Michael spooned steaming ribollita into his mouth until he felt his gnawing hunger begin to abate. There had been no snacks that day. Since 1pm all he had done was stay in his office catching up on work and trying to avoid a confrontation with Lucian about taking the previous day off. But now his stomach had ceased to rumble, and he felt less light-headed, the speech Michael had been internally composing for the past thirty-six hours would no longer be contained.
I think we need to talk about our situation, he said. And see if we can come to a more amicable understanding.
Last night Lucian had vowed that if Michael turned up for work he would try his best to get along, and this was his first opportunity to put his pledge into practise. He had selected Um Violão Em Primeiro Plano to accompany their dinner. The album by Brazilian guitarist Rosinha De Valença was a gentle, spacey affair filled with summertime dreaminess and slow bossa grooves that immediately diffused any hint of tension in the air.
Okay.
First, I need to ask you a question. And it would be great if you could answer me honestly, and in a civil manner.
Of course. Of course.
Michael felt wrong-footed by Lucian’s affability, but was determined to maintain his resolve. He wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. Usually Lucian provided only a sheet of paper towel, and Michael felt a twinge of guilt that the serviette would now have to be washed.
I need to know if you’re having problems with your memory.
Lucian paused and stared across the coffee table. His instinct was to deny everything and counter attack, and it was taking a surprising amount of will-power to resist both.
I don’t think the reason you’ve hired me is so you can write an autobiography. I think the reason I’m here is to help you keep track of your past so you can either finish the book you’re currently writing, or just prevent people from learning there’s a problem for as long as possible. Because there is a problem, isn’t there? I can tell. The short temper. The forgetfulness. If we’re going to continue working together then I need to know what’s happening, otherwise we’re going to keep having these misunderstandings that become full-blown arguments, which are both boring and exhausting. I can appreciate why you’d want to hide something like this. It must be incredibly upsetting. And I won’t pretend I understand what you’re going through. But I think now is the time to do me the courtesy of telling the truth. Because if you don’t I fear you’re going to lose an assistant, and I’m going to lose the privilege of working for you.
Lucian sat back with a sad, defeated smile. Here I was thinking I was doing such a good job at disguising it…but it appears not. You’re right of course. Something is wrong. I’m not sure what it is exactly, but I assume it’s Alzheimer’s. I can’t really be bothered to go to a doctor to have it diagnosed. I don’t need a name for whatever it is. And I doubt there’s anything that can be done to slow it down. I’m old enough. I’ve had a good time. And I don’t want their drugs getting in the way of my thoughts while I’m trying to finish a book. You’re right, I’m not writing an autobiography. But writers are always incorporating people and places from their lives. It’s unavoidable no matter how hard we try to resist. That’s why I chose you specifically. Because you already know so much about me and my work. I need you to help me remember the things I might have forgotten. That I probably have forgotten. I need you to be the part of my brain that’s dying. And after I’m gone you get to write the definitive biography of Lucian Clarke. But only after I’m gone. Until then you work for me, and finish that novel you’ve started writing. A book will teach you more about what it means to be an author than all the stuff in that office. And I only need three more months. After that, if I’m still compos mentis, we can reassess the situation. Of course if I start losing it before then you’re free to call the doctors and have me taken away. I’ve instructed my lawyers to give you power of attorney. And I’ve filled out a ‘Do not resuscitate’ order. But all that’s a long way off. Things aren’t too bad yet, and won’t be for quite a while. I can still cook and write and listen to music, and smoke as much pot as the next man. For the moment it’s just a bad case of forgetfulness. So at present all I need you to do is not tell anyone and keep working. But maybe at a faster pace. Days off are a luxury I can’t afford anymore.