The Book of Murder

Five

Kloster?”
“Yes?”
The voice was deep, rough, a little impatient, as if I was interrupting him in the middle of something.
“Campari gave me your number,” I said, prepared to lie as many times as necessary. I said my name and held my breath. It felt risky, but he gave no sign of recognition. “My first two novels were published by him,” I added, not sure if this would help.
“Ah yes, of course: the author of Deception.”
“Desertion,” I corrected him, deflated, and added defensively: “That was my first novel.”
“Desertion, of course, now I remember. Strange title, rather extreme for a first novel. I remember wondering what you’d call your second—With my Tail Between my Legs perhaps? At the time you seemed only to have read Lyotard: you wanted to give up before you’d started. Although there was also something towards the end of Lost Illusions, wasn’t there? I’m glad you went on to write a second. That’s the paradox for champions of renunciation, of limits, ends: they then want to write another novel. I’d have put money on your becoming a critic. I think I saw your name on a review at one stage. A review full of the usual jargon. And I thought I was right.”
So had he read my article about his novels? I couldn’t tell for sure from his tone but at least he hadn’t hung up.
“I did write reviews for a couple of years,” I said. “But I never stopped writing novels. My second, The Random Men, came out the same year as your Day of the Dead, though it didn’t do as well. And I’ve written another two since then,” I said, offended despite myself that he knew so little about my work.
“I didn’t know. I suppose I should do more to keep up. Anyway, I’m pleased for you: the prophet of abandonment has become a prolific author. But I’m sure you didn’t call to talk about your books, or mine.”
“Actually, I did,” I said. “I’m calling because I’m about to begin writing a novel based on a true story.”
“A true story?” he said mockingly. “It really is all change. I thought you despised realism and were only interested in who knows what daring stylistic experiments.”
“You’re right,” I said, prepared to take the blows. “This is quite unlike anything I’ve ever written. It’s a story I’ve been told and I want to set it down exactly, almost like a history, or a report. Anyway, it sounds so unlikely that no one would believe it was true. Except, maybe, the people involved. That’s why I’m calling,” I said, and waited for his reaction.
“I’m one of the people involved?” He sounded amused and still a little incredulous.
“I’d say you’re the central character.”
There was silence at the other end, as if Kloster now knew what was coming and was preparing to play a different game.
“I see,” he said. “And what is this story you’ve been told?”
“It’s about a series of unexplained deaths, surrounding a single person.”
“A crime story? So you’re moving into my field now? What I don’t understand,” he said after a moment, “is how I can be the central character. Unless I’m the next victim?” he asked in mock alarm. “I know some writers of your generation would like to see me dead, but I’ve always assumed it was metaphorical. I hope they’re not prepared to take action.”
“No, you’re not the victim. You’re the one behind the deaths. At least, that’s what the person who told me about it believes.” And I said Luciana’s full name. Kloster gave a brief, unpleasant laugh.
“I was wondering how long you’d take to get round to her. So the Lady of Shalott is back on the attack. I suppose I should be grateful: last time, she sent a policeman so she’s getting a bit subtler with her envoys. I can’t believe anyone is still prepared to listen to her. But of course you were involved with her, weren’t you?”
“I hadn’t seen her for ten years. Actually, I’m not sure yet how much I believe her. But enough to want to write about it. Obviously I wouldn’t want to publish without hearing your side of the story.”
“My side of it…Strange you should say that. I’ve been writing a story myself, with the same characters. But I’m sure it’ll be quite different from yours.”
This seemed like a lucky piece of news that I might be able to use. After all, there’s nothing more worrying for a writer than finding out someone else has got his eye on your subject. I had to play my cards carefully.
“Could we meet?” I said. “Any day you can spare a minute of your time. I could show you what I’ve written so far, based on what she’s told me. If you explain why I shouldn’t believe her, I’ll give up on the whole idea. I wouldn’t want to publish anything that might disparage you unfairly.”
As usual, I’d gone too far.
“Put like that,” said Kloster coldly, “it sounds almost like blackmail. I’ve had to deal with blackmail from that girl once before. Or hasn’t she mentioned it? I don’t have to convince you of anything. I don’t owe anyone an explanation. If you believe a madwoman, you’re the one with a problem, not me.” His voice was growing louder and I thought he might be about to hang up.
“No, no, of course not,” I said placatingly. “Please, I’m not her envoy—I’m not involved with her in any way. She’s come to see me after ten years, and she did appear to be a little disturbed.”
“A little disturbed…You’re being generous. Well, if that’s clear, I don’t have a problem with meeting you. I can tell you a few things myself. And there’s something I’d like to ask you, something I’d like to include in my novel. But we can discuss it when we meet. Do you have my address?”
I said yes.
“Fine. I’ll expect you here tomorrow at six.”