A Clue to the Exit: A Novel Read Online Free

cry.
    ‘Was it very loving to fuck that chambermaid when you thought I was out skating with Ton Len? Was it very loving to cut me out of a co-producer’s credit on the Aliens deal? Was it…’
    I put the phone down on a cushion and went outside. I knew the speech off by heart and knew that I had between six and seven minutes to sob uncontrollably in the garden.
    When I picked up the phone again, Heidi was saying, ‘I sometimes wonder if you listen to a word I say.’
    ‘I thought you were committed to loving-kindness,’ I said wearily.
    ‘I am ,’ she protested. ‘Except when I hate somebody. Like all Tibetan-styled people I’m basically happy and giggly. If you get reborn as something cuddly and snugly, we might adopt you. A bouncy puppy,’ she suggested, ‘or a little kitty cat. There are monks who can follow you into the Bardo consciousness and out the other side. It’s awesome. You wouldn’t believe what some of these guys can do. It’s so cool being Tibetan.’
    ‘Far out,’ I said. ‘But no chance in this lifetime.’
    ‘None at all,’ said Heidi. ‘ Ciao , baby. See you round the universe.’

 
    7
    Sometimes when I arrive in a hotel room I feel free, and then I remember what I’m free from, and I slide down the wall, staring at the mini-bar. After that, I like to get my bearings, check out the public rooms, scout for places to write.
    Walking through the garden, testing the benches and the views, I saw a figure familiar to movie-lovers the world over. He walked pensively along the gravel path, in shoes thinner than tightropes, flanked by two top models dressed in nurses’ uniforms.
    ‘Charlie,’ he drawled in his fabulous Italian accent, ‘it’s good to see you, my friend.’
    ‘Maestro,’ I said, kissing his hand.
    ‘No, no, please,’ he said, aspiring to embarrassment.
    ‘How are you, Maestro?’ I asked.
    ‘At the moment I feel very flat,’ he said.
    The way he said ‘flat’ opened up vistas of choking richness, indomitable classicism and mischievous wit.
    ‘In the Sixties,’ he said, walking over to the railings at the edge of the sea, ‘there arose around Godard a group of directors who asked the question, “ Qu’est-ce que c’est le cinéma? ’ Now that the world is flooded with audiovisual imagery, I do not think that this question can be asked any more.’ Unimpeded by the sable overcoat that dangled from his shoulders, he spread his hands despairingly, as if to offer the Mediterranean as evidence of this cluttering deluge. ‘I have always been half inspired by cinema and half by life, but the young people today don’t know anything about the history of cinema. If I make allusions, they don’t pick them up.’
    ‘But, Maestro,’ I said, ‘there’s still room for passion and intelligence. You of all people—’
    ‘There is passion and intelligence,’ he interrupted, ‘but there is no language for expressing them.’
    ‘English,’ I suggested.
    He laughed. ‘Charlie, I always liked your sense of humour. You are still young,’ he said, clasping my arm: ‘find that language, express that passion.’ He started to cough violently. ‘Excuse me,’ he sighed. The two nurses, frowning at me significantly, guided him back indoors.
    I stood alone for a long time, as if touched by destiny. I had been given my instructions by the Maestro: ‘find that language, express that passion.’ What perfect timing. I was alone in a hotel, where nobody knew how to get hold of me, and I could feel that last handful of Prozac evacuating my depressed body, like children in the Blitz. There was nothing to stop me writing until I dropped.
    That evening in the dining room, with its panels of Zuber wallpaper disclosing a tropical landscape, as I sipped the best potage de légumes jardinières I have ever tasted, I felt myself slide into a more lugubrious rhythm. I started to write a note about the continuation of On the Train , when I was interrupted by a lively old countess with