Chapter 19 - Going Public
“Roger wants to put the ad in the English newspaper, and he thinks it’s going to cause The Whosey to pick up the phone and call us. Are we ready for that?”
The woman lifted her Bolshoi Ballet coffee mug and sipped. She's is the kind that thinks before she speaks. “Look,” she said, “we’re going to have to face all that shit sooner or later. Press, phone calls, job seekers, contractors, locals. All that. I’m ready for it now, as long as I can have the Ps and Gale and Helstof to help. You’re the boss, Gwen, but all this stuff that’s going to flood us is admin business. I’ll sort it all out as it happens, and come to you for decisions. If you’re ready, I’m ready.”
Gwen called the others over to the chairs, and asked them the same question. “Are we ready to go public?” Everyone thought for a moment, and nodded. They were placing a lot of faith in the woman, and if she said she was ready, then they felt they were ready. Gwen looked at Roger and said, “Let er rip, dear.” He went over to the computer and started working. The others dispersed to their tasks. The woman said, “Gwen dear, you mentioned something about a raise. Now might be a good time to give that some consideration.”
Gwen said, “Oh, yeah, right, sorry.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then said, “I’m considering giving our admin person a raise. What do you think? How much?”
The woman said, “Well, it ought to be commensurate with what her counterparts in similar positions at world-class cultural institutions make.”
Gwen said, “You think so? Hmmm. Do those counterparts normally have Israeli commandos coming into their offices, brandishing loaded hand guns, threatening people and trying to steal stuff?”
“Well, that never happened out in San Francisco. One time we had some gay activists picket the offices for a couple of days because they thought one of our productions wasn’t quite politically correct enough. But they had signs, not guns.”
“Do any of these counterparts have a disgruntled Russian billionaire former Nazi hunter as an antagonist, who very much wants to torpedo our production, and may be willing to resort to violence to do that?”
“Ummm, no, not that I know of, but one time a few years ago the janitors at the Australian National Opera refused to clean the bathrooms for the week leading up to opening night, and then during the opening act of the performance, stood in the balcony and threw toilet papers rolls billowing down on the audience. They wanted a raise and better working conditions. My counterpart had to deal with that.”
“Are any of your counterparts responsible for a twenty-five million dollar, single production budget?”
“Never been done; not to my knowledge. Not in New York, not in London, not in Paris.”
“Well, there you have it. How about two hundred grand? For the next year.”
“That sounds ok. What about overtime?”
“Don’t push it. But, we also will purchase life-insurance policies for the whole team. Cover you if Nev comes back. How’s that?”
“That’s very reassuring, Gwen. Thank you.”
As Gwen went to see what Roger was doing at the computer, she thought, “I may have to give the woman a gun, and some training. Don’t want to be unfair to her.”
The woman thought, “That seems to be Gwen’s answer to everything: guns, guns, guns.”
Roger was staring at the screen. Gwen asked, “What are you waiting for?”
“I sent the copy of the ad to them, and all the requirements, like second page, Sunday entertainment section, full color. Waiting for confirmation.”
Gwen pulled up a chair, and commenced watching the screen with him. They held hands, waiting for five minutes, ten minutes. Then the computer donged, and a message appeared from The Times: Your ad has been accepted for publication, contingent upon payment in full, by prior Wednesday, 5pm London time.
Roger smiled. Gwen asked, “How much?”
“50,000 pounds.”
“How much is that?”
“Ummm, about $75,000.
“Isn’t that a lot, dear? For one ad?”
“If we don’t get Townshend out of it, it’s a lot. If we do get him, it’s not a lot.”
“Whatever you say, dear.”
Roger went in to see the woman. He handed her a printout from the newspaper, with instructions for making international payments. She looked at it and said, “You’re paying $75,000 for a newspaper ad? Are you crazy?”
“I’m paying $75,000 to attract a genius to our project. If he says yes, you will write him a check for five mill. You ever written a check that big before?”
“I can’t wait to meet this Whosey guy? He better be good.”
“He is. This is going to be a rockin’ great Stravinsky ballet.”
The Lost Ballet Page 19
