by David Belbin
‘Do you know the hoops I had to jump through to get Francis to volunteer an illustration for the cover without actually asking him for one?’
‘Couldn’t you mention your problems in the Colony? Surely he’d offer...’
‘People aren’t naive, Mark. Not nice, either, most of them. I can just hear one or two people’s sneering tones should I even bring it up. Bracken’s on his uppers. Watch out, Francis,Tony’s after a loan. Didn’t you give him a picture already? I’ll get the money somehow, even if I have to sell the lease on this place. Ten grand’s not that much.’
‘Sell the lease?’
I didn’t know that the Little Review owned the lease to the building, but the prospect of being homeless sharpened my mind. I asked Tony to explain the situation. It turned out that he owned the lease to the whole building, subletting to the porn shop below, which effectively paid the LR’s rent, rates and heating bills.
‘The lease runs out in four years. I was planning to pack up then, sell the archive, maybe publish the occasional chapbook of poetry, but basically retire.’
‘Couldn’t you sell the archive now?’ I asked.
‘Hardly.These things take months, years even, to negotiate. The archive isn’t catalogued to anywhere near the necessary standards. I want the five hundredth issue to come out this year. Anyway, I’m not sure it’s worth a great deal. I suppose the unpublished Dahl story would be the icing on the cake for anybody buying it. But that would depend on it being properly authenticated.’
I looked away. The Chinese supermarket down the road was busy today. Four or five customers were queuing to pay. However, the narrow road was at that moment blocked by their vegetable supplier’s mini-van. A taxi was sounding its horn. Tony coughed.
‘What will you do about the Dahl?’ I asked.
‘It would be foolish not to try and publish,’ Tony told me. So I’ve decided to get it set in print. I’ll send a set of proofs to Dahl’s home to cover myself...’
‘And if somebody objects?’
‘Take legal advice, I suppose.’
‘Shouldn’t you do that first?’ I asked.
Tony gave me a condescending look. ‘Legal advice costs,’ was all he said.
‘But shouldn’t we make a profit on the final issue?’ I asked, trying to be optimistic. Then I realised what I’d done. The unsayable had slipped out, that the next issue would be the last one ever. My face must have reddened. Tony, seeing my embarrassment, didn’t comment on my mistake.
‘Theoretically, the last issue made a profit,’ he said. ‘But it will be months before we know how much money came in. Lots of shops we haven’t dealt with before took copies. That isn’t to say that they’ll pay us for them. The distributors took an extra thousand, but they only pay us forty-seven percent of the cover price. If you don’t take our grants into account, we lose money on those sales. By putting up the cover price of the five hundredth issue, I can get around that, but we probably won’t sell as many copies.’
He lit a cigarette. ‘There isn’t much money to be made in this game, Mark. Take my advice. While you’re waiting to become a writer, don’t start a magazine. It will suck up all the energy you need to make a real career out of writing. Your best years go and you don’t even notice because you’re too busy, keeping the thing going, giving other writers their break. And what thanks do you get? Bugger all. You’re seen as a bloodsucker by the grant giving bodies, who can’t wait to get rid of you and reward someone newer. Most writers hate you, because you won’t publish them. Or if you do, you take too long, or don’t take the next one, and they resent you for building them up, then knocking them down. It’s a mug’s game.’
‘You must have got something out of it,’ I said, weakly.
‘I never paid myself more than a token amount. I used to get laid a little — not a lot, but enough to make it seem worthwhile. And my own work has always been noticed, quite well reviewed — nobody wants to make an enemy out of a well known editor. Nobody wants to praise you too much, either, in case it looks like toadying. Then there’s the satisfaction of the magazine itself, of course. Seeing it in the shops, on people’s shelves, perfect bound and shining with promise. But that doesn’t compare with the satisfaction of having a real writing career.’
‘Why have you kept at it, then?’ I asked. ‘I mean... forty years.’
‘I’d have thought that was obvious,’Tony told me, pouring himself a glass of Famous Grouse. ‘It’s the only thing I know how to do.’
He offered me a drink, which I refused.
‘There’s one good side to all this,’ Tony said, as I went upstairs to work. ‘At least I’ll never have to send out another rejection slip.’
When I went back downstairs it was dark.Tony never worked this late, but there was a light on in the office, so I looked in on my way out for something to eat.Tony was still there, glass of whisky in one hand, cigarette in the other. He wasn’t alone. Tony raised his glass and called my name.
‘There’s somebody I want you to meet.’
There, in the chair that I normally occupied, was a middle-aged man with a red face and an expensive suit. It was Paul Mercer.
Thirty-one
‘Mark, this is Paul Mercer. Paul, I’d like you to meet my editorial assistant and archivist, Mark Trace.’
Paul stood up and shook my hand. Should I reveal at once how I used to work for Paul and he’d ripped me off over the Hemingway manuscripts? It would be the open way to behave. Tony would understand why I’d never mentioned it before. But he’d also work out what other manuscripts I’d forged.
By hesitating, I let the moment pass.
‘Paul acts as an agent for various American university libraries,’ Tony told me. ‘He’s interested in buying our archive.’
‘Really?’ I said. Again, Paul had come to steal. This time not from me, but from Tony.
‘Tony tells me that most of the stuff is in the flat upstairs,’ Paul said in his brash, booming voice.
‘I think Paul would like to see it,’ said Tony.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Now?’
‘If you don’t mind...’
I didn’t mind. This way, I would get Paul on his own, for Tony disliked the climb. I led Paul up the steep stairs to the box room.
‘Helen sends her love,’ Paul told me, once we were out of earshot. ‘She was very keen to know how you’re getting on. Next time I come, I’ll bring her over. Right now, though, she’s real busy with her studies at NYU.’
I didn’t take the bait and ask how Helen was or what she was studying. Seeing Paul, overweight and overconfident, thinking of him having her, made me want to vomit.
‘Here it is.’ I showed him the box room where the magazine’s archives were arranged in a semblance of order. For the next half hour, with a librarian’s detachment, I ran through some of the highlights of what was there: Albee, Auden, Beckett, Pinter, Plath, Sherwin...
Paul didn’t hide his mounting delight.
‘I can think of institutions that’ll cream their jeans to get their hands on this lot,’ he told me, in a rancid, insinuating voice that expected me to share his jubilation. ‘I’ll take photocopies back to the States with me.’
‘We don’t have a photocopier,’ I said. I wasn’t going to let any of this stuff out of the building, not after what had happened to my Hemingway stories.
‘A magazine with no copier! How awfully British!’
‘You owe me some money,’ I told him, annoyed by his attitude, his very presence. ‘Those stories of mine you took.’
Paul became serious. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t get a proper chance to discuss that,’ he told me. ‘The truth is, the money on offer was never what it said in the papers. There were some doubts about authenticity...’
He hesitated. I tried to keep a poker face. Did he know I’d forged them?
‘The upshot is I haven’t been paid yet. When I do, I’ll send you half.’
‘Half?’ I stepped out of the boxroom and Pa
ul followed me.
‘Fifty-fifty’s the usual deal on stuff like this.’
‘Is that what you’ll be charging Tony?’ I asked, shutting the box room door.
‘No. Tony’s archive is fully documented and authenticated. That makes a great deal of difference in the rare manuscripts world. By the way, Mark...’
‘Yes?’
‘I presume your... friend doesn’t know about the Paris manuscripts?’
‘Not about my connection with them, no,’ I replied, with my back to him.
‘I see.’ He said nothing more, but followed me down the stairs. In the office, he greeted Tony ebulliently. ‘I think we’ve got the makings of a great partnership. You know, you ought to have better security for your archives.’
‘Mark’s my watchdog,’ Tony told Paul.
‘How about I take you two for a meal? My treat?’
‘Most kind.’ Tony rarely turned down a free meal, but I hesitated. I had to set my discomfort against wanting to know how Paul would play Tony, what information he’d give to him. With Tony’s weak bladder, there were bound to be further opportunities for me to press Paul about the Hemingway manuscripts. Also, I hadn’t had a good meal in weeks.
‘Are you coming, Mark?’ Paul asked.
‘If I’m welcome,’ I said.
‘Is there somewhere near you can suggest? Paul asked Tony.
‘I’ll give the French House a ring, see if they can fit us in.’
While Tony was on the phone, Paul looked at me appraisingly. His expression reminded me that we both knew something Tony didn’t. It felt like a betrayal.
The small upstairs restaurant was crowded but Tony was a regular, so a table was soon found. Paul, at Tony’s suggestion, ordered oysters and kidneys, a house speciality. I had oysters, too, since Paul was paying and I’d never had them before. I remember the slippery texture of the shellfish and the way it was spoilt for me by a smutty joke Paul made about the clitoris.
When Tony went downstairs to use the loo I challenged Paul about the manuscripts again.
‘You had no right to sell those papers of mine.’
Paul was unflurried by my attack. ‘I told you, Mark. They haven’t been sold. That was publicity flim flam. You want them back? I could get them. There’d be some explaining to do, which might be a little awkward for you, given your current position.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re responsible for an archive containing rare manuscripts by famous writers, a potential gold mine you don’t want to compromise.’
‘That’s not why I’m...’
Paul laughed.‘Then why else are you here? Out of love?’
‘Love? In a way.’ Naively, I thought he meant love of literature, but I didn’t get the chance to explain this.
‘Let me ask you a question, Mark. How old are you?’
‘I...’
‘You see, I thought you were nearly the same age as Helen. That watch. Didn’t we give it you for your twentieth birthday? But when Tony and I were talking before you arrived, your boss called you a very bright teenager. Is that part of your con, Mark? Getting Tony to think that you’re younger than you are?’
‘No.’ This was such a minor fib that I decided to come clean. ‘I lied about my age to Helen, so that she’d respect me more. I’m not twenty until March.’
‘So what you and Tony are doing has to be kept hush hush.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘Oh come on, Mark. It’s obvious what you’re up to. Tony can do you a lot of good. Get you published. Introduce you to the right people. Maybe he’ll even put you in his will. Then there are all those rare papers.You should have seen the look on your face when you realised that I knew all about them.’
‘You’ve got entirely the wrong end of the stick,’ I said.
‘Don’t take me for a fool. Why else are you with Tony? It can’t be for the sake of that crappy little room above the office. No doubt you spend most of your time at his flat.’
‘I never...’
‘Gay sex under the age of twenty-one is illegal in this country, isn’t it?’
I began to stand. ‘I don’t. I’m not...’
Tony, returning from the toilet, saw that I was uncomfortable. ‘Are you all right, old son?’ he asked me.
‘I don’t think those oysters agreed with me.’ Angry, I left the room. Tony had never made the slightest move on me. Paul, by contrast, was sick enough to seduce his own stepdaughter.
When I got back to the table, Paul was tucking into his kidneys. Between bites, he was telling Tony an anecdote about Roald Dahl and Playboy magazine. I realised that Tony must have mentioned The Woman Who Married Herself.
‘Playboy published a lot of his stuff — cynical little things that appealed to jaded readers taking a break before they had the energy to jack off again. So Dahl publishes this story there — not long back, around eighty-seven or so: The Bookseller, I think it was called. It’s a neat little idea. This bookseller goes through the obits, finding married men who’ve just died. And he sends the dead man a bill for magazines that are clearly hard core porn. The widow always pays up, to avoid any embarrassment. A neat scam. Only, one day, he tries to pull the trick on the widow of a blind man...’ Tony guffawed. I smirked. A typical Dahl plot, I thought, simple and satisfying. But then Paul added the second twist.
‘So I read this story in Playboy and thought, hang on, I’ve seen this before. Sure enough, I track it down in some paperback anthology came out when I was a kid. Clerical Error was the original name. Only the author wasn’t Dahl. He’d — what’s the word you guys use? — nicked it. A whole bunch of people wrote to Playboy to point out where he’d stolen it from. The magazine protected him, didn’t print any of the letters.’
I felt a surge of relief. Dahl, whom I had forged, was himself a plagiarist, though possibly an unconscious one. It made me feel better about what I’d done.
‘What’s this story of his you’re using?’ Paul asked.
‘You tell it, Mark,’ Tony said.
‘I’d rather you did.’
So Tony told the story. He missed bits out, but got the essence of it. When he’d finished, Paul clapped his hands together.
‘You don’t recognise the story, I hope?’ Tony asked, mildly teasing our American host.
‘No, but I recognise a good property when I hear one. I’m surprised Dahl didn’t dig that one out for Playboy. You know, it has serious movie potential. You’re going to put it in your five hundredth issue?’
‘Possibly.’
‘I’ll tell you what I’d do,’ Paul said, and paused. Tony was carefully separating some sea bass from the bone, so he couldn’t see the American’s face. ‘I’d take Dahl’s name off that story,’ Paul went on, ‘put yours under it — or, even better...’ Paul paused and winked at me. ‘Use young Mark’s name — and sell it to Hollywood. You’d cash in.’
‘What an intriguing idea,’ Tony said, as my blood froze. I understood the implications of that wink. My forgeries were no longer a secret.
Thirty-two
‘What did you think of him?’ Tony asked the next day. I had left the French House before they’d finished eating, claiming my stomach ache was worse.
‘I didn’t trust him,’ I replied without hesitation. Tony smiled.
‘Me neither, but he could be what we need. Why didn’t you like him?’
‘Too smooth, too well dressed.’
‘I know what you mean. My father used to say you should be with someone at least a minute before you can tell that they’re well dressed. Any sooner, and they’re either a fop or a fraud. To be sure about Mercer, I made a couple of calls to friends in the States last night. They’d both heard of him. He married a stepdaughter half his age and there was a splash in the papers. Apart from that, the word is that Mercer knows his way about the literary manuscripts world. He’s the man who found those Hemingway typescripts in Paris... do you remember my showing you the story in the TLS?’
>
I gave the smallest of nods and Tony continued.
‘Mercer’s handled some Joyce letters too. My friends reckon he has a good eye for authors who are likely to be collectable in the future. He wasn’t over here to see me, you know. It was a flying visit to try and get VS Pritchett to flog him his first drafts. The old man told him to get stuffed so he popped in on us instead.’
Tony was impressed, I could see. How could Paul know so much about Literature, I wondered? He hadn’t struck me as at all literary when we were in Paris. But then, he wasn’t trying to impress me. One thing I was sure of: Paul was not a litterateur, he was a salesman, only in it for the money.
‘He’s made an offer for the entire archive. Seventy-five thousand pounds. That’s pretty generous, wouldn’t you say?’
I had no idea, and said so.
‘According to him, there are three ways of going about it. I could put the lot up for auction, which might net me the most, but, if the right number of bidders didn’t appear, might only raise ten or twenty thousand. I could sell the archive to a university using him as a middle man, for which he would expect fifteen or twenty per cent. But that would take several months. He reckoned that he could probably get a hundred thousand, more or less. Or I could sell the archive to him outright, for the seventy-five, and he would then sell it on when he thought the market was at its best. What do you think?’
I thought Paul was using the money he’d made from my Hemingway stories to buy up Tony’s life’s work, but I couldn’t say this.
‘If I were you,’ I told him ‘I’d get a second opinion.’
‘That’s in hand. A man from Christie’s is coming tomorrow. But I’m inclined to sell the archive to Mercer outright. That way, I might lose a few thousand in the long run, but I’d get the final issue out more or less on time. The magazine’s reputation wouldn’t suffer.’
