Blind Submission

by Debra Ginsberg

  To answer your last question about my identity, “all in good time,” as they say. I have my reasons for remaining anonymous, and as long as Ms. Fiamma is satisfied with my progress, I shall remain so for just a little while longer. As to your considering me a friend—I think we are both more and less than that now.

  Here’s to you, Ms. Robinson; coo coo coo-choo.

  With best wishes,

  G.

  I was too exhausted to move. I lay on my hotel bed, where I’d fallen a half hour earlier, without enough energy to even pull back the cover, which I knew was laden with the filth of every person who’d lain there before me. I’d pulled back the heavy purple drapes before I’d collapsed on the bed and I could see a sliver of gray-blue New York City sky behind the crowd of brick and concrete walls. My feet and head were throbbing, but the thought of going downstairs to the lobby to buy an eight-dollar bottle of aspirin was overwhelming. It was my last night in New York and my first nonsleeping break from Lucy in days.

  She’d gotten herself invited to a cocktail party that HartHouse was throwing in conjunction with HBO for a series based on a book by one of its authors and was going alone. In fact, she’d been adamant about keeping me away from any function or meeting that might involve Gordon Hart. And as much as I wanted to meet Gordon Hart, I wasn’t disappointed that Lucy left me out of the meetings. I could only imagine the embarrassing things she’d think to say, and would rather never meet the man at all than be humiliated in front of him.

  “Why don’t you go get yourself some dinner in the Big Apple?” she’d suggested when I left her room after reorganizing her notes, responding to her messages, and preparing her for the next day’s meetings. “If you can’t find a good place to eat in New York City, you don’t know what food is. Or better yet, you can order something in your room and get caught up. I’m sure you’ve got a lot of work to do.” As if any work I had to do was unrelated to her. “Anyway, enjoy yourself—this is your vacation! But don’t get carried away. We’ve got a long day tomorrow and then you’ll have to get yourself to the airport.”

  Lucy had decided to take an extra day in Manhattan without me (which had entailed at least two hours of phone time for me, rearranging her flight and negotiating an extra night at the hotel at the same rate) and had given me no information about why or what she was planning to do. Which was fine with me. I’d never worked as hard as I had in the last two days or been as connected to another human being for such an extended period of time. I marveled at Lucy’s energy level. She was unstoppable. She had to tire, had to feel the effects of her mad pace, but she never seemed to show it. I had begun to wonder if she was sucking that energy from me. Despite my suspicion that she was some kind of psychic vampire, though, I was impressed, almost awestruck, by her performance in New York. They didn’t always seem (or even pretend) to like her, that much was certain, but every editor and publisher gave her their undivided attention for as long as she was with them. From what I could see, Lucy had no “pals” in New York. Nobody ever spoke to her as if she were a girlfriend or a buddy. Nobody asked about her hobbies, her family, or the details of her life. But every one of them, including the elusive Gordon Hart, wanted to know what she had.

  And Lucy had something for everyone. She had an encyclopedic knowledge of every editor’s history, exactly what kind of books they liked, and exactly how far out on a limb they could go to buy. Often, that limb didn’t seem to extend very far, but I only saw Lucy express anything less than brisk confidence once.

  We were marching out of Long, Greene, where she’d just finished a meeting with Julia Swann, an editor with a number of adjectives on her stationery (executive, vice president, senior, etc.), but a very limited allowance for what she could buy. Julia had sighed when Lucy told her about Elvis, said that it sounded wonderful but that she doubted she’d be able to get it past her board. She was looking for the next Da Vinci Code, Julia said—didn’t Lucy have one of those? And what was happening with Karanuk, for heaven’s sake? Now, there was something she’d have carte blanche to bid on.

  “This is a very difficult time to be in publishing,” Lucy said as we hit the street and headed down Fifth Avenue to her next appointment. “Nobody has any imagination anymore and they’re all scared to buy anything that isn’t incredibly safe or has been done before. I mean, really, how many celebrity children’s books do we need? Or prizewinning authors writing cookbooks?”

  This rare moment of doubt passed as quickly as it had come, though. Lucy was back on her game by the time we reached her next meeting, busily pitching her own celebrity children’s books and literary cookbooks (because, of course, she had them) along with everything else on her list. It was really quite a sight to behold. Lucy must have known this, too, because, despite insisting that I fetch coffee and make copies almost everywhere we went, she seldom excluded me from her meetings. She wanted me to see her in action. At all times, Lucy made it very clear that I was her assistant, but as we circled New York City like hungry sharks in search of prey, I began to get the sense that she also wanted my admiration. She had it, of course.

  After being attached to her at the hip for almost three days, though, I couldn’t stand the sight of Lucy anymore. I was sick of her relentless rudeness, of the way she managed to make me look like an ignorant hick at every office we visited, never giving me an iota of credit for doing anything other than the most basic of clerical tasks, and I was sick of carrying her crap, literally and figuratively. But mostly, I was weary and unsettled by how close I was to her—of how she seemed to occupy every space of my being, under my skin and inside my head.

  I also had the feeling that somehow she knew about my conversation with Natalie Weinstein and was just waiting for the right moment to drop some kind of bomb on me. Although Natalie had indicated that she wasn’t about to tell Lucy, my anxiety wasn’t entirely irrational. Anna had spoken to Sunny Martin and, for all I knew, had gone straight to Lucy with that information. If Jackson was to be believed (and I did believe him—I had decided that I had to trust somebody), Anna had been acting strangely enough to justify those suspicions and more.

  I hadn’t figured out what I would do if Lucy confronted me about Sunny Martin. I hadn’t even worked out how I was actually going to sell Sunny Martin’s book with or without Lucy knowing about it. All I knew was that I wanted to sell it. That book was mine. The last thing I wanted to do was to give it to Lucy.

  I rolled over on the bed and faced the door. My laptop sat on a tiny desk, plugged in and wired into the phone jack, awaiting e-mail messages. The screen threw an eerie blue light onto my suitcase, which looked like it had exploded, spewing paper and clothing everywhere. Keeping Lucy organized required the constant pulling out and reordering of my own things. Taking the time to make neat piles had not been a priority. Balsamic Moon sat on the floor next to my copy of Thaw. I’d read all of those pages as well, and they were every bit as bad as Lucy had said they were, but I had ideas about how Karanuk could fix them. Despite the scattered story and disconnected paragraphs, Karanuk’s prose still held grains of the genius that had made Cold! great. I knew I could work with that and I knew Karanuk could work with me. Maybe that was the answer, I thought. I’d try to trade my work with Karanuk and Blind Submission for a shot with Balsamic Moon.

  But, no, she’d never go for it.

  After all she’d done for him, Karanuk would never take me over Lucy in any way. And while it wouldn’t be as good, Blind Submission could probably survive without me. It was likelier that Lucy would just fire me. No, she wouldn’t do that, either. If the last few days had taught me anything, it was that I was valuable to Lucy. Not invaluable, mind you. Nobody is ever invaluable. But I was valuable enough not to fire if she didn’t have to. She’d rather try to make me so miserable that I’d want to quit, and if I quit I’d have to pay back all the money she’d given me in that hellish contract I now knew I never should have signed. And I couldn’t afford to do that. So I couldn’t quit and she wouldn’t
fire me. In all scenarios, Lucy came out ahead.

  I thought if I could get up and tidy some of the mess in my room, it might help me to gain some clarity, but I was just so tired. It occurred to me that the hollow feeling in the center of my being was probably due to hunger and that I should eat something. I decided I would order room service as soon as I checked my messages. I reached over to the bedside table for my cell phone and dialed my home number first. There was one message:

  “Hi, Angel, it’s Elise. You never called me back. Are you okay? Have you been eaten by wolves? Or should I say wolf? I tried you at work, but that weirdo who answered the phone wouldn’t tell me where you were. Listen, Angel, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and planning and, well, you always knew that I wouldn’t be able to stay out of the book business, didn’t you? Anyway, I’ve decided to go for it again. I want to reopen Blue Moon but”—there was a long sigh—“smaller, more upscale. More, I don’t know, geared to a specialty market, although I don’t know what that is. I’m still thinking. But the thing is, I was wondering if you’d be interested in putting this together with me. I couldn’t afford—I don’t know how much you’re making now, Angel, but I’d love to have you with me on this. Think about it. I miss it, Angel. And I miss you! I’m going on and on here, listen to me, I’m going to fill up all the room on your machine. Please call me when you can, okay? And I’ve still got something I want to show you. I won’t tell you what it is—I’ll leave it a surprise, okay? You’ll find it very interesting, I can tell you that. Call me! Bye, Angel.”

  I listened to the message one more time and then erased it. I was in no state to think clearly about what Elise was offering. Part of me was thrilled that she was going back to bookselling, but another part of me was frustrated that she was doing it now and offering me an opportunity that I would have jumped at only a few months ago. I missed her as well, but in the way you’d miss a halcyon period in childhood you know you can never return to. The truth was, no matter how difficult it was to deal with Lucy, one day in her office was more exciting than all my years at Blue Moon combined, and I’d become addicted to that rush. I knew that going back to what I’d been doing before I started working for Lucy would feel like a huge letdown. I’d need some kind of rehab to get back to normal—although, now, I wasn’t even sure what “normal” was.

  Despite this ambivalence, I decided to consider Elise’s offer anyway. It was reassuring to know that I could still count on her, and if my behind-the-scenes maneuverings blew up in my face, I knew she would help me pick up the pieces. I made a note to call her as soon as I got home.

  I closed up my phone and laid it down on the bedside table. I felt sweaty and covered with grime. What I really needed was a shower, I thought. At least that was one thing that was easily done. With great effort, I lifted myself from the bed, pulled back the cover so that the clean sheets were exposed, and stripped off my clothes. I was almost there, almost under the hot running water, when I heard a knock at my door. Lucy. She’d found something else for me to do or had suddenly decided I needed to come with her to hold up the hem of her dress while she mingled. Typically, she’d found the most inconvenient moment to come looking for me. I grabbed a towel from the bathroom and wrapped it around my body as best I could.

  “Lucy?” I said, placing one hand on the door handle. I hoped I sounded as exhausted and unable to muster enthusiasm as I felt.

  “Angel? Is that you?”

  My heart leaped into my throat. I’d heard and read that phrase so many times, but I’d never really understood it—never truly felt it—until that moment, when I realized that it was Damiano on the other side.

  I pulled the door open and the towel fell to the floor. I froze, unable to make any kind of move to pick it up. Damiano walked in and closed the door behind him, and I stood in front of him completely naked. For a long moment, he just stared at me and said nothing. When I raised my eyes to meet his, I saw them shining with frank admiration and desire. But there was so much more behind that. There was empathy, the whisper of sadness, and deep longing. It was as if I were looking into my own heart. It was Damiano I needed. Of course.

  He moved toward me until we were almost touching, then stopped. Without taking his dark eyes off mine, he reached out his right hand and slowly traced the curve of my hip as if he were carving it out of soft clay. He moved his left hand up to cup the side of my face and drew me close enough for me to feel his breath on my lips. We stood like that for a small eternity, his hands warm on my skin, the moment before the kiss suspended in anticipation between us. I wanted to stay like that forever and I wanted to grab him and pull him into me. My tension turned to trembling and I felt myself start shaking.

  “Angelina mia,” Damiano whispered. He put both arms around me and held me tight. He kissed me, his lips light and soft, savoring the taste. I pressed against him, opening my mouth to his, my hands moving wild across his back and arms in a frenzy of exploration. I pulled at his shirt, desperate to feel the smoothness of his skin beneath it. Our arms tangled, our mouths pressed together hard. He lifted me as if I were weightless and carried me to the bed. He tripped, stumbled, and we both fell heavily onto the sheets. He landed on my hair and pulled it out from under him. Something that sounded like a curse fell from his mouth and I laughed. He sat up, yanked off his shoes, and started fumbling with the buttons and buckles on his clothes.

  “Vieni qua,” he said, pulling me up. “Help me.”

  I reached around him and lifted his shirt over his head as he managed to free himself from his jeans. There was a moment of awkwardness then, the hesitation that falls between new lovers when they see each other naked for the first time. But he leaned over, softly kissed the racing pulse in the hollow of my throat, and suddenly the entire room seemed to ignite.

  Sensation took over, pushing every thought out of my head. I felt myself give way to the weight of his body on mine, felt the softness of his skin and the taut muscles beneath it. I felt my body rise up to meet his lips wherever they touched me—on my thighs, breasts, and belly. I felt myself open and heard myself sigh with satisfaction. I felt Damiano’s breath in my ear, heard him whisper, “Che ricco,” tasted the salt of his sweat as it mingled with my own. I closed my eyes, using my fingertips and tongue to see. I felt him deep inside me and I lost myself there, buoyed up and away on a long swell of pleasure that went on and on and on.

  The room was dark when I opened my eyes again. I couldn’t see any sky at all through the narrow space between the drapes, just the reflection of artificial light against the buildings. Damiano lay melded to me, his arms fastened around me. I blinked my eyes to adjust to the dimness and realized that I was covered in sweat and that the sheets and pillows felt damp. Damiano’s back was slick and wet under my hands. His breathing was soft and even against my chest, so slow that I thought he’d fallen asleep. I moved my arm, which was pinned under his shoulder, and he raised his head and kissed my mouth.

  “Thank you,” he said. He traced one finger along my eyebrow, down my cheekbone, and to my lips. “You are so beautiful,” he said. “Here.” He stroked the inside of my thigh. “Here.” He rested his hand on the skin of my abdomen. “And here.” He laid his hand gently on my forehead.

  “I don’t…” I began, and had to clear my throat of all the passion that had accumulated there since I’d last spoken. “I don’t usually open the door stark naked for men who come knocking.”

  Damiano laughed, sending a merry echo through the room. “But it was very convenient,” he said. “Thank you for that also. I’ve never been greeted in such a way. I think it is something I’ll remember for my whole life.”

  “I was going to take a shower,” I said. “I thought you were Lucy.”

  “You can still take a shower,” he said. “But not yet. Please don’t go away from me yet. I have…ahh, Angelina…” He sighed and kissed me again. “I was wondering…I didn’t know if you would be pleased to see me. The last time, you were so strange. I thought maybe
I did something wrong or said something. I don’t know. But…”

  “But?”

  “I knew we would be here before I saw you for the first time. I felt you inside me, Angel. Didn’t you know, too?”

  If I could have spoken, I would have told him that I did, but my lips were trembling too much for me to get the words out. I had started crying, without even knowing why, and the tears were coming fast, spilling down the sides of my face and wetting my hair. I tried to stop, tried to strangle the sobs that were forming inside my chest, but that only made them come harder.

  “No, no,” Damiano said. He brushed my cheeks with his fingers. “Non piànge. What did I say? Why are you crying?”

  “I d-don’t kn-know,” I said. “I’m s-sorry.”

  “No, no,” he said. “Shh. Don’t be sorry.”

  He wrapped me in his arms again, whispering words I couldn’t understand into my hair. He stroked my back and my shoulders. And then he leaned over me and kissed the tears off my face.

  “Angelina,” he whispered. “You see? I drink your tears. Don’t cry.”

  I thought that if I had to die right then, wrapped in his arms, his lips on my cheek, I’d die happy.

  I must have fallen asleep, although it couldn’t have been for long, because when I opened my eyes again, the lights were on and Damiano was propped up against the pillows next to me, smiling down at me.

  “I wanted to look at you,” he said. “You are so beautiful, I can’t believe it.”

  I smiled back at him.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, and reached out for him, pulling him close to me again.

  “I want to make love with you, Angel,” he said, “here in this room. Again and again.”