This ‘thing’ I send — a proof of my new book, Absolution — will not, I hope, upset you. In any event, it will be available in bookshops in May. It does not, I feel strongly, risk usurping the position of your own work, but will provide a kind of augmentative prelude avant la lettre. Moreover, in sending it to you now, you will have time to consider and incorporate it into your surreal portrait of this old woman. As for the why and the wherefore (why I did not tell you, wherefore it came, etc. — since every why hath a wherefore, and one must take nothing for granted), let me say only that I tell no one of or about my work apart from my woman of business and my editor in London, and between the two of them they put the pieces in motion and effect the kind of result people expect every two or three years, and only once everything is in place do the publicity people take the reins and by then there is no stopping the machine. Chug, chug it goes, whirr and buzz and out plops the tome.
This is all to say that I hope you find something of interest when the parcel finally arrives and that you will not judge me too harshly for the secrecy and deception that has become my default mode of engagement with all but those I have known for years.
Yours,
Clare
†I consult my dictionary. Penman may refer to a clerk (which suits this writer’s sense of her own vocation), a recorder of scripture (scrivener of the divine, if you like), a calligrapher, an author, but also, from the 19th century, a forger (a counterfeiter, a criminal) remembering that forger did not always bear the negative sense it now does. Ecclesiastes 11.5: God, that is forgere of alle thingus. I like this idea, God as creator whose creations are all perhaps no more than counterfeits of lost originals which probably no longer exist, if ever they did.
1989–98
Life with his aunt Ellen was the beginning of something like a normal life, a life of memory, a life the boy — that is, Sam, in other words me, or some version of me — would remember fully and not just in fragments of odour and light and noise.
That is not to say it was a particularly happy life, or even an unhappy one. Ellen adopted him, took away the name of his father’s family, Lawrence, and gave him her own name, Leroux, without asking whether he wanted it or not. Like the loss of his house, its contents, and the money from his parents’ estate, it was another kind of disinheritance. He had always been Sam Lawrence and now, with the filing of papers and a series of signatures, he was not.
Once, when Ellen went out to the shops and left Sam alone, he phoned the number that Timothy and Lionel had given him. There was no answer. A few days later, he phoned it again. The number had been disconnected.
At first Ellen wanted to know what had happened, asked him dozens of times to tell her exactly how he had come to be at her door. There was a hijacking. And the hijacker killed Bernard while I hid. And then I hitchhiked. And the last people who gave me a lift were in a hurry, so they left me at the end of the street before they went on their way. It was the story he’d rehearsed with Timothy and Lionel, and after hearing it enough times Ellen finally stopped asking, though Sam knew from the way she squinted and turned to look at him out of the corner of her eye that she didn’t really believe him.
Well never mind then, she said. You’re safe here now and we can forget about the past.
If she called the police to report the hijacking and Bernard’s death, Sam never knew. He remembered there was evidence, in the form of Bernard’s watch and signet ring, that there might be another story, another explanation for how he’d come to her. A hijacker would have stolen a ring and a watch. Sam kept them rolled up in a sock hidden at the back of the bottom drawer in the dresser of the room that became his. Every night he checked to see if the sock was still there, rolled just in the way he remembered rolling it.
I’m sorry I didn’t send for you in the first place, Ellen said several weeks into his life with her, but she didn’t sound sorry, not at all. He had hoped she would be like his mother, or even like Laura, that she would allow him to hug her, that she would treat him something like her own child. But she did not hold him, nor did she indulge him when he slipped into long silences, staring out the window, sitting in the garden, lying on the couch and looking at the ceiling. Stop mooning now, she would say, sounding like the teacher she was. Sam remembered his mother complaining about her family, about Bernard and Ellen. We have to pull ourselves together and move forward, Ellen said. You’re not a little boy any more. You’re practically a man, even if you don’t look it. Find something to do with yourself. Read a book.
The few books Sam had managed to keep with him were, he knew, nothing more than children’s stories. He understood that he was no longer a child, or not in the same way he had once been. If he was practically a man, then he decided it was time to read adult books. At the end of the central hallway off of which all the rooms of the house opened, there was a bookcase with four shelves. He started with the bottom shelf and its half-dozen volumes of Reader’s Digest Condensed Books, speeding through them in a week, and feeling afterwards as though he’d eaten too much cake. Next there were bibles in English and Afrikaans, hymnbooks in both languages, too, but these he ignored. Mysteries followed — Agatha Christie, Ngaio Marsh — less like cake than the condensed books, but still not very nourishing.
When Ellen enrolled him at the local school, he had less time for his own reading, but began to jump around the bookshelf, teaching himself what he could without realizing it was an education. He read Schreiner and Millin, FitzPatrick and Bosman, Paton and Van der Post. These were all stories he could read and have no trouble understanding: the story was exactly what it claimed to be. He exhausted the contents of the bookcase, and then, as the autumn began to close in and the days shortened, he discovered another collection of books in the lounge, hidden behind stacks of National Geographic magazines. Why, he wondered, were these books hidden? They were not hidden as carefully as his parents had hidden books, with some of their covers removed and brown paper pasted on in their place, secreted in plastic packets under the floorboards. Ellen’s hidden books were still intact, with their covers and all their pages, but they were tucked out of the way, where visitors could never chance to see them. Sam began with a book called Dusklands, which at first appeared to be one kind of story — a story unlike any he’d read before — and then turned into another kind of book altogether halfway through. He wasn’t sure what it all meant, but as he read it in his room at night, with a torch under the covers of his bed, he felt a kind of thrill that no other book had given him before. There were others by the same author that confused and excited him even more than the first. From there he moved to another writer whose stories he found still more confusing: The Late Bourgeois World he had to read with the dictionary open next to him, but he became convinced that such books were teaching him, both about the country and himself.