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JANUARY MAN

Do not set foot in my office. That's Dad's rule. But the phone'd rung twenty-five
times. Normal people give up after ten or eleven, unless it's a matter of
life or death. Don't they? Dad's got an answering machine like James Garner's
in The Rockford Files with big reels of tape. But he's stopped leaving it
switched on recently. Thirty rings, the phone got to. Julia couldn't hear it up
in her converted attic 'cause "Don't You Want Me?" by Human League was
thumping out dead loud. Forty rings. Mum couldn't hear 'cause the washing
machine was on berserk cycle and she was hoovering the living room. Fifty
rings. That's just not normal. S'pose Dad'd been mangled by a juggernaut on
the M5 and the police only had this office number 'cause all his other I.D.'d
got incinerated? We could lose our final chance to see our charred father in
the terminal ward.
So I went in, thinking of a bride going into Bluebeard's chamber after
being told not to. (Bluebeard, mind, was waiting for that to happen.) Dad's office
smells of pound notes, papery but metallic too. The blinds were down so
it felt like evening, not ten in the morning. There's a serious clock on the
wall, exactly the same make as the serious clocks on the walls at school.
There's a photo of Dad shaking hands with Craig Salt when Dad got made regional
sales director for Greenland. (Greenland the supermarket chain, not
Greenland the country.) Dad's IBM computer sits on the steel desk. Thousands
of pounds, IBMs cost. The office phone's red like a nuclear hotline and
it's got buttons you push, not the dial you get on normal phones.
So anyway, I took a deep breath, picked up the receiver, and said our
number. I can say that without stammering, at least. Usually.
But the person on the other end didn't answer.
"Hello?" I said. "Hello?"
They breathed in like they'd cut themselves on paper.
"Can you hear me? I can't hear you."
Very faint, I recognized the Sesame Street music.
"If you can hear me"--I remembered a Children's Film Foundation film
where this happened--"tap the phone, once."
There was no tap, just more Sesame Street.
"You might have the wrong number," I said, wondering.
A baby began wailing and the receiver was slammed down.
When people listen they make a listening noise.
I'd heard it, so they'd heard me.

"May as well be hanged for a sheep as hanged for a handkerchief." Miss
Throckmorton taught us that aeons ago. 'Cause I'd sort of had a reason to
have come into the forbidden chamber, I peered through Dad's razor-sharp
blind, over the glebe, past the cockerel tree, over more fields, up to the
Malvern Hills. Pale morning, icy sky, frosted crusts on the hills, but no sign of
sticking snow, worse luck. Dad's swivelly chair's a lot like the Millennium
Falcon's laser tower. I blasted away at the skyful of Russian MiGs streaming
over the Malverns. Soon tens of thousands of people between here and
Cardiff owed me their lives. The glebe was littered with mangled fusilages
and blackened wings. I'd shoot the Soviet airmen with tranquilizer darts as
they pressed their ejector seats. Our marines'll mop them up. I'd refuse all
medals. "Thanks, but no thanks," I'd tell Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan
when Mum invited them in, "I was just doing my job."
Dad's got this fab pencil sharpener clamped to his desk. It makes pencils
sharp enough to puncture body armor. H pencils're sharpest, they're Dad's
faves. I prefer 2Bs.
The doorbell went. I put the blind back to how it...

 

"Mitchell's rendering of time and place in this new book has a warm and lived-in feel. . . . [W]hat Mitchell has set out to do here – to capture the flux of youth, and to dazzle the reader with everyday, awkward human interaction rather than clever narrative conceits – is risky and rewarding. . . . Mitchell's obvious efforts to please the reader work wonderfully, and the novel is never less than tremendously engaging. . . ."

 

Praise for David Mitchell:
"David Mitchell entices his readers on to a rollercoaster. . . . Then – at least in my case – they can't bear the journey to end. . .a complete narrative pleasure that is rare. . . .Powerful and elegant. . . . He isn't afraid to jerk tears or ratchet up suspense – he understands that's what we make stories for. . . . He plays delicious games with other people's voices, ideas and characters."

 

"Audacious, exhilarating. . . . A formidable creation. . . . [Mitchell's] brilliance takes one's breath away in a manner not unlike a first experience of Chartres or the Duomo. It is a pleasure to sit inside such an edifice, and to marvel. Repeat visits are in order. Each time, a little more structure is revealed. Each time, the space grows less intimidating. Until, finally, it is just a book, one that you are reading with amazement and delight."

 

Praise for Cloud Atlas:
"Cloud Atlas is a head rush, both action-packed and chillingly ruminative."

 

"Mitchell has the imagination and technique to deliver a fully figured world with its own language, landscape and customs. An astonishing range of textures and voices are combined to make these worlds feel real. . . . An exorbitant artistic effort has yielded an overwhelming literary creation. . . . Mitchell's storytelling in Cloud Atlas is of the best."