Mortification: Writers’ Stories of Their Public Shame (4 page)

Here I must backtrack to recall an important clue that I had foolishly overlooked. Months earlier, after agreeing to add the Arkansas event to my book tour, I had been asked in all earnestness if I wanted to be a ‘celebrity’ judge in the town’s famous chili cook-off, which by lucky coincidence would be taking place on the same day of my arrival, in the same shopping strip where the bookstore was located. I had demurred, citing phantom gastroenterological disorders. In retrospect, I should have recognized the chili-tasting invitation as the dark omen it was, and cancelled the gig immediately.

When I finally found the bookstore, I noticed that it was as quiet as a morgue, and as empty of life. I chose to attribute this to the torrential downpour and prevailing tornado warnings, and not to any lack of enthusiasm for my novels. The proprietress of the store, a lovely and gracious woman, assured me that hordes of loyal readers would descend at the first break in the weather.

I passed the time – and time passes slowly in Arkansas, I assure you – chatting with the store clerks, one of whom let it slip that I was competing that afternoon not only with the chili-cooking contest but also with the annual college football game between the University of Arkansas Razorbacks and, I believe, the University of Oklahoma Sooners. A casual stroll through the shopping plaza confirmed the dismal fact; everyone seemed to have a bowl of chili and a portable radio tuned to football. A reporter for the local AM station was supposed to interview me during half-time, but evidently he’d gotten so swept up in the game that he forgot.

So I trudged back to the bookstore and waited patiently for someone, anyone, to walk through the front door. Eventually the owner said I might as well take advantage of the ‘lull’ and sign one of the wooden folding chairs that she had set up for the anticipated throngs. Over the years I’d autographed posters, photos, bumper stickers, even a young woman’s chest, but never had I been asked to put my signature on a piece of cheap patio furniture. The owner explained that it was a popular tradition at her store, and indeed led me to a stack of chairs autographed by visiting authors, the most notable of whom was John Grisham. Naturally I whipped out my Sharpie and signed one with a flourish.

Eventually the rain tapered off, but nobody ever showed up to hear me read. So I didn’t; I sat. As the final excruciating minutes ticked down, I personalized a copy of my novel for each of the store clerks (who would have rather gone that day to the football game), and also for one or two of the store owner’s relatives (who were kind enough to stop by and pretend to be customers).

As my freshly autographed chair was unceremoniously folded away with the others, the store owner said she felt terrible about the ‘low turnout’, and professed to be mystified. I declined with heroic politesse when she offered a hot cup of homemade chili for my journey back to the Memphis airport.

‘If you have any shame, forbear to pluck the beard of a dead lion.’ Martial,
Epigrams

Dear Robin,

I hear that you are publishing an anthology of pieces on the theme of literary mortification. Well, I have to say that I was very disappointed – mortified actually – not to be asked, especially when I heard the names of some of the writers you
did
ask (most of them friends of yours, I imagine, or people you publish). Some people have short memories, evidently. No doubt you have forgotten that I once specifically asked my agent to offer the manuscript of one of my novels to you even though she wanted to send it to a more established ‘literary’ imprint (I think you were at Cape at the time). Anyway, you have come a long way since then and have probably forgotten this and, frankly, I’d forgotten all about it too until I heard of this anthology and decided I’d drop you a note since it has been a long time since we were in touch. I think the last time was when you were editing
Firebird
at Penguin and I wrote a quite hostile review of it in the
Literary Review
. Surely that doesn’t still rankle with you, does it? Some people have long memories, evidently. Personally, I’d completely forgotten about that too and I’m surprised you haven’t. ‘Get a life!’ as Helen Simpson (I suppose
she
’s in it) would say.

Actually, it occurs to me that you might be harbouring a more recent grudge. A couple of years ago I wrote quite a vicious review of a book you published: Thomas Lynch’s
The Undertaking
. Obviously it is galling – one might even say
mortifying
in this instance! – when your authors are reviewed unfavourably but you have to respect the critical integrity of the reviewer’s judgement, especially since I did not know you were the publisher at the time and, obviously, would not have written what I did if I
had
known.

Anyway, to get back to your latest project. I can imagine what these tales of woe are like without even reading them. Let me guess … Will Self on how he did an event with Irvine Welsh and the line for people wanting copies of
Trainspotting
went right round the world and the queue of people who were there for him only went twice round the block. Well, I’ve taken a lot of drugs too but some of us choose not to write about it the whole time. The older I get, in fact, the less patience I have with writers who are narcissistically preoccupied with themselves and their own experience.

So yes, I’ve got a pretty good idea of what these hard luck stories are like and I have to say my heart is breaking. Spare me. Well, obviously you have spared me by not asking me to write anything and, as it happens, I am far too busy anyway. One thing you can be sure about: if I ever edit an anthology of great literary triumphs I won’t be asking you to contribute. In fact I won’t be asking
anyone
to contribute. That book will only have one contributor and it’ll be
me
.

Having said that, if you decide that the anthology would benefit from some
serious
writing do get into touch with me directly (I don’t have an agent any more). I doubt if I would have the time to do something but it might be worth giving me a call on the off-chance if the book has not gone to press yet.

Yours

Geoff Dyer

PS: I could turn it around quite quickly and would not require a fee.

‘He hears
On all sides, from innumerable tongues
A dismal universal hiss, the sound
Of public scorn.’
Milton,
Paradise Lost

I had a bad night in Wales. I was reading from my novel
Wide Open
. The gist of my presentation was that this was a novel which it was impossible to do a reading from. I was wedged between Alan Hollinghurst and Rupert Thomson. I ended up reminiscing – and at some length – about how my boyfriend once suffered from a series of spectacular nosebleeds while we were on holiday in Madrid, and how I could never really feel sympathetically inclined towards tapas after that.

Later we were led to an adjacent tent where we were to do a signing. Somewhere close by – in a much bigger venue – Terry Pratchett had just completed a public appearance. The signing tent was soon packed with Pratchett fans. I was standing behind a table, waiting (in vain) for somebody to buy a book. At this point I was approached by an angry-looking woman holding Pratchett’s latest and waving a ten-pound note. She shoved the book at me.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered apologetically (five years’ experience as a bakery cashier, all coming to nothing), ‘but I don’t actually work here. I’m one of the authors.’

‘I don’t give a damn who you are,’ she hissed, ‘just take the fucking money.’

Afterwards, on my long walk home to a rather isolated cottage where several of the authors were staying, I saw two genial-looking teenagers strolling, hand-in-hand, along the empty country road towards me. I was carrying a box of champagne (the payment for the reading, and a drink which makes me violently ill), and I was struggling.

It took several minutes for us to draw adjacent. As they passed by, the boy-teen said, ‘You’re Nicola Barker, aren’t you?’ I stopped, panting slightly; ‘Yes, I am.’

‘We just went to see you reading,’ he said.

‘Oh, right,’ I puffed. ‘Did you enjoy it?’

No answer.

‘We took your book
Reversed Forecast
on holiday with us last year,’ the girl-teen eventually continued, ‘and I was so irritated by it that I forced him to read it.’

He nodded. ‘Neither of us understood the ending. We were so infuriated by the whole experience that we travelled all the way down here tonight, in hope of some kind of clarification …’ He paused, glancing down witheringly at my box of champagne. ‘But I’m afraid we didn’t get any.’

‘A guest sees more in an hour than the host in a year.’
Polish proverb

Sometimes organizations are genuinely broke and you find yourself agreeing to eat. with the organizer’s in-laws.

We – the organizer and myself along with a couple of local writers – arrived at the in-laws’ apartment in good time. The organizer pressed the bell and this started a cacophonous barking. Enough for two dogs. Then a female voice screamed ‘Stop it – Jules. Jim, stop it this minute.’

We heard scrabbling at the lock and were unsure if it was the dogs or the hostess trying to open the door. The door opened a fraction. And the barking got louder.

A small woman peered out. But before she could do anything one of the dogs squirmed between her legs and dashed about the marble landing fit to burst.

It was a boxer – caramel-coloured with a black savage face. Another boxer followed before the woman could get her legs closed. The dogs flung themselves at the visitors’ genitals but sheered off at the last moment. They continued to attack while the hostess continued to shout at them. ‘Jules – Jim – stop it this minute.’ They barked loudly and continuously, racing to and fro, interfering with every movement the guests made. I tried to move slowly and deliberately so’s not to startle or anger the dogs any more than was necessary. I’m terrified of dogs. I don’t remember it but I’m told when I was a baby in a pram I was bitten on the head by a next-door dog called Trixie – so somewhere in my subconscious I’m shit scared.

A boxer is sitting back on his haunches in front of me barking to burst ear-drums and baring his teeth and I am trying to be pleasant to the hostess. The other dog is somewhere behind me. The light from the hallway shows that in their excitement the dogs have been pissing all over the place – including my shoes and trousers. ‘Look what you’re doing – Jules, Jim, stop right now,’ she yells. The dogs seem demented – squirting piss left, right and centre as they race around the landing and hallway, their claws scraping. ‘How dare you! Get up to your bed. Get inside this minute.’ I’m trying to air-kiss the hostess as she screams and goes through great bouts of eye-rolling. ‘Delighted to meet you,’ I say and she nods. The next guest in line attempts to embrace her but she bends down and catches either Jules or Jim by the studded collar and flings him bodily down the hallway. They race out of sight into another room. ‘How dare you! This happens every time. Jim, Jules, I’ll not warn you again.’ They are in the distance for a moment or two.

The hostess straightens up and completes greeting the other guests. What a total nonsense all this is. This scene must happen every time the door-bell rings. These people invited us. We came on time. Why weren’t these hounds put somewhere else? Our hostess says, ‘They’re perfectly harmless – they wouldn’t touch you – they’re just a bit excited by strangers.’ So it’s the guests who are causing the problem. They’re the ones to blame. If they weren’t here the dogs would be sleeping. Everyone starts taking off their coats and still the barking goes on. The dogs come racing out of a distant room and launch another attack. They must be like real boxers and fight three-minute rounds. Bounding and yapping. Pissing and scraping. ‘Stop it! Jules! Jim!’ They are incredibly ugly creatures with their faces of black wrinkled skin and white bared teeth. I freeze when one lunges. Very slowly and deliberately, in as non-threatening a gesture as I can muster, I hand my coat over to the hostess.

Eventually everyone gets into the living room and sits down, keeping very still. The dogs leap up on the furniture and their owners create more noise than the dogs. ‘Get down. Jules! Jim! On the floor.’

‘Don’t you dare!’ Both dogs jump up onto the sofa beside me. They give me an eyeful of their backsides before I can look away. Boxers have whorls, little whirlpools of hair on either side of their black leathery asshole. People don’t want to dwell on that kind of detail just before they eat but when it’s been there, close-up, the image can’t be erased.

The hostess gets everyone to their feet and shepherds them into a dining room which looks out on a balcony. It seems she and her husband ate earlier for health reasons. They will come to the table but they will not eat. They are old and not at all healthy, despite having eaten earlier. Things can be heard in their chests. He is overweight and his lips have a disturbing bluish tinge. The curve of his belly is emphasized by one of those Fair-Isle golf sweaters. Even they realize that the dogs should be controlled in some way and the hostess puts them out onto the balcony. The creatures proceed to whine and scratch loudly against the balcony doors. They also snort and blow beneath them.

Dishes are brought to the table by the hostess. Everyone eats as the mother and father-in-law smoke one cigarette after another. The soup tastes of something indefinable. Dog piss, maybe. It is not bad, but faint – a distant tinge of raven fat or bat droppings – like something never tasted before and not altogether appetizing. The dogs on the balcony are creating such a din of scratching and whingeing that one of the guests suggests letting them in. It would be quieter. The hostess gets up and opens the door. The dogs rush past her with delight. They run in and out, beneath the table, under our chairs. As they slaver and slabber, strings of white mucus hang from their jowls. I keep my knees together to prevent the dogs getting in there for a good sniff at my crotch. That stuff would look bad on your trousers: Every so often throughout the meal, my hand strays down and I immediately sense a wet engulfment. A dog’s nose is like a dish of cold snails.