Opening Chapter to 'You Complete The Masterpiece'
'This is a powerful book about corruption, a theme the author has explored before. The language is lyrical, the message is sharp, and yet it never feels heavy. Instead, it flows in a way that kept me utterly hooked till the very last page. That balance is rare. The story uses poetic language to show the truths about power, complicity, and the systems that allow corruption to continue. It also made me think.. where do we actually draw the line when deciding if something is corrupt, or immoral? At the same time, it gives us characters and moments that feel real and human. And even with such a serious subject, there were touches of humour. I actually found myself wishing Mankowski would write a full comedy one day. I loved it.'
I've shared the first chapter of it below- the whole book can be read here.
The first thought I have, as I close my eyes, is the memory from my childhood home. In early mornings there, before anyone woke up, I was aware of the sanctity of waking up in a house a few yards from the sea. I felt grateful to live on a sunlit street full of brittle early morning light. It seemed to possess an intrinsic luminesce which lit the curtains in a warm glow, bathing me. In these childhood thoughts I would think of the driveways outside the houses in the street. The inhabitants were sleeping and I thought of their comfortable problems and their vague aspirations. I thought of the dew lit by the dawn, illuminating the lawns so they looked like beds of diamonds. I would hear the early morning cry of an owl, nestled in some invisible tree. I would dream of one day getting up early and seeing the night turn in to day over a calm ocean. Seeing the world I knew come to life; witnessing its moment of inception. I would trace the imperceptible moment darkness became light. All those thoughts would lull me into a state of security. All I knew at that age was to cherish that state of mind. Secure as it seemed, there was an abstract luminescence in the sensation these surroundings inspired, and inarticulate as I was I sensed the impermanence. I realised even then that the existence of these rich surroundings was temporary, and that at some point in the future I would come to miss it. Lying in the sheets in Barcelona, that time has come.
I know that when the day begins I won’t be able to talk of these thoughts. Not even to the students who want to hear me talk about my writing. Even though they have ostensibly come to hear me talk about my last novel- and the man who influenced it- I know that they do not really want real insight from me. They do not want to hear that my need to be a writer started with those childish imaginings, inspired as they were by a need to step outside of routine life. They do not even want to hear about the inherent absurdity of a writer now being deemed worthy of sharing his thoughts at ticketed events, when only a few weeks ago he was treated as an irrelevance. My 5am thoughts now are barely palpable for me, in the context in which I live. I have only shared them with Francine, and that was during the first conversation we had, where whisky and insomnia made our thoughts swirl. I don’t know why she understood them and why she alone was able to offer insights that made me feel sane. But regardless, these students will just want to hear about how I struggled to write a novel. They will look up, with blank and shining faces, wanting me to reflect their own frustrations and rejections. When you start being successful you become like a mirror. People think they are seeing themselves in you but there are all kinds of mirrors, and the best ones are beautiful themselves. These students want me to validate them, when I am yet to validate myself.
Why was I chosen for this award? Was it a trick?
As I flip over in the sheets I remember the one consoling thought I have. The fact that the one writer who captured these 5am thoughts bequeathed me this award. Alberto Valdez. The only author I’ve ever read that captured the jagged and sensual nature of this shifting life. It was the strange rhythms of his writing, with its hidden messages and rich, ornate symbolism that first made believe I could capture my mind on the page. It was his own granddaughter, Maria, who had emailed to tell me Valdez had wanted me to be the first author given the award in his name. The news of his presumed death, six months before that email, had removed a sense of belonging I had in the world. I had known for a few years that he was struggling with his mental health, but hearing that his car had been left on a renowned suicide spot had marked my life with an emotional full stop. I remember where I was when I heard David Bowie had died, I remember where I was when I heard Leonard Cohen had died, and I remember where I was when I had heard Alberto Valdez was gone. The email from Maria meant so much to me it was almost absurd- but until I had heard from my publisher that the prize was real I had felt unable to celebrate.
This ennobling confirmed not only that Valdez had taken a liking to my last book, but that it was the only book he had felt he able to honour with his award. It was strange to know that a trophy sharing our names would one day sit, on a bedside table in my house, a home filled with volumes of his surrealist stories.
Since that sacred email I have started not only getting replies from my publisher and agent, as well as daily messages from strangers. They all now write in the warm tones of the familial. Their sudden change of tone, with its defiant lack of self-awareness, is perhaps what has prompted my early morning panics. During these panics I go over the details about my stay here.
Following the 8000 Euros I received on agreeing to the terms of the award, I will attend an award ceremony at the university here. At the end of the trip I will give a talk to the students, which will conclude with yet another 8000 Euros being awarded me. In the interim I will deal with whatever interviews and photo-shoots I am offered. These will be interviews given mostly by journalists keen to exploit Valdez’s name, or by those intrigued by the unprecedented nature of this award. I will then return home rejuvenated. I will then finish my next book and live the life of an author.
When I think through these details, cracks and sores in my psyche are healed and smoothed. Right now I am not only an author in name, but in lifestyle. The first cheque paid off my monstrous debts, built as a result of meagre royalties earned to date. The second cheque will allow me a few months to get on my way- and publicity from the award should keep me on track. My days of busking to pay the gas bill are, I hope, now behind me.
I remember my arrival at Barcelona airport. In the longest email my agent had yet sent she explained how Maria would meet me at Arrivals. As I wheeled my suitcase to the exit I had not pictured Maria would be a dark-eyed young woman evoking an oil painting by Daeni.
As I fixed upon the woman holding up my name on a card I realised she had the full red lips and thick dark hair of one his muses- if they had been invigorated by a relentless procession of Spanish summers. Her piercing eyes recalled the image of Valdez in the flap of ‘Marble’. But the rest of his slanted face, with his mischievous smile and distant hairline, was not apparent in her striking looks.
She recognised me with a smile that was sudden and childlike. ‘Jude?’ she asked. I nodded.
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