bit tricky?” Edward said. “You’ll have to falsify your perspective. Pretend that you’re looking back when really you’re right in the thick of things.”
“Illusion, as you know perfectly well, Eddie, is the writer’s stock in trade. Anyway, no one likes to read diaries. They’re so boring. ‘June thirtieth. Woke up, had breakfast. June thirty-first. Woke up, had breakfast.’”
“June thirty-first?”
“Well, you know what I mean.”
“But what if something totally unexpected happens? What if Portugal joins the Allies? Or Franco teams up with Hitler? It’ll ruin your ending.”
“Now you’re making fun of me.”
“No, I’m not. I’m challenging you. I’m calling your bluff.”
“Dear Eddie,” Georgina said as she turned to me, “he seems to think writers ought to behave like newspaper reporters. He doesn’t understand that for us time doesn’t exist. Consider Proust.” She smiled, showing her small, uneven teeth. “Well, I must be off. Give Aster my best. And the dog.”
As she disappeared into the crowd, I pressed my leg harder against Edward’s. Suddenly I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to make him cry uncle.
He didn’t even blink. “Now that, my boy,” he said, “is a hack.
Hackus literarius
. In case you’ve never seen a live specimen.”
“I’ve never even heard of her.”
“Better that you haven’t. She’s a charlatan. Just another of these rich American women who’ve been idling around in Nice since the Napoleonic Wars. Nice, or maybe Saint-Tropez.”
“Strange, this notion of writing about what’s happening as if it’s already happened.”
“Fear of the future, that’s what it is. She thinks that if she can make the present the past, the future can’t hurt her.”
“And you? Aren’t you afraid of the future?”
“What’s to be afraid of? The future doesn’t exist. It’s the past that frightens me.”
“Why?”
“Because it can’t be undone, and it can never be known.” Under the table he changed position, so that his legs were squeezing mine. “That’s the trouble, you see, these days we all spend so much time worrying about the future that the present moment slips right out of our hands. And so all we have left is retrospection and anticipation, retrospection and anticipation. In which case what’s left to recall but past anticipation? What’s left to anticipate but future retrospection?”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “It’s like my brother Harry. The last time I saw him and his wife, they spent the whole of breakfast arguing about where to have lunch.”
“Exactly.”
“And the whole of lunch arguing about where to have dinner.”
“Yes!”
“And the whole of dinner going over what they’d had for breakfast
and
lunch.”
“That’s it! That’s the thing to avoid.”
“But how can you avoid it when everywhere you turn, you have to make plans, learn from your mistakes, strategize?”
“Right, how can you? How the hell can you?” He leaned in closer. “Are you feeling it now?”
“What? Your leg?”
“No, I know you’re feeling that. The absinthe.”
“I’m not sure. What am I supposed to feel?”
“You’re supposed to hallucinate.”
“I might be hallucinating. I’ll need to check.”
I looked out at the crowd.
“What do you see?”
“People dancing. Oh, there are the Fischbeins. Do you see them?”
“I do. I do see them. So either we’re having the same hallucination or they’re really there.”
If the Fischbeins were there, they didn’t recognize us. Monsieur Fischbein wore a tuxedo a size too big for him, Madame Fischbein a green taffeta evening gown. Against her freckled wattle, her pearls gleamed. Her fur coat was again slung over the back of her chair.
“They are as bad as the Germans,” Monsieur Fischbein was telling some unseen auditor. “They say to us we need one paper, we bring. Then they say to us we need another paper, we tell them we cannot bring. Then they say to us
“Illusion, as you know perfectly well, Eddie, is the writer’s stock in trade. Anyway, no one likes to read diaries. They’re so boring. ‘June thirtieth. Woke up, had breakfast. June thirty-first. Woke up, had breakfast.’”
“June thirty-first?”
“Well, you know what I mean.”
“But what if something totally unexpected happens? What if Portugal joins the Allies? Or Franco teams up with Hitler? It’ll ruin your ending.”
“Now you’re making fun of me.”
“No, I’m not. I’m challenging you. I’m calling your bluff.”
“Dear Eddie,” Georgina said as she turned to me, “he seems to think writers ought to behave like newspaper reporters. He doesn’t understand that for us time doesn’t exist. Consider Proust.” She smiled, showing her small, uneven teeth. “Well, I must be off. Give Aster my best. And the dog.”
As she disappeared into the crowd, I pressed my leg harder against Edward’s. Suddenly I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to make him cry uncle.
He didn’t even blink. “Now that, my boy,” he said, “is a hack.
Hackus literarius
. In case you’ve never seen a live specimen.”
“I’ve never even heard of her.”
“Better that you haven’t. She’s a charlatan. Just another of these rich American women who’ve been idling around in Nice since the Napoleonic Wars. Nice, or maybe Saint-Tropez.”
“Strange, this notion of writing about what’s happening as if it’s already happened.”
“Fear of the future, that’s what it is. She thinks that if she can make the present the past, the future can’t hurt her.”
“And you? Aren’t you afraid of the future?”
“What’s to be afraid of? The future doesn’t exist. It’s the past that frightens me.”
“Why?”
“Because it can’t be undone, and it can never be known.” Under the table he changed position, so that his legs were squeezing mine. “That’s the trouble, you see, these days we all spend so much time worrying about the future that the present moment slips right out of our hands. And so all we have left is retrospection and anticipation, retrospection and anticipation. In which case what’s left to recall but past anticipation? What’s left to anticipate but future retrospection?”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “It’s like my brother Harry. The last time I saw him and his wife, they spent the whole of breakfast arguing about where to have lunch.”
“Exactly.”
“And the whole of lunch arguing about where to have dinner.”
“Yes!”
“And the whole of dinner going over what they’d had for breakfast
and
lunch.”
“That’s it! That’s the thing to avoid.”
“But how can you avoid it when everywhere you turn, you have to make plans, learn from your mistakes, strategize?”
“Right, how can you? How the hell can you?” He leaned in closer. “Are you feeling it now?”
“What? Your leg?”
“No, I know you’re feeling that. The absinthe.”
“I’m not sure. What am I supposed to feel?”
“You’re supposed to hallucinate.”
“I might be hallucinating. I’ll need to check.”
I looked out at the crowd.
“What do you see?”
“People dancing. Oh, there are the Fischbeins. Do you see them?”
“I do. I do see them. So either we’re having the same hallucination or they’re really there.”
If the Fischbeins were there, they didn’t recognize us. Monsieur Fischbein wore a tuxedo a size too big for him, Madame Fischbein a green taffeta evening gown. Against her freckled wattle, her pearls gleamed. Her fur coat was again slung over the back of her chair.
“They are as bad as the Germans,” Monsieur Fischbein was telling some unseen auditor. “They say to us we need one paper, we bring. Then they say to us we need another paper, we tell them we cannot bring. Then they say to us
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