I’m having to be rather secretive about my second novel at the moment, but will say that its working title is Broken Blood and that it’s a bone-chilling (hopefully!) thriller. I’ve also been working late nights on my third book, which is a sequel to the first, Before I Leave You (Før Jeg Forlater Deg). I love the feeling of when a novel actually begins to come together, and this one has been especially enjoyable for me as I’ve had the pleasure of ‘meeting’ all the characters from my book again. So, what’s it about? It’s about what happens after forever after…It’s set in London, Hardangervidda and Île de Penang. It’s a love story, still, but a mystery too. Like Quentin Tarantino, I imagine that the characters from my different projects somehow live in the same universe, and in this novel, (working title I’ll Never Be Afraid of Loving You), a couple of characters from Broken Blood and another future project make brief cameo appearances…
I thought I’d share a snippet!
Île de Penang
Did you receive my last two letters? It seems unlike you to not respond, but perhaps I have offended you. If so, I apologize. Life here is still mostly good. I am pleased to tell you that I have met somebody who I’m enjoying getting to know and spending some time with. Her name is Jen and she’s a surgeon from Boston; we work together. Like me, she likes film noir and dim sum, so it’s been nice to rediscover both of those in the company of someone other than myself. There’s an open air cinema just a few minutes walk down the beach, and it’s a rather wonderful place; its basicness adds to its charm, and I have caught myself wishing that you could have joined me for a movie in the fragrant evening, to the background noise of the old canvas screen rippling on the breeze merging with the distant smash of waves.
Something else that has happened: I stumbled, for the hundredth time the other day, on a floorboard which is slightly loose, and this time, I decided I’d had enough, so I pulled it entirely loose with the intention of properly fixing it later. But underneath was a large collection of letters. I won’t bore you with the details, but I will say I glanced at them briefly at first, and then with more interest; they painted quite an ominous and disturbing picture of a family which must have once owned or lived in this house. It would seem that a brother and a sister, twins, had an ongoing love affair over several decades, and that their relationship resulted in three children, two of whom were killed in infancy by the third. Can you imagine? After reading them, I felt quite unsettled but put them back where I found them and fixed the floorboard. I want to let Villa Chengdu keep her secrets, I’ve decided. It made me realize, though, that this life isn’t uncomplicated for anybody. I’m not someone who has suffered disproportionately.
On a different note, work is going very well. I get on with my colleagues, and while there is a steady stream of patients whose conditions challenge me on a daily basis, it’s nothing like in M’Nembe, when I constantly felt like I was trying to save mankind with some iodine and a couple of Band-Aids. I have thought about one thing a lot: that you put up with as much as you did. When we first went to Africa, I convinced myself that doing so was our shared dream, Aurélie, but I know that it was only mine, really, and you let me have it. Life, like dreams, I guess, can be fickle and suddenly turn sour, and had I known how much of a nightmare M’Nembe would turn out to be, I’d never have brought you there. We did have our moments, though, didn’t we, in that sad, blue bungalow? I’m laughing as I write this, thinking about playing Sam Cooke loud on the old gramophone, dancing in the kitchen with you, and all the villagers came and stood outside in the clearing, wondering what the crazy French medicine man and his wife were doing.
Or when we went to Cameroon and the car got stuck in the mud on the way to Kribi and you had to drive while the taxi guy and I pushed it free, do you remember? The look on your face, Aurélie, priceless; a cool, Parisian blonde at the bare metal wheel of a patched green VW beetle in the middle of Africa. Another memory from those days, which never fails to make me smile, is when you’d given a few items of clothing you no longer used to that woman who was married to the very tall longboat man (what were their names?) and she shredded them and made bridles for her goats.
And those football matches against the Ugwu boys- remember how serious they’d get? I have a vision of you in my head of getting up off the blanket you were sitting on at the sideline, suddenly screaming ‘Merde’ when Olalu tackled me to the ground, drenching me in mud, a sharp rock underneath it slicing into my skin. And later, at home, you sat so patiently cleaning the fleshy gash on my back of mud and grit, bathing it in hydrogen peroxide, as if you were the doctor, not me. We talked and talked through the bad times, didn’t we, but we never did find the time to talk about all the joyful moments.
I hope my letters are reaching you and that you are keeping well.