The Mark and the Void: A Novel

by Paul Murray

  When the writer arrives at the office next morning, however, he is not alone. A man is with him: a great, hulking creature almost seven foot tall, with a sloping forehead and brawny, knotted forearms that extend from an ill-fitting nylon shirt. Paul introduces him as Igor Struma, poet, professor of contemporary art and member of the celebrated Vladivostok Circle.

  ‘He’s going to be helping me with some of the more conceptual stuff,’ Paul explains. What exactly this means I am not sure, but for the rest of the day, instead of observing me and my colleagues, the two of them spend their time muttering in secluded corners, or slinking around the office, making inscrutable gestures – knocking on walls, poking at ceiling tiles, tracing with their fingers mysterious vectors from the floor, behind computers, up to the power supply.

  I have a bad feeling about this Igor. One cannot say what a poet ought to look like, of course, any more than one can say what a murderer ought to look like – but he definitely looks more like a murderer than a poet. He smells bad in several different ways at once, like curdled milk in a public lavatory, and when I type his name into the search engine, a red VIRUS WARNING!!! sign flashes up immediately on the screen, and a moment later a member of the IT team bursts into the office, demanding to know what I’ve done.

  The others do not seem to share my reservations. Jurgen, on the contrary, is positively ecstatic. ‘Two famous writers! We have almost enough to start the salon!’

  ‘But what is he doing here? Has anyone checked his credentials?’

  ‘Paul asked him to help out with the book,’ Ish says. ‘You said yourself he was having a few problems. This is a good sign. You don’t want him to pull the plug on the whole thing, do you?’

  ‘Of course not. I am just confused. If Paul is writing a book about me and my work here, why is he spending all his time with some poet?’

  ‘This is the artistic process,’ Jurgen says, with a shrug. ‘Who are we to question it?’

  I do not want to obstruct the artistic process, but when I see Igor, under Paul’s supervision, making a gun-shape with his thumb and finger and boring an imaginary hole into the wall, it is hard not to think the novel is being dismantled before my very eyes.

  Later that day, Paul invites me to the Ark for lunch, with his helpmeet nowhere to be seen. ‘I thought I should fill you in a little on Igor’s role,’ he says, as the waitress guides us to a table. ‘You’re probably wondering what he’s doing here. I’m writing the book, you’re the subject, what am I doing bringing a third party into it?’

  I make a stock gesture of innocence, as if the thought had never crossed my mind.

  ‘The fact is that while the romantic image is of the writer working away in solitude, it’s often much more of a collaborative activity. Every writer has his strengths and weaknesses. It’s quite common to draft in a colleague to help out with elements you’re less sure about.’

  I have heard about such practices in other art forms, but I confess that I had not encountered it in literature before.

  ‘It’s kind of a trade secret,’ Paul says.

  ‘Can you give me an example?’

  ‘An example … well, I suppose the most famous partnership would be J. R. R. Tolkien and Ian Fleming.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes. When Tolkien was putting Lord of the Rings together he was great at working out, you know, the ancestral backgrounds of the elves and so forth, but in terms of plot, he was hopeless. So he brought in someone who did know about plot: his old friend Ian Fleming, creator of James Bond. The whole magic-ring thing was Fleming’s idea. In the original version Tolkien was just going to have the hobbits and the elves reciting poems to each other.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ I say.

  ‘Similarly Tolstoy, when he was writing War and Peace, found the Peace parts no problem, but he really got stuck when it came to War. So he got in touch with an up-and-coming young naval officer called Winston Churchill.’

  ‘Winston Churchill co-wrote War and Peace?’

  ‘Just little bits here and there. Details. Like I say, writers generally prefer not to talk about it.’

  ‘And what is Igor’s specialism?’

  ‘Places. He’s a master. Big places, small places, indoors, outdoors. He can do mountain ranges and lakes; he could write a paragraph about a broom cupboard that would have you bawling your eyes out. I suppose you could say he has an intuitive grasp of structure.’

  ‘Which you feel has evaded you in the bank,’ I say.

  ‘Exactly. It’s an unfamiliar environment – to be frank, not one that readily yields up its inner poetry.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I concede.

  ‘So I thought, okay, time to call in the expert. Given that I have this incredible access – which I am so, so grateful for – I might as well take advantage of it. So Igor’s going to be concentrating on the location details. The character stuff, plot, all that will still be me.’

  This does make sense. ‘And you have known Professor Struma for long?’

  ‘That man taught me everything I know,’ he says simply.

  ‘Oh…’ I say, struggling to conceal my surprise. Perhaps I have misjudged him.

  At that moment the door opens; Paul waves and Igor lumbers, creaking, towards us. He takes off his ancient rain mac, releasing a cloud of pungent inner odours, and gives the waitress his order with a dry, smacking mouth; he stares after her as she leaves, like a cat watching a pigeon.

  ‘So I was just telling Claude something about the collaborative process,’ Paul says.

  ‘There is nothing wrong with collaborating,’ Igor says, rather confrontationally.

  ‘I mean in the book. You’re going to help me out with the book.’

  ‘Eh?’ Igor says.

  ‘The book,’ Paul repeats. ‘Set in the bank. The tale of the Everyman.’

  ‘Oh yes, yes,’ Igor says. ‘Everyman, James Joyce, real life.’ His bloodshot eyes swivel over to me. ‘You are the Frenchman,’ he says. ‘Paris.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I say uncomfortably.

  Igor stares at me without speaking, his head weaving ever so slightly from side to side. ‘Lately I have watch excellent film about Paris,’ he says. ‘In this film, three horny guys are going there and diddle many French prostitutes. Title of film is, Ass Menagerie II: French Connection. You have seen?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Is sequel to first Ass Menagerie.’ He thinks about this, then adds, ‘Though story is very similar.’ He retreats into a prolonged, cacophonous cough, a sound like shovelling coal.

  ‘So Igor was wondering whether he might be able to see some floor plans of the bank,’ Paul says.

  ‘Floor plans?’ I say, surprised.

  ‘To help him with his descriptive passages,’ Paul says.

  I glance over at Igor. He glares back at me with his basilisk eyes. I don’t know what to say; then, to my relief, the waitress comes along with his coffee, and he is distracted once again by her departing posterior. ‘Very nice,’ he comments, and then asks Paul a question I don’t quite catch, but which sounds something like, ‘Have we got a file on her?’

  Paul clears his throat in a way that might or might not be artificial, then says, ‘So maybe I should explain a little more about Igor’s process –’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Igor cuts in, ‘I must move seats. I cannot look at this fucking painting any longer.’

  With much clattering, he rises and drags his chair to the opposite side of the table, so that his back is to the offending artwork.

  ‘Simulacrum 18,’ I read from the label. ‘Our friend Ariadne Acheiropoietos again.’

  ‘So the way Igor likes to work –’ Paul persists.

  ‘Oh, Jesus Christ, this one is even worse!’ Igor says, discovering he has moved seats only to find himself staring directly at Simulacrum 33.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ the waitress asks, hurrying over.

  ‘He’s just having a strong reaction to the art,�
�� Paul explains.

  ‘I feel like I have fingers in my brain,’ Igor laments, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Oh,’ the waitress says. ‘Well, let me know if you need anything.’ She beats a retreat to the kitchen.

  ‘So about these floor plans,’ Paul says.

  But Igor has turned his gaze to me again. ‘What does this mean, this simulacrum?’ he demands. Is he serious? Didn’t Paul say he was a professor of contemporary art? Or is he trying to catch me out?

  ‘It is a term from philosophy,’ I say reluctantly. ‘It means a bad copy or false image of something.’

  ‘Why are they covering the wall with fucking simulacrums, in this place where people are trying to eat?’ The reptilian stare bores into me again.

  ‘Ah,’ I stammer, ‘well, I imagine the artist is making some comment about fakes and counterfeits. Maybe by calling her painting Simulacrum she is pointing to some much bigger falseness in the world around us. “Art is the lie that shows us the truth”, didn’t someone say this? Though I am sure you know more about it than I do.’

  For a moment I think I have satisfied him. Slowly he sets down his cup and appears lost in contemplation. Then he leans over the table. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ he says, in a low, guttural voice.

  And I see he has curled his fingers into a fist.

  Back at the bank the situation only gets worse. ‘He keeps poking at the ceiling,’ Gary McCrum complains. ‘Prodding at it with some sort of a rod, right over my head.’

  Joe Peston storms over. ‘That fucking Russian of yours unplugged my terminal!’

  ‘He’s researching a novel,’ I tell them both.

  Computers are interfered with, files misplaced. Kimberlee approaches me in a state of disquiet to report that she sat down at her computer only to find Igor under her desk, apparently sniffing her seat. ‘He is examining the structure,’ I say. But the truth is that I have no idea what he is doing. As for Paul, he barely speaks to me; he is too busy lifting furniture, pulling up floor tiles, taking paintings from the walls and staring at the blank pale spaces that are revealed. When I approach him, he snaps at me, or nods without listening. Whatever has eluded him about BOT until now, Igor’s appearance hasn’t helped find. In the short time he has been here, he has aged visibly.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Ish says. It’s the next morning; we are in the canteen with the door closed, eating cereal bars. It feels strange to be hiding from our own narrator. ‘It’s what Jurgen said. The artistic process. Writing a book is hard. That’s all.’

  ‘Maybe a bank isn’t the right setting for a novel.’

  ‘Well, he’s got to make it the right setting, hasn’t he?’ Ish says. ‘That’s his job, not yours.’

  ‘I keep thinking he should’ve written about Howie. Cocaine, hookers, multimillion-dollar trades.’

  ‘He didn’t want that, Claude. He wanted an Everyman.’

  ‘It could be that he has not found the right one.’

  ‘You’re crazy!’ Ish exclaims. ‘You’re a brilliant Everyman.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Definitely.’ She nods. ‘I’ve been watching you, Claude, and you’re doing a great job.’ She squeezes my hand in hers. ‘Just be yourself,’ she says. ‘Anyone would want to read a book about you.’

  I am touched by her words, but it is increasingly clear that my non-life in Dublin has defeated Paul’s powers of representation – that there is simply not enough here for his art to gain a foothold. And when I emerge from the canteen, the final blow descends. Liam English, the head of the department, calls me over. ‘Look at this,’ he says. On the other side of the room, Igor is holding the water cooler steady while Paul balances on top of it, unscrewing the vent over the air conditioning, apparently with the intention of inserting some kind of camera into the interior. I try to make light of it, remarking on the incredible concentration that artists bring to bear on things that we take for granted, such as air vents. ‘Wrap it up,’ Liam English says.

  I wait until Igor is not around, then approach Paul at the desk he has commandeered. He is scribbling in the red notebook, which he now shuts and covers with his hand. ‘Yes?’ he says.

  ‘Lunchtime,’ I say.

  He casts about him, looking for an excuse to refuse me, but he can’t find one and reluctantly rises from the desk.

  I don’t know how significant it is that the very same waitress seats us at the very same table where we had our first conversation. It mightn’t necessarily mean that we have come full circle. Yet how changed he is from the ebullient, garrulous figure who stepped into my life that day! Now he barely speaks; when our food comes, he merely picks at it.

  ‘You are not happy,’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You are not happy with the project.’

  ‘I’m perfectly happy,’ he says. ‘I’m deliriously happy.’

  ‘You have not said a word to me all day.’

  ‘Maybe I just don’t feel like talking.’

  ‘I don’t believe that is why.’

  ‘Oh, you can read my mind now?’

  ‘It’s obvious things are not working.’

  Paul puts his hands on top of his head and lets out a long, slow, whistling sound. ‘I told you, there’s a structural issue. We’ll figure it out, if you’ll just get off my case.’

  ‘My boss wants you to finish your research.’

  This at least produces a reaction. He bangs his palms on the table. ‘What?’

  ‘He says it’s becoming disruptive.’

  ‘That’s crazy!’ Paul protests. ‘Who are we disrupting?’

  ‘Everyone,’ I say with a trace of sadistic pleasure, then regret it. He is beyond crestfallen; he looks utterly sick. ‘Maybe I can talk to him, win you an extra day or two,’ I say. ‘But only you. Igor must go.’

  ‘Okay,’ he mutters. ‘Thanks.’

  I watch him for a moment, his thoughts visibly in disarray. ‘What happened?’ I ask.

  Something in him seems to give: he sets down his fork, gazes back at me starkly. ‘There’s nothing there, Claude,’ he says. ‘I can’t find anything there.’

  Now it is my turn to feel sick.

  ‘I knew it wouldn’t work,’ he reflects. ‘Deep down I knew it.’

  ‘There must be something we can do,’ I say. ‘Some way to salvage it.’

  ‘I don’t see what, if your boss is kicking me out,’ he says.

  ‘There must be something.’

  He sighs, puts his head in his hands. He stays like that for a long time. Then he lifts his head again. ‘Unless,’ he says.

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Unless…’ He stares at me, studying my face, as if trying to read something there. ‘Unless we change the angle,’ he says at last.

  ‘Change it?’

  ‘Right now I’m seeing two serious, two very serious problems with the book. The first is that nothing happens. There’s no story there. In the past a novel didn’t always need a story. You could just make it about a day in somebody’s life. But that was when life meant people, movement, activity. You guys in front of your screens all day long, selling each other little bits of debt – it’s a whole different order of nothing. I know there’s a big story behind it, I know the bank is expanding and growing and so on, but I can’t see any of that. It’s like a hurricane, you know? It’s this incredibly powerful entity, storming all over the world, levelling everything in its path, but at the eye of it, where you are, it’s just … it’s just a void. A dead space.’

  I nod bleakly; this does not seem an unreasonable assessment.

  ‘And obviously that affects our Everyman,’ he says. ‘Which is problem two. Readers like to feel a connection with the characters they’re reading about. Visit a book club, that’s all they talk about. I loved Pip, I adored Daisy, Yossarian is so funny, we all hated Snowball. But with you – there’s just not enough showing up on the page.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  ‘I know there’s more to y
ou than some anonymous salaryman. But from the reader’s perspective, it’s not so clear. Unless they see some evidence to the contrary, my fear is they’ll see a banker and immediately think the worst.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, seething with embarrassment.

  ‘Look,’ he says, ‘it’s not irremediable. We just need to give your character more agency. We need to get him doing something.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Something dramatic,’ he says. He looks down at his coffee, stirs it but doesn’t drink. ‘Everybody,’ he says slowly, ‘even the guy with the most boring job in the world, at some point finds himself in a situation where he has to make a choice. A choice between good and bad. That moment – when the clock strikes thirteen, when everything else drops away – that’s where we need to put you.’

  Is it me, or as he says this does the air seem to tauten, to take on some tremulous energy? A cloud’s shadow rolls over the plaza; the dark-haired waitress stops at the window with her hands on her hips as the pigeons take flight.

  ‘For example,’ he says. He strokes his chin. ‘Okay, how about this. Rather than the Everyman just working in the bank, instead we have him rob the bank.’

  ‘Rob the bank?’ I repeat.

  ‘That’s right,’ Paul says, nodding.

  ‘Rob it?’ I say again, in case I have misheard.

  ‘Yes, rob it,’ Paul says.

  ‘This is Igor’s idea?’

  ‘No, it’s my idea. You can see where I’m coming from, right? It spices things up, gives the story momentum, as well as making your character a bit more attractive. Now you’re an outlaw, sticking it to the man!’

  ‘Yes, yes, I understand that.’ I dab my mouth with my napkin in case my expression gives me away. ‘But robbing a bank – is this really something that our Everyman would do?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he?’ Paul returns. ‘Who hasn’t thought about robbing a bank?’

  ‘But nobody actually does it,’ I say. ‘It just doesn’t seem realistic.’

  ‘It’s not like I’m saying we send him back in time,’ Paul says testily. ‘He’s not breaking the laws of physics or anything.’