My Biggest Lie (13 page)

As strong as the buzz of composition was, I craved company in the nights. I tried the bars but my confidence was shaken; I couldn't find it in me to talk to anyone.

The hostel contained more teenagers than ever before and I worried I would only be able to talk to gap-year students for so long before I was reduced to begging them to take me to bed and have mercy on me. I'm not sure I
would have survived a refusal. Or an acceptance. After days of this, I logged on to the internet, intending to book my return flight. I never got that far, though, because of a surprising email waiting for me. It was from James Cockburn, and he was arriving in Buenos Aires in two days' time.

Chapter 16

I
t was an extraordinary act to take two flights and eighteen hours to pitch to an author, so it was the kind of thing James Cockburn did regularly to justify his mythic reputation. That's why people thought he did it. I knew these excursions were not always so rationally calculated and explainable.

The last time I had been out of England with Cockburn was nine months ago at the Frankfurt Book Fair. There, in a toilet cubicle, I had held him in one arm as he sobbed into my shoulder about the suicide of David Foster Wallace, while, with my free hand, a
zwanzig
and a credit card, I tried to break into prelapsarian form the rocks of crack we had erroneously bought as coke from a street prostitute. I had wondered if we shouldn't give up on the crack, but James was adamant: ‘We're turning it back, we're making it harmless!' We were in Gleis 25, a twenty-four-hour dive bar by the Hauptbahnhof on the edge of Frankfurt's red-light district. It was a popular hang-out for a certain type of publisher at 5 a.m. and beyond. It had more than a hundred Prince
songs on the jukebox. What did the regulars think when we showed up each year? Perhaps in the week preceding there is always a group of insurance salesmen who would drink us under the table. I find that hard to believe and even if there were, they would lack our élan. There is a celebratory myth we tell to each other: that during the Fair all Frankfurt's prostitutes go on holiday (so incestuously adulterous are we, the visiting bon vivants). I was glad it was a myth: we needed the prostitutes to score drugs off.

I remember the moment that night that James disappeared with his friend Veronique, a French publishing director who would pop into the office every few months when she was in town, to show James her new shoes. I was chatting to a Swiss rights executive, Anneliese, when I saw him look over at me. I had met Anneliese and her wonderful fringe earlier that day in a meeting. She was intelligent and funny and spoke many languages: they are always intelligent and funny and speak many languages. She was explaining to me about the texture of Thomas Bernhard's prose in the original German. It's the kind of thing I ask women about when I've accidentally taken crack. There were more women in the room than men: there are always more women in the room than men. I was thinking it would be nice if Anneliese would make regular visits to
my
office to show me
her
shoes. They were turquoise, patent-leather, with three-and-a-half-inch heels. They were the type of shoes I had thought profound beautiful women did not need to wear. I was not letting her ankles distract me from her remarks about the texture of Thomas Bernhard's prose in the original German. Or her calves, with their shop-front-dummy sheen of tan nylon. Matt-laminate.
Sand meeting sea in the Caribbean. A perfect holiday read. Guilty pleasure. James smiled at me as he pulled his satchel over his shoulder. Just
buy
it. Take it off the table.

My mentor. My shadow. Myself.

It was an expensive cab ride to the airport but, a dutiful disciple, I went to meet Cockburn at the gate. His email announced he was arriving at eleven in the morning to ensure ‘the new Bolaño' signed a contract with him. Who this new Bolaño was remained unclear.

It was not hard to pick Cockburn out from the crowd of arrivals. He was in a typical publisher's outfit: dark jeans, white shirt, three buttons undone, a skinny-fitting grey blazer and rapier-toed cowboy boots with Cuban heels, making his 6'3” into a frightening 6'5”. His dark hair reached his shoulders and divided in a parting over his high forehead, sharp nose and moist lips. Cockburn was forty-three and looked like a
Top Gear
presenter: like a midlife crisis. I was relieved to see he was still wearing his wedding ring.

Despite the way James dressed, I looked up to him (literally, unless I wore his cowboy boots). It's easy to believe that the whole world has heard of James Cockburn, but of course he's a niche celebrity. Cockburn is ‘the coolest figure in British publishing' (
Guardian
), adored by the geeks who write the literary pages and hated by at least half of those who publish books for a living in a more modest, profitable way.

It was a joy to see him. I ran over and we hugged.

‘Liam, we weren't sure you were still alive – it sounded too
outlandish
that you'd just fly away to Buenos Aires,
look at you, you've got a
tan
, summer, no
spring
's barely started back home. Though it's ending here, right? Still, this isn't so bad,' he said, looking towards the door, where it was a sunny late autumn day. ‘How long's it been?'

‘Three months.'

I noticed he was struggling slightly with his wheelie case, limping alongside it, and I leaned over and took it from him. ‘Give me that. How are you recovering? I thought you might be in –'

‘A wheelchair?'

‘I didn't know. Plaster, crutches?'

‘Ah, yeah, for a bit, then they whisk them off you and force you to walk around, even though each step hurts like a kick in the bollocks. But you know me, Liam, I have a powerful constitution. I rather think it is the curse of us both. So this is really the morning, hey? I don't know what time it feels like. Fancy a beer? A beer in the morning, God, this could be a book fair.'

When he mentioned book fairs, I bitterly wondered whether I had been to my last one, but I stopped myself from saying this out loud. I never let myself sound a negative note in Cockburn's company; we spoke only of the successes we were having. Consequently, after jumping in a cab and accelerating away in the direction of his hotel, we took unequal shares of the conversation.

‘Now, Liam,
buddy
, you may be able to help me out with a small favour – but that's for later, wow,
look
at this place, man – it's been ten years since I was last here, the Buenos Aires book fair it must have been, I met this wonderful girl there, was it . . . Charlena? No, that sounds more like an Aussie – Charlotta? Yes, Charlotta.
Wow
. . . How are
you
finding the women here?'

‘Well, I –'

‘You don't want to talk about that, of course you don't want to talk about that. The favour I mentioned being – fuck me! – did you see that? – we nearly died! Anyway,' continued James, fully recovered, ‘we're going out for dinner tonight, the author, his name is Daniel Requena, the guy can't speak any English, my Spanish is
muy rustico
, he's fallen out with the Argies who were going to publish him; those handballers are being no fucking use at all. I did my best to persuade Javi to come out with me but he claims he has to
work
, so – how
is
your Spanish? I noticed the nifty way you directed our taxi driver.'

‘It's basic. I can direct taxis, order steak sandwiches and score cocaine.'

‘Not a bad skill-set,' he mused. ‘You may also be able to help me out with the second favour I was going to ask you . . . but first things first, are you good enough to translate for me over dinner?'

‘I'm afraid not.'

‘Ah.'

‘If you showed up with me as an interpreter, I think he would find it hard to take you seriously. Of course, he may have a very rich sense of humour.'

‘Well . . . naturally, we expect he will. But let's not risk it. You must know someone out here who'd help. Someone Daniel Requena will be impressed that I know. Someone fascinating.'

Of course, I thought immediately of Alejandro. There was symmetry in the betrayed friend meeting the wounded editor, Bennett's ghost (and Bolaño's?) floating above the filled ashtrays, envying the young hotshot, wishing we'd cool it with the cocaine and adjectives.

‘I know someone,' I told Cockburn. ‘The only thing is, I think he's hiding from me.'

Cockburn kept quiet for once while I told him the story of Craig Bennett's early twenties in Buenos Aires with his best friend Alejandro.

‘Jesus, that's wonderful,' he said, when I'd finished. ‘Heartbreaking!' he declared with a broad smile. ‘What a story!' And then, like a politician, his face set and he reached for the sombre notes. ‘I'm sorry we haven't spoken about Craig's death,' he said, reaching over and putting his hand on my shoulder. ‘We will, mate, we will. I fucking miss him. No one blames you. Except Belinda. And the estate. But no one
really
blames you. I wonder if we could work on the estate; you might be in a brilliant position to write the biography . . .'

‘The estate
hates
me? Who
is
the estate anyway?'

‘Oh, some sister in Australia. From what Craig had told me they didn't see much of each other. They were separated when they were kids, Craig went with the dad, she went with the mum. He didn't have a girlfriend. His parents are dead. I guess there wasn't anyone else.'

‘That's sad. And his sister hates me?'

‘She's expressed certain sisterly anger towards the man who was supposed to be looking after him on the night he died.'

‘And I suppose Belinda supplied her with her impression of me.'

‘Well, Belinda wouldn't have mentioned the drugs and nor have I. But you admitted to the police that you were taking drugs with Craig, so she knows from them you were in it together. Like I say, it's understandable, and probably not irredeemable. You're a charming lad. Don't lose heart. We'll see what we can do.' He reached over
and gave me a hug I didn't want. ‘Come on, let's find this Alejandro!'

So I let things drop. James was excited. He could scent another book to hunt besides the one he was here to capture. And I wanted to be excited too. My old boss was back and we had some work to do.

I gave the driver new instructions and we drove through to Alejandro's bar. It was empty when we arrived. The polished wood, clean glasses and neatly aligned chairs shone with the optimism of an early-morning Eden. There was only a memory of beer beneath the pine air-freshener.

‘Remind me what I drink here,' said Cockburn, squaring up to the bar and startling as the bartender rose from behind it like a lift reaching our floor. He scowled when he saw me.

‘
Buen dia
,' I smiled. ‘¿
Vos ves Alejandro?
'

‘
Lo vi hace dos semanas!
' he accused me. ‘
A causa de vos!
'

Cockburn liked this bit of aggression. ‘What's he saying?' he said, raising his eyebrows.

‘He thinks it's my fault Alejandro stopped coming here. I think he's basically right. I wouldn't be surprised if Alejandro was his best customer.'

The bartender was still talking.

‘Tell him you think you're going back to England next week,' Cockburn suggested. ‘Tell him you need to find Alejandro before you return. Tell him you'll let him know you won't bother him any more.'

I tried. The barman spoke fast Spargie in reply. I looked at James and shrugged.

‘Tell him if he sees him to call this number,' said Cockburn, scribbling something down on a napkin before handing it to the bartender with a fifty-peso note.

Cockburn had never forgotten how to tell me to do
things and, haltingly, I asked the bartender to call us if he saw Alejandro. ‘
Por favor, dos cervezas
,' added Cockburn to my speech.

The bartender was more friendly now, though he needed another fifty before he parted with a list of other bars Alejandro was known to frequent. Unfortunately, he didn't know the name of the company where Alejandro worked so we were limited to this list. Cockburn wanted to try it straight away but I explained that Alejandro would still be at work.

‘Did you see that?' he asked me as we took our beers outside to have them with a cigarette. ‘That was like Philip Marlowe.'

‘Felipe Marlowe. You know that's actual money you've just given him.'

He pulled out a note from his wallet and looked at it curiously. ‘Doesn't look like actual money to me.'

It was now past midday and Cockburn had several hours until his dinner with the new Bolaño. I'd presumed we'd meet, have a quick catch-up over lunch and then he'd go to bed for the afternoon – but he didn't seem at all jetlagged. His energy was frightening. You looked at him and could almost see someone else beneath his skin, trying to get out.

After I told James about Aleman and his bar, he wanted to go there immediately and score – it was essential for his ‘body-rhythms' that he did not sleep until late in the night. I flat-out refused to go so early. After coke there would be no real talk; just speechifying and mutual incomprehension. It would be easier to raise the harder topics and more futile when we did. Anything could go; anything would; and all would be forgotten, excused, as long as it wasn't permanent. I knew now that sometimes it was.

Even so, cocaine might have been useful for bringing the conversation back round to Craig. He deflected all my attempts to bring Craig up: Cockburn was the editor of this trip, this chapter-in-progress, keen to begin with a bang, in
media res
, straight to adventure before the boring bits, the backstory, my downfall. It was how he had encouraged me to approach my life, the old adage, ‘show don't tell'. I understood it instinctively. It was easy, too easy. Action over reflection and the reflection takes care of itself. Not in my experience it didn't, not in time. The problem wasn't that I wasn't Hemingway but that now I knew I wasn't. The innocent days were finished. Craig died.

James continued to dominate the conversation, telling me plot after plot of the novels he'd recently acquired, laying down adjective after interchangeable adjective to describe their unique prose and saleability. I lost my cool and begged him to slow down, to tell me about the last three months, what he knew of the funeral, what people had said, what people were saying, about me, me, me, what had become of me.

James was embarrassed at my outburst. We were still sitting outside and he looked away from me to an office block as he lit another cigarette, a man and a woman in suits emerging for lunch, the moped courier who'd just parked dashing in through the open door. I had broken the rules. He had not wanted to think about my unhappiness.