He looked tired and signed book after book. Sometimes he'd look up
to give a wry smile to an eager reader. I have been an eager reader but I was
not in line to have any of the books signed. I was on the second level of the
Crossword store and felt bemused at this person who signed books, it seems,
with effort and exhaustion.
I remember reading
his books and feeling so close to him. His stories had this 'gather around'
vibe and every time I read a story, I gathered around. My favorite stories of
Jeffrey Archer are:
1. The Prodigal Daughter: There is a part where the stern
governess is returning to her hometown after having taken care of Abel's
daughter, Florentyna, for many years. The governess has been stern and distant
in the early years, softening only to drive Florentyna to be better read and
better groomed. Yet, the when the train pulls away, this governess says a
proper goodbye, goes inside her coach, and sits down. Outside Florentyna runs on
the platform or is weeping profusely or waving hard or something like that. The
governess doesn't look out. She just feels tears trickle down her cheek as she
sits with legs and hankies folded.
I also loved
Archer's short stories. In fact, I preferred them to his novels. I don't
remember the names of the stories now but here are some of my favorite ones.
2. Old Love: Okay, this is the name of the
short story that I do remember. It's a story of two people who meet in Oxford
and fall in love. They become professors in the same college. They can't have
children. They spar and smile and life goes on well in the idyllic campus life
of Oxford. (I think it's Oxford. May have been Cambridge.) They have a steady
ritual of solving crossword puzzles together. They compete to see who gets it
right first. I think the woman dies of cancer. The man, after having lost a
friend, partner, and lover of many decades, continues life as before.
Apparently, one of the last things the couples had fought over before the woman
passed away was what a particular crossword clue meant. One day the man's
friends come over to see that he had killed himself. He had found out what that
clue had meant. He'd left a note behind that read, "Sorry. Had to let her
know."
This story is special
to me for so many reasons. First, the story itself is comforting. Even though
there is suicide and death, even though there is childlessness and the hazy
sheath of 'What-if's - even though there’s all that, the story is plain, simple
and comforting...like toast with butter and sugar.
The other reason
this story is really special to me is because I read it when I was a teenager
or had just started working. My mom and I were having difficulties
communicating or just being civil to each other. I remember having vowed that
morning when I left home to never ever talk to her again. In the train, I had
read that story and loved it so much that I wanted to tell Ma. I rushed home
and since the ego was still in place, I didn't actually tell her to read it. Instead, I stuck a
post-it on the relevant page and scribbled: "Read this." And left it
on her pillow.
The next morning,
I had breakfast in the cold, alienating 'Me-against-the-world' silence of the
dining table. My mom came in with some food and plonked it on my plate. She
ruffled my hair and said, "It was a beautiful story. Had to let you
know."
It wasn't me against the world then. And breakfast was good.
3. There's a story
of a man who is sharing a cup
of tea with a stranger at a tea center. He knows a lot about London. He
describes the streets, the senses, the history, the people, the food, the
phobias of the city so vividly that the stranger, a Londoner himself, is
impressed. Only when the book ends do we come to know that the man talking
about London is blind and he has never been to the city. He has only heard
about bits and pieces from others and has had people read out about London to
him.
4. There's another
story of a middle-aged British
couple who take a trip to Turkey. They are not very rich but they have
always wanted to visit Turkey. They use up their lifesavings to get there only
to be befriended and paired up with a loud, rich American couple. The Americans
want to spend all their time with them. As a result, the couple are anxious
because they are running out of time and money on their trip which literally is
once-in-a-lifetime. On the last day before they leave, the British and American
couples visit a store to buy Turkish carpets. Now, carpet stores mainly sell
two kinds of carpets. Some are overtly colorful and very florid for the
tourists. Some are in subdued shades with sparse detailing for the people who
know and the travelers who research. The American couple bargain loudly for the
most vibrant carpet and come home. The British couple return later and go
through the rituals of a typical Turkish bazaar negotiation - they sit on the
floor, share cups of tea with the carpet-seller and choose a carpet in ochre
and sweet designs of trees. The carpet-seller is pleased with their research
and brings down the price for a valuable carpet so that the couple can afford
it.
Those were the stories
of Jeffrey Archer that have stayed with me over the years. And until that day
that I saw him at the bookstore, I had felt very close to him. Like we were related. He was an uncle who'd come
visiting and share the very best stories with me. He knew what I'd like and I
think I was his favorite. But that day, he was so far away. I saw him in flesh
and blood but he could very easily just have been a photograph on one of his
paperbacks. That is exactly what I was afraid of before I landed up at the
store. Still, I guess it was good I went. There has to be some way to thank the
author the young girl in me is so grateful to. One of his stories had brought
me closer to my mum one morning many years ago.
So, thank you, Mr.
Archer. Thank you for the tales. Just had to let you know.
