Читать книгу The Editor - Steven Rowley, Steven Rowley - Страница 16

My agent’s office occupies a small suite on West Fifty-Ninth Street. It’s cozy and dim; the wooden shutters are kept mostly drawn and the office is lit with Tiffany table lamps, giving it a soft glow. It has the requisite characteristics of what you think a literary agent’s office once was, and still should be: someplace where you’d like to curl up with a good book and read. And you could find plenty of them—books—as the walls of the main room where Donna sits are lined with dark walnut bookcases crammed with endless titles. The rest of the office is littered with stacks of dusty newspapers, old copies of The New York Times Book Review, and past issues of The New Yorker. Sometimes I have to move papers out of a chair just to sit down.

Donna usually greets me with the enthusiasm of a poodle who has been left home all day. Most of Allen’s business is conducted via phone and fax, as his clients are spread across the country; I don’t think they get many visitors. But when I walk through the door, the office is quiet and empty, and I jump when the door closes behind me.

“Allen?”

No response. I take a precursory look at Donna’s desk to see if there’s any paperwork with my name on it. I don’t see any, and head farther into the office, nearly tripping on a box from UPS. Usually I can hear Allen on the phone, but it’s so quiet I start to wonder if this idyllic agency setting isn’t also an exemplary place to stumble on a body or two. Mrs. Peacock in the office with the quill pen.

“Allen?” I ask again, this time a little louder.

I hear motion in his office and I freeze (is the killer still here?), and then Allen peeks his head out the door. “I thought you were Donna.”

“Nope. Just me.”

“Come here.” Allen waves me into his office and shuts the door behind me. He starts unbuttoning his shirt.

“Did you spill something?”

“No.” He looks me square in the eyes.

“Allen …” When he has the shirt all the way undone, I put up my hands like I’m fending off an attack. “No, no, no, no, no.”

“Just look at this.”

I jam my eyes closed. “I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me, but …”

For my own safety I lift one eyelid just enough to peek. He slides his shirt off his shoulders, revealing a surprisingly broad, muscular frame.

“Allen, I’m flattered, it’s just …”

Out of the corner of my eye I see a flash of red; curiosity gets the best of me, so I open my eyes fully. His back is battered and the color of a rich cabernet.

“Is there bruising?” he asks.

“Jesus, what happened to you?”

“Reggie.” Allen excitedly nods his approval.

I lower my voice to a whisper. “Should I call the police?” I make a quick scan of the office for weapons. Do I have it in me to three-hole-punch an attacker?

“No, no. Of course not.” He slips his shirt back on and starts buttoning.

“Was this part of a negotiation?” I’m thoroughly confused and maybe a little impressed, as I’m left to wonder if Allen would really go to the mat in this way for his clients.

“Reggie’s this guy. In Chinatown. I pay him to do that.”

I’m appalled but also fascinated. “Beat the shit out of you?”

Allen’s eyes swell with pride. “I got in a few good hits.”

Of course the writer in me wants to know everything, but he’s already crossed behind his desk to move on.

“So, contracts,” he says, tucking his shirt into his pants. He looks under a stack of papers.

It’s been six weeks since I first walked into Doubleday. Allen did his part and negotiated a fair deal on my behalf. I’m not sure if Jackie has real sway, if the book is indeed good, or if they let her buy whatever she wants to keep her from taking her prestige elsewhere; when Allen told me the official offer came in I had to sit down. It wasn’t the money (the advance isn’t much to speak of), but the fact that Jackie came through. That this wasn’t a dream—it was really happening.

When the contracts arrived, Allen messengered a copy over to me and we spent a good hour or two dissecting it over the phone. He pointed out where he was able to do well for me, and also what were industry-standard terms. When I felt I understood the agreement as best I could, I made an appointment to sign.

“You ever met her?”

“Jackie?” he asks. “We spoke on the telephone.”

“In person, I mean.”

“Sit down, sit down.”

For once there’s an empty chair, but I have to push a few manuscripts on the floor aside so there’s room for my feet.

“Not one-on-one like you, hotshot. But back in the day when she was first at Viking. I knew Tommy Guinzburg, the publisher. We’d do business together and he’d invite me to the office when he knew she’d be there. She’s tall. Surprising, right?”

“She was mostly sitting down.”

Allen guffaws. “I wish I could have seen the look on your face.”

“Yeah, well. You were no help.”

“Listen. I didn’t want you to be in your head. Remember our first meeting? You’re very engaging, but you can get in your own way.” I shake my head in protest even though he’s got me pegged. The first time we met I was trying to make a joke about his credentials and mispronounced the word emeritus. After that, I was tripping over my tongue for the entire conversation.

“Bygones, right? I got the two of you in a room together.”

“You’re quite the yenta.”

You can tell Allen’s still pleased with himself; he chuckles, forming a slick grin. He leans back in his chair, then grimaces and bounces forward.

“Bruises?”

“Yeah. That’s going to smart for days. Anyhow, I don’t even know why he hired her. Tommy. She had no experience. Her Rolodex, I guess. Thought she could bring in some big books as an acquiring editor. I think he offered her something like two hundred bucks a week. I’m not sure the whole experience was even worth that.”

“Why not?” I’m fascinated.

“The relationship only lasted two years before it blew up in his face. She quit over some two-bit novel they did about the assassination of Ted Kennedy.”

“You mean Bobby?” I’m confused.

“No. Ted. It was some alternate-history sort of thing. She sent him a letter of resignation in the middle of the night. The middle of the night! The book was in poor taste, but still. Meanwhile, for those two years? Chaos.” Allen looks all over his desk and finally produces a pen. “You have to put it in context. She was enticingly available to the public for the very first time. She had an office, regular hours. Their poor receptionist had to field every whack-a-doo who stepped off the elevator wanting to see her. People would show up with a ream of blank paper and demand a meeting like they were the next Mario Puzo. Meanwhile, phones ringing off the hook. Mike Wallace on one! Barbara Walters on two! Some housewife called like clockwork for a daily report on what Jackie was wearing. One man showed up, and when he was refused an audience he said he was wrapped in dynamite! Tommy himself had to intervene and talk the man down. Ha!” He reads the shocked expression on my face. Clearly, I’m not finding this as funny as he does. “Ah, well. You’d have to know Tommy.”

“So, what happened?” I hesitantly ask.

“Bah.” Allen dismisses my concern with the wave of his hand. “There was no dynamite.”

I roll my eyes. “Is it still that crazy? Do I need a flak jacket?”

“Oh, no. She got down to work and disappeared. Novelty eventually wore off.” Allen hands me four copies of the publishing agreement and the pen.

“So I’m not nuts, then. To sign these?”

“You may be nuts, kid, but not for signing these.”

I flip the top contract open to the final page, which is tabbed “sign here.” I pause, wondering if I should do something special to mark this occasion but decide it’s best not to stand on ceremony. I put Allen’s pen to paper and … nothing. It’s out of ink. I shake the pen and try again. Nada. “I hope this isn’t a sign.”

“Oh, come on.” Allen rummages through a drawer. “DONNA!”

“I don’t think she’s here.”

“You celebrate yet?” He pats himself down to see if there’s a pen in his pockets.

“Nope. Waiting to sign these.”

“Family happy?”

“I’ve been keeping a low profile. Superstition.” I cross my fingers on both hands to emphasize the point before remembering that some consider that bad luck.

Allen looks up at me. “Your mother?”

I put my finger on my nose. “I don’t know what she thinks. She hasn’t read it.”

“What do you mean she hasn’t read it?”

“I asked her to read it, she gave me a tomato.”

“She threw it at you?”

“No, just offered it. To eat. I asked her a second time and she said she’d still rather not.”

“Rather not what?” Allen conjures another pen, removes the cap, and hands it to me. It’s a promotional giveaway from a paper supply company in New Jersey and the top of the pen has bite marks. It feels anticlimactic, to say the least. I imagine if Jackie were the one to countersign these agreements (and not some business-affairs person) she would do so with an elegant fountain pen. I guess we all work with what we have.

“Read it, I guess. But I suppose she’d rather it not exist at all.” I hover the pen above the contracts and my hand shakes. Allen notices my hesitation.

“It’s a loving portrait,” he says.

“It’s an honest portrait.”

He chuffs. “She’ll come around. If not, now you’ve got a spare.”

“What, who—Jackie?” My face turns as red as Allen’s back.

“Editors are mothers of sorts.”

I’m annoyed the shutters aren’t more open so that I can stare dramatically out the window onto Fifty-Ninth Street. This is my last chance to do the right thing by my mother. Yet would that be the right thing for me? Is the mark of adulthood putting others first? Or is it standing behind your own vision, your own work, your own view of the world? Beads of sweat form on my forehead and I have to wipe my brow.

My hand still trembles, but I manage to sign all four agreements. I stare at my signature, barely recognizing it as my own. My name looks foreign. Like it’s not mine but my father’s—someone else who let my mother down. I thought this would be fun, I thought I would want to remember this moment, but in truth I just want to move on. “When do we get paid?”

“First check upon execution!” Allen takes the contracts from me and I place the pen in an empty mug, which I’m hoping is a pencil jar and not the remnants of his morning caffeine. He flips through the agreements to make sure everything is in order.

I suddenly see the wisdom in paying someone to hit me. I even consider asking Allen for his guy’s number. If I’m indeed causing my mother pain, wouldn’t some in return be rightful penance? And even if not, I already feel like the wind’s been knocked out of me—perhaps a few swift punches could knock it back in. I lean forward and put my head between my knees.

“You okay, kid?”

“Thought I dropped something.” I don’t tell him I’m suddenly nauseated.

“One for you, one for me, two for them. I’ll have Donna send them over this afternoon. Whenever Donna returns from Donnaland.”

I sit up as he stacks the contracts, fastens them together with a binder clip, and slides them into a large envelope. “We good?”

I nod, unable to say anything more.

“One more thing.” Allen thrusts a piece of paper with a phone number in my direction. “Your new mommy wants you to call her.”