The Truth and Other Lies Read Free Page A

of the sentence for later. Where Martha in her hermetically sealed world got hold of the ideas for creating such illustrious characters remained a mystery to him. She wasn’t well traveled, and yet she knew the whole world. He cooked for her; they talked, were silent, made love. At night she got up to write; in the early afternoon he made them something to eat, and then he read what she’d written. He kept every single page of her writing safe; she never asked about it. In this way their love grew quietly, as a matter of course. They took pleasure in doing things together and profited from one another; Henry could not imagine ever being happier. It was just up to him not to destroy the harmony.
    Henry sent the manuscript of Frank Ellis in his own name to four publishers he’d looked up in the phone book. First he had had to make a solemn vow to Martha that he would under no circumstances reveal who had written it. It was to remain a lifelong secret, and if anything actually got published, it could only be under his name. Henry thought that was all right and swore not to tell. In his own way, he kept his word.
    ———
    For a long time, there was no reply. Henry forgot he’d sent it off, and if he’d known how infinitesimal the chances of an unsolicited manuscript are, he wouldn’t have invested in the postage. But ignorance often proves to be a true blessing.
    Meanwhile, Henry worked at the fruit market. He got up at two in the morning and came home toward midday, dead tired and reeking of vegetables, to tidy up and cook something for Martha.
    Martha introduced Henry to her parents. She had hesitated for a long time, and Henry understood why when he met her father. Throughout their first meeting, Martha’s father, a fireman who’d taken early retirement, eyed Henry with smoldering ill will from his velour armchair. Rheumatism was gnawing away at his joints and had already claimed his thumb. Martha’s mother was a cashier at a supermarket, a cheerful woman, warm and sensitive, just the way a mother ought to be.
    They drank coffee with cardamom in the upholstered landscape of the living room and chatted about trivialities. Henry saw yellow birds in a cage on the sideboard, waiting for death. The father’s pride and joy was his collection of historic firemen’s helmets, which he kept in an illuminated glass-fronted cabinet. He told Henry all about every one of them, specifying date, place of origin, and function, while his eyes scrutinized Henry’s face for signs of weariness or indifference. But Henry endured the ordeal with unflagging stoicism and even interrupted him to ask interested questions.
    There was a cold winter. Henry got hold of a new door and two fabulous electric blankets, and he insulated the windows. He had spotted the door in a Dumpster full of scrap timber. He climbed into the Dumpster in thick, driving snow to salvage the heavy door, which he shouldered and lugged home on his back like a leaf-cutter ant. He took the plane to it here and there, added a piece at the bottom, and hung it. Now a cold draft no longer came in. Martha was delighted. Henry’s handyman’s skills had always turned women on. DIY and hobbies drive away the demons of boredom and negative thoughts. Henry simply liked mending things—not in order to impress, but because it was fun and because there was nothing better to do.
    The following spring Henry killed his father-in-law. He bought him a historic helmet once worn in the Vienna fire brigade, which is, as it happens, the oldest professional fire brigade in the world. The aging collector’s surprise and pleasure were so great that his aneurysm ruptured and he fell down dead. Henry had carried off the perfect tyrannicide without either knowing what he was doing or meaning to do it. As a result he had no guilty conscience, because, as Henry said to himself, the insidious blood vessel in the old man’s brain could have burst when he was taking a shit. Everyone was pleased