‘How incredibly crass. Do you mean to tell me that you sat on a flight next to each other – I’m assuming you sat next to each other – and were forced to read his book while he watched you turn the pages? And then on the train from Rome too?’
‘Yes,’ said Maurice.
‘Pathetic behaviour,’ said Gore dismissively. ‘It reminds me of an occasion when I agreed to meet another novelist for dinner in Cologne, a mediocre hack if I’m honest. He deliberately kept me waiting in the lobby of his hotel, possibly to assert some sort of dominance over me, and when he finally deigned to appear he was carrying a book with him, one of his own, and he claimed he’d been re-reading it on the flight. What an ass, I thought. Still, I suppose someone had to read the damned thing. It’s not as if the general public took to it.’
He waited for Maurice to ask who the novelist had been and, when the question didn’t arrive, he felt a mixture of disappointment and frustration.
‘What did you think of it, anyway?’ he asked. ‘Dash’s book, I mean.’
‘It’s not one of his better ones,’ replied Maurice quickly. ‘I still have three hundred pages to go too. I’d give up if it weren’t for the fact that he’ll want a full report later.’
Gore smiled and tapped his finger on the desk. Interesting, he thought. How easily the boy mocks his benefactor.
‘I should have asked,’ he said. ‘What was the book you were intending to read?’
‘Myra Breckinridge,’ said Maurice, and Gore couldn’t help himself. He burst out laughing.
‘Oh, my dear boy,’ he said. ‘You are good at this, aren’t you? I can see you’re going to be a tremendous success.’
Over dinner, the discussion turned to Maurice’s novel. Gore had avoided making any direct reference to it all afternoon but Howard, who had returned home in disarray, having had his wallet stolen in a café before unsuccessfully chasing the thief through the streets of Ravello, asked when it would be published.
‘Oh, but it’s already out,’ said Dash, delighted that the conversation was turning to his protégé at last, which was far more appealing to him than the lecture on the Emperor Galba that Gore had been delivering for almost forty minutes. ‘The British edition, that is. And some of the European ones. But the Americans don’t publish until September. That’s where you come in, Gore.’
‘Me?’ asked Gore, lifting a prawn from his plate and shelling it in a trio of expert movements before dipping the crustacean in Cassiopeia’s excellent chilli dressing and popping it into his mouth. There were hundreds of reasons for spending the autumn of one’s life on the Amalfi Coast but the quality of the seafood was near the top of that list. ‘What have I got to do with anything?’
‘We thought you might offer an endorsement. You don’t mind our asking, do you?’
‘We being …？’
‘Maurice and I.’
‘Dash, please,’ said Maurice, doing his best to look uncomfortable but proving himself an imperfect actor.
‘Is that what you hoped for, Maurice?’ asked Gore, turning to the boy and looking him directly in the eye. ‘Did you hope that I might endorse your novel?’
‘Actually, I’d prefer if you didn’t,’ he replied.
‘Maurice!’ cried Dash, appalled.
‘Really?’ said Gore, equally surprised by this remark. ‘May I ask why?’
‘Because I wouldn’t want you to think that’s the only reason I came here tonight. When Dash suggested you might host us for dinner, I knew I would cancel anything on my calendar in order to attend. I’ve been an admirer of yours for many years and the opportunity to meet you in person was one that was too good to pass up. But I wouldn’t want you to think that I came here only to exploit your good nature.’
Gore couldn’t help but laugh at the suggestion. Many outrageous things had been said about him over the years, after all, thousands of unkind comments from the likes of Truman, Harper, Norman, Buckley, Tricky Dick, Updike and all the rest of them, but no one had ever had the bad manners to accuse him of having a good nature. He glanced towards Howard, who was smiling too as he poured more wine.
‘So how about I say that, even if you were to offer an endorsement, I would reject it,’ continued Maurice.
‘If your editor could hear you now, he’d put a gag across your mouth.’
‘Of course, should you find the time to read my novel, I’d be very interested to know what you make of it. In a private capacity, of course. Man to man.’
Gore sipped his drink and, for once, felt stuck for words. Exactly what game was the boy playing? It was difficult to decipher. Was he serious when he said that he would turn down a quote from him if one was offered and, if so, was that an insult or a compliment? Perhaps, he thought, his name no longer held enough weight to warrant a sentence or two across the dust jacket of a debut novel. If that was the case, then it might be time to leave Italy and return to public life. Or did the boy not want the patronage of a man Gore’s age, preferring the support of younger, more fashionable writers? A weight of sorrow fell upon him and, as he reached for another prawn, he changed his mind and dropped it back into the bowl with its fellows, his appetite destroyed.
‘What’s your novel about, anyway?’ asked Howard, sitting back in his chair and looking at Maurice with an expression that suggested he would have no objection to the boy slowly removing his clothes as he answered.
‘It’s about Erich Ackermann,’ said Dash, leaning forward enthusiastically, his face lighting up with the enthusiasm of a fat man at an all-you-can-eat buffet.
‘Who’s Erich Ackermann?’
‘Dread,’ said Gore. ‘You’ve read it.’
‘Have I?’
‘Yes, you admired it.’
‘All right.’ Howard considered this for a moment. ‘He wasn’t the fellow we met at that festival in Jaipur, was he? With the moustache and the pipe? The one who kept bursting into song at inappropriate moments?’
‘No, that was Günter Grass.’
‘Oh yes. I liked him.’
Gore raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t wild about Howard liking other writers, particularly eminent ones. Although he didn’t much care for him liking younger writers either, those whose eminence was only imminent.
‘Actually, it’s not about Erich Ackermann,’ interrupted Maurice, a note of irritation in his voice. ‘Seriously, Dash, I wish you’d stop saying that. It’s a novel, after all. A work of fiction. Not a biography.’
‘You’ve written a novel that features Erich Ackermann as a character?’ asked Howard.
‘I suppose that’s a reasonable way of putting it, yes.’
‘And does he mind?’
‘He hasn’t said one way or the other.’
‘Did you have to ask his permission?’
‘No.’
‘Isn’t there some sort of moral conflict there then?’ asked Howard.
‘None whatsoever,’ said Dash. ‘There can be no discussion of morality when it comes to art. A writer must tell the story that captures his soul. Gore’s written about Aaron Burr, after all. And Lincoln. And the Emperor Julian.’