Patrick Flanery - Absolution

Im told we met in London, Mr Leroux, but I dont remember you, she says, trying to draw her body upright, making it straight where it refuses to be.

Thats right. We did meet. Just briefly, though. In fact it wasnt London but Amsterdam. She remembers an award ceremony in London where I wasnt. I remember the conference in Amsterdam where I spoke, invited as a promising young expert on her work. She took my hand charmingly then. She was laughing and girlish and a little drunk. I can see no trace of intoxication this time. Ive never met her in London.

There was the other time, too, of course.

Please, call me Sam, I say.

My editor says nice things about you. I dont like your looks, though. You look fashionable. She draws her lips back on the final syllable, her teeth apart. Theres a flicker of grey tongue.

I wouldnt know about that, I say, and cant help blushing.

Are you fashionable? She spreads her lips again, flashes her teeth. If its supposed to be a smile it doesnt look like one.

I dont think so.

I have no memory of your face. Nor of your voice. Id certainly remember that voice. That accent. I dont think we can possibly have met. Not in this lifetime, as they say.

It was a very brief meeting. I almost remind her that she was drunk at the time. Shes affecting to look uninterested in the present meeting, but theres too much energy in the boredom.

You must know Ive agreed to the project under duress. Im a very old woman, but that doesnt mean I intend dying any time soon. You, for instance, might well die before me, and no one is rushing to write your biography. You might be killed in an accident this afternoon. Run down in the street. Carjacked.

Im not important.

Quite so. Theres a lick of a smirk on one side of the mouth. Ive read your articles and I dont think youre an imbecile. Nonetheless, Im really not optimistic about this. She stares at me, shaking her head. Her hands rest on her hips and she looks a little clumsy, at least clumsier than I remember. I wouldve chosen my own biographer, but I dont know anyone who would agree to undertake the task. Im a terror. Theres a hint of the girlishness I saw in Amsterdam, something akin to flirtation but not quite, like shes hoping a man will find her attractive simply because hes a man, and I have to admit she still has a kind of beauty.

Im sure lots of people would jump at the chance, I say and she looks surprised. She thinks Im flirting back and smiles in a way that looks almost genuine.

None that I would choose. She wags her head at me, a reprimanding schoolteacher, staring down the famous nose. I may be tall, but shes taller still, a giant. Id write my autobiography, but I think it would be a waste of time. Ive never written about my life. I dont entirely believe in the value of life writing. Who cares about the men I loved? Who cares about my sex life? Why does everyone want to know what a writer does in bed? I suppose you expect to sit down.

Whatever you prefer. I can stand.

You cant stand the whole time.

I could if that suited you, I say, smiling, but the flirtatious mood has passed. She pouts, points to a straight-backed chair and waits until I sit, then chooses a chair for herself on the other side of the room, so that were forced to shout. A cat wanders past and jumps on to her lap. She removes it, putting it back on the floor.

Not my cat. My assistants. Dont put in the book that Im a cat lady. Im not. I dont want people thinking Im a mad old cat lady. Theres a picture on the back of her early books the publicity shot used for the first ten years of her career in which she holds a baby cheetah, its mouth open, tongue sticking out as her tongue does now. It suggests the suckling toddler, or the stroke victim. My British publisher insisted on the stupid cheetah, shell tell me later, because thats what an African writer was supposed to have, the wild clutched to her bosom, suckling the continent, all those tired imperial fantasies.

What form do you anticipate this taking? she asks now. Please dont imagine Im going to give you access to my letters and diaries. Ill talk to you but Im not going to dig out documents or family albums.

I thought a series of interviews to start.

A way of getting comfortable? she asks. I nod, shrug my shoulders, produce a small digital recorder. She snorts. I hope you dont imagine that were going to become friends over the course of this. I wont take walks with you in my garden or visit museums. I dont do drinks. I wont impart the wisdom of the aged to you. I wont teach you how to live a better life. This is a professional arrangement, not a romance. Im a busy person. I have a new book coming out next year, Absolution. I suppose I shall have to let you read it, in due course.

I defer to you.

Ive read your articles, as I said. You dont get things entirely wrong.

Perhaps youll be able to correct some of my mistakes.

Clare did not answer her own door when I arrived. Marie, the beetle-eyed assistant, delivered me into a reception room that overlooked the front garden and the long drive, the high beige periphery wall mounted with barbed wire shaped and painted to mimic trained ivy, and the electronic gate closing out the road. Security cameras monitor the property. Clare has chosen a cold room for our first interview. Maybe its the only reception room. No a house this size will have several. There must be another one, a better one, with a view of the back gardens and the mountain rising above the city. Shell take me there next time, or somehow Ill manage to find it on my own.

Her face is narrower than her pictures suggest. If there was a fullness in her cheeks five years ago in Amsterdam, the health has receded and now her face is wind-cracked, a lake bottom in drought. It looks nothing like any of the photographs. Her unruly squall of blonde hair has silvered, and though its thin and brittle it still has some of the old lustre. Her abdomen has spread. Shes almost a very old woman, but doesnt look her real age more like sixty than whatever she really is. Her skin is tanned and the line of her jaw has a plastic tension. Despite the slight hump in her back, she tries to remain erect. I feel a flash of anger at her vanity. But its not my place to judge that. She is who she is. Im here for something else.

I hope youve brought your own food and drink. I dont intend to feed you while you feed off me. You may use the facilities at the end of the corridor on the left. Please remember to lower the seat when youve finished. It will encourage my sympathy. She narrows her eyes and seems to be smirking again, but I cant tell if shes joking or serious.

Are you going to record these discussions?

Yes.

Take notes as well?

Yes.

Is it on?

Yes. Its recording.

Well?

Im predictable. Id like to start at the beginning, I say.

Youll find no clues in my childhood.

Thats not really the point, if youll forgive me. People want to know. In fact, almost nothing is known about her life beyond the slim facts of public record, and the little shes condescended to admit in previous interviews. Her agent in London released a one-page official biography five years ago when requests for information became overwhelming. Both sets of grandparents were farmers.

No. My paternal grandfather was an ostrich farmer. The other was a butcher.

And your parents?

My father was a lawyer, an advocate. The first in his family to go to university. My mother was a linguist, an academic. I never saw much of them. There were women girls to look after me. A succession of them. I believe my father did a fair amount of