Lucian glanced up from the biographical notes that Michael had written during the afternoon. Pardon?
Why are there no photographs of you around the house?
What would I want to look at myself for?
Okay, sure, but I haven’t found anything in the boxes either. The only picture of you I’ve come across is the same publicity shot that all the newspapers use, which must have been taken when The Bombardier was published.
Lucian shrugged and went back to his reading. Don’t worry too much about photographs. They tend to be a pretty unreliable source of information.
But you must have a photo album somewhere. And it might help me to place you in different locations.
Lucian pretended not to hear and continued to read.
What about those pictures on your bedroom wall? Michael knew there was a risk that Lucian might complain about his privacy being violated, but as a carer there could be no corner of the house he was prohibited from visiting.
What about them?
You’re not in any of them?
Had a close look did you?
Michael stood at the kitchen bench waiting for Lucian to stop being childish.
I’m not in any of them because I’m the person who took them. Seems obvious to me.
But shouldn’t we go through them and identify who’s who so I could add them to my notes.
Sorry. Can’t help you. I don’t remember half the faces in those photos. They’re strangers to me as much as they are to you.
Michael reproached himself for his lack of sensitivity. Sorry.
No problem. I sometimes forget why you’re here as well.
But what about the people you do remember? You don’t think it’s worth writing down who they are?
Lucian set Michael’s notes on the coffee table and stood up with grunt of effort. Come on, come with me. I’ve told you this before but it seems I have to explain it to you again. He walked into the library and indicated to the shelves lining the room. This is my photo album. An entire lifetime of reading. Every one of these books contains a memory of a place or an event or a person that’s more vivid in my mind than any photograph.
All right then, said Michael as he sat in the chair next to Sadie’s basket – she rolled onto her back and offered her stomach for him to rub – let’s put it to use.
Right now?
Michael reached for the pen and paper that was always on the small round table at the centre of the room. You want to wait until you forget this as well?
Lucian could see that Michael was determined to have his way, and conceded there might be merit in the idea. He turned to his bookshelves looking left and right, up and down. The main difficulty was that there were so many books to choose from. And Lucian was surprised at how many stories he could actually remember.
All right, here we go. Death Comes for the Archbishop by Willa Cather. You see for me that book is Ladbroke Grove in London. Grey streets. Grey sky. A basement flat with traffic just outside my front door. Crap job, which after rent and food left me with barely enough money to go to the cinema. Terrible homesickness. And a constant yearning to see the sky. Thankfully the pages of this book are filled with sunlight. Well for me they are at least.
Here’s another London one. Gormenghast by Mervyn Peake. By the time I was reading this I was on my feet a bit more. Had a better-paid job, knew my way around Soho, and was sharing a house in Kensal Rise with some people who worked in the bookstores along Charing Cross Road. It also reminds of the National Portrait Gallery in St Martin’s Place. You ever get the chance to visit it, go and see Mervyn Peake’s self-portrait. Captures his sensibility perfectly.
Lucian selected a worn paperback of The Third Policeman. Read this in Venice. On the top floor of an apartment in the Jewish Quarter. Like most people the first time I went to Venice I got hopelessly lost. But the second time – the time I read this book – I used public transport and seemed to find my way around just fine. Ate like a king. And I’ll never forget the Peggy Guggenheim Collection. More Jackson Pollocks than I’d ever seen before. And you could stand so close to them.
Okay. Here we go. The Book of Ebenezer Le Page by G.B. Edwards. To me this book is Greece. A small island with one shop, two restaurants, lots of donkeys, and the sound of turkeys gobbling just before sunset. Stayed there for six weeks doing nothing but reading and writing. Lived in a converted boatshed right on the harbour. Fantastic swimming. And the most exquisite little chapel I’ve ever seen. The book is set on an island as well so it must have been why I decided to take it with me.
Lucian shuddered as he pulled out Gilbert Sorrentino’s Aberration of Starlight. I dropped some heavy acid in Canberra once that completely messed with my head, and I remember reading this book three times while I stayed in bed trying to recover. Sorrentino can be a steely mother, but you need that when the bedspread is pulsating.
Whereas this one reminds me of Wood Green, said Lucian as he handed Michael a paperback of The Man on a Donkey by H.F.M. Prescott. A friend in London sent it to me after I left Pisa. He thought it might help take my mind off Grace. And I suppose it worked for a while. But now it just reminds me of how bad I felt at the time. Which is a shame really. It’s a wonderful book. Should be better known.
The Cardboard Crown by Martin Boyd. Patricia’s mother gave me this. Kind woman. Excellent mother-in-law. Tried to make me feel welcome in the family by reading an Australian author. I think it was her first. Reminds me of the deerhound they had as a pet. I’d be reading this on the lawn and he’d walk over and drop down right beside me. Almost on top of me. Lovely animal. I think his name was Fin.
Found this in New Mexico, Lucian said half to himself as he pulled out The Hearing Trumpet by Leonora Carrington. Incredibly imaginative book. Unlike anything else I’d read at the time. I must have recommended it to my students because what it reminds me of most is staring at their blank expressions after I asked them what they’d thought of it. I suspect that was the moment my teaching career officially ended.
Lucian gently passed a hand over the cover of Kristin Lavransdatter by Sigrid Undset. Softly fanned its pages and inhaled their scent. Smiled. Still smells of Portugal, he said. Angela Carter sent this to me after she read The Bombardier. She was working at the University of Adelaide and wrote to her London publisher to buy me a copy on her behalf. But by the time it reached me, and by the time I got around to reading it, she had passed away. Stupid, childish mistake. Imagine not thanking the person who introduces you to such an incredible book. One of my biggest regrets.