A Ladder to the Sky(48)

‘Maurice,’ he said in a strong New York accent when he reached our table. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’

‘Hello, Dash,’ you replied, standing up to shake his hand. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘Just over five years. You haven’t changed much. A little older, of course, but still as handsome as ever.’

‘Thank you,’ you said, smiling, and as it became obvious that he was not going to walk away, you invited him to sit down, which he did, pushing me a little to the side as he took the seat opposite you. You both sat silently for a moment, simply staring at each other, and as things began to grow awkward I introduced myself and he shook my hand, offering his name too. Of course, I recognized it. I hadn’t actually read any of his books, although I’d always meant to as he’d been publishing for decades and had a good reputation.

‘Did you two read together somewhere?’ I asked, looking from one to the other. ‘Is that how you know each other?’

‘Oh no,’ said Dash. ‘Maurice would never share a stage with someone as long in the tooth as me. No, we met many years ago when he was still trying to get his foot on the ladder. Seville, wasn’t it?’

‘Madrid,’ you said.

‘That’s right, Madrid. Erich Ackermann was receiving an award of some sort, I think—’

‘It wasn’t an award,’ you told him. ‘It was just a lunch.’

‘My goodness, your memory!’ he said, bringing his hands together, and I noticed thick liver spots on both that discoloured the skin. ‘You remember it as if it were only yesterday. Can you remember what we ate too?’

You smiled at this but said nothing.

‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘Maurice and I met that afternoon and became firm friends. For a time, anyway. He lived in my apartment in New York for … how long was it, a year? Eighteen months?’

‘Less than that,’ you replied. ‘Ten months at most.’

‘Well, all right. We won’t quibble over minor details. Interesting days, as I recall. We went everywhere together, we were quite the odd couple.’

‘Not exactly a couple,’ you said, interrupting him.

‘I introduced him to everyone who was worth knowing. We dined with Mrs Astor, spent a weekend with Edmund on Fire Island, travelled to the Amalfi Coast to spend a night with Gore and Howard. We even went to Jets games together, didn’t we?’

‘But you hate sport!’ I said, turning to you in surprise.

‘But I love it,’ said Dash. ‘And Maurice was very … what’s the word I’m looking for? Obliging. A most obliging boy indeed. Up to a point, anyway.’ He paused for a moment and gave a deep sigh. ‘But then his novel was published and he was far too busy to bother with me any more!’

‘That wasn’t it,’ you said coldly. ‘I was travelling a lot and—’

‘As I say, you were very busy. Have you ever read Erich Ackermann, my dear?’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t read books by fascists,’ I said.

‘Why ever not? There’s not much left to read if you ignore them. Writers are all fascists. We like to control the discourse and crush anyone who dares to disagree with us.’

‘Are you here for an event?’ you asked, before I could engage with this observation.

‘Yes, I have a new novel out. Didn’t you know?’

‘No, what’s the title?’

‘The Codicil of Agnès Fontaine.’

‘Sorry, I haven’t heard of it.’

‘It’s been widely reviewed.’

You shrugged your shoulders. ‘Well, I’ll make sure to pick up a copy at the festival bookshop and you can sign it for me.’

‘I remember the first time I signed a book for you,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘It was very early in the morning in New York and you were staying in a hotel with Erich, doing whatever it is you did for him in those days. Do you remember?’

‘No,’ you said.

‘Well, I do. I read your second book, by the way,’ continued Dash. ‘What was it called again? The Garden Shed?’

‘The Treehouse.’

‘Not quite as good as Two Germans, was it? I wonder what poor old Erich made of it.’

‘Well, he was dead by the time it came out, so I doubt he made anything of it.’

‘Of course he was,’ said the American. ‘He died alone in Berlin, didn’t he? I read somewhere that he’d been dead a week before anyone discovered the body. One of his neighbours complained about the smell. Such a sad end to an illustrious career.’

‘I thought you didn’t rate him?’

‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

‘The hundreds of criticisms you made of his work when we knew each other.’

‘Oh no,’ he said, looking appalled by the accusation. ‘No, I admired Erich greatly. His novels will be remembered, I think. And the scandal will fade away. The poems will last too.’

‘He always said they were ill advised.’

‘He was wrong about that. But then he was wrong about a lot of things, wasn’t he?’

Before you could reply, a young volunteer came over and said that she was there to escort Dash to his event. He stood up carefully, taking a long time to adjust his body to the vertical and to grip his stick just so, and then looked down at us and smiled.