Opal stood there, and once again she felt frozen. Instead of joy she was flooded with a terrible anger. These were the words that would have kept Terry alive. Why couldn’t they have come sooner? Why couldn’t Terry have lasted just a little longer? Once again, Opal’s hand began to shake, but she managed to keep her voice calm. “When should I come in to talk to you?”
“Would Friday for lunch be all right for you?”
Friday lunch, Saturday morning, Sunday at midnight, Opal thought. Any time from now until my natural death. But all she said was, “What time?”
“Would one o’clock be all right?” the girl asked. “We can meet at the Four Seasons.”
“Yes.” She hadn’t a clue where the restaurant was, but Roberta would know. “I’ll be there at one o’clock on Friday,” Opal told the girl, then remembered herself. “And thank you. Thank you for reading it,” she said, then hung up the phone.
She stood there for another few moments, still shaking. She would never thank them for publishing the book, she promised herself. That is just what it deserved. But the girl had been good to take it home and look at it, and hadn’t it been lucky that she was good enough to recognize its worth? Too late, though. Too late for Terry. But at least Terry’s words would live beyond her. It might bring Terry no joy, and it might bring little joy to Opal. Still, it was something. It was more than something. It was what Terry had always wanted and what Opal had always wanted for her.
She walked out of the stockroom, through the center aisle of the shop, past mysteries, science fiction, and literature, and got almost to the cash desk before Roberta, ringing up the cookbook purchase, looked up and saw her. She raised her eyebrows. “Bad news?” Roberta asked, and Opal managed to shake her head before she loudly and wetly burst into tears.
38
Publishers are all cohorts of the devil; there must be a special hell for them somewhere.
—Goethe
Gerald looked up from the manuscript in front of him. Pam Mantiss, for all of her faults, had managed to do it again. It had been quite some time since she had brought an important book into the house, but her timing couldn’t be better. The Duplicity of Men was a real work of art, something Gerald could be proud to publish. Something Gerald’s father would be proud to publish, he thought. If there was some pain he felt as he placed the last page neatly on the high stack of typed sheets, it was only that his writing would never achieve this. He was no genius.
Well, you couldn’t have everything, he told himself, though he knew he tried. You have intelligence and taste, you have a social position, you have a fascinating job, and wives and children. Not to mention a name known to every media savant in the country and a string of books that all sold a lot more copies than this book ever would. Still, a lasting work of such intelligence and insight did cause Gerald a momentary stab of regret. Would I give up everything I have to have written this book, he asked himself? He thought of his perfectly austere study at home, the twilight view of the Central Park reservoir, and the dinner party he was about to host. The wall-mounted antique chenets would glow and the company would as well. Could he give all that up? No, he couldn’t, he wouldn’t give any of that up, but it would have been nice to have written The Duplicity of Men as well.
Still, he’d have the honor of publishing it, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. After the Weston fiasco, Gerald had been putting off sending a copy of his own book to Senior for fear of his father’s overreaction. It seemed to Gerald that after all these years, Senior should be able to make the distinction between fiction and biography, even if the fiction was loosely based on events of the past. Anyway, who cared about forty-year-old scandals? They simply made for a good read. And wasn’t that what it was all about, if you couldn’t write with genius? Sometimes Gerald thought that Senior only bothered with his endless moral scruples to annoy Gerald and make him look bad.
Senior had lived in a world where gentlemen put up capital to publish books because they chose to, because it interested and amused them, and the 10 percent return on investment at the end of each year was all that was expected. In that long-ago world a commitment to an author lasted a lifetime, and editors served as bankers, marriage counselors, and muses to their writers. But those days were gone. And it was time that Senior woke up and smelled the Jamaican Blue Mountain. At that moment, Mrs. Perkins buzzed the intercom. “What is it?” Gerald asked huffily.
“It’s your father on line one.”
“I’ll take it.” As if Gerald had the choice. What would Senior blame on Gerald now? If Senior had wanted everything to remain the same, he shouldn’t have sold the firm when he retired. Now he had no responsibility except as a board member. Gerald sighed, and with great confidence he picked up the phone. “Hello, Father.”
“Gerald, I have seen the proposed fall list, and I think we need to go over it along with some other things. Come over to the house.”
Gerald didn’t get annoyed at his father’s demand this time. He decided how he would handle his father. He’d send him a group of manuscripts, including his own and The Duplicity of Men.
Duplicity would certainly make Senior sit up and take notice. This was the kind of work that won prizes for publishers. And perhaps—just perhaps—it would soften the flak Gerald would have to take on his own book. His own book had certainly been improved by the suggestions Emma Ashton had provided him with. Clever girl, and not altogether unattractive. Too bad she was a lesbian. According to Pam Mantiss, anyway. Sometimes Gerald wondered if Pam might not be feeding him disinformation.
He looked at the next memo in his stack. It appeared as if intelligent and massive revisions had been outlined for the dreadful Susann Baker Edmonds book and were under way. Perhaps they would be able to salvage some of his investment there. He was admitting—but only to himself—that he had bet on the wrong horse. The $20 million contract that stole her from Imogen Clark had become publishing legend. Now it would turn to egg on his face if something wasn’t done to improve the manuscript. He thought of Freud’s overquoted question: What did women want? Gerald certainly didn’t know, and his list reflected that. He’d thought they wanted Susann Baker Edmonds, but his timing or her plotting may have been off. Well, he’d see what came out of this revision cycle.
Meanwhile, the fall list was slowly beginning to shape up. The list meeting he had been dreading, the one that would make or break their profit picture for next year, looked as if it might produce quite a few viable titles. There were some nonfiction gems, and he was determined to get his own book on the bestseller list by any means necessary. With this heavy editing, the Edmonds book just might fly—especially if they got this problem of her daughter’s book straightened out. The Jude Daniel manuscript had three advantages: Pam had bought it cheaply, there already seemed to be a lot of industry buzz about it, and the currency of its subject could be exploited. Like that Joyce Maynard novel a few years back. Perhaps he’d send it over to his father as well. Yes, he decided, he would. Anything to deflect Senior’s contempt.
Then there were the long-shot fillers, but certainly possibilities. The Hollywood tell-all by Brando’s housekeeper, the story of the cult members who believed they’d been impregnated by Elvis after his death, and the new novel by Annie Paradise. All they needed were a few more titles, and they’d manage to stave off a head-rolling coup for another fiscal year. Then he picked up The Bookseller, a U.K. trade magazine.
There, in one of the savant’s columns, was a wrap-up of events at Frankfurt:
BENT’S NOTES
* * *
Oh, what bliss it was to be alive! Well, not quite bliss, perhaps. One can imagine prettier places than Frankfurt in which to spend a few days in autumn.
But this year’s book fair was not without its moments of light relief. Like the sight of uniformed book fair officials bearing down on Archibald Roget to announce, “Your erection is too high”—the dimensions of the Peterson booth were, they alleged, in contravention of the fair regulat
ions.
A taxi driver shared an interesting fact with me. Prostitutes in Frankfurt dread Fair Week. “Trade slows down to barely a trickle,” they complain.
* * *
It was, as has become the custom, a “quiet but workmanlike fair”—God forbid anyone should be caught having fun. It was, however, good to see Eddie Bell, back on form selling the latest volume of Margaret Thatcher’s memoirs. You’d’ve thought that THE EARLY MIDDLE YEARS might be a greater challenge to Eddie’s salesmanship than THE DOWNING STREET YEARS and THE EARLY YEARS, but Eddie was showing not a hint of strain, claiming a print run of “in excess of 14 million copies, including 50,000 to Uzbekistan, wherever the fuck that is.”
* * *
A brief encounter with the ever quietly self-satisfied Ed Victor, who was even more quietly satisfied than usual after his “multimillion dollar worldwide sale” of a book by publishing supremo Dick Snyder entitled Healthy Wealth, a management guide with the subtitle Sustainable Wealth Creation Through Emotional Reengineering—“an unexpected book from Dick,” said Ed, “but I’ve never seen such interest from so many publishers.”
But, hard as it is to admit, there was rather more life in the American aisles. On the Friday morning, I ran into Morgan Entrekin, who invited me to a party later that night.
“But it’s the Bertelsmann party tonight,” I pointed out perspicaciously.
“It’s after the Bertelsmann party,” Morgan explained patiently. Turned out he and Cario Feltrinelli were co-hosting, and Ken Follett would play with his rock ’n roll band. I declined the invitation gracefully, since even the Bertelsmann party is past my bedtime. But I gather a wild time was had by all, which is hardly surprising.
Indeed, publishing folk seem as keen nowadays on playing guitar for the masses as they are on providing fodder for the web offset machines. In addition to Ken Follett’s Hard Covers (also starring Douglas Adams), you have Stephen King, Dave Barry, Amy Tan, and other bestselling authors making music in Kathi Goldmark’s Rock Bottom Remainders, and Robert Waller insisting on recording country and western ballads. Olivia Goldsmith recently wrote (and sang, if you use the term loosely) a ditty called “Book Tour Blues.” And a host of authors appeared at a North Carolina Book Fair in a group called The Grateful Deadlines. Mort Janklow may have put his finger on it when he advised Ken Follett to hold on to his day job.
It was certainly in the American aisles where the big rumour of the fair emerged—on the Davis & Dash stand, to be precise. Gerald Davis (“There is no such thing as a Davis & Dash book”) and his boss, the redoubtable David Morton, were, so the rumour goes, having a quiet natter about the merits or otherwise of one of Davis’s forthcoming titles, SCHIZOBOY by Chad Weston, when the natter got progressively less quiet and developed rather rapidly into a cadenza followed by a crescendo, all of which has reportedly left relations between the two somewhat strained.
SCHIZOBOY, so I’m told, is a no-holds-barred novel so graphic that it has even prompted the usually broadminded literary editor of the SUN (who reportedly read an early leaked copy of the manuscript in the exception that the SUN might wish to serialise it) to describe it as “giving pornography a bad name.”
SCHIZOBOY, I understand, was Davis’s discovery, but so disgusted by the book was Morton (chairman, president, born-again chief executive and chief operations officer) that Davis’s future at the firm his forebears created is said to be distinctly unclear. All of this is rumour, of course, and I’m sure they’ll sort things out.
Back in the British aisles, at the Citron Press stand, Craig Stevens was selling what he claimed was “the most unlikely book of the fair since Mohammed Ali”—a “heavily illustrated” biography entitled THE PRIVATE LIVES OF GERALD FORD which purports to prove that, somewhat contrary to popular belief, Ford was “the most complex and interesting American president this century.”
“I know it sounds unlikely,” Craig tells me, “but that’s precisely why it’s such a brilliant book. People from every major market have been queuing up to see it. The photographs are just amazing.”
* * *
Yes, it was that sort of fair. Even submissions for the Diagram Group Prize for the Oddest Title of the Year were thin on the ground: the best I saw was a new edition of a very old title: Sex Instruction for Irish Farmers, and the rather too specialist History of Dentistry in Oregon. Way off the quality of past runners like Big and Very Big Hole Drilling, I’m afraid.
* * *
I was, therefore reduced to looking instead for oxymorons. You know the sort of thing; Royal Family, Friendly Fire, Military Intelligence, Happy Birthday (at least when you get to my age).
I was, needless to say, on the lookout for bookish oxymorons, and I’m happy to say that I found a few, and some not half bad.
“Exciting new English writer” was Gary Fisketjon’s suggestion; “Exclusive offer” Liz Calder’s. And, from some wag whose name I forgot to write down, the best of the bunch—“Literary agent.”
Horace Bent
Gerald, who usually enjoyed the wit and inside jokes of Horace Bent’s column, felt the blood drain from his face. He’d been able to convince himself that his humiliation had been, well, semi-private. He’d been wrong.
He thought of the dinner party tonight and nearly squirmed. Despite the soft light from the antique chenets, the guests took on a new complexion. They’d be secretly sneering. And, if that wasn’t enough, he had to see his father.
He could only hope that Senior wouldn’t criticize him too harshly.
39
Once a book has been written, I could never explain how I managed it.
—Selma Lagerlöf
Judith had managed to take Flaubert for a long walk on the campus. She had even stopped at the small boutique near the humanities building and bought herself a new long skirt. But it wasn’t an act of true optimism. She had to do it: Daniel was taking her out to dinner tonight, and she couldn’t fit into any of her other clothes. Now, getting ready for their date, she stood up in the bathtub, her long dripping hair clinging all the way to her waist. She looked down at herself, pink and wet from the heat of the bath. Her belly pouched out so that she couldn’t see her pubic hair unless she sucked in her gut. How much weight had she gained? She had been so depressed. Eating had been her only comfort and distraction. But this afternoon, at last, she felt a little better. Today had been a good day. Daniel had been attentive last night. She’d managed to get up early this morning and straighten the place up a little. And the anticipation of dinner with Daniel was almost exciting.
It was also unusual. They never went out to eat. For one thing, they couldn’t afford to. And though he had never said so, Judith knew Daniel didn’t like running into students or faculty members at the local restaurants. Was that just his nature? Sometimes Judith was afraid that Daniel was ashamed of her, or of himself for getting involved with her. She’d tell herself that was foolish—that he was just a private person, bad with small talk and too busy with his work and their book for shallow socializing. But—whether out of shame or awkwardness—she did know that he refused any invitations they got. After all, he had said, they couldn’t afford to take anyone out, and they couldn’t entertain in what he called “our rat-trap apartment.” Judith had only thought of being with Daniel when she had married him. The pleasure of that had seemed enough—more than enough: It was overwhelming. But in the last year she actually saw very little of him. And she saw virtually no one else. She’d certainly never imagined when she married him that she wouldn’t be a part of his life on the campus or off.
She shook her wet hair and picked up a towel to wrap it in. Well, she wouldn’t think about all that now. She wouldn’t spoil the first pleasant day she’d had since she finished the book. Because Daniel said he had a surprise for her tonight. Her birthday had come and gone almost three weeks ago, and Daniel had only remembered with a card—a bland one. She suspected he’d gotten it at the last minute. Well, his monthly paycheck came yesterday. Maybe he had a
gift for her now. She smiled. That would be nice. Or it could be that he’d finished editing their book. Maybe Daniel had even managed to get the manuscript retyped. Maybe he was ready to submit it. Judith actually smiled with anticipation. She’d be fascinated to see what changes he had made. Odd how it would be a comfort to have the manuscript back again.
Judith wrapped herself up in her robe, pulled the old rubber plug from the bathtub drain, and walked into the bedroom. Her new skirt lay on the bed. Tomato red, it glowed and warmed the room. She sat down on the bed, which she had stripped and made up neatly, and began to brush out her hair. She wondered where they would go tonight. She preferred the Italian place to the diner or the only Chinese restaurant in town, but she knew the Villa JoJo was more expensive than either of the others. Well, she’d be happy with whichever one Daniel picked. It would still be a treat. She glanced at the bedside clock. She was supposed to meet him in front of the student union at six. She only had half an hour. Smiling, she began to dress.
“How can I help you?” the woman in the salmon-colored suit asked. Daniel had been careful to approach one of the woman bank officers. He was nervous, and the fat older man in rumpled brown plaid was more than he could handle right now. Daniel had always been better with women. He looked over at the rectangular name plate on the woman’s desk. Patti Josephson. She was slightly overweight, and the gray roots were showing in her brown hair. He smiled at her but not too widely.
“My name is Daniel Gross. Dr. Daniel Gross. Just an academic doctor, I’m afraid.” He laughed self-deprecatingly. No dice. She didn’t even acknowledge the mild joke. “I want to open an account,” he said. “Could you help me do that, Ms. Josephson?”
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