The Moral Low Ground

By Paul Gray

The persistent and perversely entertaining theme in Ian McEwan's fiction has been the anguish of conflicting moral obligations. For example, should a composer, at the moment he begins to sense how he can complete the symphony that will define his career, abandon his concentration to intervene on behalf of a woman who may be in danger of being raped?

That is one of the questions that animates McEwan's eighth novel, Amsterdam (Doubleday; 193 pages; $21), the 1998 winner of Britain's prestigious Booker Prize. The composer in question is Clive Linley. He and his old friend Vernon Halliday, a newspaper editor, meet outside a London crematorium to say goodbye to Molly Lane, a glamorous and sexually generous woman dead in her late 40s of a painfully wasting disease. Each man had been her lover in earlier days, as had many others, including Julian Garmony, the Foreign Secretary, who is also present at the service. Linley and Halliday, unnerved by Molly's suffering before she died, make a pact. If one of them develops symptoms that could suddenly leave him helpless, the other will secure, without risking legal repercussions, the means for euthanasia. Apparently, that may be possible in Amsterdam.

The principal, and eerie, pleasure of McEwan's telegraphically terse novel is how quickly the agreement between Linley and Halliday turns murderous. For the aftermath of Molly Lane's death inexorably destroys an enduring friendship. Halliday is offered photographs that Molly had taken of Foreign Secretary Garmony in transvestite regalia. The editor feels he must publish them, both to keep his failing paper alive and to save Britain from a reactionary politician who may become Prime Minister. Linley disagrees, telling Halliday that publication of Molly's photographs, obviously private and taken in mutual trust, would be a betrayal of all she stood for in life.

Unfortunately for Linley, his ethical high ground has been undermined by his confession to Halliday that he witnessed a potential rape and did nothing to stop it. Halliday: "There are certain things more important than symphonies. They're called people." Linley: "And are these people as important as circulation figures, Vernon?" After such harsh words, what forgiveness? Amsterdam provides a chilling answer.

--By Paul Gray