A writer’s life as a writer’s wife

Isabel Fonseca is tall. Reams have already been written on her ability to turn heads, how she was apparently the ‘other woman’ in British author Martin Amis’ life, how he supposedly left his wife for her. In Isabel’s words, “All that was a long time ago,” and they’ve been married for 18 years now.

So why is she at the Jaipur Lit Fest talking of Bury Me Standing: The Gypsies And Their Journey, a book that was written in 1995, more than 15 years ago? Her answer is candidly honest. “Maybe because Dalrymple really likes that book,” she laughs. “Maybe because, though there are a lot of fiction writers, there aren’t many who talk about a subject like that. Maybe because India has an interesting collection of nomadic people, so we find some parallel...”

Fonseca has written a new afterword to the book, elaborating on what’s happened since 1995. “Of course, the Gypsies originated in India,” she continues, speaking on the Roma, the subject of Bury Me Standing. “So it’s especially thrilling for me to be here, as I’ve never been here before. This was always part of the story. When I was writing the book, I never had the time or the money to get to India though I’ve always wanted to come.”

Her fascination for the Roma is evident as she explains her subject. “I’ve always been interested in that part of the world. I got the idea from the Czech president Vaclav Havel who once said that the Gypsies would be the litmus test not of democracy but of civil society. Isn’t it fascinating that such a people persist despite all efforts to assimilate them? For them, it’s a simple question of survival. But what does it mean to be a people without all those things that turn a group into a tribe or a nation?”

Gypsies have interesting dimensions — fortune-telling, curses, and plenty of superstitious lore associated with them. Was she exposed to this side at all? “A little bit. Gypsies themselves promoted this a lot, because they made a living as fortune tellers. I had an incredible experience with a fortune teller, who immediately described my life and it was a terrifyingly weird experience. I don’t know why she was so brilliant but she was a fantastic reader. I’m really anti-superstition — I just cannot bring myself to believe in any of it. So I can only answer — given my prejudices — that she was a brilliant reader of the human face.”

In her mood, I see a chance and take it. “What’s it like, being Martin Amis’ wife?” “Oh, get off,” is the laughing answer. But then she decides to reply: “He’s incapable of dissembling, shall we say, so you always know where you stand. He’s a fatal truth teller...” And the words flow: “He’s very funny. To me that’s the secret in every long-term relationship. The person you love the most, as indeed the books, is the person that gives you the most delight. Laughing pleasure just never wears out. People who make you laugh never grow old.”

Her observations are now in free flow... “One more thing about being married to another writer. Writers are nightmares, they’re hell. Only another writer can put up with it. If you want sympathy, you’re only a pretend wife or a pretend husband or a pretend lover, because you’re so involved with your work, and a person with a normal civilian job couldn’t be expected to cope with that level of preoccupation all the time. I’m not saying that in a frivolous way. Being a writer is such a weird thing to do for a living.”

This is her first visit here, what would she like to see the most? “Just people. Life on the street…”