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  Contents

  An Introduction to All This—December 2006

  Part One—March 15 to August 17, 2007

  1. A Surprising Letter from Butterfly That Changed Everything

  2. Tomomi Ishikawa’s Computer

  21/2. Tomomi Ishikawa’s Writing

  3. Tomomi Ishikawa’s Apartment Is Mysteriously Cleared

  4. Tomomi Ishikawa’s Dead

  5. Stranger (?–2001)

  6. Tomomi Ishikawa’s Paris

  7. Jay (1970–1998)

  8. Looking Underground

  9. Resistance

  10. Treasure Hunting

  Part Two—August 20 to August 28, 2007

  11. Arriving in New York

  12. On the Steps of the New York Public Library

  13. The Book in the Piano

  14. Komori (1942–1999)

  15. Mr. C. Streetny

  16. Beatrice’s Good Mood Starts to Seem Strained

  17. Tracy (1966–1997)

  18. Yogurt and the East Village Gardening Association

  19. Guy Bastide (1942–2000)

  20. McCarthy Square

  21. Daddy (1942–2001)

  22. Unfinished Things and a Goodbye

  23. In Which Some Unsaid Things Are Said

  24. A Meeting in the Park at Midnight

  Part Three—September 2007

  25. Incessant Nagging

  251/2. Cigarettes and Water

  26. A Sticky Situation

  27. An Ending

  A Letter to Tomomi Ishikawa—November 2008

  Readers Group Guide

  About Benjamin Constable

  An Introduction to All This

  ‘I’d like to write a book where the two main characters are me and you,’ I said to Tomomi Ishikawa, and absentmindedly organised the objects on the table.

  ‘Oh good,’ she said, and started to cough. ‘I could have consumption. And we could go and live in Italy and you would spend your evenings drinking absinthe with women of ill repute, and you’d write terrible, terrible romantic poetry that you’d read to me on my deathbed and I would tell you it was the beauty of your verse that was killing me.’

  I stopped myself laughing. ‘That’s not really what I had in mind.’

  ‘Really?’ She sounded surprised. ‘Why, what were you thinking of?’

  ‘It’s the story of two people who hang out and talk about stuff.’

  ‘Uh-huh, yes, good,’ said Tomomi Ishikawa. ‘And what’s the angle?’

  ‘There is no angle. There’s no romance, no adventure, no—’

  ‘Wait, wait, wait, you must be mistaken. That would be boring. A book like this should have at least a betrayal, a stolen painting and a talking dog, or a monkey.’

  ‘Oh.’ I thought she would have been impressed with my idea. ‘Well, perhaps there could be a mystery. Like a series of killings we have to solve.’

  ‘I see,’ said Tomomi Ishikawa, ‘but who could have done them?’

  ‘You!’ I grinned.

  ‘Me? Oh, Ben Constable, thank you. I will change my name to Mimsie and then the book can be called M Is for Murder!’

  ‘Ow!’ Now I laughed. ‘No. I’ll be called Ben Constable and you will be called Tomomi Ishikawa.’

  ‘But those are our real names.’

  ‘That’s the point.’

  ‘Oh, OK. You could still call me Butterfly, though; it’s less formal—B Is for Murder.’

  ‘It’ll be like a nickname,’ I assured her. ‘And the twisty plot will beckon the reader through the streets of Paris, and New York too.’

  She leaned in across the table. ‘Will Ben Constable perhaps be the final victim?’

  I leaned in as well. ‘I’m not fond of that idea.’

  ‘Don’t you even want my help?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Do you think . . .’ We both stopped to see who would speak but Tomomi Ishikawa took the conch. ‘Do you think you might spare me the gallows? It’s such a dismal end after the glamour of a criminal’s life.’

  ‘There won’t be gallows,’ I said. ‘I’m not even sure that there’ll be murders. You’re not imagining the same book as I am, Tomomi Ishikawa. I want to write about an unusual friendship. I don’t want to ruin it with fanciness and gimmicks.’

  ‘But you said—’

  ‘It’s about things like now, this conversation.’

  ‘So they talk and they drink and laugh late into the night.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Our reality’s as gripping as any fiction.’

  ‘Sure it is.’ She smiled. ‘But maybe at the end of the evening the fictional Tomomi Ishikawa could stalk some women who were in the same bar’—she shot a glance at the people at the next table, then lowered her voice—‘and kill them one by one, leaving their entrails draped across their naked bodies.’

  ‘Maybe you should write your own book,’ I said.

  She considered this for a moment. ‘Yes. Maybe I should.’

  PART ONE

  March 15 to August 17, 2007

  1

  A Surprising Letter from Butterfly That Changed Everything

  Paris—March 15, 2007

  Dear Ben Constable,

  You may well be curious to know why I have sent a letter and not a text message or an email; why didn’t I just call for the pleasure of laughter, or wait until we were seated at a table in the corner of a busy café, turned sideways on our chairs with our backs to the wall so as not to blow smoke in the other’s face, our coats on a stand by the door with the distant smell of rain, and droplets tracing watery furrows down the window as we turn to face each other directly, because the conversation has, perhaps, become more intense, and we carefully place our elbows so as not to upset the coffee cups or, better still, wineglasses? And why, you may ask yourself, is it a typed letter, not handwritten (more intimate), with the delicate and honorable craft of calligraphy?

  I’m sure it has crossed your mind that the time taken to write and the effort to deliver such a letter suggest a message or a purpose greater than idly occupying myself on a sleepless night, more urgent than to flatter with evidence I was thinking of you.

  But what about the tactile delight of paper, Ben Constable? Why should I not write simply for the multisensory pleasure it gives, to bask in the gratification of the words, or for the weight of a thousand of years, no—much more, thousands, of letter-writing tradition?

  You are right, of course; there is an explanation, although it is one I am loath to give, because you will not want to hear it. If only I had something to say that was joyful or could gently overwhelm you with images and sensations of wonder, but this is not that kind of letter, I’m afraid. And I become tangled as I try to dilute it, coat it in sugar. Would that it were possible to make you smile in spite of me.

  And now, with such seeds of apprehension sown, I should no longer skirt the issue. But the point is choked up somewhere between the lump in my throat and my stumbling fingertips. If I could avoid it long enough, maybe it would go away or drift into memory like a bad dream. But alas, this point will not fade so easily.

  Oh, how bad can it be? I’m not your girlfriend, so you can’t be dumped. I’m not your boss, so you’re not fired. You have done nothing wrong, you have not hurt me, I am not angry, I love you (and that’s not the point either, by the way. I
’m not about to embarrassingly prostrate myself before you, begging that we live out our tiny lives in tedium and grow old and frail in each other’s arms).

  And if the reason for my writing is still enigmatically shrouded in drivel, what I imagine is becoming clearer is my method for postponing the inevitable. As well you know, I have long taken shameless pleasure in the avoidance of the crux of any matter. “The point” is so often a delicacy to be savored, its anticipation a tantalizing delight, teasing its way closer with agonizing lethargy, in its every delay a mounting of the tension and a prolongation of the bliss.

  However, what I have to say is important and sadly carries with it little pleasure. (Parenthetically, this style of never getting to the point is in some ways an appropriate reflection of our friendship. We are neither of us a stranger to the eternal flow of conversation, twisting its way across the floodplain, dallying in the shallows, splashing over small rocks, resting calm in deep pools, spinning in eddies and forming unlikely currents, because the experience of the journey has been the joy, and to reach the ocean is to signal the end. And maybe we had the remote idea that time could never run out and that we would never be bored, that the river would never stop flowing, as if the parenthesis could be endless and the brackets would never need to be closed and the opening clause never resolved, leaving the point to be continued at another, nonspecified time until eternity, and even then the sentence would just finish with an ellipsis . . . And I almost feel as though we could have gotten away with it too if it weren’t for one overriding fact that spoils the whole thing. It’s an obvious fact, and one that you know about, Ben Constable. The fact is that death will finish our conversation long before eternity even comes close.)

  And this sadly brings me to the point, if only I could have said it earlier, and I did once try before I knew you too well; it seemed easier then. Do you remember, Ben Constable, you were drinking with your friends in a bar a few streets from here and I rang you to say hi (I wasn’t feeling too good)? You told me to come and join you, and I didn’t want to cramp your style, I would have left quickly, but you talked mostly just to me, and after a while your friends went on to a party, and you and I stayed drinking wine until close. Then we walked up Ménilmontant and I showed you the cobbled street at the top where there is a secret place to sit and we smoked a cigarette or two, and the point was becoming distant. I was just happy to be with you and we laughed in lowered voices so as not to disturb the neighbors and I wasn’t sad anymore and the point drifted out of reach. Perhaps that was the beginning of this overly worded, endless sentence that is all our conversations (the carefree tangents, my avoidance). I’m so proud; it seems I’ve managed another paragraph without telling you why I’m writing.

  But now I’m not playing because, this one time, the point isn’t the last thing. It’s the trigger for something new, the beginning of something bigger, the start of an adventure, Ben Constable. So here it is (I hesitate, trying to think of some other urgent distraction, but there is none): the point is that I’m going to die.

  Of course, death comes to us all, but I’m dying more quickly. And I’m not going to drag it out, desperately clinging to the fading crepuscule of my life; I’m going to kill myself. Sorry. I don’t imagine that this is in any way entertaining for you. But I wanted to say goodbye.

  I also wanted to introduce you to an idea: you are the inheritor of a thing, or many things, I’ve been making for years, since long before I knew of your existence—since my childhood, in fact. I can’t tell you what it is yet; that would spoil it. It’s a surprise.

  But by the time these pages find your hands I will have been dead for a few hours. And as I’m writing, Ben Constable, I am sad because I miss you already. It seems such a shame to finish it all. But I’d like the dignity of control in my ending. I think you can understand that, because you know that endings do not always come last, and that they are only a question of definition, a place to change activity, theme or pace.

  Hey, can I tell you some stuff? Stupid stuff, nothing exciting. But even at this of all moments, my attention snags on things that I like, things I think of as treasures. I’d love to show you. I’d love you to know about them.

  The first treasure is the view while I write. I like the sketched lines of the trees at nighttime and looking down through their bare branches at the square below, where on sunny days people gather around the ornate drinking fountain or sit outside the salon de thé, smoking. I love the grand stairway leading up to the doors of the church, towering over the neighborhood like a sentinel. And I love to look at the collected objects around me, each with a story that will die on my parting, and the stopped clock on my wall saves me precious seconds. Its hands point to twenty past three, optimistically suggesting time for one last thing. I will miss my clock, and in my imagination the clock will miss me too.

  And as I note these words I’m reminded how much I love the activity of writing. I might have drawn this up by hand for you to admire my spidery scrawl, and it is true there is something more intimate in the scratching of nib spreading ink, but while in front of my computer I prefer to type, for in the rapid flow of syllables so many words come out, in the click of each letter I find myself, and for this moment I am whole.

  There’s a fine mist of rain coming down outside, making golden halos around the streetlights, and I wish I were outside walking, with the water soaking into my hair and eventually running down to the tip of my nose, from where I would try to blow the drop or wipe my face with my sleeve as ladies shouldn’t, but then I never said I was a lady (although perhaps one time I did). Paris and the rain also have places in my treasure chest of loved things.

  Do you remember the day the sky went black and you called me from somewhere high up, Montmartre, I guess, and told me you could see a storm coming toward my house, and that you could see the lines of rain pouring down as they moved across the city? As we talked you gave me a commentary, saying it would start raining in two minutes, one minute, thirty seconds and then counted down from ten, and when you got to zero you asked whether it was raining yet, and I said no and then, a moment later, oceans fell from the sky outside my window and you probably beamed with pride, or at least that’s how I imagined you because, let’s face it, everybody likes being right. I was impressed.

  There is another thing that I love as well, an improbable thing. On metro line 7bis, between stations Buttes Chaumont and Bolivar heading downhill, the tracks swing round to the right, and after maybe a hundred or a hundred and fifty yards there is a garden on the left-hand side of the tunnel. “Garden” is admittedly an overstatement; it has only one small plant, more like a weed, in fact, that has pushed through, or taken root in the wall beneath a light, but it’s the only plant I know of that grows underground. I can never get to see it properly, but it’s there. Sometimes I go up and down that line six times in order to get a good look. I love the idea that you will go and find a way to photograph it, or maybe even that you will hide in the metro station until it’s closed and sneak down onto the tracks to touch its sun-starved leaves, and it will be an adventure and security guards will see you on closed-circuit screens and come looking for you and you will be on the run and have to find a secret way out of the metro through tunnels and come out of a manhole cover on some poorly lit side street, triumphant!

  All that remains is to press print and place these pages into an envelope. Then, when you have left for work, I will go to your apartment and slide them beneath the door. But there is so much more to say; so, so much more. Or maybe there is nothing. Maybe I have to accept that the letter is over and the hypnotic purring of the keys will stop, and the sentence will never be finished, the opening clause never resolved, and I wish I could just keep this moment a little longer. Maybe because I’m a coward and if I carry on writing forever, then I won’t die, but I don’t actually know what to say. I don’t think I can tell you how I came by my two leather chairs, or list the plants in my window box. The window box, yes, another improbable gar
den—a green place for me to linger. Oh, did I tell you about . . . and did I tell you about . . . ?

  It’s twenty past three (still) and there’s a little more time, but I have to go now.

  Ben Constable, there are adventures awaiting you and I’m sorry you will never get the chance to tell me about them and that we won’t get drunk late at night and walk in the rain and shelter under trees on tiny cobbled streets and sit in our special sitting place, smoking cigarettes. I miss you already.

  Goodbye.

  Butterfly X O X O X

  Fridays make me smile. I catch myself laughing in the mirror as I wash the week from my hands before leaving work. I love the weekend and the surprises that fall from nowhere. I call out goodbye, then pace along the road and skip down the escalators into the metro. I let people pass in front of me and help a woman with heavy bags on the stairs, a beggar gets my loose change and I leave my seat for a stranger. I stand with my back against the side of the carriage and consider getting out a book, but I prefer watching people come and go and eavesdropping on snippets of their conversations taken out of context.

  The phone rang in my pocket.

  ‘Et alors?’ When conversations start like this on Fridays it means: ‘So, have you had a good week?’ and it means: ‘So, are you ready to come out and play?’ This evening, I was informed, we (me and friends) were going for a meal, then on to a party where there would be music and dancing, and people we’d never met. We were going to meet up at seven thirty for an aperitif and would be a little drunk by the time we got to the restaurant, where we would laugh and argue about politics and art. That gave me time to go home, have a quick siesta, shower, get dressed while listening to music, look for a random fact on the Internet that would spring to mind and seem like an urgent task, then turn up at about nine. Being late has never been a conscious intention; I just like to do things at my own pace. Rushing is not my thing. Today, for no particular reason, I am happy. But that’s not uncommon.