The Next Story

The red ink his editor favoured had always struck him as a sign of bad taste, lending itself inescapably to the cheap metaphor of his words bleeding out. Lorca, he thought, looking at the manuscript. The only protection against a cheap metaphor was a good one, albeit stolen. Would his editor’s flesh be astonished on seeing itself opened with a knife? Would it be astonished, or rather, annoyed, irritated, indifferent perhaps, perhaps even mildly sardonic? What he didn’t doubt was that by that time he would be well anaesthetised, made sleepy by the food and the two or three gin and tonics he would already have ingested by that time of day.
He took his time choosing the knife. In the end he went for the small, bone-handled blade that his wife had used daily to peel the apple with which she finished every breakfast. She liked red apples the best and she would pare off their skin in one single glossy curl. He liked to watch her do it, he admired the skill with which she moved the blade so closely under the skin. It was a small knife but very effective. He slipped it into his jacket pocket.
Were he to write a story about this, he would make the protagonist take the bus to his meeting. As a story with a clearly autobiographical slant, the protagonist would, when making his decision, recognise that he was too drunk to drive. He would take the bus and the journey would give him time to reflect upon the nature of his relationship with his editor. There would be a flashback to the dinner at which the latter announced to the writer’s then wife that her husband was going to be famous, that he, editing his stories, would see to it that they were read the world over. He would have to include in that flashback some kind of warning, although there had been none, although at that moment he had felt only love and recognition. But he would have to include some kind of clue, some intimation of the future loyalties and conflicts that would arise between the three. He would think about that later.
He was grateful for the taxi driver’s silence. (Perhaps he didn’t understand English all that well. He looked as though he might be from the Middle East. What would he have done back in his own country? He might have been a physician, or a paid assassin. He might also have been a taxi driver.) He took out the manuscript from its envelope to go over it one more time. One hundred and ninety pages. Not one unmarked. There were five or six on which only a comma had been crossed out and, on another, a full stop repeated by mistake. But on other pages whole paragraphs had been eliminated without any explanation whatsoever. Hours and hours of this life obliterated with the editor’s red ink. And he no longer trusted his opinions, no longer saw that his stories were improved, but rather eviscerated. He felt disgusted by what he held in his hands, something akin to what he had felt towards the dead rodents his mother’s cat had left for them out on the porch. He put his hand in his jacket pocket. The knife was still there. He caressed the blade.
What would the protagonists be thinking about now? he wondered. The feel of the metal made him think of a dead rodent’s teeth, of long, blind teeth behind slightly open lips. (Do rodents have lips? Is it possible to talk about a rodent having lips?). They looked stupid, imbecilic, those corpses with their half-opened mouths, their feet in the air, their long, blind teeth. What would his editor look like in death? It didn’t really matter, he would not see him like that, foolish and stiff. He would only have time to see the astonishment or the irony or the indifference of the wound. Would it smile or yawn, that newly-made mouth? By the time he was stiff the writer would be in the police station or dead himself or in a taxi heading for the airport, grateful once again for the silence of some taxi driver-medic-paid assassin-goat herd-patron saint of cirrhotic writers. They had reached the publishing house.
He noticed he felt surprisingly calm. He wasn’t sweating as we would have imagined. The protagonist would be sweating. He would sweat as the writer himself had sweated on his first dates with his ex-wife. It wasn’t your usual armpit and groin kind of sweat. It was a sheet lightning of liquid that broke out from every pore at the same instant and left his forehead dripping. She always pretended not to notice. The editor in the story would not do the same. What would he say? He would think about that later.
“Have you eaten? You look rough. Let’s go eat.”
He didn’t even bother to say hello. Nor did he ask him about the package in his hands, which were sweating slightly now. He didn’t smell of alcohol. He had not anaesthetised himself. He would have to put up with him all through lunch. Let him enjoy his last gin and tonics. They were friends, after all. After all, they had been friends. At what point had they ceased to be so, he wondered. How many years had they been feigning an affection that neither one of them felt?
They didn’t have to talk about where to eat. They always went to the same place, a Vietnamese restaurant ten blocks north of the publishing house. They walked there. That didn’t need to be discussed either. They both liked to walk.
“You’ve looked at my corrections then?”
“Yes, I’ve seen them. I’ve come armed, in fact, I’m planning to kill you.”
“It still hurts, doesn’t it?”
“I’m serious. I am going to kill you.”
“Not to worry. I’m sure I deserve it.”
What would the protagonist think about after killing him? He would want to take a shower, clean off the sweat and the blood. Burn his clothes. Have a stiff drink. Would he be hungry? It would seem a shame to him then that he had not been able to stomach the thought of food in the restaurant. The memory of the aromas – the chilli, the coriander, the lemon-grass – would make him salivate. But then the story would have a different mood to it, would even feel slightly absurd, who thinks about food after killing a man?
“You mentioned you wanted to kill me?”
“Chekhov would have insisted.”
“And why is that?”
“I already told you I’ve come armed. And now if I don’t kill you…?”
The man placed a hand over his own.
“You’re not going to kill me. You’re going to go back home, fix yourself a drink and start work on your next story.”
“So what do I do with this knife then?”
He took it out of his pocket and placed it on the table.
The editor laughed. He gestured to the waitress to come over to their table and whispered something in her ear. The girl left, passed through the kitchen doors and returned with an apple served on a plate.
She placed it in front of the man who had asked for it and he pushed the plate towards his companion.
“Let’s see if you can peel it in one piece.”

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