The Last Word Read Free

through the door bearing her suitcases.
    Since then one small outhouse had been restored as Mamoon’s work room. Another run-down barn apparently housed his unused books, copies of his own works in numerous languages, and a disorganised archive, but nobody had been in there for some time. A ‘studio’, where she would write, paint or design, was semi-built for Liana, but remained unfinished, and she used it to dance in. Liana had also been planning, with an architect, a further extension for guests. It was partly this development, along with all the work she’d had done to the house itself, which had busted Mamoon, forcing him to say that if things didn’t improve, he’d have to work for a living.
    Mamoon himself, now in his early seventies, stood waiting for them in the yard with Liana and Yin and Yang, their two young, barking springer spaniels. A handsome and seemingly strong man still, with a wide chest, goatee beard and black eyes, Mamoon was diminutive and dressed in tweedy English country clothing, greens and browns. Liana appeared to be dressed almost entirely in fur, the tails of dead animals dripping down her chest.
    The couple greeted their guests warmly, but it was clear, as Rob fell out of the taxi and gazed deferentially at Mamoon, that Mamoon wasn’t interested in him: Mamoon, to Harry’s satisfaction, gave Rob one of the scathing grimaces he was famous for.
    Rob lurched away to shout at people on the phone. Then, while Liana went off to cook, Rob hurried towards the sofa in the living room, dragging a rug from the floor and plunging under it. ‘The fresh country air always relaxes me. Don’t let it happen to you,’ he said, passing out. ‘And – make sure you impress him.’
    While waiting for Mamoon, who had gone to get changed, Harry contemplated Rob, horizontal rather than lateral, and thought how enviably free and individual the editor was, beyond the disappointing pull of reality.
    ‘Come, please, Harry. Will you?’
    Harry did a double take, for Mamoon had appeared at the door head-to-toe in blue Adidas and trainers. Waving at the young man, he said he would show him his land, two ponds, and the river at the bottom of the field.
    ‘Let’s walk together and talk, since we are both interested in the same thing.’
    ‘What is that, sir?’
    ‘Me.’
    Harry had heard that with his sarcasm, superiority, scrupulosity and argumentative persistence, Mamoon had made hard men, and, in particular – his forte – numerous good-hearted, well-read women weep. However, as they went out of the house and across the garden, Mamoon said nothing about the biography, and made no jokes or cutting remarks. Harry had been taken to meet Mamoon and Liana three weeks before, at a lunch organised by Rob. The talk then had been gossipy and light; Mamoon had been gentle and charming, and had kissed his wife’s hand. Harry imagined that this meeting in the country would be the serious audition. But he seemed already to have been given the job. Or had he? How could he find out?
    They looked at the flowers, vegetables, ponds, and the closed, grubby-looking swimming pool. Then Mamoon looked at Harry and explained that he needed exercise. It turned out that, among other things, Rob had told Mamoon that Harry was an intellectual with a fine singing voice, and also that he’d been a schoolboy tennis champion. Unfortunately, the reprobate now snoring and groaning on the sofa had failed to inform Harry that playing tennis with Mamoon was part of the deal, and that he would be introduced to a pair of Mamoon’s old shorts, while hitting balls for him in the court adjacent to his garden.
    That afternoon, as Mamoon puffed and thrashed, and Harry helped him with his backhand grip and even sculpted Mamoon’s body into his as they worked on his serve, Harry was terrified that Mamoon would drop dead on the court, murdered prematurely by the man sent to embalm him in words.
    The tennis session cheered Mamoon. Clearly seeing that