Mustafa’s Letters

There was nothing simple about being the son of the novelist Malcolm Stephenson, who simultaneously was the most reclusive of men and the most revealed of men. Ten years ago I was living here too. And then my father made his decision of the life he wished to live openly, and my mother and her children were suddenly on a plane to New York, never to return again.

The world had been forgiving of my father—or, more likely, had embraced his notoriety—and his novels had skyrocketed in popularity thereafter. I never quite understood why, because this was when he entered his melancholy period, a period in which he was incapable of ending a novel with any sense of satisfaction or resolution—at least as far as I could see. It’s as if my father was more popular for not being able to gain happiness and stability in life—and, of course, for his lifestyle.

There were only four other people at the funeral service other than me. The rector of the church was wearing a confused look, not quite able to know what to say about my father’s life. My father was a renowned novelist, with an international following, so I guess the clergyman felt duty bound to say something significant—but given the life my father had chosen to lead, I’m sure he felt uncomfortable in whatever he said. I was just grateful that my father was well known enough not to be denied burial here. Then there was the landlady, the woman who had responsibility for renting out the hillside villa up in Bellapais that my family had occupied for five years and that my father now had lived in for an additional ten. It was the villa that my father claimed was his inspiration and that he refused ever to leave. And he didn’t leave it until the day after he died.