Extrait :
My wife of more than forty-five years shot herself yesterday afternoon.
At least that is what the police assume, and I am playing the part of grieving widower with enthusiasm and success, Life with Sarah has schooled me in self-deception, which I find -- as she did -- to be an excellent training in the deceiving of others. Of course, I know she did nothing of the kind. My wife was far too sane, far too rooted in the present to think of harming herself. In my opinion she never gave a thought to what she had done. She was incapable of guilt.
It was I who killed her.
And my reasons were not those you might expect. We were not unhappily married, you see; far from it. Sarah was -- until yesterday -- an excellent and loving wife, for she was conscientious, in some respects, to her core. It's funny that, isn't it? How completely contrasting standards can coexists in a person without seeming to trouble them. My wife was, at least outwardly, never anything but dutiful, correct, serene. 'She gave of herself tirelessly in the true service of this island and its people"; that's what the chaplain will say of her when the time comes; and he will be right. Sarah had many virtues, chief amongst which was an unflinching sense of duty made graceful by serene execution. That is what she will be remembered for. And her serenity was not only for herself: she had a way of making the lives of those around her serene also -- serene, ordered, and secure. It was security on her terms, of course; but I would have welcomed it on anybody's terms when I married her, and that has held true over forty-five years.
If you knew me, you wouldn't think me at all the murdering type. Indeed I don't consider myself a violent man, and I don't suppose that my having killed Sarah will change that. I have learned my faults over seventy years on this earth, and violence -- physical, at least -- is not among them. I killed my wife because justice demanded it; and by killing her I have at last seen a sort of justice reopen. My obsession with sin and punishment, laid to rest so imperfectly so long ago, is returning. I find myself wondering what right I had to judge Sarah, and how much more harshly I will be judged for having judged her too; judged her and punished her in a way I have never been judged or punished myself.
It might not have come this; I might never have known. But Sarah's inexorable sense of wifely duty exposed her. If only she'd been slightly less considerate, slightly less conscientious, she might not be dead now. She was organizing a surprise birthday party for my seventieth birthday, you see; not that the arrangements for it could have remained secret for long on this island. Nor did they. I've known that something was afoot for a month or more. And I was touched. But I'm particular about parties. I don't like the tenants invited; and I don't like some of Sarah's more fawningly agreeable friends. So it was understandable that I should want to consult a guest list so that by hinting at least I could have made my wishes known.
I chose last Monday to search her desk because my wife was out, supervising the extension to the ticket office. And quite by chance I found the drawer she has kept it in all these years.
Even now, with her dead and nearly buried, the arrogance of it chills me.
Revue de presse :
`Assured, well-paced and ambitious ... the writing is a delight. An exceptional achievement. (GUARDIAN (1999))
`Redolent of early Evelyn Waugh... Mason already displays narrative drive, verbal skill and technical mastery. (DAILY EXPRESS (1999))
`One of the most talked about first novels of 1999. If you want to be au courant with modern fiction, you will need to read it...' (SUNDAY TELEGRAPH (1999))
`A very impressive first novel ... the story immediately hooks you until the end' (THE TIMES (1999))
An absolutely fantastic story: a cast of weird and wonderful characters, tangled love, secrets and deceits, deaths, and altogether a hugely inventive plot with a twist to beat all twists at the very 11th hour. (OXFORD TIMES)
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