Beneath the Earth

Beneath the Earth by John Boyne

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Authors: John Boyne
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me.’
    â€˜And you came.’
    â€˜Because I needed to see you.’
    â€˜The woman behind me. With the MacBook Air,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘If she comes over, tell her that we’re old friends who haven’t seen each other in a long time and—’
    â€˜Well, that’s actually true,’ I pointed out.
    â€˜She’s probably writing a book,’ he said. ‘She’ll ask me to read it. There’s no way that I will but I don’t want to disappoint her.’
    â€˜I don’t think she’s even aware of us,’ I said.
    â€˜Perhaps she’s shy.’ He turned and looked at her, flashing a set of very white teeth. ‘I don’t bite,’ he shouted, causing every head in the place to turn in his direction. ‘My prose does, yes. But I do not.’
    He turned back to me with a shrug, as if to say that it was no easy thing being as brilliant as him.
    â€˜Did you read my novel?’ he asked me.
    â€˜I did,’ I said.
    â€˜And what did you think of it?’
    â€˜I thought the reviews were a little cruel, to be honest. I didn’t think it was as bad as they made out.’
    His face darkened a little and he took a long drink from his pint. ‘I never read reviews,’ he said.
    â€˜Then why do all the good ones show up on your Facebook page?’
    â€˜I couldn’t tell you,’ he said. ‘Someone is probably hacking my account.’
    â€˜Does it hurt?’ I asked.
    â€˜Does what hurt? Being hacked? I imagine my phone is being hacked, you know. Bloody tabloids. They hate all of us’ – he made inverted comma symbols in the air – ‘“celebrities”.’
    â€˜Bad reviews,’ I said. ‘Do you find them depressing?’
    â€˜It’s better than getting no reviews, I suppose.’
    I felt a stab of pain in my chest; that was unkind of him.
    â€˜Most reviews are written out of professional jealousy,’ he continued, apparently oblivious to my discomfort. ‘The so-called journalists who write them know that I’m the best thing in this town and they hate me for it. The only reviews I read are the ones published in the French papers. They value literature in France. Not like here. But look, darling Mulligan, it is good to see you again after all these years. We’ve gotten older, haven’t we? You’ve changed so much. I don’t think I would have known you if you’d walked past me on the street. You used to have such a boyish complexion.’
    â€˜When I was a boy, I suppose,’ I agreed. ‘And I’m glad you’ve decided to accept what happened with your hair. The shaved look suits you. I’d shave this mop off if I could. It takes so much upkeep.’
    â€˜But it helps to cover up the wrinkles on your forehead,’ he said. ‘And your acne cleared up too, I see. God, you were just plagued by that as a teenager, weren’t you? Remember how you could never get a girlfriend?’
    I nodded – this was a painful memory – and glanced at my watch.
    â€˜Do you have someplace to be?’ he asked.
    â€˜No, I was just checking the time.’
    â€˜What time is it? I never wear a watch. I can’t bear to feel trapped by an artificial conceit.’
    â€˜I’m not sure time is an artificial conceit,’ I said. ‘The sun goes round the earth, the day grows steadily brighter, then darker. It’s not complicated. And it’s almost nine o’clock.’
    â€˜The sun doesn’t go round the earth, darling,’ he said. ‘Strike that, reverse it, as Mr Wonka said. But I’m sure you just misspoke. Anyway, look, I haven’t said how sorry I was to hear of your mother’s death.’ He reached across and took both my hands in his. For a moment I thought he was going to kiss them. ‘I’m so very, very sorry,’ he said, looking me directly in the eyes.
    â€˜Thank

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