“As I have just explained, my dear friend, such an arrangement not only violates my principles, it also goes against my concept of the author-publisher relationship.”
“But how am I supposed to come up with seven thousand dollars?”
“Well, consider your options. So far, no one has wanted to publish your novel. Am I right? Now you may, eventually, convince one of my fellow publishers to take it on. But then again, you may not. This business is riddled with such idiots! But hold on, let’s see if I can’t make it easier for you. What did I say, seven thousand dollars? If I roll up my sleeves, keep one hand on the calculator and the other on the printer’s throat, I might be able to bring your book out for … let’s say, five thousand. But don’t ask me to lower that by another cent!”
Charles had given the proposition his serious consideration, rolling a piece of bread about in his fingers. Peigeon-Lecuchaux refilled his glass of Bordeaux.
“You could get a loan,” he’d suggested gently.
“A loan! No one would risk ten dollars on me.”
“They would if you had a guarantor. All you need to do is find yourself a guarantor.”
“But that would be you!”
Pigeon-Lecuchaux had burst out laughing, as though he had just heard the best joke of his life. When the discussion resumed, it had been intense, hard, and lengthy, punctuated by long pauses after which the publisher had cajoled his companion, tried to encourage him, gone over the many merits of his proposition. The conference had continued until the bottle of Bordeaux was quite empty.
Charles had been compiling a list of possible candidates for his guarantor when the sound of feet scraping the floor had made him look up. Standing a few steps from the table was a tall, thin man with greying hair, wearing a ragged suit, a loosened tie below the open collar of his shirt. He regarded them wearily, as though hesitating before taking up an unpleasant new duty.
Pigeon-Lecuchaux also looked up. “Ah, Gaston!” he said. “Here you are at last. Come closer, let me introduce you to my newest discovery.”
The man had smiled weakly and approached, dragging his feet. He extended a limp, soft hand to Charles, then let himself drop into the chair Pigeon-Lecuchaux had pushed towards him. He sat with his feet stretched out under the table, eyeing the wine bottle. A moment later he was bringing a glass of wine to his mouth. He held the wine there, pursed his lips, looked up at the ceiling, then gave a brief, approving nod of his head, as though to indicate that he considered the Bordeaux good enough to go down his throat.
“My dear Thibodeau,” said Pigeon-Lecuchaux, signalling the waiter to bring another bottle, “you may count yourself lucky that I am so well connected. Gaston Robinard, here, is the best journalist in Montreal.”
“… and the most exhausted,” added Robinard in a feeble voice, giving a long, noisy yawn.
A large woman in a red hat sitting across from them threw the journalist an outraged look, and underscored her indignation by angrily jabbing her fork into a small onion.
“Yes, yes, yes,” returned the editor, playfully. “He never tires of telling us how tired he is. But he has the energy of a nuclear generator. How many pieces have you written so far today, Gaston?”
“Seventeen. And I still have at least eight more to send in before midnight, otherwise Robidoux will kick my ass.”
“You see? Twenty-five pieces in one day! Most journalists, even syndicated journalists, would be hard-pressed to produce that much in a week!”
“So where do you work?” Charles had asked, intrigued but finding it hard to conceal a somewhat dubious smile at the sight of this huge, soft body slouched on a chair like a blow-up doll that had sprung a leak.
“Everywhere. Everywhere that pays, anyway.”
“Charles, I wanted you to get to know Gaston because he’s the pad on which your career is going to be launched. You see before you a man who is not only an experienced journalist, but also a seasoned trench-fighter, a man who has thousands of contacts in the business, is gifted with an agile, perceptive mind that can assess in an instant the value and originality of your work, and who knows how to bring that assessment to others. But first,” he’d said, turning to the journalist, who was still sprawled in his chair and who now held out his empty glass, “I should tell you something about my young recruit here, and the work he has entrusted into my care.”
And with a voice trilling with excitement, he had praised Charles’s novel. The journalist had listened with his jaw sagging and his eyes half shut, his sallow face taking on the expression of a dead fish. From time to time Charles glanced at him in alarm. Then, suddenly, the journalist’s face would become animated at something Pigeon-Lecuchaux had said; a series of tics rippled across it and his eyes blinked and sparkled; before long, however, Robinard would sink back down into his gloomy torpor. This happened two or three times, and when Charles was least expecting it.
“In short,” concluded the publisher after a peroration that had lasted a dozen minutes, “we are dealing with an exceptional talent, a well-crafted work, and a new voice that needs to find its true audience. I would be very grateful if you would take this on, my dear Gaston, under the usual conditions, of course.”
By way of response, the journalist had reached out his hand, grabbed the wine bottle by the neck, and poured himself another slug. This appeared to be too much for the woman in the red hat, who gave a sort of stifled snort of contempt; her companion, a small, fragile-looking gentleman, had looked at her nervously and tried to calm her.
“I’d be happy to,” Robinard had finally said, after taking two long drinks of his wine. “When does it come out?”
“Hmm… Well, let’s see… We have a few details to work out first, nothing too complicated, mind you … then we have to find a printer — and a new title, of course …”
“A new title?” Charles had exclaimed.
“Oh, yes, absolutely, my boy. After giving it some thought, I have concluded that it needs something a little more … eye-catching.” He turned again to the journalist. “Let’s say, in two months.”
“Well, I don’t know what I can do,” Robinard had sighed. “But I’ll give it my best shot.”
And with an effort that seemed to drain all the remaining energy from his body, he reached out and shook Pigeon-Lecuchaux’s hand, and then Charles’s.
“Would you like my manuscript now?” Charles asked him.
Robinard raised his hand as though to protect his face from a flying object. “Thanks, thanks, but I never read the books I write about. Don’t have the time. Besides, I write better about things I know nothing about. Keeps my ideas fresh.”
Flabbergasted, Charles looked from the publisher to the journalist. Pigeon-Lecuchaux smiled, unperturbed.
“Here’s what’s going to happen next, my boy,” Robinard said in an exhausted voice. “You have to give me a hand with this if you don’t want me to die of overwork; that would be a real shame for a guy under fifty. First, you’re going to write me a short précis of the book, giving the names of all the principal characters. But don’t make it more than a couple of pages, otherwise I might get it all mixed up. Then you’re going to make a list of all the nice things you want me to say about the novel. Edouard here will do the same, as usual. Try to use phrases that have some punch to them, something that’ll make a good headline.”
He’d drained his glass, looked at his watch, and appeared to plunge into deep reflection; a moment later, however, his eyes closed and he was asleep. Pigeon-Lecuchaux had pushed away his plate and was checking the bill that had just been brought to the table.
Charles, still finding the situation incredible, stared alternatively at the publisher and the journalist. The latter’s head had flopped down to his chest, and he was emitting light whistling noises through his nostrils.
“And so this is how I become a published author?” he’d asked finally.
Pigeon-Lecuchaux had smiled broadly and nodded. Then, noticing the increasing distress in
his young protegé, he reached over and patted Charles on the shoulder.
“You don’t go into battle armed with fly swatters, my boy,” he said. “What the hell, the means have to be commensurate with the ends. Hey! Robinard! Wake up! Our friend here is having second thoughts. Explain the business to him; he’s fading fast, poor child.”
Robinard had started, opened his eyes, smiled, excused his momentary blackout, and swallowed the dregs of his own coffee and then those of Pigeon-Lecuchaux, which the publisher had barely touched. He explained the promotional strategy he would have to use to spread the name of a young, still-unknown writer.
“With the material you’re going to give me,” he’d ended, “I’ll write a dozen or so articles, all of which will say the same thing but in different words, and send them to various newspapers.”
“He writes for twenty-seven papers,” Pigeon-Lecuchaux announced triumphantly.
“Twenty-seven!” Charles exclaimed.
“As a freelancer, of course,” Robinard said, yawning. “And under different names. Otherwise it could get complicated…”
“What did I tell you, Charles!” the publisher had enthused. “Gaston makes a pretty formidable launching pad, don’t you think? He’s everywhere, like God. You can read him in the Valleyfield Echo, in The Eye on Berthierville, in the Drummondville Projector, in The People’s Voice in Clova, in the Lévis Vigil, the Arthabaska Flash, The Vigilante in Saint-Georges-de-Beauce. You can even read him in The Dawn Chorus in Rivière-du-Loup. I can see the doubt creeping into your eyes: you’re waiting for me to mention La Presse and the Montreal Journal and Le Devoir, and the Sun, and the Tribune, and the Daily, and all the big papers, right? My dear boy, I keep them in reserve for Round Two. We start with the seedbeds, if I may put it that way, and then, when our message is properly sown in the provincial press, we hit Montreal and the other big cities. Don’t worry, we know what we’re doing. I know my job and Gaston knows his. You’ll be amazed by the results, you have my word!”
Charles stopped. Céline and Blonblon stared at their hands, thoughtfully. Then Céline stood up and refilled their three coffee cups. Charles took a mouthful and grimaced at the bitterness of the coffee that had been boiling on the burner.
“When I left the restaurant,” he said, “I was more discouraged than you can imagine. I felt like taking my manuscript, running it through a meat grinder, and pretending I’d never written it.”
Boff was sleeping under the table. At the word “meat,” he raised his head, sniffed the air a couple of times, detected nothing particularly interesting, then lowered his muzzle to his paws. He kept his eye on his master, however, whose face made him feel uneasy.
“Is that how things work with every writer?” Céline asked, appalled. “If that’s the case it’s awful — you can’t believe anything. It’s all a trick.”
“Oh, come on,” said Blonblon. “Of course it isn’t. You’re dealing with a couple of crooks, Charles. It’s obvious.”
“Well, then I’ve got two choices,” Charles said sarcastically. “The crooks… or nothing!”
Blonblon brought his cup to his lips and also made a face, but not because of the coffee. The very idea that the world was full of crooks of varying degrees of crookedness took his breath away. He took a second drink and the insupportable thought went away. He pointed a finger at his friend. “Instead of sitting here spinning our wheels,” he said, “why don’t you go talk to your notary friend, Michaud, and tell him the whole story. He knows about books. He can advise you on what to do. Give it a try, Charles.”
“Whatever you do,” Céline pleaded, “don’t breathe a word of this to Fernand. He’s got enough to worry about as it is. Promise me you won’t, Charles?”
Sitting behind his desk, Parfait Michaud pushed his chair back and hooked his thumbs in his belt.
“Charming, Charles — oops, sorry for the alliteration — but what you’re dealing with here is called Vanity publishing.’ Odd that no one told you about it before …”
“Vanity publishing?” the young man repeated. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“Well, it’s sort of the last resort for a writer who can’t find a publisher and is willing to do anything to get his book published. There are these vanity presses that charge the writer to put out his book. That’s what Otis Editions is. Simple as that.”
“Hmm, yes, I see,” Charles murmured sarcastically. “Publishers who play on the writer’s vanity.”
“Oh, come on, Charles! Not finding a publisher doesn’t mean you’ve written something worthless. Look at Proust, or Gide, or Henry Miller. There’s a whole list of them. My advice would be to keep trying to find yourself a … a real publisher. I don’t know a lot about the publishing side of things, but it does strike me that the five thousand dollars this guy is charging you is way on the high side. There are crooks everywhere, and it’s possible this Frenchman is one of them. I wouldn’t trust him. On the other hand,” he continued with a slightly forced smile, “you’ve never let me read the great work, have you? What are you waiting for? I’m crushed, my dear boy!”
“Sorry,” Charles replied, blushing. “I’ll bring you a copy.”
He asked Michaud a few more questions, then thanked him and left.
Charles was so sure that Parfait Michaud’s assessment of his novel would be harsh that he didn’t bring him the manuscript, despite knowing that his decision would cause the notary to feel slighted. He did, however, take Michaud’s advice and went back to looking for a publisher. By spring he’d had three more rejections and was so discouraged that he’d stopped working on his second novel. One night, in a fit of rage, he grabbed every copy of The Dark Night he had in his apartment, took the stairs to the street two at a time, and threw the manuscripts into the back of a garbage truck he had heard approaching. The next day, to his great relief, he learned that Steve Lachapelle still had one copy at his place.
All this time, Édouard Pigeon-Lecuchaux was inundating him with phone calls. Charles fended him off as best he could, saying he had decided to continue to work on the novel.
“Better is the enemy of good, my friend,” the publisher warned him one day. “If you pull at too many threads, the whole fabric will come unravelled in your hands. Let it go, for the love of… It’s time to give birth! If you don’t, the damned thing will just fester inside you forever! I need that manuscript soon; otherwise I won’t have time to attend to it properly. If you only knew how many people are chasing after me, begging me to publish their work…. Sometimes I have to go into hiding if I want to get anything done.”
Pigeon-Lecuchaux took out his calculator again and gave Charles a new price: four thousand, four hundred dollars.
“I’m only offering you this ridiculously low price because I admire your work so much. Any lower and I’d be losing my shirt — and my pants, too!”
On the fourth of May, Charles relented, and agreed to sign a contract.
There remained the business of finding the money. He had nine hundred and forty-two dollars in his savings account. Céline had filled her mother in on the situation, after making her swear not to tell Fernand, and Lucie managed to come up with three hundred dollars. Céline herself chipped in two hundred. Steve Lachapelle, in a spontaneous display of friendship that touched Charles deeply, promised to give up smoking and hand the money over to Charles — five dollars a week. If the truth be told, he secretly pinched cigarettes from his mother’s packs. Blonblon had closed his repair shop some time before and was devoting all his efforts to his studies, and so was strapped for cash; nonetheless, one fine day he turned up and handed ninety-five dollars over to Charles, saying he was sorry he couldn’t come up with more.
That still left Charles far short of the forty-four hundred. Despite the unlimited enthusiasm he claimed to have for the work of his young author, Pigeon-Lecuchaux refused to go ahead until he had the entire sum in hand.
It was Blonblon who got the project rolling again, although totally by chance.
One afternoon around mid-May, he and Steve were walking home from the Cegep when he saw a cardboard box sitting on the sidewalk beside a pile of green garbage bags, awaiting pickup. Out of curiosity, he opened it. Inside were three dozen small glass jars, all neatly arranged, and empty but with their cardboard lids intact; they were a bit dusty but otherwise in excellent condition.
“Delisle yoghurt!” Steve exclaimed. “Wow! They must be pretty old. I don’t remember seeing anything like them in the grocery stores. They must go back to when my mother was a little girl. Maybe we could sell them to an antique dealer.”
Blonblon picked up the box. He had a good instinct for nosing out collectibles, and his room was full of all sorts of curious objects. The box was quite light, and he decided to take it home.
A few days later, he happened to show the jars to Charles.
“I’ll bet you could make a few bucks with these,” Charles said after looking them over.
Blonblon was dubious.
“They must go back quite a few years,” Charles insisted. “At least to the 1950s, maybe earlier… Who knows? Maybe the Delisle company doesn’t have any and would pay a lot to put them in its museum. All those big companies have their own museums, you know.”
“Well, take them, they’re yours,” said Blonblon. “Sell them for five thousand dollars, give Pigeon-Lecuchaux his money, and give the rest to me,” he added, laughing.
The next day, with the box under his arm, Charles took a bus out to the head offices of Delisle Dairy Products, in Boucherville, and after a great deal of explaining, succeeded in meeting with one of the managers, a large, burly man with an energetic, jovial manner. His dark hair was cut short, and he had a strangely blunt nose and large, ham-coloured splotches on each of his cheeks. His eyes widened when he saw the jars, but he quickly assumed a more blasé look — too late, though, for Charles had noted his initial reaction.
A Very Bold Leap Page 10
