Editor’s note: What follows is an English language excerpt from Mark Haskell Smith’s novel Mémoires, published in French earlier this year. In the book, Smith blurs the lines of genre to create a metafiction—or is it an autofiction?—in the form of an invented biography of himself. Narrated by a character named Amy Elgoff, who has been assigned to write about the author, Mémoires offers a series of rabbit holes, raising questions about fiction and reality and the uneasy, and at times contradictory, ways they intersect.

The excerpt begins with a note from Amy, before moving into the action itself.

*

Dear Reader,

The following text is not something that was intended for publication. It was a letter to an editor. A detailed explanation of why I couldn’t deliver the book I had been hired to write and why I had spent my entire advance. Essentially, I was begging them not to sue me.  And so far, so good on that front. 

The publisher wanted to salvage something from their investment and I guess French readers are okay with this kind of epistolary mea culpa masquerading as a real biography, so they are publishing my letter as if it is a biography of Mark Haskell Smith.  The thinking seems to be that when life gives you lemons, make a citron tart.  Which sounds tasty, but this might strike you as a little sour, so please don’t judge me too harshly. There are so many reasons—both personal and financial, legal and ethical—and so many problems with the subject himself, that it was an impossible task. I had to deal with late night visits from armed militia, kidnapping and rendition, my involuntary participation in an assassination plot, and I unfortunately left a trail of corpses in my wake. Being a biographer can stress you out. Who knew?

The book has been  published in France and so with any luck, this will be the only evidence of its existence in English. Fingers crossed. 

-Amy Elgoff in Rome  

*

Smith excused himself to go to the bathroom. That was my opportunity. It was even easier than I thought. The restaurant has a large open patio and the night was filled with chatter, with people coming and going, waiters bringing trays of food, someone’s dog sniffing from table to table. The waiter brought a fish for the Greeks and in the distraction, I reached for a croquette and dropped a tiny pill into Smith’s rosé. All I had to do was make some conversation, stay for dessert, and get back on the boat before Smith started clutching his chest and keeled over. 

Naturally, I felt terrible. I don’t know if killers have remorse, but in that moment I was flooded by conflicted feelings. Especially after watching Smith interact with his wife. They were obviously in love, even after all these years. You could tell by the way they looked at each other. No pun intended, but I would kill to have someone look at me the way he looked at her. Respect, affection, and a twinkle in their eyes. It was a shame that I’d be ending that. All of their plans for the future, the apartment they were buying in Madrid, the books he would’ve written, the trips to visit friends in Costa Rica and family in Germany, she’d be on her own for that. I felt overcome with sadness in that moment. I am not a cold-blooded killer; I am an overly sentimental hitman.

Smith returned from the bathroom and, as he scooted his chair in, managed to knock against the table, causing his wine glass to fall and shatter. The waiter came and mopped up the poisoned wine. A fresh glass was delivered and quickly refilled. He had foiled my attempt by being tipsy. But then I wondered. He hadn’t seemed clumsy before. I didn’t see him spill or stumble all evening. Yet when his life is on the line, he’s a klutz? He must’ve known.  

Smith smiled and raised his new glass in a toast. “To life!” His eyes met mine and they were gleaming. And that’s when I got very scared.

When I got back to the yacht, Baker was waiting for me. There was a bottle of champagne on ice. Some caviar and crackers. She was ready to celebrate. The captain looked at us and said, “We’ll be sailing in a couple of hours.” He went off to prepare the ship. 

Baker popped the bubbly and poured two glasses.

“Well?”

“Mission accomplished.”

She smiled and clinked her glass against mine. 

“Congratulations.”

I shrugged. I didn’t feel that great about it. Even though I knew Smith had spilled the spiked glass, the fact that I’d actually put the poison in it appalled me. What had I become? And why was Smith always a step ahead of me? What game was he playing?  

She leaned forward and gave me with a long, slow kiss.  I looked away and asked, “Is that caviar?”

She nodded. “From the Black Sea. Help yourself.”

I leaned over her and scooped some on a cracker. It was salty and delicious. I don’t think I have to tell you that it paired really well with the champagne. It’s probably what you French publishing types have for lunch every day. At least on Fridays. 

“How long does it take?”

“What?”

“The poison.”

Baker sipped her champagne. “Depends on how much he ate. On an empty stomach, it works pretty fast.”

“He had a huge meal.”

She smiled. “It’ll hit him around two in the morning and people will blame the meal. That’s what happened to Gandolfini.”

“The actor?”

 “You only know him as an actor.” Baker drained her glass and poured another round.

“Now what?” I asked.

“We might sail to Italy. Or back to Athens.” Then she laughed. “Or we close the circle and throw you overboard somewhere between Crete and Libya.”

I couldn’t tell if she was joking. I guess my face betrayed me because she said, “I’m joking. We’re a publicly traded company. The SEC would be on our ass if we treated independent contractors that way.” 

“That’s so funny,” I lied.

That made Baker laugh really hard. So hard that she started to cough and then doubled over hacking and trying to clear her lungs. At some point she must’ve realized what was happening because she clutched her chest and looked up at me and said “Fuck you.” 

And then she dropped dead. 

I had spotted an anchor on a small boat that was tied up next to the yacht. I scrambled over and untied it, brought it back and strapped it to Baker’s body using her belt. Then I quietly lowered her into the water. She sank like a rock, like something tied to an anchor; which she was. 

I know what you’re thinking. In one night, I commit an attempted murder and an actual murder. And I dispose of a body. I’m not bragging. And if anyone asks, this is all fiction. I made the whole thing up to get out of a job I wasn’t up to. I have writer’s block, not homicidal tendencies. 

*

I disembarked with the other passengers in Piraeus and was lucky enough to find a taxi. It’s kind of weird to realize how much I use my phone for everything when suddenly I can’t use it. How can I make a hotel reservation without access to the internet? The driver recommended a hotel in central Athens. It turned out to be a nice boutique hotel right on Monastiraki Square. They didn’t blink when I paid cash for three nights. I stashed my clothes and the gun in my room, then went to a phone store and had a European sim card installed.

I didn’t really know what to do next. I could probably get on a plane and fly home. That might work. Or I might get to LAX and someone would come up and spray knockout mist in my face and then I’d wake up in Montevideo. I thought about going to the American Embassy but, well, if I’d just murdered one of their agents, they might not be so receptive. Although I had plausible deniability. Baker died of a heart attack. I should’ve dragged her to her stateroom and put her to bed and gone to my room while the yacht puttered off to Italy. But they knew what I knew and it wouldn’t take much for them to figure out what happened. Then I really would be floating in the Mediterranean, just not on a boat. Are there sharks in the Mediterranean? There must be.

I stopped into a wine bar down a little side street. I needed to think. Or relax. I needed to do something other than to feel the panic attack churning in my stomach. After a couple of glasses of wine and some olives, I felt a lot better. I’m thinking I might need to become an alcoholic. It really does settle the nerves. It tastes good. Also gets you out of the house. You can meet interesting people at bars. Plus you don’t have to sit around with the haunting feeling that you’re a murderer and it’s only a matter of time before you are thrown into prison, killed, or burn in hell for eternity, or fuck it, all of the above. I’m not advocating being drunk, but there’s something to the saying about how a cocktail or a glass of wine “takes the edge off.”

I wondered what my parents would say if they knew. What would Len say? Randy would probably brag about killing all kinds of people on one of his combat assignments. But I really didn’t care what anyone else thought. I don’t want to get overly sentimental, but I think the only person whose opinion mattered to me was my own. That felt like a breakthrough. I was finally taking action and owning the consequences. If you’ve ever read a book by a life coach, this is a lot of what they talk about. Becoming your authentic self and being okay with it. That my authentic self is a murderer is not what I planned, but like they say, you need to let go of old stories to find your happiness. Maybe that’s the way it is with murderers, we’re a small sad subset of humanity. 

I left the wine bar and walked down the side street. This was no darkened alley or anything that would, frankly, be stupid to walk down. The kind of thing that you see in a horror movie and scream at the characters not to be so stupid. Which is not to say that it was a busy street. 

About halfway down the block I saw a motorcycle start up at the corner. This isn’t uncommon in a city like Athens; a lot of people ride motorcycles. But for some reason I got goosebumps, like my sixth sense was telling me this wasn’t a normal motorcycle. 

It began speeding toward me and I froze in my tracks. The deer-in-the-headlights thing is real. Not that I’ve ever met a deer on the road, but I couldn’t move my legs for some reason. The biker reached behind his back and pulled out a samurai sword. Okay, I don’t know if it was an actual Japanese samurai sword, it was a long looking sword. Maybe a custom-made machete? Regardless, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It could’ve been the booze—maybe I shouldn’t become an alcoholic—or it could’ve been the fact that I am not accustomed to motorcycle driving samurai sword wielding assassins bearing down on me, but I just stood there as if I was watching a Quentin Tarantino movie while playing a character in a Quentin Tarantino movie while a little voice in the back of my head was asking what ever happened to Quentin Tarantino, his early work was so good.

The sword wielding assassin didn’t decapitate me, obviously, otherwise this would be a very strange letter. 

Instead, a man in a sharp-looking blue business suit burst out of a doorway and intercepted the assassin with a flying kung fu kick. The assassin separated from the motorcycle and went tumbling. The riderless motorcycle carried on down the street, crashing into a post at the end of the block.  The assassin sprang up, sword at the ready, preparing to chop the man in half, but the sharp-dressed man whipped out a pistol and pumped two shots into the motorcycle driver’s chest. Then he stopped and lit a cigarette. 

I managed to croak out a “Thank you.”

He looked at me and that’s when I noticed how handsome he was. He said, “Follow me.” Which I did. Because I am not stupid.

His English was excellent, but I detected a French accent. And I was right. Turns out it was Julien Guérif, Smith’s translator, and I suspect a member of Direction générale de la sécurité extérieure, the DGSE. Not that I can be sure. Not that any of these spies tell you who they work for or what they really want. For all I know he works for the company that makes Babybel cheese. Whoever he worked for; he was good at what he did.

I followed him to a taverna, through the dining room, into the kitchen, and to another room in the back. He offered me a seat and a glass of wine. He sat across from me and didn’t say anything for a long time. Just sipped his wine. 

“Thanks.” I said. 

He shrugged. “No problem.”

“Who was that? Do you know?”

He made an apologetic gesture and lit a cigarette. 

“CIA?”

He shook his head. “I would guess a tech company. Meta. Probably. Or Google. Who can say?”

“Why would a tech company want to kill me?” I asked.

“The space race.”

And here is where I had a moment. What was happening? This was all so surreal. Then I realized it was the twist in the second act that you don’t see coming, the action that turns the plot and sends everything spinning off in a new direction.

“Space race? Like outer space?”

“Of course.”

“I’m not sure what outer space has to do with anything.”

“Really?”

He didn’t seem convinced, but he stubbed his cigarette out, got up and opened the door. He said something in French and a few minutes later a cocktail was delivered.

“Wine is good with food, but I prefer a mojito when I’m not eating.”

I nodded. “Right. Yeah. Me too.”

“Would you like one?”

“I’m good.” I don’t know why I was suddenly so nervous. “Can you explain any of this to me?” I asked.

“You kill your handler. Yes? On Naxos. You escape. Naturally they think you have the schematics.”

“Schematics? You mean like a blueprint?”

“Are you joking?”

“No.”

He took a deep breath and exhaled. Then he sipped his cocktail. I could see him thinking how much to tell me, but then he decided. “As you know, Bezos has a space program. Musk has one as well. But they are not alone. The Chinese have a program. Jack Ma. Even the Nigerians.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

“You are trying to kill Smith, no?”

I must have blushed because he continued. “They offered you an HBO Max show?”

“Netflix.”

“I see.” He seemed disappointed in me.

“There’s nothing wrong with Netflix.”  

He shrugged. “HBO has more class. I think.”

“Why would Bezos or Musk want Smith dead?”

“They think he stole the plans.”

“For a space ship?”

He nodded and sipped his mojito. I have to admit I was skeptical. Smith seems like he’s only good for making dinner plans. Hard to imagine he could pull off something like this. The whole thing seemed far-fetched. 

“Isn’t the space program a government thing? Shouldn’t NASA have the plans?”

“Why do you think the richest man in the world isn’t the government?”

I stammered a bit. “Well … because …”

He interjected. “Maybe he’s bigger than any government. Maybe the richest man in the world doesn’t give a fuck what any government thinks.”

I didn’t know what to say. I mean, what is there to say? Julien finished his mojito and set the glass down.

“And if we let the richest man control outer space? Hmmm? Then what do you think happens?”

“Nothing good.” I guessed. I had no idea. Do you? Who cares if some rich asshole shoots himself into orbit.

The translator put down his empty glass. “Now. We go.”

“Where?”

“To see Smith.”

*

I thought we were going back to Naxos, but according to Julian’s sources, Smith had gone to Trieste. I was relieved, in a way, because I didn’t relish returning to the scene of the crime. I didn’t want to see the spot where Baker had dropped anchor and I didn’t want the Naxos police asking me questions. Not that they would, I guess. Then there was my guilty conscience. Baker was a good kisser and had been nice to me. As nice as someone forcing you to do something you don’t want to do can be. I suppose if I hadn’t poisoned her, we would’ve hooked up on the yacht. Still, this is like making excuses for an abusive relationship. She was forcing me to murder someone. Well, maybe she was coercing me to murder someone. Isn’t that the plot of a Patricia Highsmith novel? Send help. I don’t want to be in a crime novel.

Which makes me ask: is Smith a crime writer? I mean there are crimes in his books; piracy his birthright. But I don’t see it. He’s not Megan Abbott or Jean-Claude Izzo, you know? Smith has obviously been influenced by crime fiction; you can tell. There are echoes of Ross Thomas and Charles Willeford in his novels. And he’s said he’s a big fan of writers like Chester Himes and Richard Stark. His writing might have veered more toward crime fiction if mystery and crime readers had been more receptive to his books. But they never got on board. Too much sex, I think. Which is weird because so many crime books have horrific rapes and murders and blood-spattered tableau where brutalized bodies are ripped apart. Readers lap that shit up, they love a brutal serial killer story. But have sex for pleasure without death and violence and they’re offended. That seems topsy-turvy.

Julian took me back to my hotel to get my things. I fantasized about having hot and passionate sex with a handsome translator, you know, to reward him for saving my life. That seems like something people do in spy stories. But it didn’t happen. Instead, we took a cab to the port and boarded an overnight ferry to Trieste. 

I’d never heard of Trieste. You’ve probably been. It’s Italian but not. It’s its own thing. Which is a terrible sentence, but true. A port city and capitol of an autonomous region called Friuli Venezia Giulia. Close to Slovenia, if that helps. I was unaware of where Slovenia was located, but then I’m American and our knowledge of geography is notoriously terrible. Americans are like early astronomers who believed the sun and stars orbited Earth, only we believe the world revolves around us. I mean, if you’d asked me to find Slovenia on a map, I’d probably point to Belgium. I’m not proud of that.

I don’t know why I trusted Julian. He saved my life, which I suppose is a good reason. You don’t save a spy’s life only to kill them later. Right? Unless you keep them alive to torture and then kill them. I was trying to stay one step ahead. That’s the way spies think. Always calculating the probables, the known knowns, and the unknown knowns, the fuck-you-gonna-do-if-that-happens. Because at the end of the day it’s easier for everyone if you’re dead. No loose strings, no blowback, no problems. Now do you see why this job has given me PTSD? 

I asked Julian why Smith was in Trieste.

Julian shrugged. “Why Thailand? Why Amsterdam? He likes places with distinct culture.”

“What’s the culture of Trieste?”

“Coffee. He likes his coffee.”

Of course. As I told you earlier, he drinks a lot of the stuff, not Balzac levels, but he’s up there. Maybe all writers are. I drink a lot of coffee too, but then I’m happy to pop a pod in my little machine and push the button. I don’t need it to be a big production. I don’t need my own grinder or a trip to a specific city.

I had more questions. But I decided to save them for my meeting with Smith. They were not about what he had for breakfast or why he likes Camper shoes so much, or even his writing process. I mean, who the fuck are we kidding here? No one wants to read about a writer’s process except other writers and that’s only so that they can compare what they do and feel vaguely smug. And yet there is a cottage industry of writers describing their process. Writers writing books about writing books and how to write a book. I wasn’t interested in Smith’s writing anymore. I’d moved on. I wanted to know why these corporations wanted to kill him. And why did he have plans for a space station?