THE TRAFFIC WAS SNARLED-UP, it was mid-morning Monday and the rain did nothing to help the pre-holiday period rush in central Paris. By the time O’Connelly neared his agent’s office, situated on rue de Rivoli between the Louvre and place de la Concorde, the rain had started to ease off. He dropped his car at an underground car park near Pyramids and made the last few blocks on foot.
The façade of the building dated from the 18th century, but once inside he was in a modern office building. He took the lift to the fourth floor and made his way to his literary agent’s office suite. Angela Steiner was a New Yorker who had settled in France where she set up the agency with a Frenchman, Henri Rubenstein. They mostly handled the rights for American and British best sellers for the French market.
There were few American writers in Paris, the City of Light was no longer an incubator for unknown foreign writers and future literary prize winners. The Hemingways, Orwells and Baldwins were ancient history. Rubenstein looked after the French and European publishers and a string of writers with more than a sprinkling of France's professional penseurs, who were still, in O’Connelly’s opinion, regretfully taken seriously, especially by themselves.
He greeted the secretary, a new girl, who indicated a seat. Ten minutes later he was still looking at his watch, it was not the red carpet treatment he had become used to. Thinking about it he realised that his last visit to Angela's office went back quite a few months. Still, his royalties continued to be flow into his bank accounts, mainly from foreign translations, and apart from cocktails and special events most of his professional contacts with Angela had been by phone. Five minutes later he was shown into her office, she greeted him with a brilliant smile, warmly embracing him.
‘So how are you Pat, what’s new?’
They sat down on a couch before a low table.
‘Some coffee?’
He nodded.
‘Well how’s the new book,’ she said hopefully.
He shrugged.
‘I see.’
The secretary placed the coffees on the table and Angela lit a cigarette.
‘What are your plans then?’
For the first time O’Connelly felt hopeless, his confidence stalled, he picked up his coffee winning time to think, then for some unknown reason he announced: ‘I met an archaeologist.’
‘Oh,’ she drew on her cigarette looking at him curiously. She was just over forty, dark haired and very attractive, but very attached to her career as a successful literary agent.
‘He’s discovered the true site of the Temple in Jerusalem.’
‘The true site!’ she said sitting upright. She was a Jew, not religious, but attached to the Yiddish traditions of her family and a keen supporter of modern Israel.
‘Yes, I met him and we talked about his book.’
‘A book!’
‘Don’t get excited, it’s an archaeological work – 2,800 pages.’
‘Oh.’
‘Actually it’s quite interesting, but not commercial.’
‘You’ve read it then,’ she said visibly taking a not very interested attitude.
‘Yes, no, not exactly, but as I said it’s quite interesting.’
‘It's a pity it’s scientific...if you see what I mean, there’s quite an interest in that kind of a subject.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t have to tell you there’s quite a few best sellers with some historical background, you know.’
‘Half truth, half reason!’
‘They sell by the millions,’ she said reproachfully.
He shrugged.
‘What does your archaeologist friend have in mind?’
‘He wants his book published.’
‘Not the slightest chance.’
He shrugged he hadn’t expected anything else and wondered why he had mentioned it before remembering his scrambling for an answer to Angela’s question.
‘So speaking about your project...’
He looked glumly into his empty coffee cup.
‘Okay, let’s get some lunch,’ she said standing up.
They walked to Chez Philippe five minutes from the office, a typical French bistrot. They were naturally greeted by Philippe, the bistrot’s garrulous patron in his white apron and toque.
‘Bonjour Monsieur l’Ambassador, Madame, a table for two?’
The bistro employed two persons, Philippe and the chef who worked in the kitchen. There were eight tables and the food was excellent. O’Connelly ordered foie de veau à l’anglaise, Angela lamb cutlets, and bottle of Brouilly.
‘Look Pat, let me speak frankly, this is the advice of a friend, if you want to transform the success of your books into something more than just a passing event you have to come up with something new quickly.’
He poured himself another glass of wine and ordered two cafés.
‘What about this Temple thing? Can you make something from that?’
‘My books are politico-finance fiction, what can I do with a Temple.’
‘It could be a good thriller, archaeology, the conflict in the Holy Land, intrigue.’
‘What about my archaeologist?’
‘Promise him a translation, you should not have too much difficulty to find a hard up translator?’ she said looking at him questioningly.
He ordered two more cafés.
‘If you come up with an outline I can guarantee you Hertzfeld will jump on it, plus of course a nice down payment.’
O’Connelly perked up, it was the best suggestion he had heard for some time.
‘How much?’
‘You’re not hard up?’ she said with a slightly worried look on her face.
‘No, of course not, it’s just a thought.’
‘I think an advance of one hundred thousand could be managed, it would pay for any research work, you know in Jerusalem,’ she smiled, ‘and then we’ll see how it progresses.’
He made a mental calculation, if the book was a success sales with good marketing world wide sales could reach at least five hundred thousand, that could net him...he snapped out of his day dream.
‘Okay, I’ll speak with my archaeologist.’
6
A Little Research
The Legacy of Solomon Page 6
