A Ladder to the Sky(36)

Gore sipped his drink and, for once, felt stuck for words. Exactly what game was the boy playing? It was difficult to decipher. Was he serious when he said that he would turn down a quote from him if one was offered and, if so, was that an insult or a compliment? Perhaps, he thought, his name no longer held enough weight to warrant a sentence or two across the dust jacket of a debut novel. If that was the case, then it might be time to leave Italy and return to public life. Or did the boy not want the patronage of a man Gore’s age, preferring the support of younger, more fashionable writers? A weight of sorrow fell upon him and, as he reached for another prawn, he changed his mind and dropped it back into the bowl with its fellows, his appetite destroyed.

‘What’s your novel about, anyway?’ asked Howard, sitting back in his chair and looking at Maurice with an expression that suggested he would have no objection to the boy slowly removing his clothes as he answered.

‘It’s about Erich Ackermann,’ said Dash, leaning forward enthusiastically, his face lighting up with the enthusiasm of a fat man at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

‘Who’s Erich Ackermann?’

‘Dread,’ said Gore. ‘You’ve read it.’

‘Have I?’

‘Yes, you admired it.’

‘All right.’ Howard considered this for a moment. ‘He wasn’t the fellow we met at that festival in Jaipur, was he? With the moustache and the pipe? The one who kept bursting into song at inappropriate moments?’

‘No, that was Günter Grass.’

‘Oh yes. I liked him.’

Gore raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t wild about Howard liking other writers, particularly eminent ones. Although he didn’t much care for him liking younger writers either, those whose eminence was only imminent.

‘Actually, it’s not about Erich Ackermann,’ interrupted Maurice, a note of irritation in his voice. ‘Seriously, Dash, I wish you’d stop saying that. It’s a novel, after all. A work of fiction. Not a biography.’

‘You’ve written a novel that features Erich Ackermann as a character?’ asked Howard.

‘I suppose that’s a reasonable way of putting it, yes.’

‘And does he mind?’

‘He hasn’t said one way or the other.’

‘Did you have to ask his permission?’

‘No.’

‘Isn’t there some sort of moral conflict there then?’ asked Howard.

‘None whatsoever,’ said Dash. ‘There can be no discussion of morality when it comes to art. A writer must tell the story that captures his soul. Gore’s written about Aaron Burr, after all. And Lincoln. And the Emperor Julian.’

‘Yes, but they’re all long dead. Ackermann is still alive, isn’t he?’

‘He teaches in Cambridge,’ said Gore. ‘Just like Morgan did back in the day.’

‘Not any more,’ said Maurice. ‘He left. Before they could dismiss him.’

‘Oh, I hadn’t heard. Driven out, no doubt, by the forces of the politically correct and the righteously indignant. Poor Erich.’

‘He lives in Berlin now.’

‘Back where his story began.’

‘Poor Erich?’ repeated Dash, leaning forward on the table. ‘Gore, did you just say, Poor Erich? Haven’t you kept up with the news? Don’t you know what he did?’

‘I’ve read a few things,’ replied Gore dismissively. ‘Some columns in the papers, and I glanced at a typically fatuous essay that Wolfe wrote for the New York Review of Books. And as far as I can tell, half the world’s novelists have chimed in with their opinions, which has provided each one with their intended few minutes of publicity. How competitive everyone is in expressing their outrage! As far as I can tell, Bellow is the only one who’s said anything sensible on the subject.’

‘Why, what did he say?’ asked Maurice. ‘I haven’t heard.’

‘That he didn’t give a flying fuck what Ackermann did when he was a boy. All he was interested in was the man’s books.’

‘So much for solidarity,’ said Dash, disgusted.

‘Solidarity among whom?’ asked Gore. ‘Jews? Jewish writers? Old men? With whom is he supposed to share this unanimity of spirit? The fact is that we all have skeletons in our closets, histories of which we would prefer the world to remain ignorant. You should know some of the things that I did as a boy. Or that Howard did. And I daresay you were no saint either, Dash.’

‘No, but I never sent a family of Jews to the gas chambers.’

‘But it’s a matter of perspective, surely,’ said Gore calmly, picking at his food again. In debate, his appetite had returned. ‘Had you, Howard or I been nineteen years old and living in Herr Hitler’s Germany, where the boys gathered to march their marches and salute their salutes, filing through the streets in their handsome Hugo Boss uniforms, their hair reeking of pomade beneath striking caps, their bodies crackling like wet firewood under the weight of their exploding hormones, wouldn’t we have signed up for the Hitlerjugend too, before graduating to the Wehrmacht? I was born in West Point, for heaven’s sake. I was a military brat. It’s all just a circumstance of birth, isn’t it? Ackermann was doing his duty by his country. Should we criticize him for that? Why, even young Maurice here might have betrayed his friends had he been alive at that time.’