Free My Life as a Fake by Peter Carey

malicious, ad hominem, which in turn meant he hadn’t the foggiest notion why Chubb had perpetrated the hoax in the first place. This he could not bear. He rose from the bed and managed to get Weiss into the kitchen, where he unearthed a bottle of two-shilling red plonk from Jimmy Watson’s. Once this had been decanted into two jam jars they sat on opposite sides of the table while Chubb attempted to explain his concerns about the decay of meaning. This was, as he would say in Kuala Lumpur, when his own language had become marinated with the homilies of Kampong Baru, like a chicken talking to a duck.
    Weiss would not hear a word he said. The only positive thing that arose from their conversation was that Chubb finally managed to convince him that the madman was a madman and nothing more. He also congratulated his old friend, telling him that he’d been a lion before the court. He had shamed them all.
    By way of thanks Weiss informed him that his poetry was second-rate. He said the only thing Chubb would ever be remembered for was the work of Bob McCorkle.
    I thought him entitled to this, Chubb told me. He caned me with such obvious satisfaction that by the time he left Gordon’s flat he was in a very fine mood, ready to go and fight his next round. We walked down the cluttered stairs together and I let him out into Collins Street as the first trams came around the corner past the treasury building. See you incourt—that is what Weiss said to me, Mem. Not the sort of comment made by a man who is going home to hang himself.

13
    Well, said Slater, we
all
must go to bed now.
    I looked at him with astonishment for he was suddenly a great storm of physical activity, miming bill-signing to the waitresses who were clustered by the suit of armour beside the molded plastic fireplace.
    John!
    He leaned forward and took my hand. You will go to bed, he said, smiling while secretly hurting me. You are still a sick girl.
    I tried to peel his big fingers back but he easily pulled me to my feet. Actually, John, I feel much better.
    Doctor’s orders, he said. His eyes cold.
    I was furious, and if I contained myself it was only because I wished nothing to intensify Chubb’s very obvious humiliation. I could easily have slapped John Slater’s face. Instead I stretched and yawned. Perhaps we could hear more another time, I said.
    Yes, said Chubb, though his eyes would not engage with mine, and he busied himself hiding his documents within his suit. I doubt Slater noticed, for he would have been alert to any sign of paper. He was impatient only to send the man away.
    It was wonderful to meet you again, he said. And to remember dear old Gordon.
    Chubb immediately turned towards the entrance. I cast Slater a hateful glance and caught up with my visitor, walking at his side with my own eyes cast down on the impossible tartan carpet. I had the most complicated thoughts about him, feelings which went beyond the covetous emotions stirred by that single page of manuscript. This old man had somehow touched me. Impulsively, I tucked my arm through his and did not release my hold until we were both together in the soupy night. Slater trailed behind; had he been an Intourist guide, he could not have attended us more closely.
    Perhaps we can talk some more tomorrow, I said.
    Chubb looked at me directly. Thank you, he said, then turned abruptly and limped along the narrow concrete path beside the taxis.
    Returning to that vulgar foyer, I glimpsed Slater’s following figure in the reflective golden columns and rushed towards the lift.
    Sarah! He beat the door and got inside the car.
    You shit, I said.
    Sarah, listen to me.
    No. You are an irredeemable shit.
    When he pushed the button for my floor, I chose the one for his, but of course my floor was first and he got out with me.
    I don’t want to talk to you, John. Please do not come in.
    He might easily have forced his way into the room, so I left the hulking key inside my purse and returned to the