The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair Page 4

  “And in the meantime?”

  “He’ll stay in prison.”

  “But if he’s innocent?”

  “That’s the law. I’m telling you—this is a very serious situation. He’s accused of murdering two people.”

  I slumped back on the couch. I had to talk to Harry.

  “Ask him to call me!” I said to Roth.

  “I’ll pass on your message.”

  “Tell him I absolutely have to talk to him, and that I’m waiting for his call.”

  Right after hanging up, I went to my bookshelves and found my copy of The Origin of Evil. Harry’s inscription was on the first page:

  To Marcus, my most brilliant student,

  Your friend,

  H. L. Quebert, May 1999

  I immersed myself once again in that book, which I hadn’t opened in years. It was a love story, mixing a straight narrative with epistolary passages, the story of a man and woman who loved each other without really being allowed to love each other. So he had written this book for that mysterious girl about whom I still knew nothing. I finished rereading it in the middle of the night, and contemplated the title. And, for the first time, I wondered what it meant. Why The Origin of Evil? What kind of evil was Harry talking about?

  *

  Two days passed, during which the D.N.A. analyses and dental impressions confirmed that the skeleton discovered at Goose Cove was indeed that of Nola Kellergan. The investigators were able to determine that the skeleton was that of a fifteen-year-old child, indicating that Nola had died more or less at the time of her disappearance. But, most important, a fracture at the back of the skull provided the certainty, even after more than thirty years, that Nola Kellergan had died from at least one blow to the head.

  I had no news of Harry. I tried to get in touch with him, through the state police, through the prison, and through Roth, but without success. I paced my apartment, tormented by thousands of questions, plagued by the memory of his weird call. By the end of the weekend, I couldn’t take it anymore, and I decided that I had little choice but to go to see what was happening in New Hampshire.

  *

  At first light on Monday, June 16, 2008, I packed my suitcases and got in my Range Rover. I left Manhattan by Franklin Roosevelt Drive, which runs alongside the East River. New York sped past me—Harlem, the Bronx—and I joined the I-95 north. Only when I had gotten far enough from the city not to be tempted to give up my idea and go home like a good boy did I call my parents to tell them I was on my way to New Hampshire. My mother told me I was crazy:

  “What are you doing, Markie? Surely you’re not going to defend that sick criminal?”

  “He’s not a criminal, Mom. He’s my friend.”

  “Well, then, your friends are criminals! Your father’s right here—he says you’re running away from New York because of your book.”

  “I’m not running away.”

  “Are you running away because of a woman?”

  “I told you I’m not running away. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “When will you have a girlfriend? I’ve been thinking again about that Natalia you introduced us to last year. She was such a sweet shiksa. Why don’t you call her?”

  “You hated her.”

  “And why aren’t you writing books anymore? Everyone loved you when you were a great writer.”

  “I’m still a writer.”

  “Come home! I’ll make you hot dogs and apple pie.”

  “Mom, I’m twenty-eight years old. I can make hot dogs myself if I want them.”

  “Did you know your father’s not allowed to eat hot dogs anymore? The doctor told him.” (I heard my father grumbling that he was actually allowed to eat one occasionally, and my mother repeating, “No more hot dogs for you, or any other junk food. The doctor says it clogs up your system!”) “Markie, darling? Your father says you should write a book about that Quebert. That would get your career going again. Everyone’s talking about Quebert, so everyone would talk about your book. Why don’t you come and have dinner with us? We haven’t seen you in so long. And you love my apple pie …”

  I had crossed into Connecticut when, stupidly deciding to change the radio from my opera C.D. to the news, I learned that there had been a leak within the police department: The media now knew about the discovery of the manuscript of The Origin of Evil alongside Nola Kellergan’s remains, and of Harry’s confession that the book was inspired by his relationship with her. I stopped at a gas station to refuel and found the attendant inside, eyes glued to the T.V., which was replaying the news about Harry on a loop. I went up to him and asked him to turn up the volume. Seeing the look of horror on my face, he said, “What? You didn’t know? It’s been all over the news for hours. Where have you been, on Mars?”

  “In my car.”

  “Heh. No radio?”

  “I was listening to opera. It takes my mind off things.”

  He stared at me. “Don’t I know you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ve seen you before somewhere.”

  “I’ve got one of those faces.”

  “No, I’m sure I’ve seen you before. You one of them T.V. guys, is that it? Maybe an actor or something?”

  “No.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “I’m a writer.”

  “Yeah, that’s it! I read your book last year. I remember now—your face was on the back. Wait, I have it here somewhere.”

  He disappeared for a moment, returning from the storeroom, triumphant, with a copy in hand.

  “There you go—it’s you! Look, it’s your book. Marcus Goldman—that’s your name. It’s right here on the cover.”

  “If you say so.”

  “So, what’s new, Mr Goldman?”

  “Not much, to be honest.”

  “And where are you going today, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “New Hampshire.”

  “Nice area, especially in summer. Going fishing?”

  “You could say that.”

  “What kind of fishing? There are places up there just swarming with black bass.”

  “Fishing for trouble, I believe. I’m going to see a friend up there who’s got problems. Serious problems.”

  “Well, at least his problems can’t be as bad as Harry Quebert’s!”

  He burst out laughing and shook me warmly by the hand because “we don’t get many celebrities around here.” Then he offered me a cup of coffee for the road.

  Public opinion was overwhelmingly against Harry. He was incriminated definitively not only by the fact of the manuscript’s being found with Nola’s skeleton, but above all by the revelation that his most famous book had been inspired by an affair with a fifteen-year-old girl. This had caused a deep sense of unease. Had America honored a homicidal pedophile by elevating Harry to the ranks of literary stardom? Journalists came up with various theories for why Harry might have murdered Nola. Was she threatening to unmask their relationship? Maybe she’d wanted to break up with him and he’d lost his head? All the way to New Hampshire, I kept turning these questions over in my mind. I tried to think about something else by switching from the news back to opera but every track made me think of Harry, and as soon as I thought of him, I thought again about that girl who’d been lying in the ground for more than thirty years next to that house where I had spent some of the happiest times of my life.

  *

  After a five-hour journey, I finally arrived at Goose Cove. I had driven there without really thinking: Why did I come here rather than Concord, where Harry and Roth were? Satellite transmission vans were parked on the side of Shore Road, and journalists hung around on the narrow gravel path that led to the house, reporting for several different T.V. stations. As I was about to turn onto the path, they all flocked to my car, blocking my way so they could see who it was. One of them recognized me and called out, “Look, it’s that writer! It’s Marcus Goldman!” The swarm buzzed excitedly, and camera lenses tapped my
car’s windows. “Do you believe Harry Quebert killed that girl?” “Did you know he wrote The Origin of Evil for her?” “Should the book be withdrawn from sale?” I kept my windows raised and sunglasses on. Local police officers, there to control the flood of journalists and gawkers, recognized me and succeeded in clearing a passage. I was able to disappear down the driveway, under groves of mulberries and tall pine trees. I could still hear a few journalists shouting: “Mr Goldman, why have you come to Somerset? What are you doing at Harry Quebert’s house?”

  Why was I here? Because it was Harry. Because, surprising as this might seem—and I didn’t realize it myself until that very moment—Harry was the most treasured friend I had. In high school and college, I had been unable to forge strong friendships with people my own age, the kind of friendships that last forever. Harry was all I had in life, and, curiously, I didn’t need to know if he was guilty or not; that fact would not in any way alter our deep bond of friendship. It was a strange feeling: I think I would have liked to hate him, to spit in his face while the nation watched; that would have been simpler. But these events did not affect the feelings I had for him in the slightest. At worst, I thought, he is a man, and men have demons. Everyone has demons. The question is simply to know up to what point those demons can be tolerated.

  I parked on the gravel driveway. Harry’s red Corvette was there, where he always left it, in the little outbuilding that he used as a garage. As if the master were at home and all were well in the world. I wanted to go inside, but the front door was locked. This was the first time I could remember it being locked. I walked around the house; there were no police here anymore, but the rear access to the property had been cordoned off with police tape. I settled for looking from afar at the wide area that had been marked off, reaching as far as the edge of the woods. You could just make out the gaping crater, evidence of the intensity of the police excavation, and next to it the discarded hydrangea bushes, which were drying out.

  I must have lingered there for some time, because the next thing I knew I heard a car behind me. It was Roth, who had come from Concord. He had seen me on television and driven here immediately. His first words were: “So, you came?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Harry told me you’d come. He told me you were a stubborn son of a bitch and you’d come here to stick your nose in this business.”

  “Harry knows me well.”

  Roth put his hand in his jacket pocket and brought out a piece of paper.

  “It’s from him,” he told me.

  It was a handwritten note.

  My dear Marcus,

  If you are reading this, it’s because you have come to New Hampshire to find out what’s happened to your old friend.

  You are a brave guy. I never doubted that. I swear to you that I am innocent of the crimes of which I am accused. Nevertheless, it seems likely I will be in prison for some time and you have better things to do than look after me. Concentrate on finishing the novel you’re supposed to hand in at the end of the month. Your career is more important. Don’t waste your time on me.

  Kind regards,

  Harry

  P.S. If by chance you wish to stay awhile in New Hampshire in spite of this, or to come here from time to time, you know Goose Cove is your home. Stay as long as you like. All I ask of you is one favor: Feed the seagulls. Leave some bread for them on the deck. It’s important to feed the seagulls.

  “Don’t give up on him,” Roth said. “He needs you.”

  I nodded. “How’s it looking for him?”

  “Bad. You saw the news? Everyone knows about the book. It’s a disaster. The more I learn about this, the more I wonder how I’m going to defend him.”

  “Where did the leak come from?”

  “Straight from the prosecutor’s office, in my opinion. They want to turn up the pressure on Harry by condemning him in the court of public opinion. They want a full confession. They know that in a case that’s more than thirty years old, nothing is worth as much as a confession.”

  “When can I see him?”

  “Tomorrow morning. The state prison is in Concord. Where are you going to stay?”

  “Here, if I can.”

  He made a face.

  “I doubt it,” he said. “The police searched the house. It’s a crime scene.”

  “Isn’t the crime scene over there, where there’s a hole?” I asked.

  Roth went to inspect the front door, then quickly walked around the house. He was smiling when he came back.

  “You’d make a good lawyer, Goldman. There’s nothing sealing off the house.”

  “Does that mean I’m allowed to stay?”

  “It means there is nothing prohibiting you from staying here.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “That’s the beauty of U.S. law, Goldman: When there is no law, you invent one. And if you get into trouble, you take it to the Supreme Court, which rules in your favor and publishes a judgment in your name—Goldman v. the State of New Hampshire. So go ahead and take possession of this place—there’s nothing stopping you, and if the police have the nerve to come and hassle you about it, tell them there’s a loophole in the law, mention the Supreme Court, and then threaten to sue them. That sometimes scares ’em off. On the other hand, I don’t have the keys to the house.”

  I dug into my pocket and showed Roth what I had.

  “Harry gave them to me a long time ago.”

  “You’re a magician! But, please, don’t cross any police lines—we’d get into trouble.”

  “I won’t. So what did the search of the house turn up?”

  “Nothing. That’s why they haven’t sealed it off.”

  Roth left, and I entered the vast, empty house. I locked the door behind me and went straight to the office, in search of the box I’d found. But it wasn’t there anymore. What could Harry have done with it? I desperately wanted to get hold of it, and I began searching the bookshelves in the office and the living room. Then I decided to inspect each room in the house, in the hope of finding even the smallest clue that might help me understand what had happened here in 1975. Was it in one of these rooms that Nola had been murdered?

  I ended up finding a few photo albums I had never noticed before. I opened them randomly and discovered pictures of Harry and me from when I was in college: in the classroom, in the boxing ring, on campus, in the diner where we would often meet. There were even pictures from my graduation. Another album was full of press clips about me and my book. Certain passages were circled in red or underlined. Apparently Harry had followed my career from the beginning. I even found a clipping from the Montclair newspaper in 2006, reporting on the ceremony organized in my honor by Felton High School. How had he gotten hold of that? I remembered the day well. It was just before Christmas. My first novel was on the bestseller lists and the principal of my old high school, carried away by the excitement, had decided to pay me what he considered a well-earned tribute.

  The event took place amid great pomp one Saturday afternoon in the school’s main hall, before a select audience of current and former students, and a few local journalists. Everyone had been crammed in on folding chairs in front of a large curtain, which, after a triumphant speech, the principal had raised to reveal an impressive glass cabinet, inscribed with the words: IN TRIBUTE TO MARCUS P. GOLDMAN, KNOWN AS MARCUS THE MAGNIFICENT, A PUPIL IN THIS SCHOOL BETWEEN 1994 AND 1998. Inside this cabinet was a display including a copy of my novel, my old school reports, a few photographs, and my volleyball and cross-country jerseys.

  I smiled as I reread the article. My time at Felton High—a small public school in Montclair—had made such an impression on my classmates and teachers that they had nicknamed me Marcus the Magnificent. But on that day in December 2006, as they applauded that cabinet in my honor, what everybody failed to realize was that my status as Felton’s undisputed star for four glorious years was, due to a series of misunderstandings, fortuitous to begin with and then deliberate
ly orchestrated.

  It all began in my freshman year, when I had to choose a sport. I had decided on either football or soccer, but the number of spots on those two teams was limited, and on the day we were supposed to register, I arrived very late at the registrar’s office.

  “We’re closed,” said the fat woman behind the desk.

  “Please,” I begged her, “I absolutely have to register, otherwise they’ll fail me.”

  She sighed. “Name?”

  “Goldman. Marcus Goldman.”

  “Which sport?”

  “Football. Or soccer.”

  “They’re both full. All that’s left is acrobatic dance and volleyball.”

  Acrobatic dance and volleyball? It was like choosing between cholera and the plague. I knew that joining the dance team would have made me the butt of my classmates’ jokes, so I chose volleyball. But Felton had not had a decent volleyball team in decades, and no-one went out for it. So the volleyball team was made up of the rejects from all the other sports, or of people who turned up late on registration day. And that is how I became part of a team that was clumsy and inept, but that would provide the foundations for my glory. Hoping to be picked up by the football team later in the season, I wanted to show such sporting prowess that I would get myself noticed. So I trained with a hunger I had never shown before, and by the end of the first two weeks, our coach saw in me the star he had been waiting years for. I was immediately made team captain, and I didn’t have to make any great efforts in order to be considered the best volleyball player in the school’s history. I easily beat the record for the number of kills made during the past twenty years—which was absolutely pathetic—and as reward for this, my name was listed in the school’s Order of Merit, something that had never before happened to a freshman. This was enough to impress my classmates and win the attention of my teachers. From this I came to understand that in order to be magnificent, all that was needed was to distort the way others perceived me; in the end, everything was a question of appearances.