brand’. Harry was amused to learn that Mamoon, who said little at supper, appearing to park his mind somewhere more congenial and with a better outlook, wasn’t sure what being a brand entailed.
‘Brand, did you say, darling habibi ? Would I have to become like Heinz ketchup or a Mont Blanc pen?’
‘Not ketchup, no, but more like brand Picasso,’ she said. ‘Or Roald Dahl. Crowds of people are in and out of that dismal little shed every five minutes, paying through the nostrils.’ When Mamoon pointed out that Dahl was long dead, Liana said, ‘Never mind that – he is alive in people’s minds. We must sell you better so you are similarly alive.’ She nodded at Harry. ‘This biography will be a good start. Don’t we quite like nice Harry?’
‘The boy has a powerful forehand.’
‘Mamoon, I have to remind you over and over that you haven’t been fairly remunerated for your genius. I go to meetings with our accountants and I can tell you, they may not have read your books, but they have looked at your figures and sighed.’ She took his hand, kissed it, and rubbed it against her neck. ‘Darling, an essay on Tagore won’t repair the jacuzzi.’
Mamoon winced and leaned forward. ‘We have a jacuzzi?’
At least Liana was trying – to sell the film rights to his books; to use Mamoon’s contacts to set up a cookery programme for herself; and to persuade him to give a lucrative lecture tour in the US. She was also intending to ‘pen’, as she put it, a novel about a beautiful, Italian woman who falls in love with a genius. Harry would, he’d been informed, help her with this task. Who these days, apart from old-fashioned Mamoon, bothered to write their own novels, any more than they designed their own houses? Would Harry read what she’d done so far and make suggestions?
Harry got up and went out into the yard for a smoke. Liana followed him, saying, ‘Why did you make that distasteful face in my house? Mamoon lives in a dream world! If I didn’t protect him, he’d be broke. Don’t forget you’re here to show the world what an artist is.’
‘That’s what I’m trying to do.’
‘You know, Harry, I get a little tired of you sniffing around listening, suddenly coming up with a sly question about what happened whenever and why. Let me ask you a question. How many bedrooms were there in the house you grew up in?’ When he hesitated she went on, ‘There you are. You can’t remember. Five? Six?’
‘It was a Norman Shaw house, in Bedford Park, in Chiswick, West London. They were a bit run down. Dad sold it when I went up to Cambridge. Silly really, as those houses are worth millions now and film stars live there.’
‘But your father was a surgeon.’
‘He was a doctor, and became a psychiatrist, working first in an asylum and then in a hospital.’
‘ Salaud – never mind that! Mamoon and I have had to work like dogs to achieve all that we have, while you were brought up in the top one per cent of the world’s population. In another time, Harry, you’d have become a politician, a diplomat, an economist or a banker. What went wrong?’
‘It’s all gone right. We were brought up to feel at ease with mad people. Dad would invite his former patients over to the house. Some stayed with us. Dad encouraged us to follow them into their delusion, which he called their story, the narrative which held them together. What was called their madness was really their writing.’
‘What has this got to do with my husband?’ she said.
At one time, he explained, while the Left was railing against imperialism and American influence, and often supporting Third-World fascists, Mamoon interviewed and wrote about powerful politicians, dictators and bearded mass murderers who had, on occasion, personally beheaded their enemies that morning – men who wrote their ‘novels’ in the blood of the people. Mamoon understood this to be a form of story-telling, the making of history by writing. His voice
‘Brand, did you say, darling habibi ? Would I have to become like Heinz ketchup or a Mont Blanc pen?’
‘Not ketchup, no, but more like brand Picasso,’ she said. ‘Or Roald Dahl. Crowds of people are in and out of that dismal little shed every five minutes, paying through the nostrils.’ When Mamoon pointed out that Dahl was long dead, Liana said, ‘Never mind that – he is alive in people’s minds. We must sell you better so you are similarly alive.’ She nodded at Harry. ‘This biography will be a good start. Don’t we quite like nice Harry?’
‘The boy has a powerful forehand.’
‘Mamoon, I have to remind you over and over that you haven’t been fairly remunerated for your genius. I go to meetings with our accountants and I can tell you, they may not have read your books, but they have looked at your figures and sighed.’ She took his hand, kissed it, and rubbed it against her neck. ‘Darling, an essay on Tagore won’t repair the jacuzzi.’
Mamoon winced and leaned forward. ‘We have a jacuzzi?’
At least Liana was trying – to sell the film rights to his books; to use Mamoon’s contacts to set up a cookery programme for herself; and to persuade him to give a lucrative lecture tour in the US. She was also intending to ‘pen’, as she put it, a novel about a beautiful, Italian woman who falls in love with a genius. Harry would, he’d been informed, help her with this task. Who these days, apart from old-fashioned Mamoon, bothered to write their own novels, any more than they designed their own houses? Would Harry read what she’d done so far and make suggestions?
Harry got up and went out into the yard for a smoke. Liana followed him, saying, ‘Why did you make that distasteful face in my house? Mamoon lives in a dream world! If I didn’t protect him, he’d be broke. Don’t forget you’re here to show the world what an artist is.’
‘That’s what I’m trying to do.’
‘You know, Harry, I get a little tired of you sniffing around listening, suddenly coming up with a sly question about what happened whenever and why. Let me ask you a question. How many bedrooms were there in the house you grew up in?’ When he hesitated she went on, ‘There you are. You can’t remember. Five? Six?’
‘It was a Norman Shaw house, in Bedford Park, in Chiswick, West London. They were a bit run down. Dad sold it when I went up to Cambridge. Silly really, as those houses are worth millions now and film stars live there.’
‘But your father was a surgeon.’
‘He was a doctor, and became a psychiatrist, working first in an asylum and then in a hospital.’
‘ Salaud – never mind that! Mamoon and I have had to work like dogs to achieve all that we have, while you were brought up in the top one per cent of the world’s population. In another time, Harry, you’d have become a politician, a diplomat, an economist or a banker. What went wrong?’
‘It’s all gone right. We were brought up to feel at ease with mad people. Dad would invite his former patients over to the house. Some stayed with us. Dad encouraged us to follow them into their delusion, which he called their story, the narrative which held them together. What was called their madness was really their writing.’
‘What has this got to do with my husband?’ she said.
At one time, he explained, while the Left was railing against imperialism and American influence, and often supporting Third-World fascists, Mamoon interviewed and wrote about powerful politicians, dictators and bearded mass murderers who had, on occasion, personally beheaded their enemies that morning – men who wrote their ‘novels’ in the blood of the people. Mamoon understood this to be a form of story-telling, the making of history by writing. His voice
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