Taken seriously

Apologies for being “off-line” recently. The whole future of this blog was suddenly compromised, and I had to give some very careful thought about whether I carry on with it. As you can see, I have decided to continue.

Nearly two weeks ago I received a short e-mail from Robert Leiper saying he was in London, and suggesting we met up at an Italian restaurant near Kings Cross station (it used to be called Monte Grappa - not sure what it is called now, I didn‘t notice). I went there completely unsuspecting anything was wrong. It was about six o’clock in the evening.

I went into the restaurant which was empty apart from one table in the corner. This was occupied by Robert Leiper and Charles Frappe, neither of them smiling. I sat down at the table, which was small and cramped, the chair making a horrible scraping sound on the stone floor. A waiter came up and I just ordered a coffee, (Robert and Charles were not eating anything). The waiter brought me my coffee and refilled the two glasses on the table (Soave, the chilled bottle covered in condensation from the warm evening). Silence until the waiter had gone back into the kitchen, and then the storm broke.

“What the hell do you think you are doing writing about me on the internet!” Charles Frappe said.

This took me completely by surprise.

“What makes you think I am?” I countered, not knowing how much they knew.

“Come off it, I’ve been reading your blog for the last two years” said Robert Leiper. “You left the url all over my laptop when you were staying with me in New York. There’s nothing I don’t know.”

“So you’ve been spying on me!” I said, trying to sound the injured party, all the time hurridly thinking through the possible implications. I was puzzled at how Robert Leiper had discovered this site, since I had carefully deleted the history folder and temporary files folder whenever I had finished using his laptop.

Charles Frappe spoke to me across the table with a very elaborate punctiliousness that I first mistook for sarcasm:

“I was greatly honored by your visit to my home in Paris. I was grateful to offer you hospitality. If I did not express this sufficiently at the time, I apologize. My friends and family in America can attest that I thought your visit a great success. They were most envious. Now, reading your weblog, I see that my company wore on you…”

By the pained expression on his face it appeared he was serious. I had thought he hated me whereas in fact he had been a fan. This was a very difficult moment for me, and I began to wonder how easily I would be able to get out of the meeting.

“At the time” Charles Frappe went on, “I was aware of a certain amount of teasing directed towards me, and I took it in good part. Much of your life seems to be devoted to teasing your friends. I stand second to none in admiration of your literary skills, as I have frequently mentioned to Robert, and I know that teasing is part of that skill.”

His voice was becoming shrill, a vocal variation I had not heard from him before.

“It is not just that you should devote yourself to mocking me. And with such witty severity. But what I really do not think funny, is having an inaccurate account ridiculing myself and what you thought of my business acumen to other people.”

“What other people?” I said. “The site is completely anonymous. And…” (feeling I should perhaps go on the attack a little) “…what exactly did I write that was inaccurate?”

Two women came into the restaurant and sat down at a table on the other side of the room. They were aged in their early thirties, obviously having just left the office for the day. They made no attempt to talk to each other, but watched the scene at our table as if it were a drama laid on for their entertainment.

This audience spurred Charles Frappe into a fresh bout of accusation:

“Your account consists of the nastiest jibes you could think of. Well perhaps not the nastiest, but pretty nasty at that. I have tried to respond with silence, but I now find I am a laughing stock from one coast of America to the other.”

“How are you a laughing stock?” I said. “No-one knows Charles Frappe is you. If you are so bothered about it I can delete all references to you.”

“Oh, but it’s far too late for that” Charles Frappe said with a bitterness that contorted his mouth into a weird sort of pout, his eyes almost closed, his head shaking vigorously.

Robert Leiper then explained just how many people the two of them had told about this blog. This included a large number of friends, relations and former work colleagues, including two of Charles Frappe’s most important art-buying clients (perhaps they are reading at this very moment? - if you are please identify yourselves). When Robert and Charles had heard I was going to the summer school in Paris they had invited me to the boat specifically so that Charles Frappe could make an appearance in these posts.

“Little did I suspect” said Charles Frappe pompously, “that you would portray me as an evil Svengali and yourself as St George sans reproche. You have destroyed me. Consider me destroyed.”

At this point I was becoming annoyed myself, and I pointed out that they had revealed my identity without my permission.

“Don’t try to defend yourself” Charles Frappe said almost hysterically (I hope this isn’t coming over as too melodramatic - this is how he was speaking). “I quite readily admit that I am a terrible bore, a disgraceful host, a conceited and self-deluded fool as a businessman, ignorant of a vast range of subjects from art to literature to French and English pronunciation that you have command of. I agree I am exactly as you have described me. I agree with you. And you may repeat this agreement to anyone you like. But the fact remains you have DESTROYED me” (the word destroyed drawn out in a strangled accent, said with his eyes closed and his fists clenched, a juddering sort of spasm shaking his body).

There was no point in trying to reason with him so I tried appealing to his vanity (which I knew to be highly developed) as a way of calming him down.

“I havn’t destroyed you” I told him, “I have made you immortal.”

This approach seemed to work, and after a great deal of apologising on my part (not that I felt like apologising, it was just the easiest course to take) he stopped going on about this blog. We ordered some food. By the end of the meal we had agreed that I would delete all references to Charles Frappe.

Days afterwards I received an e-mail from Charles Frappe saying: “delete nothing, it was all a misunderstanding, leave the blog as it is.”

A misunderstanding?

Presumably he has canvassed his contacts in America and found that this site hasn’t damaged his reputation after all (some elements of his character may have been slightly exaggerated, but I have tried hard to give an accurate portrayal).

So we go on as before.

But this episode has brought home to me that what I consider to be anonymous jottings, thoughts and off-the-cuff remarks are being read and taken seriously.