‘The monster is the rapist,’ says H. ‘He must die. We shall all share the responsibility for the rapist’s death. That’s why we’ve come here.’
He pauses. Nobody says anything.
‘Cock your guns,’ he says. ‘Stand by.’
We release the safety catch and aim into the bushes. The clump is no more than four metres wide, the vague black outline is exactly in the middle.
‘Fire!’ shouts H.
And we all fire every bullet we have into the bushes. Thirty in all. The sound echoes around and lingers on for several minutes.
Then we all go over to the bushes and pull out that black thing. It’s a few large pieces of cloth, now riddled with bullet holes and covered in blood. Inside is a body. It’s Gusov.
We have killed the monster.
We have killed the rapist.
48
There is a postscript, evidently added later. I don’t know when exactly he wrote ‘At Dawn’, but in the postscript he discusses what actually happened. It’s only two pages long, and he makes no attempt to justify his actions — nor those of the others. What he mainly writes about is how far he knew the point of the dawn excursion before they set off — or if he didn’t know, whether he ought to have realized. Should he not have been able to work out that Bessie Hyatt and Gusov had been having an affair — an affair that might well have been going on for a long time? For several summers? He also wonders how Herold had managed to get Gusov to his place of execution, and concludes that he must have drugged him and driven him there in the dark in his jeep. In that case he would surely have had an accomplice, and when he discusses that with Soblewski and Grass they come round to thinking that the accomplice was Bessie herself. That she played an active role in the plot. It is Grass, above all Grass, who pushes that interpretation, and he evidently does so on the basis of conversations he had with Bessie. Martin recalls that they have known each other since they were children, and it doesn’t seem impossible that she might have confessed to him.
It also says in the postscript that he, Soblewski, Grass and the Megals leave Taza the following day. Doris Guttmann seems to have stayed on, however. Martin writes that Bessie Hyatt had an abortion a little later that same summer, something that he also learns via Grass a few months later, and that the story comes to an end when she commits suicide in April 1981. That is exactly how he puts it: ‘The story comes to an end when. .’
By the time I have read the whole document it is a few minutes past midnight. I switch off and put some more wood on the fire, which has almost gone out. I feel that I have many questions, and yet don’t have any.
Hyatt is dead. Herold is dead. Martin is presumably also dead, but I wonder what he intended to do with it all. Soblewski and Grass are alive, but I would be surprised if Megal is. His younger wife — the hypnotist — might be still alive, but she isn’t involved in the finale itself. Or is she?
Finale? I think, and then once again I have the uncomfortable feeling that it is all made up. But that can’t be the case. The e-mail from G (there is no doubt that it must be Grass) together with Martin’s meeting and nocturnal conversation with Soblewski are clear indications that those things really did happen. A dark secret. And Bessie Hyatt’s suicide in 1981 is also indisputable.
So this is what Martin had intended writing a book about? I sit there for a good long while thinking intently about everything, try to work out how I am going to make it fit in with my own plans, and eventually, when I return to that idea of a play — Evenings in Taza, but that isn’t a very good title, despite everything — I think I am beginning to get somewhere. I eventually go to bed with this creative thought in my mind: five acts, of course, two or three on Samos and the climax in Morocco. . But the same dinner table, the same guests, the same story. . Yes, I decide to sleep on it and examine the idea again in the cold light of morning.
The third of January. I’m woken up by the telephone; it feels like a signal from another world. I answer it because I suspect he will jump into his car and drive here if I don’t.
‘How are things?’
I say that we are doing fine, both Castor and I, and ask how he is. And Jeremy, I add.
‘Excellent,’ says Mark Britton. ‘When can we meet?’
I note that less than two days have passed since I crawled out of his bed, and that I evidently mean more to him than he does to me. How has that happened, suddenly and without warning?
It is Thursday today. ‘How about Saturday?’ I suggest. ‘I need a few days to work.’
‘Has something happened?’
I can hear the concern in his voice. Concern at the fact that I am on the defensive.
‘No, not at all,’ I say but regret my words immediately. It would be as well for me to give him a warning. ‘It’s just that I might have to change my plans a bit,’ I say.
‘What plans?’ he wonders. ‘You’ve never mentioned any plans.’
‘We can discuss that on Saturday,’ I say. ‘Shall we meet at the pub?’
‘No, certainly not. I want you to come here, of course. Don’t start playing hard to get, we’re too old for that.’
He tries to make it sound a little ironic and jokey, but doesn’t quite manage it.
Huh, that really is the case, I think when I close down the call. I mean too much to him already.
But I shall have to deal with that on Saturday. Today I have other things I must think about and come to terms with as best I can. I might also have a whole play to write, but I spend most of the morning writing messages. After lunch we go for quite a short walk up to the Punchbowl and back, then drive down to the computer centre. Today it’s Margaret Allen on duty. We wish one another a Happy New Year, and chat briefly about the weather and the wind and the Queen’s speech. Needless to say it’s only Margaret who has anything to say about the Queen’s speech, since unlike all real English people I haven’t even listened to it.
Then I sit down in my usual place. I’m the only customer today: the centre seems more outdated than ever, but I’m grateful that it exists. Grateful for the cup of tea that Margaret serves up, and just for a brief moment I have the feeling that I could live here.
Really live here. In the village of Winsford, far from the madding crowd. On this moor where the sky and the earth kiss each other. For one more brief moment I wonder if that would be feasible to fit in with the rest of the plan, but decide not to get carried away by that thought. I have enough to think about already.
I write as follows from Martin to Eugen Bergman:
My dear friend, I don’t like having to give you bad news at the beginning of a new year, but it can’t be helped. The fact is that I’m having big problems with my material, I’m not getting anywhere with it. I don’t know what I really want to do, and it’s making me feel dejected.
I thought matters would resolve themselves in time, but now I’m beginning to realize that they might not. In any case it’s not going to be the bulky documentary novel about Herold and Hyatt that I may have given you reason to expect. If it becomes anything at all, it’s going to be on a much smaller scale.
Just as worrying, at least for me, is that I’m feeling extremely depressed. I’ve been feeling that way for more than a month now. Maria has been doing all she can to get me back on my feet, but it’s not enough. Anyway, I’m only writing this because I want you to be aware of the situation, and to prevent overblown expectations at your publishing house and elsewhere. I’m sorry about this development, but I can’t do anything about it, believe you me.