I’m back in St Tropez. Arnie is right: there’s no real market for death or consciousness. I’m going to have to go it alone on this one. I’ve taken a last handful of Prozac and thrown away the bottle. My whole New York trip was a Prozac mirage. Thank God I didn’t get the deal; this way I’m free, free as the wind, the open road. I’m going to get rid of this house and spend the last few months of my life in a hotel.
The estate agent who sold me the house for four million francs, a Welsh windbag with bright orange hair called Dai Varey, says that if I put it on the market for three million he can get rid of it ‘in a jiffy’. He arrived wearing a blue blazer with heraldic buttons and a humorous tie with pink elephants trunk-to-tail from neck to navel.
‘What I tell my clients,’ he said, ‘is forget the Alpes Maritimes and come to the Var. The air’s like champagne, the sea’s as clean as a whistle, and the natives are friendly.’
‘I remember,’ I said.
We walked to the end of the terrace and looked at the small valley in front of the house, still agricultural, like a streak of cortisone in the psoriasis of development.
‘That’s breathtaking,’ said Dai. ‘Those red leaves are an absolute knockout. May I ask, if it’s not too personal a question, why you’re leaving in such a hurry?’
‘I’m dying.’
‘Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Dai, relieved. ‘It comes to all of us in the end, doesn’t it? Only, I had a very nasty experience with a molto presto sale that fell through because the vendor turned out to be involved in activities which were of more than casual interest to the boys in blue, if you know what I mean. You can imagine how interested the gendarmerie were in my commission. Fortunes of war, eh, fortunes of war.’
True to his word, Dai got rid of the house in a jiffy and sold it later that afternoon.
‘That was quick,’ I said.
‘I bought it myself,’ he explained, standing on the chimney stack and admiring the sea view. ‘It seemed such a bargain. I couldn’t believe my luck, a house like this coming on to the market at three million francs.’
Why would I regret leaving this sanctuary, with its Vietnam-movie soundtrack of choppers overhead, gunfire from the scrap of woodland that’s left standing, the drone of a low private plane, the whistle of a higher jet, the chain-saw whine of the circling motorcycles, and the frantic honking of adulterous wives racing home through crowded lanes?
One of the great things about dying is that if you liquidate all your assets you can really pump up your monthly income. With half a million francs a month, I can move into the Hôtel du Grand Large in Villefranche-sur-Mer. My daughter will be all right; her mother kept our house in Belsize Park, although she says that her ‘real home’ is Tibet.
As I was leaving the house for the last time, the phone rang. It was my ex-wife, Heidi.
‘I was just thinking about you,’ I said.
‘So what?’ she said. ‘How many times have you thought about me without getting a call?’
‘Thousands,’ I said, admitting the justice of her argument.
‘Is that all, you stingy bastard?’
‘Let’s not argue,’ I pleaded. ‘I’ve been told that I have only six months to live.’
‘Don’t forget that death is a crucial moment in your spiritual development,’ she said.
‘How is Ton Len?’
‘Oh, she’s so sweet at the moment. She’s obsessed with levitation. You’re missing her at her most adorable.’
‘I know,’ I said.
‘One day she’ll realize that these fancy tricks are all very well for impressing simple people at country fairs, but they are nothing compared to the joy and compassion that spring from the realization of emptiness.’
‘Naturally,’ I said. Heidi gets very touchy if I question her grasp of Tibetan culture, and so I just agree to everything. ‘Any chance of seeing her?’ I asked, opening the old wound.
‘None at all,’ she said.
‘I’m going to be dead soon.’
‘All the more reason not to get her overexcited. It’s typically selfish of you trying to get your child attached to something so ephemeral.’
‘I just want her to know that I love her,’ I said, beginning to cry.
‘Was it very loving to fuck that chambermaid when you thought I was out skating with Ton Len? Was it very loving to cut me out of a co-producer’s credit on the Aliens deal? Was it…’
I put the phone down on a cushion and went outside. I knew the speech off by heart and knew that I had between six and seven minutes to sob uncontrollably in the garden.
When I picked up the phone again, Heidi was saying, ‘I sometimes wonder if you listen to a word I say.’
‘I thought you were committed to loving-kindness,’ I said wearily.
‘I am,’ she protested. ‘Except when I hate somebody. Like all Tibetan-styled people I’m basically happy and giggly. If you get reborn as something cuddly and snugly, we might adopt you. A bouncy puppy,’ she suggested, ‘or a little kitty cat. There are monks who can follow you into the Bardo consciousness and out the other side. It’s awesome. You wouldn’t believe what some of these guys can do. It’s so cool being Tibetan.’
‘Far out,’ I said. ‘But no chance in this lifetime.’
‘None at all,’ said Heidi. ‘Ciao, baby. See you round the universe.’