The Mark and the Void (38 page)

Robert Dodson frowns gently, sampling this thought just as one might the bouquet of a fine wine; then, stepping over Banerjee’s prone body, he shakes his umbrella into the fireplace, turns to us and says, ‘So I take it you’ve come to talk about the book?’

Thinking about it, it strikes me that this could be the best of all possible outcomes. To have stolen the painting would have been a disaster, the beginning of a new and unending story of guilt, paranoia and pursuit; to have bungled it in any other way than we did would have meant disgrace and very probably prison sentences. Instead, Robert Dodson takes care of everything; it’s as if he’s been tidying up botched art heists his whole life. ‘Might just stick this back on the wall,’ he says as if to himself, picking up the Texier.

‘It, uh, fell down,’ Paul says gruffly.

‘Oh yes, yes, they’ll do that,’ Dodson agrees. ‘A friend of mine works in the Tate, it’s a real problem – hullo, who’s this?’

From behind the curtain Remington steps out, his mouth smeared with the same green pigment with which he recently augmented the painting.

‘This is my son,’ Paul says reluctantly.

‘Ah – oh,’ Dodson says. He looks at the canvas, then at the boy. ‘Might his name be Remington?’

‘It might,’ Paul confesses.

‘Right, right. Hmm, well, if you could just give me a hand to get this chap back into place …’

The defaced painting is surprisingly heavy: we stagger over to the mantel and, gasping, hoist it back up on to its hooks. Dodson steps back and considers it.
REMINGTON
blares expensively back at us. ‘Tell you what,’ he says, and then, without elaborating,
bends down, scoops a handful of soot from the fireplace and smears it judiciously over the sprawling letters. ‘I mean, it’s intended as a dynamic sort of a piece, changing over time and so forth,’ he says to me.

‘Interaction with the environment,’ I agree. ‘This is exactly the kind of thing Texier intended.’

As he makes a few more minor adjustments, he explains that William and Crispin are still at the festival, but that Bimal Banerjee had contracted a migraine after the interview. ‘He said it was probably the high concentration of mediocrity,’ he tells us, deadpan. ‘But I’m glad, because it means we can finally have a chat about
Anal Analyst
.’

Paul, hearing this, looks guiltier than he did when apprehended stealing the painting.

‘I must say, ever since you mentioned it that night, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it,’ Dodson says. ‘Perhaps I could tease a few more details from you? Characters, a rough idea of the length, and so on?’

Paul lets out a long sigh. ‘Look, Robert, there is no
Anal Analyst
.’

‘There isn’t?’ The editor looks confused. I am confused too. What’s he doing? He’s been offered a lifeline, why doesn’t he grab it? And then, almost simultaneously, it hits me. Paul doesn’t want a lifeline; he has never wanted a lifeline. The real goal of the heist and his other ludicrous schemes isn’t to haul himself out of the water – it’s to scupper the ship, to find rock bottom, to rid himself once and for all of any last vestiges of hope. The failure of his last book crushed him so thoroughly that he would rather steal a painting, be caught, disgraced and imprisoned, than write another one and see it fail too.

But this time I am not going to let him sabotage himself.

‘What he means,’ I interrupt, ‘is that since we saw you, the book has been significantly changed.’

‘Oh yes?’ Dodson’s interest is piqued anew.

‘And improved,’ I say. Paul is glaring at me, but I ignore him. ‘Instead of a promiscuous gay man, the book now tells the story of a banker who … who falls in love with …’ I trail off. The implausibility, the unwritability of a love story set in the IFSC suddenly seems incontrovertible. But what to put in its place? Fragments of abandoned narratives float surreally about my mind’s eye: detectives, wombats, James Joyce firing a revolver. My mouth opens and closes. Dodson considers me doubtfully; Paul’s glower transmutes into a smirk – and then, in a moment of perfect simplicity, it comes, or rather it has been there all along.

‘It tells the story of
two
men,’ I say. ‘The first is a lonely banker, who spends his days making money, and his nights searching for something to spend it on, a perfect circle of meaningless consumption. He has no friends, no family. Maybe he is running from something in his past, or trying to fill some loss with possessions. Or maybe he works simply so that he doesn’t have to think. But then he meets a writer who says he wants to put him in a book. For the first time the banker begins to come out of his ennui. In reality, though, the writer is planning to rob the bank.’

‘Ha!’ Dodson barks appreciatively, while Paul twists his mouth up and mutters under his breath.

‘At first, the two men seem very different. The banker is successful, solitary; his life is dominated by money. The writer has a family, but struggles to make art in a time when everything is defined by its price tag. Beneath the surface, though, both men are driven by the same urge to escape. The writer hides behind failure just as the banker hides behind wealth. They have lost faith in the world, and in themselves.’ I avoid looking at Paul when I say this, though I can hear his ever more irritated sighs. ‘For this reason, even though his book is just a trick, the writer and the banker become friends. And with this friendship, they begin to bring each other back to life.’

‘So it’s a love story,’ Robert Dodson says with a smile.

‘I suppose you could call it that,’ I agree bashfully. ‘Through
the banker, the writer is inspired to start writing his book for real –’

‘Yes!’ The editor brings his hands together. ‘I can see it. It’s all about giving, isn’t it? The writer gives the banker companionship, the banker gives the writer faith, the writer begins a new book, about the banker, the same man he once believed was nothing more than an empty shell – and he gives that to us! We realize it’s the very book that we’re now holding in our hands!’

‘Yes, yes!’ I listen to this, grinning, with a sense, joyous as it is inexplicable, that everything has come together, all problems solved.

Then Dodson looks back at me and says, ‘And the banker?’

‘What?’

‘The banker, what happens to him?’

‘What happens … ?’

‘He can’t just go back to the office after all that, can he?’

‘No, no, of course not … no, the banker …’ He can’t go back to the office, I can see that, but as to what he should do instead – ‘The banker … ah …’

Dodson slowly nods his head, willing me on, but it’s no good, my mind has gone blank, and no matter how I try, all I can see is the banker at his desk, obediently tending to his work, his terminal full of numbers. ‘The banker has to … he has to …’

‘That’s enough,’ Paul says.

I slump, gaze back at him wretchedly.

Paul turns to the editor with a stony countenance. ‘He’s just trying to cover for me. The truth is that when I said, “There is no book,” that’s exactly what I meant.’

‘There’s no book?’ Dodson’s kindly, clever face puckers in incomprehension.

‘There’s no book, Claude is not my life partner, we’ve never been to Sweden. I don’t write any more, Robert. I haven’t had a saleable idea in seven years. I didn’t come here tonight to talk to you about a manuscript. I came to steal that painting.’

‘Oh,’ Dodson says. His brows furrow and knead together, as though masticating this information – then once again the door opens, and William O’Hara enters in a state of panic.

‘The window in the alley’s smashed!’ he exclaims, then notices our presence. ‘Hullo,’ he says.

‘Bumped into these boys out for a walk,’ Dodson breezes. ‘Asked them in for a minute – hope that’s all right?’

‘Out for a walk?’ William O’Hara repeats, rainwater dripping off his coat into a pool at his feet.

‘Yes, babysitting this little chap here. Can’t sleep, poor thing –anyhow, they wanted to say hello.’

‘We were very sorry to miss the interview,’ I chip in.

‘Count your blessings,’ William O’Hara says.

He steps back, inspects us thoughtfully. Remington is chewing on his crayon; the rolled-up stocking is still perched on top of Paul’s head, like a tiny beige beret. O’Hara clears his throat. He appears on the point of asking a question, a question that I suspect will prove very hard to answer, when he is distracted by a groan.

‘Who’s that?’ he says, and then, peering over the couch, ‘What’s Banerjee doing on the floor?’

‘Touch of migraine,’ Robert Dodson says.

‘Oh,’ William O’Hara says. He sounds cheered. He takes another look at the felled author and says brightly, ‘Well! Who’s for a drink?’

‘We should bring this little boy home,’ I say.

‘Suit yourselves,’ O’Hara says. ‘I’ll let you out.’ He turns for the door – then, as if it has yanked at his sleeve, turns back again and stares at
The Mark and the Void
. He remains staring for what seems like a very long time. ‘You know,’ he says at last, ‘I don’t mean to sound like I’m bragging, but every time I look at that painting I see something new.’ He shakes his head proudly. ‘That’s a real work of art,’ he says.

Igor and the van are long gone, and neither of us has any cash, so there is no choice but to walk back towards the river. The rain has restarted, and descends on us in enormous drenching globules. The mood, it need hardly be said, is low.

‘You should not be disappointed,’ I tell him. ‘From what I have read, art theft is a very hard crime to pull off.’

Paul nods morosely. ‘It’s Igor I feel bad for,’ he says. ‘He was going to buy a hot tub.’

‘Dad …’ Remington is rubbing his eyes with his fists.

‘Okay, buddy, we’ll be home soon.’ He hoists the boy up, letting his small head fall on his shoulder. ‘Listen, Claude. I appreciate what you were trying to do back there, with Dodson. For the record, though, if there’s one thing people want to read about even less than a French banker, it’s a novelist struggling to write his new book.’

‘If I ever pretend to submit a book proposal again I will keep that in mind.’

‘Seriously, I know you mean well, but you’re box-office poison,’ he says. Then he adds, ‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out.’

‘Me too,’ I say.

We reach the quays. The wind batters us as we cross the river; below us, the water foams seawards, throws spume up over the walls to deluge the bronze figures of the Famine sculpture and their modern-day doubles a few yards away, the city’s cadaverous addicts, huddled in the negligible shelter of the trestle bridge, while from the roof of the Custom House the golden statue of Commerce looks over the city.

‘What will you do now?’ I say, when we get to the far side.

‘I’m not sure,’ he admits. ‘I’d go back to Myhotswaitress, but right now I need something that’ll bring in money, like, tomorrow.’

‘How much is it you’re looking for?’

‘More than you’ve got, Claude.’ He says it with a smile, as if he wants to reassure me, as if I might have felt compelled to pay off his mortgage for him, had I the funds, though this isn’t something that really happens, is it, even between friends? Not in the real world?

‘We’ll muddle through somehow,’ he says, ‘we always do.’ At that moment there comes a bleep from his pocket; with his free hand he takes out his phone. ‘Well, there’s some good news,’ he says, reading the message. ‘Clizia’s won her volleyball game. That means they’re through to the final.’

‘How wonderful,’ I say, as my lungs fill up with cement.

‘You know, win or lose, I think she’ll be glad when it’s finally over. All these late nights?’ He chuckles to himself. ‘And the other night she got an elbow right in the face, swelled up into a massive shiner.’

‘Yes,’ I say, betraying no emotion.

‘The point is, I suppose I should look on the bright side. I might be unemployed and broke and about to be evicted, but I still have my family, right? I mean, in some ways I’m probably the richest man you know.’

‘Definitely,’ I say, looking away to where the river, gorged with the night’s rain, charges triumphantly, like an army putting its enemies to rout.

We shake hands, make vague promises to meet again; then Paul turns, child in his arms, towards the north. I stand and watch him disappear into the waves of rain – seeming to walk right out of the world, as if there were no more of his story left to play out.

Continuing down the quay, I discover a Carambar in my pocket. The joke on the wrapper is the George Clooney one again. On my phone, a baffled message from Ish, asking if these crazy
stories about AgroBOT buying out Royal Irish are true; several humorous texts from co-workers, increasingly incoherent as the celebrations go on; a long voicemail from Walter Corless, ranting that the Caliph still owes him money. He makes no mention of AgroBOT’s death and resurrection, as if the events of the last two days had never happened. Maybe, from his perspective, they never did.

I delete the message, turn the phone off.

What happens to the banker? Nothing happens to the banker. The banker is paid to be a person to whom nothing happens.

Walking across the plaza, I see an A4 page in a plastic protector taped to the metal shutter of the Ark, thanking the café’s customers for their loyalty and wishing them well. A customer: that’s all I amounted to in the end. Her customer, Paul’s customer, someone who pays his money, takes his goods and then walks away.

Now the glass citadel of Transaction House rises before me, shimmering through the rain like a ghostly privateer; I think about Ish’s tribe, scouring the waves for souls to make away with. Tomorrow we will be back in business: I can hardly bear to think about it.

As I pass the door, though, something stops me, pulls me back. What is it? The security desk is unmanned, the lights are off, all is in darkness. Yet some strange energy emanates from within, tugs at me with invisible fingers. Without knowing why, I push the door and find that in all the excitement it has been left ajar.

Inside, the strange pressure only grows; and as I climb into the lift I feel the same tension a surfer must feel, stalking barefoot over the shingle while a storm brews above the waves – still hidden in clear skies but there to touch, an electricity that crackles along the surface of the water, a blanket of static beneath which every drop buzzes.

I step out on to the sixth floor.

No one is here – no Asia team, no frantic interns, no midnight strategists building some invincible trade; I walk through the
desks feeling like a visitor from the future, a tourist in some bureaucratic ruin. On my desk I see Walter’s cheques and bank drafts, the ones he gave me a couple of days ago, still sitting there, uninvested. I never did anything with them; with the bank going down, there hadn’t seemed a point.

Is there a point now?

Am I going to do this?

Somewhere out in the night a clock strikes thirteen.