Strolling past Barnes & Noble on East 17th Street now, close to where the Storī offices were located, Maurice glanced in the window and saw a display of Beyond the River by Garrett Colby, and his heart gave him a kick of resentment in his chest. It was the film tie-in edition, for Garrett’s third book had not only been adapted by a famous Danish theatre director making his first foray into cinema, but the film had gone on to win several Academy Awards at the most recent ceremony, including an acting prize for a young man with whom Garrett was now in a heavily publicized romance.
‘I used to know that guy,’ Maurice said, looking down at his son, who was kicking his heels on the pavement, wishing they could move on to the ice-cream portion of the afternoon. ‘Years ago. Back in England. He wrote stories about talking animals.’
Daniel looked up, interested now, for talking animals were a particular favourite of his, particularly if they had some prehistoric element to them. ‘Were they good?’ he asked.
‘They weren’t bad,’ admitted Maurice.
‘Can we go in and get them?’
‘They weren’t children’s books,’ said Maurice, shaking his head. ‘But maybe you’ll get to read them when you’re older.’
‘Can I get something else then?’ asked Daniel, and Maurice nodded. He never denied the boy a book and considered it rude to leave a bookshop without making a purchase. And so they stepped inside, the soft music and smell of new hardcovers giving Maurice that instant hit of belonging he’d felt all his life whenever he walked into such places. Daniel immediately made his way towards the children’s section – this was their local bookshop and he knew its every nook and cranny intimately – and Maurice watched him for a moment before picking up Garrett’s book from the table and reading the author biography.
‘Mr Colby is one of the most exciting young writers at work today,’ it concluded, and Maurice rolled his eyes, recognizing the third-person biography that had clearly been written by the author himself. Supercilious little shit, he thought.
He returned it to the table, then picked up a novel by another writer, Jonas Ramsfjeld, before placing it on top of Garrett’s. He’d read his novel Spiegeltent some years before and admired it and the two writers had read together at a festival in Listowel once and got along quite well, which had surprised Maurice, as he tended not to like other writers very much. Ramsfjeld was gay and handsome and, after spending an evening together, drinking in the hotel bar, Maurice had expected him to make a pass at him, but it had never happened. When he’d gone to bed that night, he’d almost regretted it. Now, it crossed his mind to wonder how many students from Edith’s class had gone on to secure publishing deals in the ten years since her death.
He made his way towards the New Fiction section, where he recognized books by people he knew, people with whom he’d read at festivals, people he’d reviewed both well and badly for various publications. And then, just as he was about to take down a new edition of Maude Avery’s Like to the Lark, which had been re-published in a hardback series of her novels, each with a jacket designed by Tracey Emin, he noticed a familiar face staring out from the non-fiction titles, the younger version of a man he had once known very well.
It was a biography of Dash Hardy, the first, as far as he knew, that had been written about the American writer. The author’s name was unfamiliar to him. And the book itself was almost six hundred pages long, which suggested that it was an exhaustive account of the writer’s life. Did Dash merit such a work? he wondered. Gore did, certainly. And Erich, probably. But Dash? Hadn’t he turned into something of a second-tier writer by the end?
He took the book down and moved directly to the index at the back, running his finger down the names. To be included ran the risk of something negative being said but to be ignored would be wounding. But no, there he was, Maurice Swift, 131, 284. Just two entries and not spread across multiple pages. He flicked to the first, where the author mentioned Maurice’s initial encounter with Dash in the Prado all those years ago and how a friendship had struck up between them.
Hardy was a crucial factor in Swift finding a publisher for his debut novel [it said]. He took the young writer under his wing, as he had done for one or two boys of his type before, accommodating him in New York for two years and introducing him to publishers on the scene. That novel, Two Germans, was a huge success, although it precipitated the public disgrace of the novelist Erich Ackermann, with whom Dash had also been acquainted, in a manner that left a sour taste in the mouths of some readers.
Well, that was true enough, he reasoned. Nothing libellous there, although in fact he had only lived with Dash for nine months, so there was an error there. And what did ‘one or two boys of his type’ mean?
He flicked to the index for the other entry and then to here, where, despite quickly scanning the page, he could find no mention of his name. He turned back to here and then forward to here, but no, there was nothing there either, and he frowned, wondering whether another mistake had been made. But just to be certain, he began to read here in its entirety and came across this line, which appeared in an interview with Edmund White:
Dash told me a story about a young writer he met in Europe to whom he had taken a particular shine. The boy was beautiful, of course, and Dash was always a sucker for a pretty face. He did everything for him, introduced him around town, helped him find a publisher and an agent, and the moment success came his way, the boy just dropped him like a hot potato. He’d done it before, from what I’d heard. The boy was an arch-manipulator and impossibly calculating. An operator of the first order. I remember meeting him myself at some reading and he told me that he would be staying with his editor on a trip to the UK soon. ‘Why don’t you just get a hotel?’ I asked him, and he shook his head and said no, that he thought if he became friendly with the editor and the editor’s family then there was no chance that he’d ever be dropped. I thought it such a cynical move but I suppose there was something in it. It was my belief that the boy knew he was essentially talentless, nothing more than a good-looking hack, and that only charm and sycophancy could keep him in the game. It did, too, for a time.
Maurice slammed the book shut, causing some of the other shoppers to turn and look in his direction. He hadn’t been named, of course, so it was unlikely that he could sue, but the page reference in the index confused him. Of course, he realized, after a moment. His name must have been originally part of the Edmund White quote, and indexed, but then the lawyers must have taken it out before publication, forgetting to remove the reference at the back. He was almost amused by their stupidity. But was it worth pursuing? He couldn’t decide. He would have to acknowledge that the description was one that fitted him and he wasn’t sure he wanted to do that.
A moment later, Daniel returned with a brightly coloured paperback and Maurice took it, along with the Dash biography and the Maude Avery novel, to the till before walking hand in hand with him towards Union Square Park, where they sat on a bench, eating ice-creams.