The Last Word Read Online Free PDF Page A

her truth, and he was her kismet . Though she was shy, and had hair like a witch’s web, she could do nothing but beg for his signature, for him to touch her book with his actual hands – the ones that held the pen of genius. He wrote down his number.
    She informed him, the second time she saw him, as they strolled in the sunshine in his favourite place, the Villa Borghese, that she had fallen in love with his primal creative power. He was relieved. He was parched. He took her to dinner. She wore her blue lace skirt. She had never had a dark man. They made love with their eyes. He played the man part well, and invited her to his bed. Though he was a little older than she was used to, what could she do but open herself to him? She was pleased that he was not just a talker like some clever men. In her experience intellectuals were not sufficiently devoted to sex, with weak erections and watery, even frothy semen. But Mamoon undressed her slowly, he knew how to look at her body and let her show herself to him; he knew what to say about a woman. He kissed and caressed her feet, and had her at least three times.
    In the morning he kissed her coffee mouth. He said he loved that taste on her, of bitter black coffee. She had happily stayed in his arms ever since.
    ‘God didn’t grant me children, Harry, but He granted me Mamoon when I thought it might be too late! For a time, I could come just by thinking of him. Can’t we throw Peggy and her diaries away and live the life of the living? I am Tolstoy’s wife: it is like running an estate, this place!’
    ‘Did Mamoon read the diaries?’
    ‘Why, are they so shocking?’ She said, ‘He wasted his life attending to that poor woman who killed herself just to spite him. Why would he want to fritter away another moment on such a spoilt and sullen creature?’
    ‘He acknowledges in interviews that the two of them worked together on his manuscripts. She was the only person who wasn’t afraid to edit him.’
    ‘See how kind he is, praising her when we know the truth – that it was obviously all his work!’
    Harry said, ‘Perhaps she was like the Beatles with George Martin – impossible to subtract from the work.’
    ‘Please, stop these stupid distractions. You know we are in need of a career boost up. I can tell you, to help the finances even more, I am going to write my own book. If I let you see some of it, you can offer advice.’
    ‘I’d love to. But Liana, I must speak to Mamoon if I’m to make a picture of him alive, here and now. Otherwise I think I will pack right up and go home at the weekend.’
    ‘ Acha ,tonight then,’ she said.
    They would have a proper supper and Harry would join them.
       
    At seven thirty a bell was rung downstairs. Harry left his work. He learned that Liana liked the round supper table by the window to be properly laid with crisp napkins, shining cutlery, candles, and the best champagne and wine. She was in jeans and a V-neck jumper, and Mamoon wore a fresh shirt. When Harry entered, Liana glared disapprovingly at his raggedy T-shirt, which he would be sure never to wear again, or would perhaps incinerate. Their housekeeper, Ruth, who had veined arms and a grey, bitter mouth, and was wearing black with a white apron, served them silently. Her sister was cooking.
    Harry had heard from Rob that being merely a literature lover, Liana had had inflated ideas about Mamoon’s standing and wealth, with little notion of what the life of a professional writer was like. She’d been shocked by how modest an income his books actually generated. A small but lofty reputation didn’t translate into cash. Her accountants had told her that unless things improved, the couple would, in the near future, have to sell the house and land and move somewhere smaller. ‘Perhaps to the lowest of the low, Harry – even a bungalow!’
    It became clear that Liana had convinced herself that the solution to this was for Mamoon to become, as she put it, ‘a