The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [82]
“A sexistentialist.”
Noel smiled. “Exactly. Sometimes I think he’s turned into one of the writers on his syllabus—some Decadent from the 1890s.34 He’s convinced that civilisation is in a state of terminal decline …”
“Hard to disagree …”
“… and that faith in any kind of progress is futile—there is simply no better world to come. So he’s decided that life itself must become a kind of artwork—an exercise in style—because there is nothing else it can be.”
“So instead of rebelling, like the Romantics did, he’s chosen apathy and cynicism.”
“And hedonism. The only way he can re-fire his spirit, or so he says, is through new sensations—more and more dangerous sensations. What Baudelaire calls the artificial paradises of the imagination. Drug-induced hallucination, calculated perversity …”
“Alphabetical perversity?”
Noel’s smile shaded into a grimace as he wondered what letter Norval was on. “‘Harmless perversity,’ he calls it.”
Samira was turning the bottle to read its label: Quinta do Noval 1994. “Harmless? Come on, The Alpha Bet does damage. It’s manipulative, exploitive, deceitful …”
Then why are you in love with him? Noel wondered as the list of adjectives grew.
“… callous, mercenary, chauvinist … So why does he do it? Why does he treat women this way? And why so many? Revenge? Because his mother betrayed his father he’s decided to fuck over as many women as possible? Or because he was so shattered by that betrayal—by the loss of his mother, really—that he’s been looking for a substitute in the arms of every woman who crosses his path?”
Noel paused to think this through. “All that’s possible. I really don’t know. I’ve sometimes thought that losing himself in sex is a distraction.”
“A distraction from what?”
“Failure, self-doubt. An inferiority complex.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. Norval? You mean a superiority complex, don’t you?”
“The two usually go hand in hand.”
Here Samira paused, recalling his remark about the stairs that went nowhere. A reminder, he called it. “So that’s why Norval is so prejudiced? Because what he hates in others he sees in himself? But wait, that can’t be it. Can’t be failure and self-doubt. Didn’t he have all kinds of success with his novel? And that film?”
“True, but for him mass appeal is a sign of failure. And besides, that was over a decade ago. He hasn’t done anything since.”
“Is that why he’s so bitter? Why he drinks so much? Because his glory days are behind him?”
“Hardly. He willingly got out of the business.”
“Did he have any other offers, film offers?”
“Lots. Withnail in Withnail and I. Jaques in As You Like It …”
“And what about his novel? Was Bess modelled on anyone? Someone from his own life? Did he live in Nottinghamshire?”
“He’s always maintained she’s pure invention. But I ‘hae ma doots,’ as my mother would say, I hae ma doots. He actually did live in Nottinghamshire, where I think he met his one true love. I think the answer, the key to Norval, is in that book. Have you read it?”
“Yeah, it was in his bookcase, spine turned back to front. I couldn’t put it down. I think it’s absolutely brilliant. That notion of turning back the clock, trying to recapture something lost—it made me cry my eyes out. And his romantic scenes … they’re so beautiful! And so out of character—I can’t believe he wrote that book.”
Noel refilled, handed the goblet to Samira. “I can.”
“Well, you know him better than I do. So is that where he got his money? I mean, his place is … amazing. And he spends like a sultan.”
“He also wrote two songs, believe it or not. In the early nineties. He had a burst of creative energy, producing one masterpiece, or minor masterpiece, in every genre he tried. And then just stopped creating entirely.”
“He wrote songs? Good God. Anything I might know?”
“‘Jardin de supplices’? It got some airplay in France and Spain.”
“Never heard of it. So he made lots of money off that?”
“No, not from his version. But it appeared on a Céline Dion album.”
“Are you serious? Christ! Born under a lucky star or what … What was the