwell Sim

by Jonathan Coe

  ‘Evening,’ I said.

  ‘Evening,’ he repeated back at me, and added: ‘How’s it going?’

  It was one of those meaningless questions that normally don’t require a proper response. Today, however, I decided to defy social convention and take it seriously.

  ‘Well, since you ask, it’s going pretty well,’ I told him. ‘It’s been a draining couple of days, in some respects, but at the end of it all … I have to say that I’m feeling good. Very good.’

  ‘Excellent. Just what I wanted to hear.’

  ‘You’re from England too, right?’

  ‘Ha! – the accent’s a giveaway, isn’t it? Yes, we’re over here for three weeks. My wife’s from Australia originally. Catching up with some of her relatives.’

  ‘That’s your wife down there?’ I asked, indicating the pretty blonde woman standing on the rocks with the two pale little girls.

  ‘It is, yes.’

  I looked at the man more closely.

  ‘This may sound a weird thing to ask,’ I said, ‘but would I be right in thinking we’ve met somewhere before?’

  ‘Do you know, I was just thinking the same thing. I believe we have. In fact, I’m sure of it – I can even remember where.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘there you have the advantage over me. Please don’t take it personally, but the thing is, I’ve met so many different people over the last few weeks …’

  ‘That’s all right. I understand,’ the man answered. ‘In any case, it’s a bit misleading to say that we actually met. Our paths crossed – that would be a better way of putting it. We didn’t speak to each other.’

  ‘Where was it, then?’

  ‘You really don’t remember?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘It was at Heathrow airport, nearly two months ago. You were sitting in one of the cafés trying to drink a cappuccino, only it was so hot that you could barely touch it. I was sitting at the next table, getting ready to go to Moscow.’

  ‘That’s right! Your wife and daughters were there as well.’

  ‘They’d come to see me off.’

  Yes, I remembered it clearly now. This was one encounter that I’d failed to mention to Lian, when I was telling her the story of my last few weeks. I could recall eavesdropping on the family’s conversation and being slightly baffled by it.

  ‘Why did you have to go to Moscow?’ I asked. ‘I did happen to overhear some of what you were saying at the time, and I think you mentioned something about … interviews?’

  ‘That’s right. It was a publicity trip. I’m a writer, you see.’

  ‘Ah – a writer. That would explain it.’ It occurred to me that Caroline, had she been there, would have been excited to meet a genuine writer. I can’t say I was very thrilled. ‘Should I have heard of you?’ I asked.

  He laughed. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘What sort of books do you write?’

  ‘Novels, mostly. Fiction.’

  ‘Ah. I don’t read much fiction. Are you working on something at the moment?’

  ‘Just finishing one, since you ask. Getting very close to the end now.’

  I nodded in what I hoped was an encouraging way. Then we fell silent.

  ‘One thing I’ve always wondered about writers,’ I said. ‘Where do you get your ideas from?’

  He looked at me in some surprise. I suppose it was quite possible that he’d never been asked this question before.

  ‘Hmm – that’s a tricky one,’ he said. ‘You know, it’s really very difficult to generalize …’

  ‘Well, what about this book that you’re just finishing at the moment?’

  ‘Where did I get the idea for that, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, if you like.’

  ‘Well now, let me see.’ He leaned back on the bench and looked at the sky. ‘It becomes quite hard to remember, in any detail, but … Yes, that was it! Yes, I can tell you exactly where I got the idea.’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Well, two years ago – Easter 2007, that is – I came to Australia with my family for another visit, and we were eating out one night at this restaurant overlooking Sydney harbour, and I happened to see this Chinese woman and her little daughter having a card game together at their table.’

  I stared at him.

  ‘And I don’t know why,’ he continued, ‘but there was something so touching about them – there seemed to be such an intimacy, and such a connection between them that I wondered what it would feel like to be a lonely man eating at that restaurant all by yourself, and to be offered this little glimpse into their world and to want to be a part of it.’

  I tried to stop him, but he was in full flow by now.

  ‘And then, on that same trip, I’d arranged to meet Ian – my old friend Ian from Warwick University, who teaches at the ANU in Canberra now – I’d arranged to meet him in the tea rooms at the Botanical Gardens in Melbourne, but I hadn’t realized that there were two tea rooms at the Botanical Gardens in Melbourne, so we almost missed each other. And I think it was the combination of those two ideas that got me started writing the book. That’s usually how it works. A couple of ideas like that, sort of … rubbing up against each other.’ He turned to look at me. I no longer felt like interrupting him, having all but lost (not for the first time that day) my power of speech. ‘Does any of this sound familiar, at all?’

  My throat was dry.

  ‘I think I’m beginning to get the picture,’ I said, finally.

  ‘So how does it feel,’ he asked, ‘to be part of someone else’s story?’

  ‘I’m … not sure,’ I answered, choosing my words with care. ‘It’s going to take some getting used to, I think.’ Then, with a sinking feeling, already knowing what the answer would be, I asked, ‘Does this book of yours involve toothbrushes, by any chance? And Donald Crowhurst?’

  ‘Funnily enough,’ said the writer, ‘it involves both of those things. I wanted the story to revolve around a household object – one that people use every day, without really thinking about the political or environmental implications. Well, I had trouble coming up with anything suitable, in the end, and actually it was my wife who suggested toothbrushes. And shortly after that, I was having coffee in London with my friend Laura, who’s an art critic, and she started telling me about these works by Tacita Dean that were inspired by the Donald Crowhurst story, and she also put me on to this brilliant book about him by Nicolas Tomalin and Ron Hall. So you see, what generally happens – to answer your original question – is that I get all sorts of different ideas, from all sorts of different places, and when I start putting them together, other things start to emerge. People, to be precise. Characters. Or in this particular instance’ – he looked directly at me – ‘you.’

  Suddenly I felt like the hero of a low-rent spy movie, just when he realizes that he’s walked straight into the trap set for him by the villain.

  ‘I see. So that’s … me, is it?’ I said, playing for time as much as anything else. ‘I’m just a by-product of your ideas, is that right? Well I have to say, that doesn’t do wonders for my self-esteem.’

  ‘Look at it this way,’ he answered. ‘It’s no worse than discovering that you only exist because there are two pubs close to each other in London called The Rising Sun, is it? Or knowing, for that matter, that you only exist because of some random, billion-to-one collision between one of your father’s sperm and one of your mother’s eggs? Really, Max, I’d say that your existence has more meaning than most people’s.’

  The writer’s tone when he was telling me all this was hard to gauge. Was he trying to be nice to me, or was he just playing with me like a cat plays with a mouse before making the final, deadly pounce?

  I looked across the beach. His daughters had slipped out of their dresses now, and were taking it in turns to jump into the swimming pool and climb out again. Set against the sweep of the bay, and the ever-changing pinks and golds of the sunset’s dying embers, it was a ravishing scene.
It seemed days, weeks, years since Yanmei and her friend had been swimming in there. My whole conversation with Lian already seemed to belong to a different time altogether.

  ‘You see, I worked out your itinerary in some detail,’ said the writer, rather boastfully I thought. ‘Starting with Valentine’s Day 2009. And then, when I realized that you’d have to arrive at Heathrow two days later, and when I remembered that I’d actually been there myself, that very same morning, on my way to do some readings in Moscow, I thought it would be nice if I could look in on you, while we were both passing through, as it were. You know, just to check things were going OK. I do feel quite responsible for you, after all.’

  ‘And Fairlight Beach, in Sydney?’ I was getting a pretty good idea of how his devious mind worked by now. ‘I’m guessing that you really were here on Easter Sunday with your family – is that right?’

  ‘Of course. I mean, just look at this place. It’s so lovely, isn’t it, at this time of year, and in this light? Such a sad, beautiful spot. I knew as soon as I saw it that the last scene in the book would have to be here.’

  My heart sank when I heard these words. They sounded like a death knell.

  ‘The last scene?’ I said. ‘You’re really that close to finishing, are you?’

  ‘I think I am, yes. So – have you enjoyed it? I mean, have you enjoyed being part of it? How was it for you, Max?’

  ‘I’m not sure “enjoyed” is really the word I would use,’ I said. ‘It’s been … an experience, that’s for sure. I suppose I’ve learned a thing or two along the way.’

  ‘That was the whole idea.’

  What a smug thing to say! I was beginning to suspect that, beneath his courteous exterior, this guy was full of nothing but conceit and self-admiration.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s rather an undignified thing to do,’ I said – definitely trying to rattle him now – ‘making up stories for a living? Let’s face it, you’re no spring chicken any more. What about writing something more serious? History, or science, something like that?’

  ‘Well, that’s a very interesting point,’ the writer said, sitting back on the bench and looking as though he was about to start addressing a seminar. ‘Because you’re absolutely correct that the kind of thing I write, from a literal point of view, is not objectively “true”. But what I like to think is that there’s another kind of truth – a more universal … Erm – excuse me, where do you think you’re going?’

  I’d thought that while he was rabbiting on like this, it might be a good opportunity for me to sneak away. My plane left at ten o’clock, after all, and I would have to check in a good two hours before then.

  ‘Well, I have to go now, you see. I’ve got a plane to catch.’

  The writer stood up and blocked my path.

  ‘I don’t think you understand, Max. You’re not going anywhere.’

  Just at that moment, the writer’s wife came by and spoke a few words to him.

  ‘Could you go and get the girls out of the pool? Only Daddy’s looking a bit tired, and I think we should get home.’

  ‘Yes, in a minute,’ he answered impatiently.

  ‘Talking to your imaginary friends again, are you?’ she said, with an undertone of scorn, and headed off towards the swimming pool herself.

  He turned back to me.

  ‘Like I said, Max – I’m sorry, but you’re not going anywhere.’

  ‘But I have to catch that plane,’ I said, my voice starting to shake now. ‘I’ve got to get back to London tomorrow. I’m having dinner with Clive in the evening. And then my dad’s going to come back to live in Lichfield and everything. We were going to do something about Mum’s gravestone.’

  ‘But the story’s finished, Max,’ he said.

  I looked into his eyes and they no longer seemed kind. It was like looking into the eyes of a serial killer.

  ‘It can’t have finished,’ I protested. ‘I still don’t know how it ends.’

  ‘Well, that’s easy,’ said the writer. ‘I can tell you just how it ends.’ He gave me one last smile – a smile that was both apologetic and ruthless – and clicked his fingers. ‘Like this.’

  Author’s Note

  Parts of this novel were written during a stay at the Villa Hellebosch in Flanders, funded by the Flemish government under the Residences in Flanders scheme administered by Het Beschrijf in Brussels.

  I’d like to express personal thanks to my kind and attentive host at the villa, Alexandra Cool; also to Ilke Froyen, Sigrid Bousset and Paul Buekenhout; and to James Cañón for his excellent company during my stay.

  ‘The Nettle Pit’ first appeared as part of the collection Ox-Tales: Earth, published by Profile Books in support of Oxfam. Many thanks to Mark Ellingham at Profile and Tom Childs at Oxfam for their inspiration and encouragement.

  Website: www.jonathancoewriter.com