The phone rang. I later learned that Garamond had pressed a button under the desk, and Signora Grazia had sent through a fake call.
"My dear Maestro! What? Splendid! Great news! Ring out, wild bells! A new book from your pen is always an event. Why, of course! Manutius is proud, moved¡Xmore, thrilled¡Xto number you among its authors. You saw what the papers wrote about your latest epic poem? Noble material. Unfortunately, you're ahead of your time. We had trouble selling the three thousand copies..."
Commendatore De Gubernatis blanched: three thousand copies was an achievement beyond his dreams.
"Sales didn't cover the production costs. Take a look through the glass doors and you'll see how many people I have in the editorial department. For a book to break even nowadays I have to sell at least ten thousand copies, and luckily I sell more than that in many cases, but those are writers with¡Xhow shall I put it?¡Xa different vocation. Balzac was great, and his books sold like hotcakes; Proust was equally great, but he published at his own expense. You'll end up in school anthologies, but not on the stands in train stations. The same thing happened to Joyce, who, like Proust, published at his own expense. I can allow myself the privilege of bringing out a book like yours once every two or three years. Give me three years' time..." A long pause followed. An expression of pained embarrassment came over Garamond's face.
"What? At your own expense? No, no, it's not the amount. We can hold the costs down...But as a rule Manutius doesn't...Of course, you're right, even Joyce and Proust...Of course, I understand..."
Another pained pause. "Very well, we'll talk about it. I've been honest with you, and you're impatient...Let's try what the Americans call a joint venture. They're always way ahead of us, the Yanks. Drop in tomorrow, and we'll do some figuring...My respects and my admiration."
Garamond seemed to wake up from a dream. He rubbed his eyes, then suddenly remembered the presence of his visitor. "Forgive me. That was a writer, a true writer, perhaps one of the Greats. And yet, for that very reason...Sometimes this job is humbling. If it weren't for the vocation...But where were we? Ah, yes, I think we've said everything there is to be said now. I'll write you, hmm, in about a month. Please leave your work here; it's in good hands."
Commendatore De Gubernatis went out, speechless. He had set foot in the forge of glory.
39
Doctor of the Planispheres, Hermetic Philosopher, Grand Elect of the Eons, Knight Prince of the Rose of Heredom, Grand Master of the Temple of Wisdom, Knight Noachite, .Wise Siviast, Knight Supreme Commander of the Stars, Sublime Sage of the Zodiac, Shepherd King of the Hutz, Interpreter of Hieroglyphs, Sage of the Pyramids, Sublime Titan of the Caucasus, Orphic Doctor, Sublime Skald, Prince Brahmin, Guardian of the Three Fires.
¡XGrades of the Antient and Primitive Memphis-Misraim Rite Manutius was a publishing house for SFAs.
An SEA, in Manutiuan jargon, was...But why do I use the past tense? SFAs still exist, after all. Back in Milan, all continues as if nothing has happened, and yet I cast everything into a tremendously remote past. What occurred two nights ago in the nave of Saint-Martin-des-Champs has made a rent in time, reversing the order of the centuries. Or perhaps it is simply that I have aged decades overnight, or that the fear that They will find me makes me speak as if I were now chronicling a collapsing empire as I lie in the balneum with my veins severed, waiting to drown in my own blood...
An SFA is a self-financing author, and Manutius is a vanity press. Earnings high, overhead minuscule. A staff of four: Garamond, Signora Grazia, the bookkeeper in the cubbyhole in the back, and Luciano, the disabled shipping clerk in the vast storeroom in the half-basement.
"I've never figured out how Luciano manages to pack books with one arm," Belbo once said to me. "I believe he uses his teeth. However, he doesn't have all that much packing to do. Normal publishers ship to booksellers, but Luciano ships only to authors. Manutius isn't interested in readers...The main thing, Signer Garamond says, is to make sure the authors remain loyal to us. We can get along fine without readers."
Belbo admired Signor Garamond. He felt the man possessed a strength that he himself lacked.
The Manutius system is very simple. A few ads are placed in local papers, professional magazines, provincial literary reviews, especially those that tend to survive for only a few issues. Medium-size announcements, with a photograph of the author and a few incisive lines: "A lofty voice in our nation's poetry," or "The latest narrative achievement by the author of Floriana and Her Sisters."
"At this point the net is cast," Belbo explained, "and the SFAs fall into it in clumps, if you can fall into a net in clumps."
"And then?"
"Well, take De Gubernatis for example. A month from now, as our retired customs official writhes with anxiety, a call from Signer Garamond will invite him to dinner with a few writers. They'll meet in the latest Arab restaurant: very exclusive, no sign outside, you ring the bell and give your name through a peephole. Deluxe interior, soft lights, exotic music. Garamond will shake the maitre d's hand, call the waiters by name, and send back the first bottle of wine because the vintage isn't right. Or else he'll say, ¡¥Excuse me, old friend, but this isn't couscous the way we eat it in Marrakesh.' De Gubernatis will be introduced to Inspector X; all the airport services are under his command, but his real claim to fame is that he is the inventor and apostle of Cosmoranto, the language of universal peace now being considered by UNESCO. There's also Professor Y, a remarkable storyteller, winner of the Petruzzellis della Gattina Prize in 1980, but also a leading figure in medical science. How many years did you teach, Professor? Ah, those were other times; education then was taken seriously. And finally, our charming poetess, the exquisite Odolinda Mezzofanti Sassabetti, author of Chaste Throbs, which you've surely read."
Belbo told me that he had long wondered why all female SFAs used a double surname: Lauretta Solimeni Calcanti, Dora Ar-denzi Fiamma, Carolina Pastorelli Cefalu. Why was it that important women writers had just one surname (except for Ivy Compton-Burnett) and some (like Colette) had none at all, while an SFA felt the need to call herself Odolinda Mezzofanti Sassabetti? Perhaps because real writers wrote out of love of the work and didn't care whether they were known¡Xthey could even use a pseudonym, like Nerval¡Xwhereas an SFA wanted to be recognized by the family next door, by the people in her neighborhood, and in the neighborhood where she used to live. For a man, one surname is enough, but not for a woman, because there are some who knew her before her marriage and some who only met her afterward. Hence the need for two.
"Anyway," Belbo went on, "it is an evening rich in intellectual experiences. De Gubernatis will feel as if he's drained an LSD cocktail. He'll listen to the gossip of his fellow-guests, hear a tasty anecdote about a great poet who is notoriously impotent, and not worth that much as a poet either. He'll look, eyes glistening with emotion, at the latest edition of the Encyclopedia of Illustrious Italians, which Garamond will just happen to have on hand, to show Inspector X the appropriate page (You see, my dear friend, you, too, have entered the pantheon; ah, it is mere justice)."
Belbo showed me the encyclopedia. "Just an hour ago I was preaching at you, but nobody is innocent. The encyclopedia is compiled exclusively by Diotallevi and me. But I swear we don't do it just for the money. It's one of the most amusing jobs there is. Every year we have to prepare a new, updated edition. It works more or less this way: you include an entry on a famous writer and an entry on an SFA, making sure they're in alphabetical proximity. And you don't waste space on the famous name. See, for example, under L."
LAMPEDUSA, Giuseppe Tomasi di (1896-1957). Sicilian writer. Long ignored, achieved fame posthumously for his novel The Leopard.
LAMPUSTRI, Adeodato (1919- ). Writer, educator, veteran (Bronze Star, East Africa), thinker, novelist, and poet. Looms large on the contemporary Italian literary scene. Lampustri's talent was revealed in 1959 with the publication of The Car-massi Brothers, volume one of a trailblazing trilogy. Narrated with unrelent
ing realism and noble poetic inspiration, the novel tells of a fisherman's family in Lucania. The Carmassi Brothers won the Petruzzellis della Gattina Prize in 1960 and was followed a few years later by The Dismissed and Panther Without Eyelashes, both of which, perhaps even more than the author's initial work, exhibit the epic sweep, the dazzling plastic invention, the lyrical flow that distinguish this incomparable artist. A diligent ministry official, Lampustri is esteemed by those who know him as a man of upright character, an exemplary father and husband, and a stunning public speaker.
"De Gubernatis," Belbo explained, "will want to appear in the encyclopedia. He's always said that the fame of the famous was a fraud, a conspiracy on the part of obliging critics. But, chiefly, he will want to join a family of writers who are also directors of state agencies, bank managers, aristocrats, magistrates. Appearing in the encyclopedia, he will expand his circle of acquaintances. If he needs to ask a favor, he'll know where to turn. Signor Garamond has the power to lift De Gubernatis out of the provinces and hurl him to the summit. Toward the end of the dinner, Garamond will whisper to him to drop by the office the next morning."
"And the next morning, he comes."
"You can bet on it. He'll spend a sleepless night, dreaming of the greatness of Adeodato Lampustri."
"And then?"
"Garamond will say to him: ¡¥Yesterday, I didn't dare speak¡X it would have humiliated the others¡Xbut your work, it's sublime. Not only were the readers' reports enthusiastic¡Xno, more, favorable¡Xbut I personally spent an entire night poring over these pages of yours. A book worthy of a literary prize. Great, really great.' Then Garamond will go back to his desk, slap the manuscript¡Xnow well worn by the loving attention of at least four readers (rumpling the manuscripts is Signora Grazia's job)¡Xand stare at the SFA with a puzzled expression. ¡¥What shall we do with it?' And ¡¥What shall we do with it?' De Gubernatis will ask. Garamond will say that the work's value is beyond the slightest dispute. But clearly it is ahead of its time, and as for sales, it won't do more than two thousand copies, twenty-five hundred tops. Well, two thousand more than covers all the people De Gubernatis knows, and an SFA doesn't think in planetary terms¡Xor, rather, his planet consists of familiar faces: schoolmates, bank managers, fellow teachers in the high school, retired colonels. The SFA wants to bring his poetry to all these people, even to those who couldn't care less, like the butcher or the prefect of police. Faced by the risk that Garamond might back oif (and remember: everybody at home, in town and office, knows that De Gubernatis has submitted his manuscript to a big Milan publisher), he will make some quick calculations. He could empty his savings account, take out a loan against his pension, mortgage the house, cash in those few government bonds. Paris is well worth a mass. Shyly, he will oifer to underwrite some of the costs. Garamond will look upset. ¡¥That is not the usual practice of Manutius, but, well, all right, it's a deal, you've talked me into it, even Proust and Joyce had to bow to harsh necessity. The costs are so high, for the present we'll plan on two thousand copies, though the contract will provide for up to ten thousand. You'll receive two hundred author's copies, to send to anyone you like, another two hundred will be review copies, because we want to promote the book as if this were the new Stephen King. That leaves sixteen hundred for commercial distribution. On these, obviously, no royalties for you, but if the book catches on and we go into a second printing, you'll get twelve percent.' "
Later I saw the standard contract that De Gubernatis, now on his poetic trip, would sign without even reading, while Signor Garamond's bookkeeper loudly protested that the costs had been grossly underestimated. Ten pages of clauses in eight-point type: foreign rights, subsidiary rights, dramatizations, radio and television serialization, film rights, Braille editions, abridgments for Reader's Digest, guarantees against libel suits, all disputes to be settled by Milan courts. The SFA, lost in dreams of glory, would not notice the clause that specified a maximum print run of ten thousand but mentioned no minimum or the clause that said the amount to be paid by the author was independent of the print run (which was agreed upon only verbally), or the clause that said¡Xmost important of all¡Xthat the publisher had the right to pulp all unsold copies after one year unless the author wished to buy them at half the list price. Sign on the dotted line.
The launching would be lavish. Ten-page press releases, with biography and critical essays. No modesty; the newspaper editors would toss them out anyway. The actual printing: one thousand copies, of which only three hundred and fifty would be bound. Two hundred to the author, about fifty to minor or associated bookshops, fifty to provincial magazines, about thirty to the newspapers, just in case they needed to fill a couple of lines in the Books Received column. These copies would later be given as donations to hospitals or prisons¡Xand you can see why the former don't heal and the latter don't redeem.
In summer the Petruzzellis della Gattina Prize, a Garamond creation, would be awarded. Total cost: two days' meals and lodging for the jury, plus a Nike of Samothrace, in vermeil, for the winner. Congratulatory telegrams from other Manutius authors.
Finally, the moment of truth. A year and a half later, Garamond writes: Dear friend, as I feared, you are fifty years ahead of your time. Rave reviews in the dozens, awards, critical acclaim, ca va sans dire. But few copies sold. The public is not ready. We are forced to make space in the warehouse, as stipulated in the contract (copy enclosed). Unless you exercise your right to buy the unsold copies at half the list price, we must pulp them.
De Gubernatis goes mad with grief. His relatives console him: People just don't understand you, of course if you belonged to the right clique, if you sent the requisite bribe, by now they'd have reviewed you in the Corriere della Sera, it's all Mafia, you have to hold out. Only five author's copies are left, and there are still so many important people to whom the work should go. You can't allow your writing to be pulped, recycled into toilet paper. Let's see how much we can scrape together, maybe we can buy back five hundred copies, and for the rest, sic transit gloria mundi.
Manutius still has six hundred and fifty copies in unbound sheets. Signor Garamond has five hundred of them bound and shipped, COD. The final balance: the author paid the production costs for two thousand copies, Manutius printed one thousand and bound eight hundred and fifty, of which five hundred were paid for a second time. About fifty authors a year, and Manutius always ends up well in the black. And without remorse: Manutius is dispensing happiness.
40
Cowards die many times before their deaths.
¡XShakespeare, Julius Caesar, II, 2
I was always aware of a conflict between Belbo's devotion in working with his respectable Garamond authors, his efforts to get from them books he could be proud of, and the piratical zeal with which he contributed to the swindling of the hapless Manutius authors, even referring to Via Marchese Gualdi those he considered unsuitable for Garamond, as I had seen him attempt to do with Colonel Ardenti.
Working with Belbo, I often wondered why he accepted this arrangement. I don't think it was the money. He knew his trade well enough to find a better-paying position.
For a long time I thought he did it because it enabled him to pursue his study of human folly from an ideal observation point. As he never tired of pointing out, he was fascinated by what he called stupidity¡Xthe impregnable paralogism, the insidious delirium hidden behind the impeccable argument. But that, too, was a mask. It was Diotallevi who did it for fun, or perhaps hoping that a Manutius book might someday offer an unprecedented combination of the Torah. And I, too, participated, for the amusement, the irony, out of curiosity, especially after Garamond launched Project Hermes.
For Belbo it was a different story. This became clear to me after I went into his files.
FILENAME: Vendetta
She simply arrives. Even if there are people in the office, she grabs me by my lapels, thrusts her face forward, and kisses me. How does that song go? "Anna stands on tiptoe to kiss me." She kisses me
as if she were playing pinball.
She knows it embarrasses me. Puts me on the spot.
She never lies.
I love you, she says.
See you Sunday?
No. I'm spending the weekend with a friend...
A girlfriend, naturally.
No, a man friend. You know him. He's the one who was at the bar with me last week. I promised. You wouldn't want me to break my promise?
Don't break your promise, but don't come here to make me...Please, I have an author coming in.
A genius to launch?
A poor bastard to destroy.
A poor bastard to destroy.
I went to pick you up at Pilade's. You weren't there. I waited a long time, then I went by myself; otherwise the gallery would have been closed. Somebody there told me you had all gone on to the restaurant. I pretended to look at the pictures, though they tell me art's been dead since Holderlin. It took me twenty minutes to find the restaurant, because dealers always pick ones that are going to become famous next month.
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