different side to you from the side I saw last week. You struck me as Zen calm, unflappable.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that for years... Look, I hate publicity. I hate the lies they write about you. Modern journalism is shallow and reductionist. Two million people read the Daily Mail . Isn’t that a national tragedy?”
She took a long drink of her orange juice, watching him over the miniature parasol. She said, “Do you mind if I ask you why you’ve locked yourself away on the island?”
“I thought I’d explained. I detest publicity. I don’t want fame. Or the meretricious lifestyle that goes with it. I-”
“If you’ll let me finish, Daniel. I was about to say, I understand why you might shun publicity, but why do you shun people as well?”
That brought him up short. He retreated into his beer, wondering how to respond. He fondled the mereth in his pocket, and the gesture calmed him.
At last he said, “I’m a novelist. I need peace and quiet in order to work. I find that company spoils my concentration.”
She leaned forward, almost playfully. “I spot a contradiction. I thought novelists needed company, emotional involvement. Isn’t that the compost in which ideas take root and grow?”
“Very well put. Where did you get that from? Forster’s Aspects of the Novel or a gardening manual?”
She pouted, mock-disappointed at him. “You’re avoiding the issue. I can understand you wanting peace and quiet, but to shut yourself away like a monk for ten years, seeing no-one, hardly speaking to anyone...”
“Listen, I’ve had enough involvement in the past to last a lifetime or more. Now I’m writing about it.”
She was shaking her head. “It just seems a little strange.” She paused for a long time, watching him. “I read Tangier .”
He thought she had let him off the hook, and was relieved at the change of subject. “What did you think?”
“What’s the back cover quote from the TLS ? ‘A beautifully written work of art possessing human insight matched only by its artistic integrity.’ I thought it enchanting, deep, moving, unputdownable, all the clichés. I marvelled at the way you made the characters so believable. They live with me still, Daniel. That’s a fantastic achievement.”
He nodded, murmured, “Thanks.”
“That’s what I meant when I said I knew what you were talking about back there. When I read Tangier and the Penang Quartet , I wanted to have that magical ability to wholly captivate and convince the audience.”
“I think you do it with your paintings.”
She ignored the compliment. “I read somewhere that you based your characters on real people.”
“Don’t all novelists, worth their salt? They’re mainly based on me.”
“What about the female characters?”
She was getting too close to home again. “Some were based on real people. Others were pure invention.”
“The male characters always seem unlucky in love.”
He said, “It’s a device of technique. Unrequited love drives conflict. Happy endings are anathema.”
“Don’t demean your art,” she said. “‘A device of technique’, indeed! Your books are written from the heart, with integrity. You’ve been through what you put your characters through, which is why your books are so convincingly truthful.”
She stopped. He thought that she was about to ask him to tell her about the loves of his life, his losses, and he was thankful that she had the sense, or the compassion, to desist.
She laughed. “Aren’t we getting awfully deep!” she said, and the awkward moment was broken. “What did you think of the exhibition, Daniel? I’d like to talk you through it at some point.”
He was sweating with relief that the interrogation was over, and that he could enjoy this strange woman’s company without fear or threat. “I was actually thinking that myself. I’d like to ask you about one particular painting. But first-” He indicated her empty glass. “Another?”
“If
“I’m sorry. It’s just that for years... Look, I hate publicity. I hate the lies they write about you. Modern journalism is shallow and reductionist. Two million people read the Daily Mail . Isn’t that a national tragedy?”
She took a long drink of her orange juice, watching him over the miniature parasol. She said, “Do you mind if I ask you why you’ve locked yourself away on the island?”
“I thought I’d explained. I detest publicity. I don’t want fame. Or the meretricious lifestyle that goes with it. I-”
“If you’ll let me finish, Daniel. I was about to say, I understand why you might shun publicity, but why do you shun people as well?”
That brought him up short. He retreated into his beer, wondering how to respond. He fondled the mereth in his pocket, and the gesture calmed him.
At last he said, “I’m a novelist. I need peace and quiet in order to work. I find that company spoils my concentration.”
She leaned forward, almost playfully. “I spot a contradiction. I thought novelists needed company, emotional involvement. Isn’t that the compost in which ideas take root and grow?”
“Very well put. Where did you get that from? Forster’s Aspects of the Novel or a gardening manual?”
She pouted, mock-disappointed at him. “You’re avoiding the issue. I can understand you wanting peace and quiet, but to shut yourself away like a monk for ten years, seeing no-one, hardly speaking to anyone...”
“Listen, I’ve had enough involvement in the past to last a lifetime or more. Now I’m writing about it.”
She was shaking her head. “It just seems a little strange.” She paused for a long time, watching him. “I read Tangier .”
He thought she had let him off the hook, and was relieved at the change of subject. “What did you think?”
“What’s the back cover quote from the TLS ? ‘A beautifully written work of art possessing human insight matched only by its artistic integrity.’ I thought it enchanting, deep, moving, unputdownable, all the clichés. I marvelled at the way you made the characters so believable. They live with me still, Daniel. That’s a fantastic achievement.”
He nodded, murmured, “Thanks.”
“That’s what I meant when I said I knew what you were talking about back there. When I read Tangier and the Penang Quartet , I wanted to have that magical ability to wholly captivate and convince the audience.”
“I think you do it with your paintings.”
She ignored the compliment. “I read somewhere that you based your characters on real people.”
“Don’t all novelists, worth their salt? They’re mainly based on me.”
“What about the female characters?”
She was getting too close to home again. “Some were based on real people. Others were pure invention.”
“The male characters always seem unlucky in love.”
He said, “It’s a device of technique. Unrequited love drives conflict. Happy endings are anathema.”
“Don’t demean your art,” she said. “‘A device of technique’, indeed! Your books are written from the heart, with integrity. You’ve been through what you put your characters through, which is why your books are so convincingly truthful.”
She stopped. He thought that she was about to ask him to tell her about the loves of his life, his losses, and he was thankful that she had the sense, or the compassion, to desist.
She laughed. “Aren’t we getting awfully deep!” she said, and the awkward moment was broken. “What did you think of the exhibition, Daniel? I’d like to talk you through it at some point.”
He was sweating with relief that the interrogation was over, and that he could enjoy this strange woman’s company without fear or threat. “I was actually thinking that myself. I’d like to ask you about one particular painting. But first-” He indicated her empty glass. “Another?”
“If
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