Читать книгу Reacher Said Nothing - Andy Martin - Страница 14

Lee lives north of the building where John Lennon used to live and Yoko Ono still lives (I think). Just across from the Strawberry Fields monument to Lennon. I had forgotten all about it until the moment when a fanboy came running up to us in the street. We had just come out of Lee’s building. It was a nice sunny day. Not too hot. We were walking along and suddenly out of nowhere – I think from the other side of Central Park West – up he popped. White guy. He had on a black baseball cap, pulled down over his forehead. T-shirt and jeans, I think. Glasses. An intense look. ‘Hey, Mr Child,’ he says, ‘I’m a great fan of yours.’

The whole Lennon story flashed back to mind, the shooting in the street outside his building, by a fan. Mark David Chapman probably said to Lennon, ‘I’m a great fan of yours.’

So naturally I thought, Uh-oh, here we go, when is he going to pull the gun out?

‘I’m grateful to you for your novels, of course,’ the guy in the baseball cap said, getting into time with us as we walked north, highly respectfully, ‘but I also admire everything you’ve written about the art of writing.’

‘Really?’ said Lee. Calm and composed.

‘Yes, your work has been a great inspiration to me.’ Turned out he was an up-and-coming thriller writer. ‘I really liked that point you made about not giving away too much information – dosing it out. Slow disclosure. I try to keep it in mind while I’m writing.’

‘Who do you publish with?’ Lee said.

‘St Martin’s Press,’ says the guy.

‘Good publisher,’ says Lee. ‘Well, good luck with the next one!’

The guy thanked him again and backed off (no doubt at the same time relaxing his finger on the trigger of the handy little weapon he had stowed away in his pocket). Lee has this habit of seeing the other person’s point of view. I was seeing a threat to life and limb – an assassin, in short. He was seeing a budding fellow writer. (Really, how much difference was there?) And in his parting words I felt a sense that he was wishing himself good luck for his next one too – given that it barely existed.

It wasn’t his own life he was worrying about, it was the life of the unborn book.

I mentioned my John Lennon scenario to Lee as we went on. He laughed it off. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘that was on the way back to the Dakota. It was outside the building, but he was coming home, not going out. He signs a record for the fan. Then the fan pulls out a gun and shoots him.’ It was a fine distinction. But it was clear he had given the episode some thought. Had seen himself as a possible target. Then dismissed it. ‘A writer is never going to be in the same league as a rock star – or an actor, for example. Not even remotely. Writing is show business for shy people. Or invisible people. It’s the book that’s out there, not the person. We just don’t have that kind of visibility – or directness. So I guess, by the same token, we’re less of a target.’

He thought this part of town was more literary than his old neighbourhood. ‘I’m more recognized in this part of New York. The Upper West Side. I might have a couple of fans coming up to me if I walk through Central Park. Only one or two a week. No big deal.’