Booker Prize 2008
The Ceremony
Impressions from the Guildhall
These things are immediately apparent: A great expanse of red carpet. The judges have emerged from their huddle, and are At Large. The lighting is not as flattering as one might have hoped. And we’re definitely unfashionably early.
Uncomfortably exposed, we nervously hang around in the foyer, awaiting a sign (the pop of a cork, for example). Flashback to the difficult first hour of every school disco you ever went to, but more posh, with better clothes and fewer pimples. And instead of your chemistry teacher and the school secretary, there they are: Judges. It’s literally impossible not to stare: what might the body betray? I can’t help but feel sorry for them. How much time has been spent perfecting the poker face? Michael Portillo boldly strolls over, with hand outstretched to Aravind. I can’t look. [Note to self: never, under any circumstances, enter into a game of Texas Hold’em with Alex Clark or Hardeep Singh Kohli. These guys are pros.]
The makings of a throng arrive, fizz upon fizz is distributed, music is provided by a delightful jazz ensemble. Sadly they don’t cover Bananarama’s ‘Nathan Jones’, my school’s disco staple… No matter, they lighten the mood, and at least for now it’s just another publishing party.
The shortlisted authors have all met in advance of the ceremony this year – a reading at the South Bank the previous evening; a photo call and signing at Hatchards that very morning – and by all accounts (and certainly to all appearance) there is between them a tangible and pleasing sense of good will. It’s very gemütlich.
The voice of God booms from the rafters (perhaps, on this 40th Booker year, the voice of Salman Rushdie, the Booker of Bookers?) and summons us to the Great Hall for dinner. Le tout publishing pays no attention. God waits 5 minutes and then speaks a second time. Will we make Him speak thrice? Oh dear, it looks like it.
Dinner? Nobody is interested in dinner. Nerves, anxiety, and the dresses and dinner suits we’ve all squeezed ourselves into put paid to any idea of engaging much with three anomalous courses plus coffee and little chocolate/marzipan thingies. Buns could, one supposes, have been put to fighting use: but with the authors all behaving so well, we publishers really don’t have an excuse.
(Actually, sorry, excuse me, could you just… I’ll just hang on to the marzipan whatnots…thanks.)
The Great Hall is a scene from Gatsby, all starlit and sparkling, like living inside a martini glass.
Not to complain, but the toilet is a about a mile away, in some kind of crypt. A good ten minutes totter from the tables (bearing in mind the stairs) if your heels are a tad too silly. More, if you stop to speak to any smokers/jitterers/bathroom-visitors you encounter on the way. I have a ‘you-know-and-i-know-you-know-and-you-know-i-know-you-know’ moment with Hardeep in the doorway. Saved, not for the first time in my life, by Alan Hollinghurst. What a lovely man.
Noses powdered, perfume spritzed, my companion and I head back to join our parties. We’re not, I’m afraid to admit, discussing our respective authors. It’s too late for that. No, we’ve moved on to Strictly Come Dancing. (Does a tall chick stand a chance on the dance floor, I’m wondering? Jodie Kidd frankly isn’t cutting the mustard. Take heart, I’m told. Zoë Ball was all elegance and spun sugar. Hope springs!) With all this talk of the American Smooth, it’s a while before we clock... Oh heck! Not the voice of God, exactly, but for the purposes of this evening it’s as good as: Portillo speaks! The Spanish Smooth! We scamper awkwardly (and noticeably) back to the front row. Withering Look from Übereditor.
After what has been an extraordinarily long drawn out evening, what happens next happens very suddenly. Physically my reactions are instantaneous – I’m on my feet; I swear, forcefully and out loud; my hand clamps itself to my mouth. I’m shaking in my shoes. Übereditor’s face – a picture of shock and disbelief – speaks a thousand words. I wish I had a photo to show you. Aravind, alone amongst us, reacts with supreme eloquence and composure. He is a star. He is up at the lecturn, and he is a star, and he has won the Booker Prize.
Holy crap.
The White Tiger has won the Man Booker Prize 2008.
My phone dissolves. There are many interviews. There is Kirsty Wark. There are many, many more drinks. There are some tears. There is an unholy long and confusing taxi drive. A party.
There is also a flight to
I remember the morning, a year ago now, that Übereditor came whirling into the office, eyes ablaze, excitable like a child, ‘I read something really really good last night…’, already quoting
lines at me. I remember reading the manuscript he handed me that evening, and my eyes too taking on that same tyger-brightness. And then gradually the whole office – emails exchanging, conversations effervescent, calculations calculated, plans afoot.
We at Atlantic Books loved Balram – servant, philosopher, entrepreneur, murderer, White Tiger – from the get-go. Aravind wrote The White Tiger passionately; and we published The White Tiger passionately. Winning the Booker matters for many reasons, not least because a whole lot more people will burn bright from reading a knockout novel.
Congratulations, Aravind. Onward. Write your guts out.
Written by Senior Editor, Sarah Castleton. This post also appears on the Cannongate Blog, but ours is much better.
