Despite her book not being there, Camilla loved the superstore. She liked to watch the young mothers pushing toddlers in foldable prams making their way to the children’s books. She liked the teenagers, who came in and skivved about. She watched the older women who made their way over to such a wide variety of sections—poetry or anthropology or the most bloodthirsty crime novels. And she watched the young singles who seemed to cruise the aisles, picking up volumes and one another virtually simultaneously.
She had a routine now: She left Brooklyn by eight, worked until one o’clock at Citron, then spent four hours at the superstore in Chelsea. She had a rule: She had to finish three pages each day. It was tiring, and it was hard to focus on the manuscript after a morning of dealing with Citron Press emergencies, but slowly, very slowly, Camilla was beginning to build the vision of her new book. She often ate at the little bistro on Ninth Avenue, sometimes meeting Citron Press people there. Then, alone, she’d head for the tube and Park Slope.
But just this week three things interfered with her comfortable routine. Alex called her about a book-signing tour, Frederick showed up at the superstore, and Craig Stevens asked her out.
The first one wasn’t a surprise—Alex had been working at getting the Manhattan bookstores to invite her. At last, she’d lined up Bookberries, Books & Co., The Corner Bookstore, and Shakespeare & Company. Camilla had had to ask for a day off, and Alex had taken her around to introduce her to the bookstore managers, and Camilla had signed a few copies at each store. It had not been dramatic or thrilling, but Camilla deeply enjoyed it.
Frederick had not been dramatic or thrilling either. He’d merely been a surprise. He showed up at her elbow at the superstore without any warning, sat down across from her, and took her hand. It surprised Camilla in two ways. She certainly hadn’t expected him, and she didn’t know how he had found where she came to write, but it also surprised her to find how much she had missed him. Not just his kindness, but his physical presence, a certain electricity.
“I have been trying to reach you,” Frederick said.
“Yes, I know. I’ve been calling you back, but I only get your machine. We’ve been playing Cox and Box, haven’t we?”
“Not that I know of,” Frederick said. “What the hell is cocks and box, and is it as dirty as it sounds?”
Camilla laughed. “I suppose it does sound rather sexual,” she admitted. “I was just speaking what you call ‘English’ again. I think you call it telephone tag. You know, we keep missing each other.”
“Well, I know I keep missing you,” Frederick said tenderly.
Camilla looked down. “What I meant was about Cox and Box. It was a play in the West End, I think. They shared a flat. One worked the night shift and the other the day shift. They slept in the same bed, but not at the same time.”
“No, that would be kinky.”
“Oh, Frederick, you know what I mean.”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t care what you mean. I just like the sound of your voice. Camilla, let’s see each other.” He paused. “Well, of course I can’t see you very well, but you know what I mean.”
“I don’t think I do,” Camilla said.
“What I mean is, could we start over? I was very stupid in Florence. I should have told you about my vision. And then I shouldn’t have said ‘no more.’ I was afraid that you pitied me—”
“I do pity you,” Camilla said. “I also like you. And respect you.”
“Camilla, could we go out on a blind date? Of course, that’s the only kind of date I can have.”
His jokes were so painful. “I don’t know, Frederick…”
“I think I hurt your feelings, Camilla. I think I’ve been very stupid. But I’m not always stupid. Will you at least consider it?”
“Yes, Frederick. I’ll consider it.”
Camilla had a lot to think about. After Frederick left she sat alone, staring at her manuscript but seeing nothing. Frederick wanted a fresh start. Will was definitely getting ideas. And then there was tonight.
Camilla had to admit that she felt a great attraction to Craig. He was lively, aggressive, and very persistent—all the things that Frederick was not. She felt not just complimented but threatened by his interest in her. He did not seem like a man who believed in settled, monogamous relationships. Thinking back to her romance with Gianfranco, she reminded herself that it was dangerous to swim out beyond your depth.
Still, she had to admit that life was getting interesting.
80
Few men make themselves masters of the things they write or speak.
—Tirso de Molina
Opal pulled the rake toward her one more time. The letter campaign was going nowhere, it seemed. Only in physical activity did she find comfort. Her left arm was hurting, and her right hand had already developed a nasty little blister on the web of skin between her thumb and forefinger. “It’s amazing how the city softens you up,” Opal said aloud.
Aiello, who was on his knees stuffing the raked leaves into the bag, paused and looked up at her. “I don’t think so,” he said. “The city toughens you up. It don’t get tougher than the Big Apple.”
Opal shook her head. The man was always misinformed. “Before I moved here,” she told him, “I could rake all of my property in one afternoon.”
“How many acres?” Aiello asked.
Obviously, the man was thinking of The Big Country or some other movie. Why did easterners think everyone west of New Jersey lived on a ranch? “A quarter,” she told him.
“Big deal,” Aiello said. Then, as if to prove her right, “You have any cows out there?”
“No. No buffalo either. And no Indians. It wasn’t the Wild West.”
“No Indians? Then why do they call it Indiana?”
Opal rolled her eyes and put down the rake. She looked at the blister. She ought to go put on a Band-Aid before she tore the skin any further.
“You hurt yourself,” Aiello said, taking her hand in his.
“A blister.” Opal shrugged and tried to take her hand back. But Aiello didn’t let go. He was still on his knees, the big plastic garbage bag twist-tied beside him.
“Would you do me the honor?” he asked. Opal furrowed her brows and tried to take her hand away again. But Aiello clung on. “Would you do me the honor to take my hand in holy matrimony?
Opal stared. “Are you joking?” she said. Aiello, his face serious, shook his head. “Then you’re out of your mind,” Opal told him, and immediately saw the damage her thoughtless response had done.
Aiello narrowed his eyes, as if to close her out, and then lowered his head so that she couldn’t see his face. All that showed was the circular bald spot at the top of his head. He had dropped her hand and slowly stood up.
“Mr. Aiello, I—”
“I didn’t think you would. I knew you were too educated and too classy. I was just asking.”
Opal was almost speechless. She bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to belittle the man. “Well, it was a very nice thing for you to do.”
“Hey, I’m a nice guy.” Aiello looked at her. He seemed to have recovered already. “Is this a definite no or a maybe?” he inquired.
“It’s a definite no,” Opal told him. “But I hope we can still be friends.” The phrase came up automatically from some barely remembered period of her life, centuries ago. The formula still seemed to work.
“No sweat,” Aiello said and hefted the bag of leaves to his shoulder. Perhaps, she thought, he was a bit relieved. But what does one say next? Just then the door chime sounded. Saved by the bell, Opal thought.
“Have you seen it?” Roberta asked. She was standing in the doorway, her coat open, the scarf halfway down her back. “Have you seen it?” she repeated.
“Seen what?” Opal asked.
“The Times book review.”
Opal had seen last week’s, but she remembered that today was Monday, the day that bookstores and publishers received advance copies of the next week’s bo
ok review. “Look at this,” Roberta said and pushed the book review at her. Her hand was trembling.
Opal took the paper in one hand and her friend’s elbow in the other. “Come in,” she said. “I have to find my glasses.”
“Here, use mine,” Roberta said, lifting the glasses that she wore on a chain around her neck. “Hurry up.”
“You act as if it’s printed in disappearing ink,” Opal said, but she felt her heart beginning to flutter. Nothing was more important than a review in the New York Times. The paper rarely disclosed who it was reviewing or when. Sometimes a book waited months for a review that came out too late to help it. Opal moved to the window and put Roberta’s glasses on. The review was on the bottom half of page eleven. “Posthumous Greatness,” read the headline, and underneath it, in smaller letters: “First and only novel by deceased author is a work of brilliance.” Opal blinked. There was a large picture of Terry—the one taken in Roberta’s shop. The caption underneath it read: “The author, before her suicide early last year.” Opal began to read the review. “It’s a man’s world,” it began. “But never has it been so clearly, so lyrically, so completely pointed out to us as in ‘The Duplicity of Men,’ a first novel by the late Terry O’Neal. As if the book was not in itself a brilliant argument, as well as a totally engrossing story, the author’s own tragic experience echoes her beautifully imagined tale.”
Opal couldn’t read any more because of the tears gathering in her eyes. For heaven’s sake! All she did was cry! Tears blotted the page, and she held the paper away from her to be certain that, once she was in control of herself, she could read it. In the meantime, Roberta took her hand. “It gets better,” she said. “It’s a rave.”
Aiello came in and looked at the two of them. “Bad news?” he asked, as on-target as ever.
Roberta shook her head. “Terry’s book just got a rave review,” she explained.
“It’s gonna make money?” Aiello asked.
Roberta shrugged. So far their letter campaign didn’t seem to be affecting sales. They’d only heard from Mitchell Kaplan at Books & Books in Coral Gables and Cari Ulm at Bearly Used Books. “It’s going to be read,” she said. She looked back at Opal. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes,” Opal told her and turned toward the garden.
“Aren’t you going to read the rest of it?”
“Yes,” Opal told her, “but I’m going to go out in the garden and read it to Terry.”
81
A novel should be an experience and convey an emotional truth rather than arguments.
—Joyce Cary
Something had changed in the atmosphere at Davis & Dash, and Emma was sure it wasn’t just her imagination. Business news was not good: Although Peet Trawley’s book was climbing the list, Davis & Dash didn’t seem to have another big commercial success this season. There was a celebrity bio that was disappointing, and a hostage book that seemed to prove that America had at last tired of endurance sagas. Susann Baker Edmonds, despite the work Emma had put into the editing, had not yet scored, and Gerald’s novel, though doing better than his last, was certainly no bestseller. No one had expected anything but modest sales from Duplicity or the Clapfish novel, but the big surprise was how badly Jude Daniel’s book was selling. It looked like they were going to have enormous returns. Emma shrugged. She had never really believed that the book would attract a mass audience—it was like expecting a book set on death row to become a big summer read. It was too grim. Emma was grateful that she had had nothing at all to do with In Full Knowledge. She knew that Pam would probably be feeling the lash for it, and that meant the search for a fall guy was on. Perhaps that was what gave all the editors the look and posture of scurrying mice.
And if GOD lashed out at Pam, the rumor was that David Morton had begun lashing out at Gerald Ochs Davis himself. Last week Mr. Morton had arrived unannounced and several meetings had been interrupted so that GOD and Pam and Dickie Pointer could all be pulled into emergency sessions. Since then everyone seemed to be keeping to their burrows, like small mammals who knew a predator was about. Emma was no exception.
The phone rang and Emma picked it up.
“Unbelievable!” Without an introduction, without a hello, Emma recognized Alex’s voice. Since her talk with her brother, Emma had been thinking of calling Alex, but she hadn’t done it. Now Alex sounded happy rather than angry. “Isn’t it unbelievable?”
“What, Alex?”
“Haven’t you heard? Terry O’Neal has been nominated for the Tagiter. It’s the most prestigious annual literary prize. Well, I guess she won’t get it, except posthumously.”
“The Duplicity of Men has been nominated?”
“Yep. I made sure Pam did, and my little elves tell me it’s a strong contender. Isn’t it unbelievable? If it wins, foreign sales will go ga-ga.”
Emma didn’t care about foreign sales. Or even the prestige this would bring to Davis & Dash. This was her book, despite the credit Pam had been taking for it. Emma had found it, believed in it, and gotten it published. She’d been right. Her flesh raised in goose pimples. “Does Mrs. O’Neal know?” Emma asked. Oh, God, Opal would be so thrilled.
“Well, I haven’t told her. No one answers her phone. Can you believe she doesn’t have an answering machine?”
“She’s on her way to Pennsylvania. She’s doing National Public Radio to promote the book.” Emma paused, savoring this reward. “You really think she might actually win?”
“I don’t know. It’s a long shot,” Alex admitted. “Stranger things have happened. If it wins, it’s good news for Davis & Dash.”
“Yeah.” Emma smiled. Boosted by the confirmation that her instincts had been right about Duplicity, Emma realized that with Alex it was now or never. “So, do you want to get together and have a drink to celebrate?”
“Sure.”
They made plans to meet, and Emma hung up, feeling better than she had in weeks. She tried unsuccessfully to reach Opal, leaving a message with Wendy’s office and the Philadelphia contact at NPR. She wanted to give Opal the news herself.
Rumors about the fate of Davis & Dash abounded: heads would roll; cutbacks would ensue; the company might be sold off or closed down—but Emma felt good. With all of the gigantic restructurings, acquisitions, reorganizations, and downsizing that had gone on in publishing over the last decade, Emma would be surprised by nothing. She’d been lucky so far. As a little fish in the Davis & Dash ocean she merely hoped she could hold on to her job and keep paying her rent. And she was thrilled that she had helped get a Tagiter-nominated book published, even if she wouldn’t get much credit. If the killer sharks really were circling Gerald, Emma wondered if the nomination would help him, and if the coming shake-up would affect the minnows like her.
In fact, the atmosphere was so tense lately that Emma had started lunching out. She couldn’t really afford the time or the cost, but at least it gave her a break from the terrified looks of the others. Today, in celebration of the good news and the rapprochement with Alex, she decided to go to the sushi bar a few blocks away. Emma had found it only a week ago, and though it was small and dark, the sushi was both fresh and comparatively cheap. It was late when she walked in—almost two-thirty—and she took her seat at the bar with a nod to the chef behind the counter. After placing her order—two California rolls and an order of agae tofu—she sat there leafing through a new manuscript.
Just behind her a waitress slid back a shoji screen and emerged from one of the three private dining rooms. The only other customer at the sushi bar called for his check, and Emma was served. She put down the manuscript, wiped her hands on the hot washcloth she was given, and sank her teeth into the avocado and crab. It was bliss, her own private celebration. She even ordered a saki. It was then she heard the voices behind her.
“I tell you I’m not going to do it. I can’t do it,” a man’s voice said.
Emma shook her head. People were so rude, so unaware of others. They talked in movies,
they shouted in restaurants. There was no place you were left peaceful.
There was a murmuring response, but the man’s voice broke into it and continued even louder. “Not for another fifty thousand, not for a hundred thousand. Davis & Dash is making a fortune on my work. I wrote a book that’s number three on the list, and I can’t even get my manuscripts read.” Again there was the murmuring voice. And, though now she was fascinated, Emma couldn’t hear any more of the conversation. Who was number three on what list? she thought. The only Davis & Dash success right now was Peet Trawley, and he was dead. But his book was number three on the Times list.
Emma took a few more bites of her California roll. Then the man’s voice roared, “No, you didn’t. You tortured me, but you didn’t write it. I wrote every goddamned word!”
Now, after a loud “Shhhh!” Emma could hear his companion’s spoken response. “You’d better calm down.” Emma felt gooseflesh rise on her arms. Surely that was Pam’s voice. “This is a good gig for you, and you’d better not blow it,” Pam’s tough voice barked. “You’re so self-destructive.”
“Fuck you! Self-destruct this. Get yourself another ghost. If it’s such a great gig, you take it.” There was a pause and some murmuring. “More money or you can tell Edina Trawley she can get herself another boy. Or I’ll tell her myself.”
“Don’t you dare speak to Edina Trawley,” Pam snapped.
Emma didn’t know exactly what she was hearing, but she knew she shouldn’t be hearing it. As quietly as she could, she asked for her check. She looked regretfully at the tofu, the remaining sushi. But she knew she had to get out.
“What’s the matter, you no like California roll?” the chef asked, gesturing to her almost untouched plate.
Mute, Emma just shrugged and smiled, then began searching in her purse for her wallet. She’d better just leave a twenty and get out.
The Bestseller Page 54