The Restoration of Otto Laird Read Online Free PDF Page B

pretty obvious that something is amiss. I find myself in an odd situation, mentally. Is it like this for everyone at a certain age, do you think? So little serious work has been done on the psychology of ageing. I find that there are moments of great clarity, even wisdom of a kind. But there are also moments of terrible confusion – perhaps that’s the price for those of wisdom. And I keep thinking about the past. It swamps me, sometimes; more vividly than I’ve ever known before.
    So, you see, it’s important that I keep myself busy, although not – I regret to inform you – by reading any more Foucault. I hope that doesn’t upset you. Do you think we could write about other things instead? How is your body bearing up these days, for instance? Do you still get laid, now and then? Do you regret your failed marriage to the violinist? Are you as frightened of ageing as I am? My guess is that you must be, judging by your behaviour. Racing round the Bois de Boulogne like a man possessed. You ought to be careful at your age, you know. They’ll find you dead under the trees, one of these days, and think you were up to no good.
    Anyway, I hope you don’t mind the rather candid tone of this letter. I realise it’s somewhat out of keeping with our usual discussions, but please don’t take any offence, because absolutely none is intended. I’m attempting to save our friendship, not destroy it. It’s been so many years since we spoke honestly to each other. I think now is the time to scrape off this crust of formality that has developed between us, and get back to basics while there is still time. We used to have so much fun together, do you remember?
    I hope to hear from you soon, old dear, and sorry once more for my rambling thoughts. Look after yourself and good luck with the launch of the new book. Friday week, isn’t it?
    With deepest affection,
    Otto
    He read the letter back to himself, correcting one or two grammatical errors as he did so. Should he send it? If he was going to, then he must do so quickly, before he had a chance to change his mind. Pierre was an unpredictable fellow, and there was no telling how he might react to Otto’s irreverent tone. It was decades since they had spoken like this, before the accolades and awards began to weigh them down with their own self-importance. Pierre might laugh delightedly, with that deep, infectious bellow of his. Or he might catch the first flight over and punch Otto’s lights out.
    Sod it – just send it to him, thought Otto. I can walk to the postbox this minute. I’m feeling well enough today. Then I’ll come back and write some more, now that I’m in the right frame of mind.
    He was already planning how to tackle the next letter on the pile. It was from his old friend Laszlo – an architect turned avant-garde composer. But just as he was searching out his jacket in the hallway, the telephone rang in his study.

Four
    â€˜Otto, it’s Angelo.’
    â€˜That was quick.’
    â€˜Quicker than expected – which is a good sign, hopefully. I’ve several developments to report, if you have a few minutes.’
    â€˜Of course.’
    Otto sat down.
    â€˜Firstly, I’ve been in touch with my lawyer and she’s already preparing the paperwork. We have a strong case – there are precedents – and your name will be a factor, too. Secondly, a number of influential people have indicated that they are willing to help out with the campaign. The Twentieth Century Society are definitely interested. English Heritage have said they will take a look. And I’ve also spoken to several of your friends and former colleagues in the profession. Norman, Richard, Rowena – even Jorge has said he’ll write something on your behalf.’
    â€˜My goodness, has he really?’
    Jorge was the rival who had designed Marlowe House’s loftier neighbour.
    â€˜You’d be