The Terrible Privacy Of Maxwell Sim

‘That’s right! Your wife and daughters were there as well.’

‘They’d come to see me off.’

Yes, I remembered it clearly now. This was one encounter that I’d failed to mention to Lian, when I was telling her the story of my last few weeks. I could recall eavesdropping on the family’s conversation and being slightly baffled by it.

‘Why did you have to go to Moscow?’ I asked. ‘I did happen to overhear some of what you were saying at the time, and I think you mentioned something about … interviews?’

‘That’s right. It was a publicity trip. I’m a writer, you see.’

‘Ah – a writer. That would explain it.’ It occurred to me that Caroline, had she been there, would have been excited to meet a genuine writer. I can’t say I was very thrilled. ‘Should I have heard of you?’ I asked.

He laughed. ‘No, of course not.’

‘What sort of books do you write?’

‘Novels, mostly. Fiction.’

‘Ah. I don’t read much fiction. Are you working on something at the moment?’

‘Just finishing one, since you ask. Getting very close to the end now.’

I nodded in what I hoped was an encouraging way. Then we fell silent.

‘One thing I’ve always wondered about writers,’ I said. ‘Where do you get your ideas from?’

He looked at me in some surprise. I suppose it was quite possible that he’d never been asked this question before.

‘Hmm – that’s a tricky one,’ he said. ‘You know, it’s really very difficult to generalize …’

‘Well, what about this book that you’re just finishing at the moment?’

‘Where did I get the idea for that, you mean?’

‘Yes, if you like.’

‘Well now, let me see.’ He leaned back on the bench and looked at the sky. ‘It becomes quite hard to remember, in any detail, but … Yes, that was it! Yes, I can tell you exactly where I got the idea.’

‘Please do.’

‘Well, two years ago – Easter 2007, that is – I came to Australia with my family for another visit, and we were eating out one night at this restaurant overlooking Sydney harbour, and I happened to see this Chinese woman and her little daughter having a card game together at their table.’

I stared at him.

‘And I don’t know why,’ he continued, ‘but there was something so touching about them – there seemed to be such an intimacy, and such a connection between them that I wondered what it would feel like to be a lonely man eating at that restaurant all by yourself, and to be offered this little glimpse into their world and to want to be a part of it.’

I tried to stop him, but he was in full flow by now.

‘And then, on that same trip, I’d arranged to meet Ian – my old friend Ian from Warwick University, who teaches at the ANU in Canberra now – I’d arranged to meet him in the tea rooms at the Botanical Gardens in Melbourne, but I hadn’t realized that there were two tea rooms at the Botanical Gardens in Melbourne, so we almost missed each other. And I think it was the combination of those two ideas that got me started writing the book. That’s usually how it works. A couple of ideas like that, sort of … rubbing up against each other.’ He turned to look at me. I no longer felt like interrupting him, having all but lost (not for the first time that day) my power of speech. ‘Does any of this sound familiar, at all?’

My throat was dry.

‘I think I’m beginning to get the picture,’ I said, finally.

‘So how does it feel,’ he asked, ‘to be part of someone else’s story?’

‘I’m … not sure,’ I answered, choosing my words with care. ‘It’s going to take some getting used to, I think.’ Then, with a sinking feeling, already knowing what the answer would be, I asked, ‘Does this book of yours involve toothbrushes, by any chance? And Donald Crowhurst?’

‘Funnily enough,’ said the writer, ‘it involves both of those things. I wanted the story to revolve around a household object – one that people use every day, without really thinking about the political or environmental implications. Well, I had trouble coming up with anything suitable, in the end, and actually it was my wife who suggested toothbrushes. And shortly after that, I was having coffee in London with my friend Laura, who’s an art critic, and she started telling me about these works by Tacita Dean that were inspired by the Donald Crowhurst story, and she also put me on to this brilliant book about him by Nicolas Tomalin and Ron Hall. So you see, what generally happens – to answer your original question – is that I get all sorts of different ideas, from all sorts of different places, and when I start putting them together, other things start to emerge. People, to be precise. Characters. Or in this particular instance’ – he looked directly at me – ‘you.’

Suddenly I felt like the hero of a low-rent spy movie, just when he realizes that he’s walked straight into the trap set for him by the villain.

‘I see. So that’s … me, is it?’ I said, playing for time as much as anything else. ‘I’m just a by-product of your ideas, is that right? Well I have to say, that doesn’t do wonders for my self-esteem.’

‘Look at it this way,’ he answered. ‘It’s no worse than discovering that you only exist because there are two pubs close to each other in London called The Rising Sun, is it? Or knowing, for that matter, that you only exist because of some random, billion-to-one collision between one of your father’s sperm and one of your mother’s eggs? Really, Max, I’d say that your existence has more meaning than most people’s.’