When John read my novel and noted my disappointment at its cool reception he gave me his own critical reaction, which was a little less F. R. Leavis and a bit more Jack Regan:
‘Forget about it, old sport — that’s my advice. Forget about this and write another; that’s what separates the men from the boys; any dumb fuck can start writing a novel — and they frequently do — but very few can finish writing one; and there are even fewer who can put that novel behind them and start another. The important thing is to learn from your mistakes. My opinion is that your novel is beautifully written and very atmospheric but too often you seem like you’re peeking across your shoulder to see if any of those bloody clever writers you say you admire are paying attention to your nice, pretty sentences. The Martins and the Julians and the Salmans. The trouble is your story doesn’t stay afloat. About halfway through it’s as if you forgot where you put it. It’s almost like you were shagging some bird and even while you were doing it you decided you didn’t want to shag her any more. With your next one you’ve got to work out the story and everything about the story and nothing but the fucking story before you start writing a goddamn word, after which everything becomes subordinate to that. More importantly you have got to learn to tell Martin and Julian and Salman to go and fuck themselves.’
Someone’s mobile was ringing out a tune — a piece of tinny piano music I vaguely recognized. Sergeant Savigny got up from the table and left the half-empty restaurant to answer his portable. I tasted the wine and then frowned, trying to place the clunking melody.
‘You don’t like the wine?’
‘The wine is excellent. No, it’s the ringtone that’s perplexing me.’
‘Irritating, isn’t it?’ said Amalric. ‘It’s the theme from Betty Blue. The sergeant has a thing for Béatrice Dalle.’
I shrugged. ‘That’s easy to understand. She was very beautiful. Whatever happened to her, anyway?’
‘Like all beautiful women, monsieur, she got older. Savigny keeps a copy of the DVD in his suitcase. Always.’
‘That and a novel by John Houston. But then with 140 million books sold, I guess that’s a little less unusual. Statistically speaking. It’s said that one in every thirty books being bought in the world right now is likely to be written by John Houston. Did you know that? And your sergeant certainly fits the standard profile of a John Houston reader.’
‘Is there such a thing?’
‘Oh yes. Every so often Houston commissions a piece of market research into who is reading his books. Impact — that’s the name of the research company that John used — they carry out focus groups and sometimes John insists that the writing team come along and watch what the groups are saying, through a two-way mirror. Which is the way these things are done in an advertising agency. He’ll end up with a report that describes socio-economic profiles of readership, buying habits, income — in the exactly same way that Heinz will try to find out who is buying what soup and why. John has never quite stopped being a successful advertising man. Having read several of those research reports I can probably tell you quite a lot about your sergeant. What is he — thirty-five?’
Amalric nodded. ‘This is fascinating. Please go on.’
‘All right. He buys no more than two or three books a year and rarely ever reads a newspaper, unless it’s free. The chances are that in all the years you’ve known him you’ve never seen him read anything you’d like to read yourself. The one time you looked at the book he was reading you were a bit shocked at how simplistic it was, how short the chapters seemed to be, how small the sentences were. Mostly the sergeant doesn’t have time to read because he thinks of himself as a busy sort of guy — if that’s even possible in a place like Monaco. One time he bought the same book he bought the last time and read half of it before he realized he’d read it already.’
Amalric tried to conceal a smile, which only encouraged me to show off a little.
‘Voltaire and Molière, he couldn’t get on with them at school, and as for history, he probably thinks Philippe Pétain was a male prostitute, or even something you say when you get cross. He’s easily amused with quite a short attention span so he reads in short intense bursts — maybe ten or fifteen minutes at a time, with a very furrowed brow, as if he’s actually doing something quite difficult, almost like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. He doesn’t read in the bath because he prefers a shower. He always rolls a book like a magazine, which probably irritates you; no one who loves books could ever treat a book the way he treats them. But then you probably don’t know that for this same reason all of Houston’s books are printed in a B or C format, with stitched binding which is more durable than just glue, so they don’t fall apart when you treat them like a football programme. He watches a lot of television — football, mostly — and he has an Xbox or a PlayStation at home, and there are certainly more than a few games he keeps on that iPhone of his: Temple Run, Extreme Road Trip — something like that. He lives out of the microwave and his favourite actors are Tom Cruise, Matt Damon and Brad Pitt. He prefers beach holidays to doing anything cultural. He never goes to art galleries or museums. He likes fast cars, big yachts, sleazy-looking women, but these are more of an aspiration than a reflection of his own life. He has a tattoo, smokes too much but still keeps himself fit. He doesn’t drink much and he’s certainly not interested in fine wine like you. His spelling and grammar leave a little to be desired. He never questions your orders or comes up with suggestions of his own, but he’s a useful man to have along in the same way that another policeman might bring a dog; after all, someone has to do the paperwork.’
‘Not bad. Not bad at all. But I doubt you got all of that from Houston’s research.’
‘Not all of it, perhaps; but most of it.’
‘He’s a good man. Policemen are like engineers, monsieur; sometimes you need a very small screwdriver and sometimes you need a wrench. Savigny is very good at applying torque to a problem.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
‘It’s true, he did once buy the same book he read last year. And it was by John Houston. But instead of learning something from this experience, he continues to be one of Houston’s loyal readers. Which I have to say, strikes me as absurd. I confess I don’t understand why it is that Houston sells so many. The plots are all over the place and have no real point to them. The characters are one-dimensional and the dialogue absurd. To me they seem like books for people who have never read a book before.’
‘That’s right. That’s exactly what they are. It’s like what H. L. Mencken said: No one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public.’
Amalric nodded wearily. ‘I fear you’re right. But it’s the same with the French-speaking public. People seem more stupid than I remember.’ He shrugged. ‘In twenty years you wrote how many of his books?’
‘Almost thirty. One every nine months. Like giving birth you might say.’ I shrugged. ‘That’s what writing a book is like. A child to which you give birth. And like a child, some of them are more popular than others. I know I have a few favourites. The first one, most of all, I suppose.’
‘Didn’t it ever bother you?’ asked Savigny. ‘That Houston got the fame, the money and the kudos? By comparison with him you’re a failure, aren’t you?’