The Girl on Paper

  ‘We’ve already pushed back the publication date several times. If you haven’t finished the book by December, we’ll run into serious financial problems.’

  ‘Surely all we have to do is give them back the advance they paid us.’

  ‘It’s not quite as simple as that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we’ve already spent it, Tom.’

  ‘What, all of it? How?’

  He shook his head in exasperation. ‘Do you need me to remind you how much your house cost? Or the price tag on that diamond ring you gave to Aurore and that she never even returned to you?’

  How dare he?

  ‘What are you talking about? I know perfectly well how much I earn, and how much I can afford to spend!’

  Milo avoided my gaze. Beads of sweat were starting to appear on his forehead. He pursed his lips, and his expression, so animated a few minutes earlier, had become serious.

  ‘I’ve … I’ve spent everything, Tom.’

  ‘What do you mean? What have you spent?’

  ‘Your money and mine.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I put almost everything in a fund that went up in smoke with the Madoff affair.’

  ‘I sincerely hope you’re joking.’

  But, no, he was not joking.

  ‘Everyone was fooled by it,’ he said sadly. ‘Banks, lawyers, politicians, artists, Spielberg, Malkovich, even Elie Wiesel!’

  ‘So how much do I have left, apart from my house?’

  ‘Your house was mortgaged three months ago, Tom. And, to be honest with you, you don’t even have enough to pay your property tax.’

  ‘But what about your car? That must have cost at least a million.’

  ‘Try two million. But I’ve had to park it outside my neighbour’s house for the last month so it’s not repossessed!’

  Shell-shocked, I fell silent for a moment before something clicked.

  ‘I don’t believe you! You just made all that up so I’d do some more writing, didn’t you?’

  ‘If only.’

  Now it was my turn to pick up my phone, to call the accountants who took care of my taxes and therefore had access to all of my various accounts. My adviser confirmed that, yes, all of my accounts were completely empty, something that he had apparently been trying to bring to my attention for weeks, sending a constant stream of recorded delivery letters and voicemail messages.

  But when was the last time I had emptied my mailbox or listened to my answering machine?

  Once I had regained my composure, I felt neither panicked nor seized by a desire to throw myself across the table at Milo and hit him in the face. I just felt incredibly weary.

  ‘Look, Tom, we’ve got ourselves out of far worse situations than this.’

  ‘Do you realise what you’ve done?’

  ‘But you can fix it,’ he reassured me. ‘If you manage to finish your novel in time, we can easily get back to where we were before.’

  ‘And just how do you think I’m going to be able to write 500 pages in less than three months?’

  ‘You already have a few chapters tucked away somewhere – I know that.’

  I put my head in my hands. It was obvious he didn’t understand the first thing about how powerless I was feeling.

  ‘I’ve just spent the last hour telling you that I’m washed up, that my mind is behind bars, that it’s as dry as a rock. The fact that I apparently now have no money doesn’t change any of that. It’s over!’

  But he wouldn’t drop it.

  ‘You’ve always said that writing was what kept you balanced, what kept you sane even!’

  ‘Well, clearly I was wrong: it wasn’t not writing that pushed me over the edge, it was love.’

  ‘All the same, do you see that you are self-destructing for the sake of something that doesn’t exist?’

  ‘Are you saying that love doesn’t exist?’

  ‘Of course love exists. But you’re so damn obsessed by the idea of soul mates. As if there were some invisible link between two people destined to be together.’

  ‘So you think it’s ridiculous to believe that there’s someone out there who can make you happy, someone you would want to grow old with?’

  ‘Of course not, but that’s not what you believe in: you believe that there is only one person on earth for everyone. Like some kind of missing part seeking to reunite with its original other half to re-form a whole.’

  ‘Well, that’s what Aristophanes seems to think in Plato’s Symposium!’

  ‘Maybe, but your whole Aristo-thingy with its plate or whatever doesn’t say that Aurore is your missing part. Believe me: you have to give up this idea. Mythology is fine for your books, but in the real world it doesn’t work so well.’

  ‘No, you’re right – in the real world it isn’t enough for my best friend to ruin me; he also thinks it’s OK to lecture me about my life!’ I exploded, getting up to leave.

  Milo also got up, with a despairing look on his face. At that moment, I could tell he would have done anything in the world just to inject a little inspiration into me.

  ‘So you have no plans to start writing again any time soon?’

  ‘No. And there’s nothing you can do to change that. Writing a book isn’t like building a car or making washing powder,’ I shouted at him in the doorway.

  As I left the restaurant, the valet handed me the keys to the Bugatti. I got into the driver’s seat, turned on the engine and put it into gear. The leather seats had a lingering smell of mandarin, and the lacquered-wood dashboard, embellished with aluminum, made me feel as though I were in a spaceship.

  The force of the sudden acceleration threw me back in my seat. As the screeching tyres left skid marks on the asphalt, I caught sight of Milo in the rear-view mirror, running after me, hurling insults at me as he went.

  5

  Shards of paradise

  Hell exists, and now I know that its horror comes from the very fact that it is made from broken shards of paradise

  Alec Covin

  ‘Here’s the tool you lent me – you can return it to its owner,’ Milo announced, handing Carole a steel crowbar.

  ‘Its owner is the State of California,’ answered the young policewoman, putting the metal lever in the trunk of her car.

  Santa Monica

  7 p.m.

  ‘Thanks for coming to pick me up.’

  ‘Where’s your car got to?’

  ‘Tom’s borrowed it.’

  ‘But Tom’s had his licence taken away!’

  ‘Let’s just say he was annoyed with me,’ Milo said, not meeting her gaze.

  ‘Did you tell him the truth?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘Yes, but that doesn’t seem to have encouraged him to start writing again.’

  ‘I told you it wouldn’t.’

  She locked her car and together they walked over the suspension bridge that led to the sea.

  ‘But seriously,’ said Milo irritably, ‘don’t you find the whole thing a bit over the top, letting yourself go like that just because of a love affair?’

  She looked at him sadly.

  ‘It may be a little melodramatic, but it happens all the time. I think it’s awfully sad.’

  He shrugged and let her walk slightly ahead of him.

  With her tall frame, olive skin, raven hair, and sky-blue eyes, Carole Alvarez had something of the Mayan princess about her.

  Originally from El Salvador, she had arrived in the United States when she was nine. Milo and Tom had known her since they were kids. Their families – what families they still had – lived in the same dilapidated apartment block in MacArthur Park, the Spanish Harlem of Los Angeles, a hangout for heroin addicts and people who had violent scores to settle.

  The three of them had grown up together against a backdrop of poverty, broken-down buildings, pavements lined with trash and shopfronts with metal shutters that had been smashed in and covered in graffiti.

  ‘Sh
all we sit down for a bit?’ she asked, unfolding a towel.

  Milo joined her on the white sand. The little waves lapped the shore gently, leaving a silvery foam that tickled the bare feet of passers-by.

  The beach, which was always extremely crowded in the summer, was much quieter on this early-autumn evening. The familiar outline of the Santa Monica pier loomed, welcoming Angelenos who wanted a release from their stressful jobs and busy city life, as it had been doing for over a century.

  Carole rolled up her shirtsleeves, took off her shoes and leant back to take in the light breeze and Indian-summer sun. Milo watched her with a painful tenderness.

  Life had not been any kinder to Carole than it had to him. She had only just turned fifteen when her stepfather was killed by a bullet to the head after his grocery store was raided in the violent protests that had shaken the impoverished parts of town in 1992. After the incident, she had played hide-and-seek with social services to avoid being put in a foster home, preferring instead to take up residence with Black Mama, a former prostitute and dead ringer for Tina Turner. At least half the men in MacArthur Park had lost their virginity to her. Somehow Carole had managed to keep up with her studies whilst holding down a job on the side. She had been a waitress at Pizza Hut, a sales clerk in a cheap jewellery shop and a receptionist for the local council. Most importantly, she had passed her exams to get into the police academy the first time round, joining the LAPD on her twenty-second birthday. She was climbing the ladder incredibly quickly. She had risen through all three ranks of officer, before being made a sergeant just a few days ago.

  ‘Have you spoken to Tom recently?’

  ‘I send him two messages a day,’ Carole replied, turning to face him. ‘But at best I get sarcasm.’

  She looked searchingly at Milo. ‘What can we do for him at this point?’

  ‘Well, for starters we can stop him throwing his life away,’ he answered, pulling from his pocket the bottles of sleeping pills and tranquillisers that he had managed to swipe without Toms noticing.

  ‘I hope you realise that you’re at least in part responsible for what’s happening to him.’

  ‘What, so it’s my fault Aurore left him?’ Milo countered.

  ‘You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Are you saying that it’s my fault there was a worldwide financial crash? That it’s because of me that Bernie Madoff decided to embezzle $50 billion? And, be honest, what did you really think of that girl?’

  Carole shrugged her shoulders helplessly.

  ‘I didn’t really know her, but I always knew she wasn’t for him.’

  In the distance the atmosphere on the pier was buzzing. Children’s shrieks of excitement mingled with the smell of candyfloss and toffee apples. The theme park’s Ferris wheel and rollercoasters were built directly over the water, facing the small island of Santa Catalina, which was just visible through the evening mist.

  Milo sighed.

  ‘I’m starting to worry that no one will ever find out how the Angel Trilogy ends.’

  ‘I know how it ends,’ Carole said calmly.

  ‘You know the end of the story?’

  ‘Tom told me.’

  ‘Really? When?’

  Her face darkened.

  ‘Oh, it was a long time ago,’ she replied vaguely.

  Milo frowned. His surprise was tinged with disappointment. He had believed he knew everything about Carole’s life: they saw each other almost every day, she was his best friend, his only real family, and – although he would never admit it – the only woman he had ever had true feelings for.

  He looked out at the sea, his mind elsewhere. Just like on TV, a few plucky souls were braving the waves on surfboards, whilst impossibly good-looking lifeguards surveyed the beach from their little wooden huts. Milo watched the surfers without really seeing them; all he could think about was Carole.

  Their bond was a particularly strong one that had formed when they were children and was based on mutual respect. Even if he had never said it out loud, Carole meant more to him than anyone else in the world, and the nature of her job meant he worried about her constantly. Unbeknownst to her, in the evening he would sometimes park outside her apartment block, because it comforted him to know that he was close to her. The truth was, his single greatest fear was that one day he might lose her, even though he himself was not really sure what exactly he was so afraid of. That she would get hit by a train? That she would take a bullet whilst arresting a junkie? Or the more likely option, that he would have to watch her fall in love with another man.

  *

  Carole put on her sunglasses and undid the top button of her shirt. In spite of the heat, Milo resisted the temptation to roll up his sleeves. His upper arms were covered in tattoos of cabalistic symbols, indelible reminders of his days in MS-13, also known as Mara Salvatrucha, an extremely violent gang that ruled the streets of MacArthur Park, which he had joined at the age of twelve for lack of anything else to do. Born to an Irish mother and a Mexican father, Milo had been considered a Chicano by the other clan members, all Salvadoran immigrants who had subjected him to the cortón initiation ceremony. This was a hazing that for girls was a gang rape and for boys a group beating that lasted around fifteen minutes. It was an absurd rite of passage that was somehow supposed to prove your courage, toughness and loyalty, but often ended in bloodshed.

  Although barely a teenager, Milo had nevertheless survived the ordeal and for two years he stole cars, dealt crack, worked the black market and sold arms, all for the Mara. By the time he turned fifteen he had become a savage who knew nothing beyond fear and violence. Trapped in a downward spiral, and seeing only prison or death in his future, he owed his eventual salvation entirely to Tom’s intelligence and Carole’s tenderness. They had managed to get him out of his personal hell, and he was living proof of the fact that it was possible to leave the Mara alive.

  The last rays of the setting sun glittered on the sand. Milo blinked, both to protect his eyes from the glare and to chase away the past.

  ‘Can I take you out for some seafood?’ he asked, jumping to his feet.

  ‘I think, considering the state of your bank balance, it’s me that should be taking you out for dinner,’ Carole pointed out.

  ‘Come on, it’s to celebrate your promotion,’ he said, holding out his hand to help her up.

  They left the beach in pensive silence and walked along the cycle path that linked Santa Monica to Venice Beach. They then turned onto Third Street Promenade, a wide palm-lined street that contained several art galleries and fashionable restaurants.

  They sat down at a table outside Anisette, whose menu was written in French and filled with exotic-sounding dishes such as frisée aux lardons, entrecôte aux échalotes and pommes dauphinoises.

  Milo insisted that they have an aperitif of pastis served ‘California style’ in a tall glass filled with ice cubes.

  Despite the jugglers, buskers and fire-eaters that enlivened the street with light and music, the dinner was a serious, gloomy affair. Carole seemed sad and Milo was crippled with guilt. The conversation soon turned back to Tom and Aurore.

  ‘Do you know why he writes?’ Milo asked abruptly, as he realised he had no idea how this part of his friend’s mind worked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I know Tom’s always liked reading, but writing is a different matter. And you knew him better than I did when we were teenagers. What drove him back then to write his first story?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Carole was quick to reply.

  But she was lying.

  *

  Malibu

  8 p.m.

  After I had driven around town for a while, I parked the Bugatti outside the house that I now knew no longer belonged to me. A few hours earlier, I had been at rock bottom but with tens of millions of dollars. Now, I was just at rock bottom.

  I felt exhausted and out of breath, as though I had been running, and flopped down onto the
couch, staring absently at the tangle of beams holding up the sloping ceiling.

  I had a splitting headache, my back was killing me, my hands were clammy and my stomach was tied up in knots. I had violent palpitations that shook my chest. Inside I was empty, consumed by a terrible pain that had finally managed to defeat me.

  For years I had spent my evenings writing. That was where all my emotion, all my energy had always gone. Then I started giving lectures and countless book readings all over the world. I had set up a charity that gave kids from my neighbourhood the chance to study art. I had even played a few gigs on drums with my idols: the Rock Bottom Remainders.

  But now I couldn’t be bothered with anything: people, books, music and even the rays of the sun as it set over the ocean, it was all meaningless.

  I got up gingerly and went outside onto the terrace. Further down the beach, an old Chrysler with faded yellow paintwork, a hangover from the Beach Boy era, proudly displayed the town’s motto on its back window: Malibu, where the mountain meets the sea.

  I stared at the flaming border of light just above the horizon until it dazzled my eyes, and then it was swallowed up by the waves. This phenomenon, which had once fascinated me, now left me with no sense of wonder. I felt totally numb, as though all my emotional reserves had been used up.

  There was only one thing that could save me: being with Aurore again – her supple body, her smooth ivory skin, her eyes that sparkled with golden lights and the way she smelt of sand. But I knew that wasn’t going to happen. I knew I had lost the fight and that now there was nothing left for me to do but dull my senses with hits of crystal meth, or whatever I could get my hands on.

  I needed to sleep. I searched anxiously for my medication in the living room, suspecting that Milo had got rid of most of it. I ran into the kitchen and searched through the bin. Nothing. Seized by panic, I ran upstairs and raided the wardrobes and cupboards until I finally found my travel bag. Hidden away in a side pocket was a little box of sleeping pills and some tranquillisers left over from my last promotional trip to Dubai, where I had given a reading in a bookstore in the Mall of the Emirates.