His mother opened her mouth to say something and fell onto the floor. For a few paralysing seconds Humlin assumed that what he had always feared had finally come to pass, that she had suffered a heart attack and died. Then he realised she had simply executed one of her well-practised fainting manoeuvres.
‘There’s nothing wrong with you. Why are you lying on the floor?’
‘I won’t move until you’ve apologised.’
‘I have nothing to apologise for.’
‘You can’t treat your ninety-year-old mother like dirt. I have taken the trouble to search for a good recipe, carry home exotic foods, and then stand in front of the stove for four hours and only because my son insisted on carrying on with an unwanted visit.’
She pointed to a stool in a corner of the hall.
‘Sit down,’ she said.
‘Are you going to stay on the floor?’
‘I may never get up again.’
Humlin sighed and sat down on the stool. He knew his mother was capable of staying on the floor the whole night if he did not follow orders. Her methods of emotional terrorism were tried and tested.
‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to speak to you about,’ she said.
‘I’m the one who came to speak to you. Can’t you at least sit up?’
‘No.’
‘Do you want me to bring you a pillow?’
‘If you can bring yourself to do so.’
Humlin stood up, went into the kitchen and opened a window. Every time his mother cooked the kitchen was transformed into something that resembled the remains of a bloody battle. On his way to the bedroom to fetch a pillow he stopped and looked angrily at the phone. He had the sudden inspiration to lift up the phone book; underneath it lay an advert for ‘the Mature Women Hotline’. As he was carrying the pillow back to his mother he wondered if he should use it to suffocate her instead of helping to make her stay on the hall floor more comfortable.
‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’ he asked.
‘I want to inform you of my activities.’
Humlin stiffened. Was she a mind reader? He decided on a counter-attack.
‘I know what you’re doing,’ he said.
‘Of course you don’t know.’
‘That’s why I came here to talk to you. You do realise how upsetting this is for me, don’t you?’
His mother sat up.
‘Have you been snooping in my private papers?’
‘If anyone in this family roots around in other people’s papers, it’s you. I don’t.’
‘Well, then you can’t know what I’ve been up to.’
Humlin shifted around on the stool trying to find a more comfortable position. It reminded him of the chair he had sat on in Burén’s office. I’m going to wait her out, he thought. I won’t say another word, I’ll just wait.
‘Let’s just agree on that then. I have no idea what you’ve been doing and I don’t know what it is you want to tell me.’
‘I’m writing a book.’
Humlin stared at her.
‘What kind of a book?’
‘A crime novel.’
For a moment Humlin felt as if he was going insane. He was the victim of a great conspiracy, the extent of which he was only now beginning to realise. All of the people around him seemed to be working on crime novels.
‘Are you happy for me?’
‘Why on earth would I be happy for you?’
‘You could be happy that your mother’s creativity has remained intact into old age.’
‘Everyone is writing a crime novel these days. Except me.’
‘From what I read in the papers that’s not true. You are working on one, but I can’t imagine it’ll be any good.’
‘Whatever the papers have been saying it isn’t true. But why wouldn’t mine be any good?’
His mother lay back down on he floor.
‘It’s good to know you won’t be competing with me.’
‘I’m the writer in this family, not you.’
‘In a few months that won’t be true. I hope you realise what a sensation it will be when an eighty-seven-year-old woman makes her debut with a crime novel of international stature.’
Humlin felt an impending catastrophe speeding towards him. The final defeat would be when his own mother was hailed as a more accomplished writer than himself.
‘What’s it about?’ he finally made himself say.
‘I’m not going to tell you.’
‘Why not?’
‘You’ll steal my ideas.’
‘I have never in my life stolen anyone’s idea. I happen to be an artist who takes his work seriously. Just tell me what the book is about.’
‘A woman who kills her own children.’
‘How original.’
‘She also eats them.’
Even with the window in the kitchen open the smoke from the food started to make him feel sick.
‘That’s what you’re writing about?’
‘I’m already on chapter forty.’
‘So it’ll be a thick book?’
‘I’m assuming it will be around seven hundred pages. Since books are so expensive these days I think it’s only right to write books that last longer.’
‘Tell that to my publisher.’
‘I already have. I told him about the book and he was very interested. He is planning to market us as the “Literary Family”.’
