Amsterdam by Ian McEwan Read Free Book Online

privacy. Profile writers and photographers were never invited in these days, and the time had long passed when Clive snatched hours between friends or lovers or parties to write a sudden daring opening, or even a complete song. The open house was no more.
    But Vernon still took pleasure in his visits, for he had done a lot of his own growing up here and had only fond memories of girlfriends, hilarious evenings with various drugs, and working through the nights in a small bedroom at the rear of the house. Back in the days of typewriters and carbon copies. Even now, as he left his taxi and mounted the steps to the front door, he experienced again, though only vestigially, a sensation he never had these days, of genuine anticipation, the feeling that anything might happen.
    When Clive opened the door, Vernon saw no immediate signs of distress or crisis. The two friends embraced in the hall.
    “There’s champagne in the fridge.”
    Clive fetched the bottle and two glasses, and Vernon followed him up the stairs. The house had a closeted atmosphere, and he guessed that Clive had not been out for a day or two. A half-open door revealed the bedroom to be in a mess. Clive sometimes asked the housekeeper not to come in when he was working hard. The state of the studio confirmed the impression.Manuscript paper covered the floor; dirty plates, cups, and wineglasses were strewn around the piano and the keyboard and MIDI computer on which Clive sometimes worked out his orchestrations. The air felt close and damp, as though it had been breathed many times. “Sorry about the mess.”
    Together they cleared books and papers off the armchairs, then sat with their champagne and small talk. Clive told Vernon about his encounter with Garmony at Molly’s funeral.
    “The foreign secretary actually said ’fuck off’?” Vernon asked. “We could have used that in the paper.”
    “Quite. I’m trying to keep out of everyone’s way.”
    Since they were on Garmony, Vernon gave an account of his two conversations that morning with George Lane. It was just the kind of story to appeal to Clive, but he showed no curiosity about the photographs and the injunction and seemed to be only half listening. He was on his feet as soon as the story was over. He refilled their glasses. The silence that announced the change of subject was heavy. Clive set down his glass and went to the far end of the studio, then paced back, gently massaging the palm of his left hand.
    “I’ve been thinking about Molly,” he said at last. “The way she died, the speed of it, her helplessness, how she wouldn’t have wanted it that way. Stuff we’ve talked about before.”
    He paused. Vernon drank and waited.
    “Well, the thing is this. I’ve had my own little scare lately …” He raised his voice to forestall Vernon’s concern. “Probably nothing. You know, the sort of thing that gives you the sweats at night and by daylight seems like stupidity. That’s not what I want to talk about. It’s almost certainly nothing, but there’s nothing lost by what I’m going to ask you. Just supposing I did get ill in a major way, like Molly, and I started to go downhill and make terrible mistakes—you know, errors of judgment, not knowing the names of things or who I was, that kind of thing. I’d like to know there was someone who’d help me to finish it … I mean, help me to die. Especially if I got to the point where I couldn’t make the decision for myself, or act on it. So what I’m saying is this. I’m asking you, as my oldest friend, to help me if it ever got to the point where you could see that it was the right thing. Just as we might have helped Molly if we’d been able …”
    Clive trailed away, a little disconcerted by Vernon, who stared at him with his glass raised, as though frozen in the act of drinking. Clive cleared his throat noisily.
    “It’s an odd thing to ask, I know. It’s also illegal in this country, and I wouldn’t want you to put