Читать книгу Bestseller - Olivia Goldsmith - Страница 27

17

One of the signs of Napoleon’s greatness is the fact that he once had a publisher shot.

—Siegfried Unseld

Opal sat neatly, her knees tightly together, her left ankle tucked under her right. She always had good posture and had frequently reminded Terry to stand up straight. Of course, Opal couldn’t stand there in the ninth-floor reception area at Simon & Schuster. She had to sit on one of the curving banquettes that snaked along one wall. There was no back to them, only the back wall—which was also used to display the current successful books on the S&S list—so Opal had to sit completely unsupported, with her back erect and her hands neatly folded on top of Terry’s massive manuscript. Opal had her brown leatherette shoulder bag tucked beside her, and she tried to make as neat a figure as possible.

She had dressed carefully—black polyester twill pants, a plain blue blouse, and her lavender raincoat. She had been especially careful not to carry anything except her purse and the manuscript, and that not even in a bag. It was difficult to manage, because the manuscript was such a bulky pile, and without a sack, Opal was afraid it might slip from her hands. She had it wrapped up in six large rubber bands—two stretched across the manuscript and four crisscrossed lengthwise. It was awkward and tiring to walk with the heavy burden, but when she stood on the subway or the bus, Opal held the manuscript to her like a baby. When she got a seat she put it carefully on her lap the way she did now.

The black woman at the reception desk seemed oblivious lo her. Thai, she supposed, was better than the day before--when Opal had been ejected from the lobby of Crown Publishers after trying for almost two hours to get upstairs. Opal had tried other means to get the manuscript read, but so had Terry, and they simply didn’t work. Opal had decided that any means necessary was justified in getting Terry’s manuscript published.

With the miraculous resurrection of Terry’s manuscript, Opal had found a purpose. Although New York was an unknown maze to her, and publishing an even more frustrating, secretive world-within-worlds, Opal had not been a librarian for twenty-seven years without learning how to research. What she learned was not reassuring, nor did it give her any reason for hope, but hope had nothing to do with this mission. Opal would see this project through to the bitter end.

Luckily, alternative approaches were possible. Security guards were usually surprisingly lax at elevator banks when a little old lady, dressed neatly, smiled and told them she had an appointment with a name they knew upstairs. It was only once Opal got herself into the reception area that the trouble began. Since she didn’t really have an appointment with Ann Patty of Crown, Arlene Friedman of Doubleday, Faith Sale at Putnam, or Sharon DeLano at Random House, when Opal got to the reception area she tried a few different techniques. Occasionally she insisted that a mistake had been made. Sometimes she admitted she had no appointment; she said that she was somebody’s mother and she’d just wait. Because of her age and her innocent look the girls at the desk occasionally only raised their eyebrows or shrugged and let her sit there. But most had told her waiting was impossible—she couldn’t see the editor without an appointment, and no, she couldn’t even wait. So now Opal pretended she had an appointment and that she was deaf or stupid when they told her she didn’t. It was humiliating, but time had given her this gift: Years ago she would have been far too shy and embarrassed to pull any of these routines.

Opal surprised herself with an amazing lack of concern about appearances anymore. Perhaps it was just age, or her pain. Maybe it was wisdom. She knew that being polite, that doing things the right way, following all the rules, hadn’t helped Terry at all. And Opal no longer cared about herself. So, when one or another of the receptionists had called security and had her ejected. Opal hadn’t been the slightest bit embarrassed. She had simply consulted her list and gone on to the next publishing house.

Many of the publishers were on multiple floors in one tower. The towers seemed to be clustered along Sixth Avenue, Broadway, and Third Avenue. Opal used the rejection letters as a start, though she didn’t try any of the same names. Instead she went publisher by publisher, building by building, floor by floor. She made daily phone calls and went to the library to research every editorial name she could. Sometimes she would happen on a chatty receptionist who would tell her the names of the editors on that floor. Opal surreptitiously wrote them down for future reference and sat waiting for any of them to walk in or out. But the depressing fact was that once she had cornered one, she was almost invariably told that “we don’t read unsolicited manuscripts” and was asked to leave. The chatty receptionist would look at her, stricken and betrayed. Each time that happened Opal had left, only because she didn’t want to jeopardize the receptionist’s job. But each time she vowed to herself that she would be back.

Today, on the ninth floor of Simon & Schuster, the receptionist had let her sit for a long time simply because she hadn’t been able to get through to Michael Korda’s extension. Opal had picked his name because he was editor in chief and most likely to have an engaged phone. That had worked, temporarily, at a couple of places. Now, it seemed, the woman had forgotten all about Opal. She was too busy on a long personal phone call with someone named Creon—-or something like that—who didn’t seem to want to meet her later that night. So when a tall, good-looking, middle-aged man walked through the double glass doors and interrupted the phone call to inquire if a package had been delivered. Opal heard the black woman tell him, “No, Mr. Adams, nothing’s come for you.” Opal jumped up and walked across the carpet to him.

“Mr. Adams?” she asked. “Could I speak to you a moment?”

The man looked at her, his face pleasant and open.

“You are Charles—Chuck—Adams, the senior editor, aren’t you?” Opal asked. Her research had paid off. He nodded and smiled.

“Well, I have a book here—I mean, a manuscript—that I would like you to read.” The smile faded from the tall man’s face, but Opal continued. “Don’t worry,” she tried to reassure him. “It isn’t mine.” Opal had learned already that it was certain death to say you had a book of your own you wanted read. “I’m sort of the agent for it,” she explained. Mr. Adams nodded. “My daughter wrote it.” A mistake. The man’s face stiffened. Darn it! She shouldn’t have mentioned that Terry was a relative. Opal could see the indulgence on the man’s face. He wasn’t unkind; he seemed truly pained at their encounter.

“I’m sorry. We have a policy of not accepting unsolicited manuscripts.”

“How can a person get a book published if nobody will read it?” Opal snapped. But the man had already turned his back and walked toward the doors leading to the inner sanctum where, she thought bitterly, he would be safe from little old ladies with manuscripts.

Well, Opal shrugged, he couldn’t be expected to buck corporate policy. Or to believe that her attempted submission was different from the rest. At least he had not thrown her out or called security. It could have been worse. Opal took her seat again. But now the receptionist had—finally—noticed her and was getting off the phone.

“You don’t have an appointment with Mr. Korda,” she said, sounding indignant. “You don’t have an appointment listed at all.”

Opal opened her eyes as wide as she could but kept her seat on the banquette. “Well, I’m certain it was for today,” she said. “Why don’t you call back and see if they could fit me in for just five minutes? I did come all the way from Bloomington, Indiana.”

The woman narrowed her eyes, trying to size Opal up. But Opal simply sat there, as calmly as she could, the heavy manuscript cutting off the circulation in her legs from her knees down. “I’ll wait,” she said brightly, and—after another minute of eye contact—the woman shrugged. “I’ll just wait,” Opal said again, more softly. And she would. She would wait for as long as it took.