The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair: A Novel

by Joël Dicker

  “Don’t move like that. I think you’ve broken your nose. You’re a good guy, Marcus. I suspected you were, but now you’ve proved it. The way you fought tonight, you’ve proved that the hopes I’ve had for you since our first meeting were not in vain. You’ve demonstrated that you’re capable of surpassing yourself. From now on, we’re going to be friends. I’ve been wanting to tell you: I have no doubt at all that you will become a great writer. And I’m going to help you.”

  So it was after this episode in Lowell that our friendship truly began, and that Harry Quebert, my literature professor by day, became Just Harry, my boxing partner on Monday nights, my friend, and my master on certain afternoons during the holidays when he taught me how to be a writer. The writing lessons generally took place on Saturdays. We met in a diner close to campus, and sitting at a large table where we could spread out our books and papers, he read through my work and gave me advice, always encouraging me to start over and to constantly rework my sentences. “A piece of writing is never good,” he told me. “There is simply a moment when it is less bad than before.” Between our meetings, I spent hours in my room working and reworking my stories. And that was how I, who had always skimmed through life with a certain ease, I who had always fooled the world, learned to face up to myself.

  Not only did Harry teach me to write, but he also taught me to open my mind. He took me to the theater, to exhibitions, to the movies. To Symphony Hall in Boston too; he said that well-played music could make him cry. He believed that he and I were very similar, and he often told me about his past as a writer. He said that writing had changed his life, and that this had happened in the mid-1970s. I remember one day, when he’d taken me near Teenethridge to listen to a choir of old people, how he opened up the deep recesses of his memory to me. He was born in 1941 in Benton, New Jersey, the only son to a mother who was a secretary and a father who was a doctor. His story began in earnest in the late 1960s, when, having earned his PhD in English at New York University, he was hired as an English teacher at a high school in Queens. But he always felt cramped in the classroom; his sole dream was, as it had always been, to write. He published his first novel in 1972. He had high hopes for it, but it sank without a trace. So he decided to begin a new stage in his life. “One day,” he explained to me, “I withdrew my savings from the bank and I went for it. I decided it was time to write a damn good book, and I began looking to rent a house by the ocean where I could spend a few months and work in peace. I found a house, in Somerset, and I immediately knew it was the right one. I left New York in late May 1975 and moved to New Hampshire, never to leave there again. Because the book that I wrote that summer opened the gates of glory to me: Yes, Marcus, that was the year, moving to Somerset, that I wrote The Origin of Evil. I eventually bought the house with the advance I was paid for it, and I still live there. It’s a stunning place—you’ll see. You’ll have to come and visit sometime . . .”

  I went to Somerset for the first time in early January 2000, during the university’s Christmas break. At the time, Harry and I had known each other for about a year and a half. I remember I arrived with wine for him and flowers for his wife. When Harry saw the huge bouquet, he gave me a funny look and said: “Flowers? That’s interesting, Marcus. Is there something you’d like to share with me?”

  “They’re for your wife.”

  “My wife? But I’m not married.”

  I realized then that in all the time we had known each other, we had never spoken about his private life. There was no Mrs. Harry Quebert. There was no Quebert family. There was only Quebert. Just Harry. A man who was so bored at home that he became friends with one of his students. I truly understood this when I saw his fridge. Just after my arrival, when we were sitting together in the living room—a beautiful room with wood-paneled walls and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves—Harry asked if I would like something to drink.

  “Lemonade?” he suggested.

  “Sure.”

  “There’s a pitcher in the fridge, made just for you. So go help yourself, and bring me a large glass too, please.”

  When I opened the fridge, I saw that it was empty. Inside, there was only that pathetic pitcher of lemonade, carefully prepared, with star-shaped ice cubes, slices of lemon peel, and mint leaves. It was a single man’s fridge.

  “Your fridge is empty, Harry,” I said, as I returned to the living room.

  “Oh, I’ll go grocery shopping later. I don’t have many guests.”

  “You live alone here?”

  “Of course. Whom do you expect me to live with?”

  “A girlfriend?”

  He smiled sadly. “No girlfriend. No kids. Nobody.”

  That first stay in Somerset made me realize that the image I’d had of Harry had been incomplete: His house by the sea was immense but utterly empty. The revered Harry L. Quebert became Just Harry whenever he went home to his little New Hampshire town. A cornered man, sometimes a little sad, he enjoyed long walks on the beach just below his house and was devoted to feeding the seagulls with the stale bread he kept in a tin box. I wondered what could have happened in this man’s life that he should have ended up this way.

  Harry’s solitude would not have bothered me if our friendship hadn’t begun, inevitably, to cause talk. The other students insinuated that we were having an affair. One Saturday morning I finally asked him straight out, “Harry, why are you always alone?”

  He shook his head; I saw his eyes shine.

  “You’re asking me about love, Marcus, but love is complicated. It is at once the most extraordinary and the worst thing that can happen to you. You’ll discover it for yourself one day. Love can hurt so much. All the same, you should not be afraid of falling, and especially not of falling in love, because love is also very beautiful. But like everything that’s beautiful, it dazzles you and hurts your eyes.”

  From that day on, I began to visit Harry regularly in Somerset. Sometimes I came from Burrows just for the day; sometimes I spent the night. Harry taught me to be a writer, and I did what I could to make him feel less alone. And so it was that in the years leading up to my graduation, I saw Harry Quebert the star writer whenever I was at Burrows, and in Somerset I hung out with Just Harry, the solitary man.

  • • •

  In the summer of 2002, after four years at Burrows, I received my degree. On graduation day, when I gave the valedictory speech in the main amphitheater, which included my family and friends from Montclair, who were moved to find that I was still Marcus the Magnificent, I walked through campus with Harry for a little while. We strolled beneath the thick-trunked plane trees and eventually found ourselves at the boxing gym. The sun was bright. It was a beautiful day. We made one final pilgrimage together among the punching bags and boxing rings.

  “This is where it all began,” Harry said. “What are you going to do now?”

  “Go back to New Jersey. Write a book. Become a writer, just as you taught me. Write a great novel.”

  He smiled. “A great novel? Patience, Marcus—you’ve got your whole life to do that. Will you come here from time to time, you think?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re always welcome in Somerset.”

  “I know, Harry. Thank you.”

  He looked at me, and took me by the shoulders. “It’s been years since our first meeting. You’ve changed. You’ve become a man. I can’t wait to read your first novel.”

  We stared into each other’s eyes for a long time, and he added: “Why do you want to write, deep down?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s not an answer. Why do you write?”

  “It’s in my blood. When I wake up in the morning, it’s the first thing I think about. That’s all I can say. Why did you become a writer, Harry?”

  “Because writing gave meaning to my life. In case you haven’t noticed, life generally doesn’t have any meaning�
��unless you strive, every God-given day, to provide it with some. You have talent, Marcus. Give meaning to your life, make the wind of victory blow in your name. To be a writer is to be alive.”

  “What if I don’t manage it?”

  “You’ll manage it. It will be difficult, but you’ll get there. The day writing gives meaning to your life, you will be a true writer. Until that happens, whatever you do, don’t be afraid of falling.”

  It was the novel I wrote during the next two years that propelled me to the heights of fame. There was a bidding war among publishers, and finally, in 2005, I signed a contract for a nice sum with Schmid and Hanson. Roy Barnaski, a shrewd businessman, gave me a three-book contract. As soon as it appeared, in the fall of 2006, the book was a huge success. Felton High School’s Marcus the Magnificent had become a famous novelist, and my life was turned upside down: I was twenty-six years old, rich, well known, and talented. I was far from imagining that Harry’s lesson was just beginning.

  27

  WHERE THE HYDRANGEAS WERE PLANTED

  “HARRY, I HAVE DOUBTS about what I’m writing. I don’t know if it’s any good. If it’s worth—”

  “Put your shorts on, Marcus. And go for a run.”

  “Now? But it’s pouring rain.”

  “Spare me your whining. Rain never hurt anyone. If you’re not brave enough to run in the rain, you’ll certainly never be brave enough to write a book.”

  “Is this another one of your famous maxims?”

  “Yes. And this rule applies to all of the Marcuses inside you: the man, the boxer, and the writer. Anytime you have doubts about what you’re doing, go outside and run. Run until you can’t run anymore. Run until you feel that fierce desire to win being born within you. You know, Marcus, I used to hate rain too before . . .”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Go. Leave now, and don’t come back until you’re exhausted.”

  “How am I supposed to learn if you never tell me anything?”

  “You ask too many questions, Marcus. Have a good run.”

  HE WAS A BIG MAN and he didn’t exactly look easygoing: an African American with hands like bear paws, wearing a too-tight blazer that revealed his powerful, stocky build. The first time I saw him, he was pointing a revolver at me. He was the first person who had ever threatened me with a gun. He entered my life on June 18, 2008, the day I began my investigation into the murders of Nola Kellergan and Deborah Cooper. That morning, after almost forty-eight hours at Goose Cove, I decided it was time to go see the gaping hole that had been dug sixty feet from the house and that, up to this point, I had been content to observe from a distance. After slipping under the police tape, I spent a long time inspecting that area that I knew so well. Goose Cove was surrounded by beach and shore-side forest, and there were no barriers or signposts to mark the limits of the property. Anybody could come and go, and it wasn’t unusual to see people walking along the beach or cutting through the woods. The trench was on a grassy plot overlooking the ocean. When I reached it, thousands of questions began buzzing in my head. In particular, I wondered how many hours I had spent on that deck, or in Harry’s office, while the girl’s corpse was rotting underground. I took photographs and even a few videos with my cell phone, trying to imagine the decomposed body, as found by the police. Fixated as I was upon the crime scene, I did not sense the threatening presence behind me. It was only when I turned around to film the distance to the deck that I saw a man, a few yards away, aiming a revolver at me.

  “Don’t shoot!” I cried. “Please don’t shoot, for God’s sake! I’m Marcus Goldman! Writer!”

  Instantly he lowered his gun.

  “You’re Marcus Goldman?”

  He slid the pistol into a holster hanging from his belt, and I noticed he was wearing a badge.

  “You’re a cop?” I asked him.

  “Sergeant Perry Gahalowood. New Hampshire State Police, Investigative Services Bureau. What are you doing here? This is a crime scene.”

  “Do you do this a lot, hold people up with your gun? What if I’d been with the feds? You’d have looked pretty stupid then, wouldn’t you? I’d have kicked you off the property right away.”

  He laughed. “You? A cop? I’ve been watching you for ten minutes, walking around on tiptoes so you don’t get your loafers dirty. And federal agents don’t scream when they see a gun. They get theirs out and shoot everything that moves.”

  “I thought you were a criminal.”

  “Because I’m black?”

  “No, because you look like a criminal. Is that a bolo tie you’re wearing?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know they’re not cool anymore?”

  “Are you going to tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”

  “I live here.”

  “What do you mean, you live here?”

  “I’m a friend of Harry Quebert’s. He asked me to look after the house.”

  “Harry Quebert is accused of double murder. His house has been searched and sealed off. I’m throwing you out, my friend.”

  “There are no seals on the house.”

  He looked puzzled for a moment, then replied, “I hadn’t thought some wannabe writer would come here and squat.”

  “You should have thought. Even if that is difficult for a policeman.”

  “I’m going to throw you out anyway.”

  “Legal loophole!” I said. “No seals means access is not prohibited! I’m staying here. If you try to throw me out, I’ll take you to the Supreme Court and sue you for threatening me with your gun. I will claim millions in damages. I’ve filmed everything.”

  “Roth is behind this, isn’t he?” Gahalowood said with a sigh.

  “Yes.”

  “That asshole. He’d send his own mother to the electric chair if it would get one of his clients off.”

  “Legal loophole, Sergeant. Legal loophole. I hope you’re not mad at me.”

  “I am. But in any case, we’re not interested in the house anymore. On the other hand, I am warning you now not to cross any more police tape. Can’t you read? It says CRIME SCENE—DO NOT CROSS.”

  Having recovered my self-assurance, I dusted off my shirt and took a few steps toward the hole.

  “The thing is, Sergeant, I’m running an investigation too,” I told him very seriously. “Tell me what you know about the case.”

  He laughed again. “I don’t believe this. You’re running an investigation? That’s a new one. You owe me fifteen dollars, by the way.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what I paid for your book. I read it last year. A very bad book. Probably the worst I’ve read in my entire life. I would like to be reimbursed.”

  I looked him straight in the eyes and said, “Fuck off, Sergeant.”

  And since I was walking without looking where I was going, I fell into the hole. I began screaming because I was in the place where Nola had died.

  “You are unbelievable!” Gahalowood shouted from the edge of the hole.

  He gave me his hand and helped me back up. We went to sit on the deck and I gave him his money. All I had was a fifty-dollar bill.

  “Do you have any change?”

  “No.”

  “Keep it, then.”

  “Thank you, writer.”

  “I’m not a writer anymore.”

  I would soon discover that Sergeant Gahalowood was a crabby and extremely stubborn man. Nevertheless, after I’d nagged him for a while, he told me he’d been on duty the day the discovery was made, and that he had been one of the first to get a look inside the hole.

  “There were human remains and a leather bag. The name Nola Kellergan was embossed on the inside of the bag, and there was a manuscript, in reasonably good condition. I imagine leather preserv
es paper.”

  “How did you know this manuscript was Harry Quebert’s?”

  “At the time, I didn’t know. I showed it to him in the interview room and he acknowledged it right away. I checked the text afterward, of course. It corresponds word for word to his book The Origin of Evil. Strange coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “Just because he wrote a book about Nola doesn’t mean he killed her. He says that manuscript disappeared, and that Nola sometimes took his pages.”

  “We found the girl’s corpse in his yard. With the manuscript of his book. Show me the proof of his innocence, writer, and maybe I’ll change my mind.”

  “I’d like to see that manuscript.”

  “Out of the question. It’s evidence.”

  “But I’ve told you: I’m investigating this too,” I insisted.

  “I’m not interested in your investigation, writer. You’ll have access to the case files when Quebert goes before the grand jury.”

  I wanted to show him that I was not some hopeless amateur, and that I, too, had a certain knowledge of the case.

  “I spoke with Travis Dawn, now Somerset’s police chief. Apparently, at the time Nola disappeared, they had a suspect: the driver of a black Chevrolet Monte Carlo.”

  “I know all about it,” Gahalowood said. “And guess what, Sherlock: Harry Quebert had a black Chevrolet Monte Carlo.”

  “How do you know about the car?”

  “I read the report from back then.”

  I thought about this for a second, and then said, “Wait a minute, Sergeant. If you’re so clever, explain to me why Harry would have wanted bushes planted in the very place where he’d buried Nola.”

  “He didn’t expect the gardeners to dig so deep.”

  “That makes no sense and you know it. Harry didn’t kill Nola Kellergan.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “He loved her.”

  “They all say that at their trials: ‘I loved her too much, so I had to kill her.’ When you love someone, you don’t kill her.”