by Joël Dicker
“I’d like to have a talk with you. We could go for a walk outside, if you like.”
She left Clark’s in the hands of one of her employees, and we went down to the marina. We sat on a bench, facing the sea, and I looked at this woman who, according to my calculations, must be fifty-seven years old. Life had left its mark on her. Her body was too thin, her face lined, her eyes sunken. I tried to imagine her the way Harry had described her to me: a pretty young blonde with a voluptuous body, a prom queen during her high school years. Out of nowhere she asked: “What’s it like?”
“What’s what like?”
“Fame.”
“It’s painful. It can be enjoyable, but it often hurts too.”
“I remember when you were a student and you used to come to Clark’s with Harry to work on your writing. He made you work like a dog. You spent hours there, at his table, rereading, scribbling, starting over. I remember seeing you and Harry running at dawn with that iron discipline. You know, he looked so happy when you came. He wasn’t the same person. And we knew whenever you were coming, because he would tell everyone, days in advance. He would repeat, ‘Did I tell you Marcus is coming to visit me next week? What an extraordinary kid he is. He’ll go far—I’m sure of it.’ We all knew how lonely Harry was in his big house. The day you came into his life, everything changed. He was reborn. As if the lonely old man had finally succeeded in being loved by someone. Your visits did him so much good. After you left, he would go on and on about you: Marcus this and Marcus that. He was so proud of you. Proud like a father is proud of his son. You were the son he never had. He talked about you all the time—you never left Somerset. And then one day, we saw you in the newspaper. The big new author, Marcus Goldman. A great writer was born. Harry bought all the newspapers in the general store, he bought rounds of drinks in Clark’s. Three cheers for Marcus! And we saw you on TV, we heard you on the radio . . . people around here talked about nothing but you and your book. Harry bought dozens of copies and gave them to everyone. And we asked him how you were doing and when we were going to see you again. And he replied that he was sure you were doing very well, but that he hadn’t heard from you. That you must be very busy. You stopped calling him overnight, Marc. You were so busy being famous that you dropped Harry like a stone. He was so proud of you, just waiting for a little sign from you, but it never came. You had succeeded, you had found fame, so you didn’t need him anymore.”
“That’s not true!” I protested. “I did get carried away by success, but I still thought about him. Every day. I didn’t have a second to myself.”
“Not even a second to call him?”
“Of course I called him!”
“You called him when you were up shit creek, sure. Because, having sold I don’t know how many millions of books, Marcus the Great Author got scared and couldn’t remember how to write anymore. We got the news about that as it happened too. How do you think I know all this? Harry sat at the counter of Clark’s, worrying because he’d had a phone call from you, saying that you were depressed, that you didn’t know what to write for your next book, that your publisher was going to take all his money back. And suddenly, there you were again, in Somerset, with your sad puppy-dog eyes, and Harry doing everything he could to raise your spirits. Poor sad little writer, what on earth can you find to write about? And then . . . a miracle, two weeks ago: The story breaks, it’s a big scandal, and who turns up? Harry’s good friend Marcus. What the hell are you doing in Somerset, Marcus? Looking for inspiration for your next book?”
At first, somewhat stunned, I made no reply. Then I said, “My publisher wants me to write a book about it. But I won’t do it.”
“But that’s the point: You can’t not do it! Because a book is probably the only way to prove to the whole country that Harry is not a monster. He didn’t do anything—I’m sure of it. Deep down inside, I know. You can’t abandon him—you’re the only one he has. You’re famous. People will listen to you. You have to write a book about Harry, about your years together. Tell everyone what an amazing man he is.”
“You love him, don’t you?” I whispered,
She lowered her eyes. “I don’t think I know what love means.”
“I think you do. It’s obvious from the way you talk about him, despite all your efforts to hate him.”
She smiled sadly, and in a broken voice said, “I’ve thought about him every day for more than thirty years. Seeing him so lonely, when I would have loved to make him happy. And as for me . . . look at me, Marcus. I dreamed of being a movie star, but all I am is a queen of french fries. I have not had the life I wanted.”
I sensed she was ready to confide in me, so I said, “Jenny, tell me about Nola, if you would . . .”
She smiled sadly.
“She was a very sweet girl. My mother really liked her, and that annoyed me. Because, until Nola, I had always been the pretty little princess of this town, the one all the men looked at. She was nine years old when she moved here. At that point, of course, nobody cared. And then, one summer, as often happens to girls when they reach puberty, all the men noticed that Nola had become a pretty young woman, with beautiful legs, full breasts, and the face of an angel. And this new Nola, in her swimsuit, stirred up a lot of desire.”
“Were you jealous of her?”
She reflected for a moment.
“Oh, what the hell, it doesn’t matter now, so I may as well be honest: Yes, I was a little jealous. Men looked at her, and a woman notices that.”
“But she was only fifteen.”
“She didn’t look like a little girl—believe me. She was a woman. A beautiful woman.”
“Did you suspect anything between her and Harry?”
“Not in the slightest! Nobody here imagined anything of the kind. Not with Harry or with anyone else. She was a very beautiful girl, but she was fifteen years old—everyone knew that. And she was the pastor’s daughter.”
“So there was no rivalry between you for Harry?”
“God, no!”
“And was there anything between you and Harry?”
“Not really. We went out a few times. He was very popular with the women here. I mean, a celebrity from New York turning up in a place like this . . .”
“Jenny, I have a question that may surprise you, but . . . did you know that when he arrived here, Harry was a nobody? Just a high school teacher who’d spent all his savings to rent the house at Goose Cove?”
“What do you mean? He was a writer, though—”
“He had written a novel, but it wasn’t a success at all. I think there was a misunderstanding about how famous he was, and he used that so that he could be in Somerset what he had wanted to be in New York. And because he then published The Origin of Evil, which really did make him famous, the illusion was perfect.”
She laughed, almost amused.
“Well! I never would have guessed. Good old Harry . . . I remember our first real date. I was so excited that day. It was the Fourth of July.”
I quickly made the calculations in my head: July 4 was six days after the trip to Rockland. That was when Harry had decided to get Nola out of his head. I encouraged Jenny to continue her story: “Tell me about the Fourth of July.”
She closed her eyes, as if transported back in time. “It was a beautiful day. Harry had come to Clark’s and asked me to go see the fireworks in Concord. He said he would come and fetch me at 6 p.m. My shift normally ended at 6.30, but I told him that would be fine. And Mom let me leave early so I could get ready.”
Friday, July 4, 1975
The Quinn family house was in an uproar. It was 5:45 p.m. and Jenny was not ready. She ran up and down the stairs like a Fury in her underwear, each time holding up a different dress.
“What about this one, Mom? What do you think?” she asked, entering the living room for the seventh time.
“No, no
t that one,” Tamara said harshly. “It makes your butt look big. You don’t want Harry to think you’ve been stuffing yourself, do you? Try another one!”
Jenny hurried back up to her bedroom, sobbing because she was a hideous girl, that she had nothing to wear, and that she was going to remain single and ugly until the end of her life.
Tamara was nervous—her daughter had to be at her best. Harry Quebert was in a whole other league from the people of Somerset, and she couldn’t afford to make a mistake. As soon as her daughter had told her about her date, she had ordered her to leave Clark’s. It was the lunch-hour rush, and the restaurant was packed, but she didn’t want her Jenny to stay a single second longer amid the greasy smells that could soak into her hair and her skin. Tamara had sent her to a hairdresser and given her a manicure, and then she had cleaned the house from top to bottom and prepared a “sophisticated” aperitif in case Harry Quebert wanted a snack while he was there. So her Jenny had not been wrong: Harry really was wooing her. Tamara was very excited, and could not stop thinking about marriage. Her daughter would finally get hitched. She heard the front door bang. Her husband, Robert, who worked as an engineer in a Concord glove company, had been called out for an emergency at the factory and here he was, just come home. Her eyes widened in horror.
Robert noticed immediately that the first floor had been thoroughly cleaned and spruced up. There was a bouquet of irises in the entrance hall, where he had never seen flowers before.
“What’s going on here, honey bunny?” he asked as he went into the living room, where a little table had been laid with petits fours, savory snacks, a bottle of champagne, and some flutes.
“Oh, Bobby, my Bobbo,” Tamara replied, feeling irritated but forcing herself to be kind, “this is not a good time. I really don’t need you getting under my feet. I left a message for you at the factory.”
“I didn’t get it. What did it say?”
“That you should not, under any circumstances, come home before seven o’clock.”
“Oh. Why?”
“Because—would you believe it?—Harry Quebert has invited Jenny to see the fireworks in Concord this evening.”
“Who’s Harry Quebert?”
“Oh, Bobbo, you should keep up with things more! He’s the famous writer who moved here at the end of May.”
“Oh. And why shouldn’t I enter the house?”
“‘Oh’? That’s all you have to say—‘oh’? A great writer is wooing our daughter, and all you can say is ‘oh’? Well, that proves my point: I do not want you in the house because you are incapable of conducting an intelligent conversation. For your information, Harry Quebert is not just anybody—he has moved into the house at Goose Cove.”
“The house at Goose Cove? Holy cow!”
“That might seem expensive and impressive to you, but for a man like him, renting the house at Goose Cove is just a spit in the ocean. He is a star in New York!”
“A spit in the ocean? I don’t know that expression.”
“Oh, Bobbo, you really don’t know anything.”
Frowning, Robert moved closer to the buffet that his wife had prepared.
“Do not touch, Bobbo!”
“What are these things?”
“They’re not things. It is a sophisticated aperitif. It’s very chic.”
“But you told me we were going to the neighbors’ barbecue tonight! Are we still going? It’s the Fourth of July!”
“Yes, we’re going. But later. And whatever you do, don’t tell Harry Quebert that we’re going to eat hamburgers like ordinary people.”
“But we are ordinary people. I like hamburgers. You run a burger joint.”
“You don’t understand anything, Bobbo! It’s not the same. And I have big plans for us.”
“I didn’t know that. You never told me.”
“I don’t tell you everything.”
“Why don’t you tell me everything? I tell you everything. Actually, I had a stomachache all afternoon. I had terrible gas. It hurt so bad, I even had to lock myself in my office and get down on all fours to fart. You see how I tell you everything?”
“That’s enough, Bobbo! You’re ruining my concentration!”
Jenny reappeared with another dress.
“Too dressy,” Tamara barked. “You need to be elegant but relaxed.”
Robert Quinn took advantage of his wife’s momentary inattention to sit in his favorite chair and pour himself a glass of Scotch.
“No sitting!” Tamara shouted. “You’ll get everything dirty. Do you know how long I spent cleaning this room? Go get changed.”
“Changed?”
“Wear a suit. You can’t receive Harry Quebert in your slippers!”
“Why have you taken out the bottle of champagne we were keeping for a special occasion?”
“This is a special occasion! Don’t you want our daughter to marry well? Now stop quibbling and go get changed. He’ll be here soon.”
To make sure he obeyed her, Tamara escorted her husband as far as the staircase. At that moment, Jenny came down in tears, wearing nothing but panties and a bra, explaining between sobs that she was going to have to cancel the whole thing because it was too much for her. Robert whined in turn that he wanted to read his newspaper rather than having to partake in a serious discussion with this great writer and that, in any case, he never read books because they put him to sleep, and that he wouldn’t know what to say to him. It was 5:50, ten minutes before Harry was due. All three of them were arguing in the entrance hall when suddenly the doorbell rang. Tamara thought she was going to have a heart attack. He was here. The great writer was early.
• • •
The doorbell rang. Harry walked toward the door. He was wearing a linen suit and a light hat, ready to go out with Jenny. He opened the door; it was Nola.
“Nola? What are you doing here?”
“You mean ‘hello’? It’s polite to say ‘hello’ when you see someone, not ‘what are you doing here?’”
He smiled. “Hello, Nola. I’m sorry—it’s just that I wasn’t expecting you.”
“What’s going on? I haven’t heard from you since our day in Rockland. Not a word all week! Did I do something wrong? Didn’t you enjoy it? Oh, Harry, I loved our day in Rockland so much. It was magical!”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. And I really liked our day in Rockland too,” Harry said.
“So why haven’t you been in touch?”
“It’s because of my book. I’ve had a lot of work.”
“I would like to be with you every day. For the rest of my life.”
“You’re an angel.”
“We can be together every day now,” Nola said. “I don’t have school anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“School’s over, it’s summer vacation. Did you really not know?”
“No.”
“It will be wonderful, won’t it?” Nola said happily. “I’ve been thinking, and I’ve decided that I could look after you here. You would find it easier to work in this house than in Clark’s, with so many people and so much noise. You could write on your deck. The ocean is so beautiful, I’m sure it would inspire you! And I’d take care of you. I’ll make you a happy man! Please let me make you a happy man, Harry.”
He noticed that she had brought a basket with her.
“It’s a picnic,” she said. “For us, this evening. I even have a bottle of wine. I was thinking we could have a picnic on the beach. It would be so romantic.”
He didn’t want a romantic picnic. He didn’t want to be near her. He didn’t want her, period: He had to forget her. He regretted the Saturday they had spent in Rockland. He had taken a fifteen-year-old girl to another state, without her parents’ knowledge. Had the police stopped them, they might even have believed he had kidnapped her. This girl was
going to ruin him. He had to remove her from his life.
All he said was, “I can’t, Nola.”
She looked utterly dejected. “Why not?”
He had to tell her that he had a date with someone else. It would be hard for her to hear, but she had to understand that any relationship between them was impossible. He couldn’t bring himself to do it, however, so once again he lied. “I have to go to Concord. I’m seeing my publisher, who’s coming for the Fourth of July. It will be very boring. I would rather have done something with you.”
“Can I come with you?”
“No. I mean, you’d be bored.”
“You hate me, don’t you, Harry?”
“What? No! Of course not!”
“Yes, you do, I know it. You were bored by me in Rockland. That’s why you haven’t been in touch. You think I’m a stupid, boring, ugly little girl.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. Come on, I’ll take you home.”
“Call me darling Nola. Say it to me again.”
“I can’t, Nola.”
“Please!”
“I can’t. Those words are forbidden.”
“But why? Why, for God’s sake? Why can’t we love each other if we love each other?”
“Come on, I’m going to drive you home,” he repeated.
“But, Harry, what’s the point of living if we’re not allowed to love?”
He did not reply. He led her to the black Chevrolet. She was crying.
• • •
It was not Harry Quebert at the door, but Amy Pratt, the wife of Somerset’s police chief. She was the organizer of the summer gala, one of the town’s biggest annual events, which would take place that year on Saturday, July 19. When the doorbell rang, Tamara had sent her half-naked daughter and her husband upstairs before discovering that it was not their famous visitor at the door. Amy Pratt was selling tickets for the raffle that would be held at the gala. That year, first prize was a weeklong vacation at a luxury hotel on Martha’s Vineyard. Tamara bought two books of tickets, and then—even though decorum dictated that she should offer a cold drink to her visitor, who was moreover a woman she liked—she showed her to the door without any qualms because it was now 5:55. Jenny, who had calmed down, appeared in a little green summer dress that suited her beautifully, followed by her father, who was wearing a three-piece suit.