A Ladder to the Sky(23)
‘Towards Alysse, of course,’ I said, turning back to him. ‘I hated that girl with every fibre of my being. I don’t think I have ever felt such hatred for anyone, before or since. She was going to take Oskar away from me.’
‘But he loved her. And he could sense the danger that she was in.’ I shook my head. ‘I didn’t care,’ I said. ‘All I could see was the loss that I was going to suffer.’
We said nothing for a few moments and then Maurice rose, taking some clothes from his wardrobe and saying that he was going into the bathroom to change. I stood up and told him that I would see him later, perhaps for dinner. I heard the taps in the sink running as I left and noticed his satchel on the floor, lying where he had discarded it earlier. I reached down to pick it up and lay it on the bed and as I did so a book fell out and I glanced at the title.
It was the latest novel by Dash Hardy and I rolled my eyes in irritation. Why was he reading such rubbish? I asked myself. On a whim, I turned to the title page and somehow wasn’t surprised by the inscription I found there. For Maurice, it said, with my fondest love.
He had dated it too. He must have signed it earlier that morning before Maurice left his apartment.
7. Amsterdam
There was only one city left on my promotional schedule but I was in two minds about inviting Maurice to accompany me. His increasing arrogance was becoming tiresome to me but more wounding still was the knowledge that he’d established some type of connection with Dash. And yet, despite my sense of grievance, he was on my mind as much as ever and I desperately wanted to see him again, particularly since this would mark the end of our time together. So I booked his ticket and, although I received neither a phone call nor a letter in reply, he showed up at the Amstel Hotel on the appointed evening in high spirits.
My publisher had booked me a suite with a view of the canals but once again the hotel had let me down and Maurice’s more basic room was on the other side of the corridor, overlooking Professor Tulpplein. I was not as desperate for us to be next to each other any more but when he saw where I was situated he seemed so entranced by the vista that I offered to switch with him and he accepted immediately, moving his belongings into the suite while I took mine to what was known as a ‘classic room’.
Having undertaken all the usual interviews and given a reading in a city-centre bookshop, our final evening in Amsterdam was free of promotional duties and we found a cosy bar overlooking Blauwbrug Bridge, where we sat at a small table near the rear, surrounded by cushions and candlelight.
‘Our last night together,’ he said as we clinked glasses. ‘The last six months have been a great experience, Erich. I’m very grateful.’
‘Well, you’ve been a terrific help,’ I told him. ‘Not just because of your efficiency but also your companionship. I don’t know how I would have got through all these trips without you. I imagine successful novelists must have a terrible time of it.’
‘But you are a successful novelist,’ he said, laughing. ‘At least you have been since you won The Prize.’
‘I mean the very rich and famous ones,’ I said, correcting myself. ‘Those who have readers, not those who win awards.’
‘Do the two have to be mutually exclusive?’
‘In a perfect world, no. But in the real world, they generally are.’
‘I’m going to be different,’ he said, nodding confidently.
‘Oh really? In what way?’
‘I’m going to have readers and win prizes.’
‘You don’t want much, do you?’ I said, smiling a little.
‘My agent thinks I can combine commerce with art.’
I looked up, taken aback by this latest revelation. ‘Your agent?’ I said. ‘Since when have you had an agent?’
‘Didn’t I tell you? It hasn’t been long. I met her when we were in New York and she asked to read my novel.’
‘How did you even find her?’
‘Do you remember when we were in Madrid and a lunch was thrown for you in the Prado?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘The Spanish novelist seated next to me. He put me in touch with her. She’s his agent too, you see.’
I took a long sip from my glass, trying not to allow my thoughts to get the better of me. ‘And your novel,’ I asked finally. ‘You can’t have finished it already?’
‘No, but it’s almost there. I gave her a few sample chapters. She’s waiting to read the entire thing but she liked what she saw so much that she signed me up as a client.’
‘I see,’ I said, trying not to make my irritation too obvious. ‘You do realize that I have an agent too, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but you never offered an introduction.’
‘Because you hadn’t finished anything yet!’
‘Well, I suppose my friend in Madrid felt that, on the basis of what I’d already written, I had something special.’
‘How prescient of him,’ I said. ‘So when will this masterpiece be ready?’
‘Over the next couple of weeks, I hope. And there’s no need for sarcasm, Erich, it’s unbecoming in a man of your years. She hopes to start submitting it to editors in the spring.’
‘Well, I look forward to reading it,’ I said. ‘Did you bring the chapters for me?’