As if there are two different souls inside one body.
That wasn’t hard to accept. It was easy to understand, because I’ve felt it myself.
I saw that sick part go down into the grave together with the body of Greta Light, my mother. Two corruptible parts, destined to return to the earth and turn back to dust. She and Father McKean, their true, living essences, will always be close to me and the person I will become. As I looked at Vivien’s eyes, I realized, through the grief and the tears, that I had glimpsed the right path.
My father didn’t come to the funeral.
He phoned me and said he was on the other side of the world and couldn’t get back in time. Once, I would have missed him. I might even have cried. Now I have more important things to cry about.
I have a family. And he’s chosen not to be part of it.
When it was all over and the people were already walking away, I stood there in the rain with Vunny in front of the freshly moved earth that smelled of musk and rebirth.
After a while she turned her head, and I saw where she was looking.
Standing there in the rain was a tall man, without a hat or an umbrella, but wearing a dark raincoat. I recognized him straight away. It was Russell Wade, the guy who followed the case with her and is publishing a series of articles in the New York Times called ‘The True Story of a False Name’.
He used to appear in the papers because he’d been involved in some pretty dubious things. Now he seems to have found a way to turn everything around. That means that anything can change, when you least expect it and if you really want it. Vivien gave me the umbrella to hold and I saw her walk towards him in the driving rain.
They talked for a while and then he walked away. As he was going, I saw my aunt stand there watching him.
When she came back, I saw a new kind of sadness in her eyes, different from her sadness over Mother’s death.
I squeezed her hand and she understood. I’m sure that sooner or later we’ll talk.
Now I’m here, still at Joy, sitting in the garden, and the sky is clear of rain. In front of me is a stretch of water reflecting the sun. It seems like a good omen. I’ve understood many things in this place, in the simplest possible way. I’ve learned them day by day. While I was trying to understand the guys I was living with, I think I started to know myself.
I’ve discovered that the community isn’t going to close, thanks to the government taking an interest. Even though Vivien has suggested I go live with her, I’ve decided that I’ll stay here in future, and lend a hand, if they want it. I don’t need Joy any more but I like to think Joy needs me.
My name is Sundance Green and tomorrow I’ll be eighteen.
I press the button on the intercom and my secretary replies with her usual efficiency.
‘Yes, Mr Wade?’
‘Hold my calls for the next quarter of an hour.’
‘Of course, Mr Wade.’
‘No, make that half an hour.’
‘Yes, Mr Wade. Enjoy your reading.’
There’s a hint of amusement in her voice. I think she knows why I’ve taken this time. After all, she was the one who brought in the copy of the New York Times that’s now lying in front of me on the desk. On the front page there’s a headline so big you could see it from a plane.
The True Story of a False Name – Part Three.
But what interests me most is the name of the writer.
I start reading the article and it takes me a couple of columns to realize that it’s damned good. I’m so surprised that I reserve the right to feel proud for a second time. Russell has the ability to draw the reader in and not let go of him. Of course, the story’s a pretty gripping one anyway, but I must say he tells it brilliantly.
The light on the intercom comes on and my secretary’s voice takes me by surprise.
‘Mr Wade—’
‘What is it? I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed.’
‘Your son’s here.’
‘Send him in.’
I slip the copy of the newspaper into my desk drawer. If anyone asked, I’d say I did it in order not to embarrass my son.
I’d be lying.
I really did it in order not to embarrass myself. I hate feeling embarrassed. It’s a feeling I’ve sometimes spent hundreds of thousands of dollars to avoid.
After a couple of moments, Russell comes in. He looks calm and rested. He’s wearing decent clothes and has even shaved.
‘Hi, Dad.’
‘Hello, Russell. I must congratulate you. You seem to have become a celebrity. And I’m sure it’ll make you a whole lot of money.’
He shrugs. ‘There are some things in life that money can’t buy.’
I reply with a similar gesture. ‘I’m sure there are, but I’m not very familiar with them. In my life I’ve always dealt with the other things.’
He sits down facing me and looks me in the eyes. It’s a nice feeling.
‘Enough of the two-bit philosophizing,’ I say. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m here to thank you. And I’m also here on business.’
I wait for him to continue. In spite of everything, my son has always had the ability to arouse my curiosity. Not to mention the ability to make me lose my temper like no one else.
‘Without your help, I’d never have achieved the results I did. I’ll be eternally grateful to you for that.’
I’m very pleased to hear these words. I’d never have imagined that one day I’d hear them from Russell’s mouth. But I’m still curious.
‘And what kind of business do you have with me?’
‘You have something of mine that I’d like to buy back.’
At last I understand, and I can’t help smiling. I open the desk drawer and from under the newspaper take out the contract he signed in return for my involvement. I place it on the desk, halfway between the two of us. ‘Are you referring to this?’
‘Yes. That’s the one.’
I sit back in my chair and look him straight in the eyes. ‘I’m sorry, son. But as you just said, there are some things money can’t buy.’
He smiles, unexpectedly. ‘But I don’t intend to offer you money.’
‘Really? What would you like to pay me with?’
He puts his hand in his pocket and takes out a small grey plastic object. He shows it to me and I see it’s a digital tape recorder. ‘With this.’
Experience has taught me to remain impassive. Even now I manage to do so. Problem is, he knows all about this ability of mine.
‘What’s that, if you don’t mind my asking?’
I’ve asked the question in order to gain time, but if I haven’t gone weak in the head all of a sudden, I know perfectly well what it is and what it’s been used for.
He confirms it. ‘It’s a recorder containing the phone calls you made to the general. This tiny thing in return for that contract.’
‘You’d never have the guts to use it against me.’
‘Wouldn’t I? Try me. I can see it already.’ He moves his hand in front of him, in a gesture indicating a banner headline. ‘A true story of corruption.’
I love chess. One of its rules is that when you’re beaten you give credit to your opponent. Mentally I take the king and lay it down on the board. Then I take the contract from the desk. With a theatrical gesture, I tear it into tiny pieces and drop it in the wastepaper basket.
‘It’s done. Your commitment is cancelled.’
Russell stands up and puts the tape recorder down in front of me. ‘I knew we’d come to an agreement.’
‘That was blackmail.’
He looks at me with an amused expression. ‘Of course it was.’
Russell checks the time. I see he’s wearing a cheap Swatch. He must have sold the gold watch I gave him.
‘I have to go. Larry King’s waiting to interview me.’
Knowing him, it might be a joke. But given his sudden fame I wouldn’t be surprised if it was true.
‘Bye,
Dad.’
‘Goodbye. I can’t say it was a pleasure.’
He walks to the door. His steps are noiseless on the carpet. So is the door when he opens it. I stop him as he’s about to go out.
‘Russell…’
He turns his face to me, that face everyone says is the image of mine.
‘Yes?’
‘One of these days, if you’d like to, you could come to lunch at the house. I think your mother would be very pleased to see you.’
He looks at me with eyes I’ll have to become familiar with in future. He takes a moment to reply. ‘I’d like that. I’d like it very much.’
Then he leaves the room.
I sit there for a moment, thinking. In my life I’ve always been a businessman. Today I think I made a good deal. Then I reach out my hand to the recorder and press the button, ready to listen to the recording.
It hits me immediately. I always thought my son was a lousy poker player. But maybe he’s one of those people who have the ability to learn from their mistakes.
The tape is blank.
There’s not a damned thing on it.
I get up and go to the window. Below me is New York, one of the many cities I’ve conquered in my life. Today it seems to me a little more precious. An amusing thought crosses my mind.
My son, Russell Wade, is a great journalist and a great son of a bitch.
I think he got that second aspect of his character from me.
I’m in Boston, in the cemetery where my brother is buried. I’m inside the family vault, which has been welcoming the remains of the Wades for many years. The stone is white marble, like all the others. Robert smiles at me from his ceramic photograph, on which his face will never age.
We’re more or less the same age now.
Today I had lunch with my family. I’d forgotten how big and luxurious their house was. The domestics when they saw me come in gave me the kind of looks Lazarus must have had after he had risen from the dead. There were even a few of them who’d never seen me in person. Only Henry, who walked with me to meet my mother and my father, squeezed my arm as he opened the door and stood aside to let me pass.
Then he whispered a few words. ‘The true story of a false name. Nice work, Mr Russell.
At lunch, in that mansion where I grew up and shared so many things with Robert and my parents, things were a bit awkward after being away all those years. All that silence and all those harsh words couldn’t be wiped out in a moment just by an effort of goodwill. But the food was excellent and we talked as we hadn’t done for a long time.
Over coffee, my father mentioned something he had heard. He said several people had talked about my name in connection with the Pulitzer. When he added that this time nobody would take it away from me, he smiled. My mother smiled, too, and I was finally able to breathe.
I acted as if nothing unusual had been said, and stared down at the dark liquid steaming in my cup.
I remembered the call I had made on my way back from Chillicothe. I called the New York Times, gave my name and asked to be put through to Wayne Constance. Many years earlier, in my brother’s time, he had been in charge of the foreign desk. Now he was the editor of the whole damned paper.
Over the phone, his voice had sounded just the way I remembered it. ‘Hi, Russell. What can I do for you?’
A touch of coldness. Suspicion. Curiosity.
I hadn’t expected anything different. I knew I didn’t deserve anything different.
‘I can do something for you, Wayne. I have a real scoop on my hands.’
‘Oh, yes? What’s it about?’
A little less coldness. A bit more curiosity. Plus a hint of irony. The same suspicion.
‘For the moment I can’t tell you. The only thing I can tell you is that you can have the exclusive, if you want it.’
He took a moment to reply. ‘Russell, don’t you think you’ve disgraced yourself enough in the last few years?’
I knew the best response to that was to tell him he was right. ‘Absolutely. But this time it’s different.’
‘Who can guarantee me that?’
‘Nobody. But you’ll see me and look at what I bring you.’
‘Why are you so sure?’
‘Two reasons. The first is that you’re as curious as a polecat. The second is that you’d never miss an opportunity to disgrace me even more.’
He laughed as if I had cracked a joke. We both knew perfectly well it was the truth.
‘Russell, if you waste my time, I’ll tell security to throw you out the window and I’ll make sure personally they’ve done it.’
‘You’re a great man, Wayne.’
‘Your brother was a great man. In his memory I’ll take a look at what you have.’
I never heard from him again until after that night at Joy, the night when everyone’s certainties had been overturned to give way to the vast emptiness of all the things we didn’t know.
As we were waiting for the police to arrive and make their initial investigations, I went looking for a room with a computer and an Internet connection. When I found it, I shut myself away and drafted the first article. I managed to get it all down, as if someone behind me was dictating the words, as if I had always owned that story, as if I’d lived it a thousand times and told it just as often.
Then I emailed and sent it to the paper.
The rest is well known.
Two weeks have gone by since Vivien’s sister’s funeral. Two weeks since the last time I saw her, the last time we talked. Since that moment I’ve been on a merry-go-round that’s been moving so fast. Now it’s time for that merry-go-round to stop, because I still feel an emptiness that the lights of the TV studios and the interviews and my photograph on the front page, this time without any shame, can’t fill. This whole crazy business has taught me that words left unexpressed are sometimes more dangerous and more damaging than those we scream at the top of our voice. It’s taught me that sometimes the only way not to run risks is to take risks. And that the only way not to have debts is not to incur them.
Or to pay them.
And that’s exactly what I’ll do as soon as I get back to New York.
That’s why I’m standing here by my brother’s grave, looking at his face smiling back at me. I return that smile, hoping he can see it. Then I tell him something I’ve been dreaming of telling him for years.
‘I made it, Robert.’
Then I turn and walk away.
Now we’re both free.
The elevator reaches my floor and as soon as the sliding doors open I get a surprise. On the wall facing the elevator, stuck to the wall with transparent adhesive tape, is a photograph.
I go closer to get a proper look at it.
The photograph shows me, in profile, in Bellew’s office, with an absorbed expression, my face slightly shaded by my hair. The shot has caught me in a moment of reflection, and captured to perfection the doubts and the sense of uselessness I was feeling at that moment.
I turn my head and on the wall to my left, just above the bell, is another photograph. I take it in my hand and by the light on the landing look closely.
I’m in this one as well.
In the living room of Lester Johnson’s house in Hornell. My eyes are circled with fatigue but they have a determined expression, as I look at the photograph of Wendell Johnson and Matt Corey in Vietnam. I remember that moment well. It was a moment when everything seemed lost and yet suddenly hope was reborn.
The third photograph is attached to the middle of the door.
Me again, in the apartment in Williamsburg, studying the drawings in the folder for the first time. When I didn’t yet know that they weren’t bad works of art but the ingenious way a man had found to draw a map of his own madness. I remember my mood at that moment. I wasn’t aware of my expression.
At this point I realize my door is ajar. I push the handle and the door opens with a squeak.
On the wall facing the entrance is another photograph.<
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In the dim light coming from outside and filtering into the darkness of the apartment, I can’t quite make it out. I assume it’s another picture of me.
The light comes on in the corridor. I take a step inside, more curious than worried.
To my right, in the middle of the living room, is Russell. He smiles and makes a comical gesture with his hands. ‘Will I be arrested for breaking and entering?’
I pray to God that he doesn’t make me say something stupid. Instead of which, before God has time to intervene, I manage it all by myself. ‘How did you get in?’
He shows me the palm of his left hand. There’s a bunch of keys in it.
‘With the spare keys. I never gave them back to you. At least I can’t be accused of forcing my way in.’
I go to him and look him in the eyes. I can’t believe it but he’s looking at me as I would have liked him to look at me from the first moment that I saw him. He moves aside and points to the table. I turn my eyes and see that it’s laid for two, with a white linen tablecloth and china plates and silverware and a lighted candle in the middle.
‘I did promise you dinner, remember?’
Maybe he doesn’t know he’s already won. Or else he does know and just wants to drive home his advantage. Either way, I have no intention of running away. I don’t know what kind of expression I have on my face but, confused as I am, I still think it’s a crime not to have a photograph of it.
Russell approaches the table and points to the food. ‘Here it is. Prepared by my father’s favourite chef. We have lobster, oysters, caviar and a whole lot of other things whose names I can’t remember.’ With an elegant gesture he indicates a bottle cooling in an ice bucket. ‘For the fish course, we have the best champagne.’ Then he picks up a bottle of red wine with a colourful label. ‘And for the rest, Il Matto, a magnificent Italian wine.’
I go to him and throw my arms around his neck.
While I kiss him, I feel that everything is passing and everything is arriving at the same moment. That everything exists and nothing exists only because I’m kissing him. And when I feel him return my kiss, I think I would die without him.