“You know, even twelve years ago it was possible to send in an unsolicited manuscript. Try that today and you might as well try to fly a pig over the transom. What’s in that case you’re guarding?”
“Oh, this? Part of a manuscript.”
“You’ve brought it here to shop around? You’ve sure got enough book people here to make it worth your while.”
Ned smiled. “No. Not likely.” He didn’t explain. He said, “The only time I think about publishing is in wondering what it must have been like fifty, sixty years ago. But, then”—he shrugged—“I like to imagine what everything was like sixty years ago.”51
“You don’t really—”
“Don’t what?”
Paul hesitated. Care, he’d been going to say, but that was the wrong word. “I was going to say—if you were to find yourself minus a publisher, how would that affect your writing?”
Ned frowned. “Should it?”
Should it? Jesus Christ, here was a writer to give one pause. “If that book”—Paul tipped his glass toward the leather case—“wasn’t to be published, how would you feel about it?”
“This book?” Ned looked down at the case.
“Yes. Would you keep on with it?”
Ned appeared genuinely puzzled. It made Paul smile inwardly, the way Ned was regarding him, as if he, Paul, were a man of stunted intellectual power and limited imagination. “Of course. Wouldn’t you? Anyway, publishers come and go.”
Paul thought Ned Isaly didn’t give a damn. It was as if he were turning up occasionally in life—as he’d turned up at this party—just to be polite.
Paul sat in his office now looking down at the shortlists and remembering that conversation. He crossed the other publishers and the other two writers off the lists. He was left with Ned Isaly. Mackenzie-Haack.
Over the sushi, Molly asked, “Did you ever decide on a publisher?”
“Yep. Mackenzie-Haack.”
“That’s the best one?”
“No. It’s the worst.” Paul grinned and went on eating his sushi.
TWO
There was a small park not far from Saul’s house, nearly always empty of people except for a tramp and his dog, a soulful-looking pair to whom Saul always gave something (a surprisingly large something), which probably accounted for their not going farther afield. The dog (an old golden retriever that looked purebred) always sat up and pounded his tail against the grass when he saw Saul coming.
Saul liked this park, the sheer emptiness of it, as if he and his friends (and the tramp and dog) were the only ones who knew it was here. It was unaccountable, for in Manhattan, any green space was immediately overrun by people. Yet the only others he saw here were Ned and Sally. Ned’s apartment building and Ned’s apartment faced it, and occasionally, Saul could look up from his bench and see Ned waving. The three of them—if he counted the tramp, the four of them—sometimes used this park as a meeting place.
The tramp had little to say, but what he did say he said cogently: “I’m a tramp, not one of your ‘homeless.’ ” He seemed almost proud of this calling a spade a spade. He also seemed proud to be one of a dying breed and not this yuppie-invented one. But, ordinarily, the tramp said not a word, just nodded his thanks to Saul. The dog did more talking with his tail than his owner did with his mouth.
When the three of them were here—that is, Saul, Ned, and Sally—the tramp would move closer, listening but never speaking, never interrupting. He was keeping what seemed to be a “respectful distance,” with his head down and his hands working a section of rope, taking in the conversation. The dog would listen, too. He’d lie down and put his head on his paws and watch them carefully in case they might say something about him. At least, Saul liked to think of the dog that way.
He stopped on one of the gravel paths that crisscrossed the park and put his hand against the bark of an oak. Every so often, he felt compelled to carve tiny initials in the trees. He did not understand this. There were tiny SPs all over Chelsea. He walked around this tree trunk, looking it over for other initials, not wanting the oak to take too heavy a hit.
Every year, he sent the park service an anonymous contribution of two or three thousand to make restitution for the trees. He hoped the trees could take it. If they had the constitution of writers, they could.
It wasn’t as if Saul were giving them bad reviews.
THREE
Clive Esterhaus drew the back of his tie through the knot, pulled it down, pushed the knot up, and straightened it. He looked at himself, still with chin lifted and turned slightly to the right to check on the tautness of the neck. He gave the flesh under the chin a few quick pats. He considered himself in the mirror: gray-on-gray silk tie, subtly striped gray worsted suit that had cost him fifteen hundred, white shirt (always the best choice). Everything muted and bespeaking a senior editor who pulls the strings quietly behind the scenes.
He was sure he was on his way to being associate publisher or vice president. Bobby Mackenzie had said as much. Bobby had been on his third whiskey when he’d said it, of course, but Bobby didn’t forget. Bobby never forgot; his memory for conversations, incidents, names, places, all of these details was legendary. What Clive had to worry about was whether Bobby would keep his word. Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t. He’d just look at the person confronting him with past promises and say, levelly, I changed my mind, didn’t I? or he’d simply give the person one of his cold looks, freeze him where he stood.
In this case, though, Clive thought it was a promise Bobby would keep because there was no reason not to. The titles meant little but looked good, and the hike in salary made up for the impotence of the new title. Not that Clive was plagued by feelings of impotence, not today, certainly. Especially not today. He had invited two people to lunch, two counterparts from other houses. He had told them Mackenzie-Haack (modestly deferring to the house itself, though he was the one responsible) was celebrating signing up a new author. He had not told them who; they would have at least some reason to believe it was Paul Giverney, since he was the author all of them were trying to snare. Clive’s fantasy delighted in their insincere smiles dissolving and hardening into something quite different.
What if he were precipitate, though? There was still Giverney’s mysterious “condition” that had to be met before he’d sign. What it could be, Clive had no idea. Certainly not more money; they were offering him $7.5 million for two books. This was easily as big an advance as they’d paid out to Dwight Staines (the leading execrable horror writer in the country). Both of them, Staines and Giverney, sold in the millions. The house wouldn’t earn it all back, but what Mackenzie-Haack was buying was the cachet of publishing Giverney. That in itself was money in the bank. Giverney was one of the few best-selling authors who could actually write (“an oxymoron” Tom Kidd called it).
Paul Giverney had cut loose from Queeg and Hyde (his present publisher) and had been in a state of what the sports world called “free agency.” Every publisher in New York was trying to get him under contract, but Giverney’s agent was playing his cards close to his vest. He’d passed the word around that Paul was “taking a breather” and didn’t really want to discuss business.
The hell he didn’t. Giverney was simply waiting for the publishers to raise the ante. Which publisher Giverney would go with was the one offering the most money and a lot of sweeteners. But Clive was too smart merely to wait, hands folded on his desk. He began to turn up at places Giverney frequented, which, actually, were few. The man always seemed to be in Dean & DeLuca or a kid’s store just off Fifth. Still, it had paid off, or something had. It had happened almost overnight. Mortimer Durban (the agent) had called Bobby Mackenzie to tell him Paul was ready to sign a two-book contract with Mackenzie-Haack.
And Clive assumed he would be Giverney’s editor. An easy assignment since Giverney didn’t need much editing. That was fortunate, since Clive had pretty much forgotten how.
His intercom buzzed with its irritating fly-div
ing sound and his assistant, Amy, said, “Mr. Giverney is here to see you.”
Clive rose and extended his hand to Paul Giverney. He smiled warmly, imagining this writer’s stroll past offices with open doors and through the honeycomb of assistants’ cubicles. He’d already have created a stir. It wouldn’t take the people who recognized him long to get the word out. Or perhaps they all recognized him from his book jackets or the Times art section or even television. The publicity and promotion departments adored him. It meant that they could spend money hand over fist because Bobby Mackenzie would want it that way. It was one of publishing’s mysteries: those writers who didn’t need publicity or promotion would get it in awesome quantities; those poor stand-alone books that could hardly survive without a little promotion had to do without.
Giverney took his hand and Clive was a little surprised by the hardness of the handshake, as if the writer were only just resisting splintering the small bones. He was also surprised by the suit—definitely off the rack and not a top-of-the-line rack, either, such as Façonnable’s or Ferragamo’s.
“Delighted to see you, Paul.” Clive waved him into a chair.
“Save your delight.” The smile didn’t leave Giverney’s mouth, but something distinctly unsmiling had crept into his voice.
Clive straightened the knot of his tie, silently cursed himself, lowered his hand, said, “I can’t imagine any condition you’d set that we’d be unwilling to meet. More money? Different scale of pay-outs? Both of Barnes and Noble’s windows?” He leaned back in his swivel chair as Giverney returned a smile, but not Clive’s smile; the smile was returned to the ether. Writers like Paul Giverney commanded huge advances and had a good deal of power. These were the writers whom foreign conglomerates understood. The men at the top didn’t know books, but they did know money, and money drove publishing just as it did everything else. Literary quality had little to do with it.
“I’m not worried about B and N’s window or front-of-store placement. I’m sure your guys in promotion will take care of that.”
Was there, wondered Clive, a tinge of irony there? Was he being a little tongue in cheek? The “guys in promotion” at Mackenzie-Haack were notorious for fuckups, such as getting writers on wrong trains, switching tour stops, and so forth. “I really wanted Anne Law to be here—she’s head of promotion, you know—”
“Oh, please.”
Clive raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry?”
“I know Anne Law. She couldn’t promote a case of Macallan to Bobby Mackenzie.”
Clive had no rejoinder to this; he thought Anne Law was incompetent, too. Why was Giverney fixing him with that unswerving stare?
“You want to know the condition.”
“Yes, of course, we—”
“You publish Ned Isaly, right?”
Clive was baffled. What in hell did Ned Isaly have to do with it? He asked the question aloud, or started to: “What’s Ned Isaly—?”
Giverney stepped on the question. “Everything. Did you think I chose Mackenzie-Haack because it’s the best ‘home’ for my books? Hardly. We’d probably get along because you’re as arrogant as I am.” His smile said no one but a fool could believe Mackenzie-Haack the best publisher. Then he said, “It’s because you publish Ned Isaly. Isn’t Tom Kidd his editor?”
Clive was extremely confused. Why on earth would Giverney—one of the most commercial writers around—why would he want to align himself with Isaly, one of the best writers, the least commercial, to say nothing of Tom Kidd, whose writers were as literary as writers could get. “I just don’t see—”
“What I’m driving at? No reason you should. My condition is that you drop Ned Isaly.” Giverney leaned forward, feigning the utterance of a confidence. “Then I’ll sign a three-book contract instead of two. Come on, don’t look so speechless.”
Clive had opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. He tried an abrupt laugh and a head shake, stalling. Was Giverney kidding? Or was he crazy? Yet he sat there on the other side of the desk looking quite sane. “Paul, I’m sorry, but I don’t understand all of this—”
“You don’t have to. Just drop him, dump him, whatever. Mind if I smoke?” He had his cigarettes out, a pack of Marlboro Lights, offered the pack to Clive.
Clive almost took one. He didn’t even smoke. “You’re serious?”
Giverney didn’t seem to think that warranted an answer. He lit his cigarette, sat smoking awhile.
“Assuming, just assuming we would do this, I don’t see how we could. The man’s under contract for his next book. We can’t just tear it up.”
“Why are you hiding behind the legality of a contract? Because it suits you; it suits you now. When I walk out the door, it won’t suit you. There are ways, there are means. This isn’t Chrysler we’re talking about; this isn’t Microsoft. This is publishing. You guys can always find ways and means.”
“Such as?”
“Well, Christ’s sake, try not to be completely stupid. You and Bobby can come up with the ways and means. Just find something in the contract. They’re all written to favor the publisher, not the author. And what I heard is Ned Isaly doesn’t even have an agent.”
“He doesn’t, no. He doesn’t need one, he says.”
Giverney laughed. “Nobody really needs one. It’s like being mobbed up; it’s like paying protection money.” Giverney leaned forward. “Listen to me: if Mackenzie-Haack wanted to drop a writer, you’d find a way.”
“May I ask why you want to see Ned dropped?”
“No.”
As he had done several times during this encounter, Clive ran his hand through his hair, shook his head. “Honestly, Paul, I just don’t think I can do that.”
Paul Giverney held up both hands, palms out. “Okay, I’ll take the books to some other house.” He rose, smiled. “But I think you’re being a little precipitate about refusing without even giving the deal any thought. Do you know what Ned Isaly’s sales figures are?”
Clive could feel the flush burning his face. “Of course I do.”
“And mine? Of course you do. To say nothing about your own career—right? Getting me to Mackenzie-Haack would hardly be a blemish on it.”
Dumbly, Clive nodded. He simply could not let Giverney slip from his grasp; signing Paul Giverney meant too much for his career. He said, as if this might save him, or at least buy him time: “Tom Kidd wouldn’t stand for it; he’s Ned’s editor and he’d probably resign.” Probably? To a certainty. Clive knew what Tom was like.
Paul pursed his mouth, reflecting. “That would be bad. He’s one of the three editors in town who know what editing means—”
Clive wondered who the other two were.
“—and I want him for my books.”
“Yours?” Oh, Christ, thought Clive. It gets worse and worse. Anyway, he shouldn’t sound so astonished by the notion of Tom Kidd’s editing Giverney’s books. “I assumed I was going to edit—”
It was Paul who laughed. “You? Oh, come on, Clive. You’re an acquisitions guy. I’ll bet you haven’t edited anything in years.”
“You don’t really need a line editor, Paul.” What good was this flattery doing? Even if they could dump Ned Isaly, Kidd would scream the house down. He loved Ned Isaly’s stuff. Clive tried to regain a little ground. He leaned forward, gave Paul his best smile. “Look, Paul, we’ve got no clause we can invoke to break this contract, which is, incidentally, for only one more book.” Clive was sure he was on the right track now. “One book. Then of course we don’t have to offer another contract. Tom Kidd wouldn’t like that, either, but we’d have a dozen reasons for refusing to sign Ned again. I know Bobby would be perfectly okay with that, and—”
“You’re not hearing me, Clive. I’m not asking what Bobby would be okay with. I’m not negotiating.”
Christ. Clive took it from another angle. “Ned would find another publisher with no problem—”
Paul shrugged. “Not if you did it right.”
“Right?
What on earth do you mean? Are we also supposed to see he gets blackballed by every other publisher in New York?” Clive fell back in his chair.
Paul shrugged again, smiled. “Well, that part of it we’ll see when we get there.” He stood up, checked his watch. “I’m doing lunch with my agent. He’s all in favor of the move, thinks he’ll get another sack of gold. Frankly, I don’t really care about the money. There’ll be no quarrel about that, though I’m sure Mort will haggle to get you to throw in the Chrysler Building. Let me know and you’d better not moon over this for a year. I don’t sign the contract until you drop Ned Isaly, that’s all. But I’m reasonable, I’ll give you guys enough time, you being a publisher and publishers having such a weird view of time.” Giverney sketched a salute and made for the door.
Clive was on his feet. “Paul—”
Paul was gone.
FOUR
Ned set the coffee on the flat part of the drawing table and lit an other cigarette, looking at it, at the burning tip of it. He’d stopped smoking, hadn’t he? Why was there a lighted cigarette in his hand? He stubbed it out in the small metal tray he used for paper clips. He had tossed out all of the ashtrays. A bottle of ink, two sharpened pencils, two fountain pens, notebook. Every morning he arranged this little hoard and every afternoon filled the pen and resharpened the pencils. He always wrote first with a pen; ink could make weaknesses stare you down that a cursor barely glanced at.
Paris. The Jardin des Plantes. Nathalie spent nearly all of her time either here or in the Luxembourg Gardens; she favored gardens. She had a lot of time on her hands, and she seemed to spend most of it in waiting. A cloud of birds lifted from the fountain in the center of the Jardin des Plantes, blown away by the morning breeze.
Nathalie—
Like the flighting birds, Ned’s thoughts lifted from the gardens and darted everywhere but the Jardin des Plantes: to Sally and her acrobatic lunge one day to capture his blown-away manuscript page; to Tom Kidd—what was he doing right now? Sitting at his desk, behind his towers of books, editing a manuscript?
Foul Matter Page 2
