A Correspondence with Colm

"My dreadful discovery of the second kind of cockroaches in Manila took place several days ago during my first night at the new apartment, where I had forgotten to initially bring an electric fan. I found that these crawlers were infinitely creepier and –consumed perhaps by deeply familial ties– downright suicidal. They kept coming and coming, in between chapters of Colm Tóibín, the first one taking off from the edge of a splintery closet door and fluttering straight to the wild hairs of my left leg. After getting it off with a violent jerk, I began chasing the cockroach, whereupon its short life came to an end with the vicious smack of a Pony sandal. And yet how many of them had followed!"

I wrote the above paragraph ten months ago, and the reference to a certain novelist from Enniscorthy, Ireland has, ten months later, provoked a response from a most unlikely reader. Of course I cannot not boast about our correspondence, even though I probably will never forgive myself (or be forgiven by people who matter) for hereby telling the rest of the world. Here's a bit of what is supposed to be private stuff between me and, ahem, Colm:

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Dear Migs,

On the subject of cockroaches, if I can do anything to help, let me know.

All the best,
Colm
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Dear Mr. Toibin,

You are not really Colm Toibin, are you? (Besides, it's Tóibín.) If you are then you have a lot of explaining to do. More than exterminating the cockroaches, convince me that this E-mail address is not illegitimate. Tell me that you had indeed written that little note from Spain (as was traced by the IP address). And ask me which I liked better: The Master or The Blackwater Lightship?

I could ask for more proof of your identity, and then tell you the story of my life so you could make it into a novel (Why not? Filipinos can be cardinally, creepily Catholic, too), but it's morning in Manila as I write this, and I'm still feeling the bitter effects of a whiskey-aided reunion with my cousin Johnny from L.A. It was the first time I ever tasted liqueur slapped with a Green Label; not that I care very particularly for it; I ruined my drink by pouring half a can of Coke and then, on my second glass, half a can of tonic.

Well, there you are. (A phrase from Flanner.) Colm. If you're not Colm then have the decency at least to tell me so.

Love from Manila,
Migs
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Dear Migs,

Yeah, it’s me. I am in the Pyrenees trying to finish a novel, nearly there and so fed up having to work flat out every day that I search myself online (sic) which I know is a very bad sign. I hope your hangover is better and I need to warn you that hangovers, in my experiences, seem to attract even larger cockroaches and make them feel brave. It is a cool idea that someone in Manila where I have never been is reading one (or maybe two) of my books. Which do you like better?

Colm
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Dear Colm,

I hate to disturb your novel-writing process but you are not Colm Tóibín! What are you doing reading my blog?

If you really are Colm, then let me make this known: I've read all of your books. Unfortunately, a TV producer friend of mine from New York borrowed my copy of Mothers and Sons and never returned it. (I have his Hollinghurst, but that's no replacement. Ooh!) I already love you, without having yet heard your accent. Why you never gave Mr. Henry James a shag in The Master escapes me - but maybe you're just understated like that, the power of what you write lies in between the lines, and behind what's not being said or done.

The hangover is gone, replaced by an intoxicating disbelief. Please tell me you're not Colm Tóibín.

Love,
Migs
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Dear Migs,

Here is what I did. I went to Google, and then to Blog Search, and then I keyed in my own name. Your blog had appeared just four minutes earlier and, because it had my name in passing on it, it came up so I was tempted to write to you and I gave in to the temptation (I usually, being a good Catholic, do not). I have to confess that I keyed in myself again this morning and to my horror a whole long lecture and reading I gave in Boston in March came up. So there.

Colm

P.S.: Sorry about Henry James. It just couldn’t be done.
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Ohmigod Colm,

Being a good Catholic myself, I am tempted to believe your story. (Agnosticism won't bring me anywhere.) Besides, anyone who readily admits having searched his own name on Google deserves to be trusted, not least if it's an author whom I so admire, and after whose prose I try to pattern mine, however vainly.

But I don't want to praise you too much and scare you away. Good luck with the new novel; I hope it's not as swaggeringly heterosexual as The Heather Blazing.

Love,
Migs
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Dear Migs,

I have bad news for you. While there is a small (and unresolved) lesbian scene in this book, it is even more swaggering.

Colm