know. Because, of course, Chris did have a plot, he had a construction in mind. People would read that book if it ever came to light, imbecilic as it might be as an historical novel. Chris might, might certainly, might almost surely, succeed in some way. Rowland had an urge to tip a bucket of green paint over Chris’s red hair. Green paint, and it all running over his face, and obliterating his book. Or perhaps to wreck the computer with the whole work in it. Switch it off, wreck, terminate it.
Nina now perceived that Rowland’s jealousy was an obsession. She believed firmly that Rowland could write a good novel if he was free of jealousy, envy, rivalry, or whatever it was that had got into his mind when he had first encountered young Chris. It was a real sickness, and Rowland would be paralyzed as a writer and perhaps as a teacher unless he could get over it.
“Put it away until after Christmas,” she advised Rowland.
“Why?”
“Chris will have left us. He’ll have gone home to his mother and uncle, those lovebirds, with his novel and his p.c. and his wild ambitions and his red hair.”
“I thought you liked him.”
“Oh, I do,” she said. “I sort of love Chris.”
“Why do you want him out of the way?”
“He’s in your way. His novel writing bothers yours.”
“Not at all. You haven’t understood a thing. It’s as his literature and creative writing teacher that I’m anxious about Chris. He’s going to be terribly disillusioned.”
“I understand that’s a beginner’s fate in the world of letters. You should read some literary biographies.”
“You don’t believe in me then?”
“Oh, I do. You’ve got sensitivity and imagination. Also, of course, the know-how. Do you remember that girl Rosie Farnham we had at school in Brussels? How good she was in the creative writing class, remember? —Well, I saw an article of hers the other day in the Tatler . Very professional and good, really good. That’s thanks to your teaching.”
“What was the article about?”
“How to make a goldfish pond.”
“I remember Rosie. The courier-express family.”
“Yes, well she’s a journalist now.”
He sat down at his desk, and she went out, hoping he would break through his writing block.
He remembered now that Nina had recently suggested: “Why don’t you write about Chris and get him off your chest? . . . Just make notes about him—anything that comes into your mind. No one will know about it. Put down anything you observe.”
It was the creative writing course swerving back on him. Yes, it was exactly his own advice to students stuck for what to write about. “Watch for details,” Rowland had often said. “Observe. Think about your observations. Think hard. They do not need to be literally true. Literal truth is arid. Analyze your subject. Get at the Freudian reality, the inner kernel. Everything means something other than it seems. The cat means the mother.”
Observations: Chris and the house of Israel Brown. The girl and the violin. Was Chris inside the gates, lurking? Could he be a Peeping Tom under the guise of a researcher for his own novel? What was he really up to, sitting around the bar of the hotel next door? He says he’s 17 but to me he seems older. Is he 17? Perhaps 19. Pallas Kapelas is not yet 17. Chris is very friendly with her. Does he sleep with Pallas? If so, he’s a pedophile—am I right? His novel so called is only a cover. He’s into porn day and night.
Rowland was scribbling all this with his Biro. Yes, it did make him feel better. Nina was right. He had to get it off his chest.
Later, he said to Nina, “I’m going to send Chris an e-mail.”
“What for? What about?”
“To warn him I’m on his track. I have to warn him.”
“Oh my God,” said Nina, “you’re going mad.”
“Do I sound mad?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I won’t send him any e-mail message. That’s just what he’s waiting for. He’s waiting to accuse me, that I’ve
Nina now perceived that Rowland’s jealousy was an obsession. She believed firmly that Rowland could write a good novel if he was free of jealousy, envy, rivalry, or whatever it was that had got into his mind when he had first encountered young Chris. It was a real sickness, and Rowland would be paralyzed as a writer and perhaps as a teacher unless he could get over it.
“Put it away until after Christmas,” she advised Rowland.
“Why?”
“Chris will have left us. He’ll have gone home to his mother and uncle, those lovebirds, with his novel and his p.c. and his wild ambitions and his red hair.”
“I thought you liked him.”
“Oh, I do,” she said. “I sort of love Chris.”
“Why do you want him out of the way?”
“He’s in your way. His novel writing bothers yours.”
“Not at all. You haven’t understood a thing. It’s as his literature and creative writing teacher that I’m anxious about Chris. He’s going to be terribly disillusioned.”
“I understand that’s a beginner’s fate in the world of letters. You should read some literary biographies.”
“You don’t believe in me then?”
“Oh, I do. You’ve got sensitivity and imagination. Also, of course, the know-how. Do you remember that girl Rosie Farnham we had at school in Brussels? How good she was in the creative writing class, remember? —Well, I saw an article of hers the other day in the Tatler . Very professional and good, really good. That’s thanks to your teaching.”
“What was the article about?”
“How to make a goldfish pond.”
“I remember Rosie. The courier-express family.”
“Yes, well she’s a journalist now.”
He sat down at his desk, and she went out, hoping he would break through his writing block.
He remembered now that Nina had recently suggested: “Why don’t you write about Chris and get him off your chest? . . . Just make notes about him—anything that comes into your mind. No one will know about it. Put down anything you observe.”
It was the creative writing course swerving back on him. Yes, it was exactly his own advice to students stuck for what to write about. “Watch for details,” Rowland had often said. “Observe. Think about your observations. Think hard. They do not need to be literally true. Literal truth is arid. Analyze your subject. Get at the Freudian reality, the inner kernel. Everything means something other than it seems. The cat means the mother.”
Observations: Chris and the house of Israel Brown. The girl and the violin. Was Chris inside the gates, lurking? Could he be a Peeping Tom under the guise of a researcher for his own novel? What was he really up to, sitting around the bar of the hotel next door? He says he’s 17 but to me he seems older. Is he 17? Perhaps 19. Pallas Kapelas is not yet 17. Chris is very friendly with her. Does he sleep with Pallas? If so, he’s a pedophile—am I right? His novel so called is only a cover. He’s into porn day and night.
Rowland was scribbling all this with his Biro. Yes, it did make him feel better. Nina was right. He had to get it off his chest.
Later, he said to Nina, “I’m going to send Chris an e-mail.”
“What for? What about?”
“To warn him I’m on his track. I have to warn him.”
“Oh my God,” said Nina, “you’re going mad.”
“Do I sound mad?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I won’t send him any e-mail message. That’s just what he’s waiting for. He’s waiting to accuse me, that I’ve
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