by Rona Jaffe
"I know."
"You know? How do you know?"
"Mary Agnes told me."
"Oh, she's funny. She knows everything about everybody." April smoothed back her long tangled hair. "I thought at first you meant you could tell because I look diflFerent. New York girls look so sophisticated."
"Mary Agnes?" Caroline said, smiling. "Brenda?"
"No . . . not them. But you do. You're my idea of what a New York girl should look like."
"Well, thank you," Caroline said. "I take it that's a compliment?"
"Oh, it is," April said. "It is."
They paid their checks and rode upstairs together in the elevator. "Are you doing anything tomorrow after work?" Caroline asked her.
"I don't think so."
"Well, maybe we could have supper together somewhere and go to a movie. Would you want to?"
Td love it!"
"Okay. We will, then. See you.**
April went into Mr. Shalimar's empty office, shut the door, kicked off her shoes, and did a pirouette on the soft rug. She was very happy. She took her mirror out of her purse, and with the other hand held her hair off her neck, turning her head this way and that. How come she had never noticed before that she looked like a woolly bear? And there was something queer-looking about her suit. Her mother had always said that girls with blue eyes should wear pale blue, and that black was for funerals and old ladies. Well, she didn't feel a bit funereal, she felt marvelous, and tonight when Mr. Shali-mar gave her supper money she was going to use it to go to the beauty parlor. And on Friday when she got paid she was going to buy a black suit just like Caroline's.
Mr. Shalimar wouldn't even recognize her in a couple of days. Her heart began to pound. Wasn't she lucky? She was lucky, all right. She took his ash tray out to the wastebasket in the hall and emptied it, and washed it out in the water fountain. It wasn't until she noticed Mary Agnes' shocked face that she realized she had forgotten to put on her shoes.
Dark comes quickly in January, and at five o'clock when the girls in the bullpen began to cover their typewriters and tie on their kerchiefs the sky outside was already black. Mr. Shalimar was dictating the second page of the monthly report which was to be ten pages long. He had allowed April to sit on his sofa while he dictated, and she was perched there with her shoes off again and her legs curled under her, putting down his words with rapid, sure strokes. She had always hated shorthand in school, but right now she was so grateful she had learned it that she almost enjoyed it. She could see that he was pleased because he never had to pause for her to catch up. Over the sound of his voice she dimly heard the noises of departure outside, the clicking of high heels and the called goodbyes. Soon there was a different sound, the sound of utter quiet. She stood up to get a sharper pencil.
"We can stop for a minute," he said. "You must be tired."
"Oh, no, I'm not tired."
"Where are we? Halfway through?"
"Almost."
"Are you hungry yet?"
"No, sir."
He bent down and took a bottle of Scotch from the bottom drawer of his desk, and a nest of small metal cups. He separated two of the cups and poured Scotch into both of them. "Like a Httle drink?"
She had never tasted anything stronger than a mixed drink in her life. "I wouldn't want to waste it," she said timidly.
He poured half of hers back into the bottle. "Here," he said, holding the rest out to her.
Who would ever believe it? she thought. Here she was, so tongue-tied she couldn't think of a thing to say, drinking Scotch in the office with the editor-in-chief of Derby Books. This didn't really look like an office; it looked more like the den of a luxurious home, the kind you see in the movies.
"Luck," Mr. Shalimar said briskly, and tossed off his drink in one swallow. He poured some water from his carafe and drank it, not even looking at her. Well, maybe they weren't exactly socializing, but she was present, and that was something. She tasted her Scotch gingerly and forced downi a few sips, feeling the warmth travel down her throat.
Mr. Shalimar poured himself another drink and looked at her for the first time, "Want some water in it?"
"I guess so." She let him pour water into her cup, looking down at his dark, silver-flecked hair, seeing a mole on his ear and embarrassed to be so close to him. In the moment he was weakening her drink she noticed every line and tiny mark on his face, at first with curiosity because he was a great man she knew so httle about, and then with a feeling that was a kind of intimacy because she felt somehow that his wrinkles and birthmarks and imperfections belonged to his private life. But she was just indulging in hero worship, she told herself sensibly, and then she let herself indulge in it. "Thank you," she said, and went back to her seat on the couch.
He leaned back in his desk chair and crossed his long legs. His skin was dark with an athletic-club lunch-hour tan, and he wore a wedding ring. He looked a little like a Greek shipping magnate, or some kind of Near East tycoon, she thought. On his desk were silver-framed pictures of his family.
*Tou know," he said, "very few people realize the great future that's waiting for paperback books. Do you realize that we have a first printing of a quarter of a million copies for each and every
book? How many copies do you think the average hard-cover book sells?"
"I don't know."
"A couple of thousand copies if it's a flop. Maybe a hundred thou-sand copies if it's a best seller. A hundred thousand readers in the whole of America. That's not many, is it?"
"No," she said.
"Do you realize there are towns in America where there are no libraries at all? Not even a bookstore! The only place the people in those small towns can get a book is at the drugstore. And what do they read? Our books."
"My heavens," she said.
"We are responsible for the changing literary taste of America," he went on. "People have to learn to crawl before they can walk. First they won't read anything but the most obvious kind of lurid adventure stories. Then we sneak in a good book or two. We train them. Eventually all our books will be as good or better than the best so-called literary hard-cover books. Do you think all hard-cover books are good literature just because they cost four dollars? Most of them stink."
She smiled a little at his vehemence and took a few healthy gulps at her drink. It made her feel more confident and she finished it off.
"It's our books, with our sexy covers, and our low cost, and our mass distribution that are teaching America how to read. Let people who don't know anything say Derby Books are trash. They'll see."
"I never thought of it that way," she said.
He beckoned for her cup and she went to his desk and waited while he fixed her another drink. This time he tapped his cup lis^htly against hers before he drank. She went back to the couch, feeling suddenly very happy. No wonder everyone around here seemed so curious about her editorial ambitions. It wouldn't be a bad thing to get in on the ground floor of a—literary movement. That's what it was.
"Have you read any of our books?" he asked.
"Oh, a few, yes."
He opened his desk drawer and took out four books and put them into an envelope. "Here. Read these this week and let me know what you think of them. I'm interested in a young girl's opinion,"
"Mine?" She was incredulous.
"Use your instinct. I'm not interested in your education. Some of the people who buy our books regularly are college graduates, but most of them aren't. They either like a book or they don't. Just tell me whether you like them or not, and tell me why."
"All right." She realized when she stood up to get the books that she should not have gulped her second drink so quickly. Everything was rather blurry, and her face felt hot. When she took the envelope of books his hands brushed hers and she felt a great daughterly affection for him.
He looked at his watch. "It's late. You must be starved. Tell you what. We'll go downstairs to the place in the building and grab a bite, and then we'll come back up h
ere and finish the monthly report. Go get your coat."
She made her way to her desk, holding on to the door as she went through. Those drinks had been stronger than she thought, and it was late. She didn't want him to notice she was high, he'd think she was a real little hick. Some food and coffee were just what she needed. As she powdered her feverish face she heard him speaking on the telephone in his office. She could not hear the words, but the tone of his voice was weary and apologetic. He was calling his wife, she was sure, to say he would not be home for dinner. She felt sorry for his wife, who had probably been looking forward all day to being with him again, and she felt rather sorry for him because he had to eat a sandwich in a greasy coffee shop and then come upstairs and dictate for two more hours to his secretary. The only one she didn't feel sorry for was herself.
"Good evening, Mr. Shalimar," tlie waitress said cozily, as if he were a habitue. There were little tables in the darkened bar section of the coffee shop, and the main part where April had eaten lunch was brightly hghted and closed off. Mr. Shalimar led her to a table in the corner.
"Two Scotches with water on the side, and two steaks," he said. "Is that all right, April?"
"Yes, sir, fine." Things weren't so blurry in the dark, and from somewhere near the ceiling soft music was playing. He was sitting next to her on the leather banquette, and he leaned forward, looking at her closely.
"You're a very beautiful girl, d'you know that?"
"Thank you," she said, embarrassed.
"Have a lot of boy friends? What kind of man do you like?"
"I don't have any boy friends here in New York," she admitted. "I don't know any. Back home I had a lot of dates, I guess."
"Anyone special?"
"Oh, no."
"What kind of man appeals to you? What kind of man would you like to marry?"
She had discussed the question many times with her sorority sisters in the long, intimate conversations girls hold in the night, and she recited her answer surely. "An understanding man. Someone kind and intelligent. He wouldn't have to be handsome as long as he seemed handsome to me. I guess if you love someone you think he's good-looking, and if you dislike someone or he's mean to you, you get to hate his looks."
"A very good answer," he murmured. He tapped his glass to hers. "I hope you get him."
"Me too," she said. She drank her Scotch and felt like giggling.
"You have a devastating smile. When you meet that boy he won't have a chance."
This time she did giggle. "I wish I would meet him. I've never been in love—just crushes on boys, but I knew that wasn't real. I wish I were in love with someone who loved me."
"And what about funF' He was looking at her more closely. "Wouldn't you like to meet someone you could have fun with, without necessarily being in love?"
"Yes ..." she said. She wasn't quite sure what he meant. The words were innocent enough, the wise words of a father to an impatient, romantic daughter, but there was something about the way he said "fun" that made it seem different and infinitely more mysterious than the kind of fun she'd always had with boys or anyone. "I guess so," she said.
He looked at her warily. "What kind of things do the young boys say to the young girls nowadays? What do they say when they want to . . . make love?"
"Say?" she said. "They don't say anything. They mostly just grab."
He laughed. "That must be very unpleasant."
How understanding he was! "It is," she said with reHef. "I just hate it."
"How do college boys make love?"
She was a little embarrassed to be talking about kissing and petting with this man—first of all, she had never discussed sex with any man in her life, certainly not even her father, and secondly Mr. Shal-imar was from a world so removed from her own that she could not imagine how he could possibly be interested in her amatem-ish little jfront-seat battles. "I'm not exactly an authoritv," she said, smiling.
"Every girl is an authority about her own life," he said.
"No wonder you're an editor. You know so much about people."
"I know about people because I ask. I question. I'm insatiably curious about people," he said. How do you think I know what every woman in America wants to read? Because I talk to women, find out what their secret dreams are, what they fear."
She felt reassured. The waitress came with the steaks then, and April discovered she was very hungry. She began to devour hers and was halfway through before she discovered that Mr. Shalimar had not taken a bite of his.
"My goodness," she said, feehng rather concerned about his welfare. "Don't let that go to waste."
He took a small piece of his steak and pushed the rest around the plate with his fork, looking bemused. She supposed he was used to much fancier cooking than this; as for herself, she thought the steak was marvelous.
"You may have mine too," he said.
"Oh, I couldn't."
"Go ahead." He placed his steak carefully on her plate and she smiled at him, feeling self-conscious and childlike and well cherished. "My father used to do that," she said.
"I imagine you were his favorite."
"No, it's not that. It's just that my sisters were a lot older than me, and they were sort of settled in their own lives when I was only in high school. So I guess my father had more time to give to me. And also, I think parents get mellower with their youngest children."
"Mmm-hmm," he said. "I imagine your father was very protective with you about boys."
"Well, I didn't confide in him, if that's what you mean."
He raised an eyebrow. "Ah? You had secrets?"
"Not really."
"Tell me, what kinds of things do the young boys do when they make love?"
"You want me to tell you?"
"Of course."
She could feel her face getting hot. It wasn't that she had any interesting confessions or that she felt guilty, it was simply that one didn't discuss these things with an older man, especially an employer. It wasn't as if he were her family doctor or something, although even her famOy doctor never talked to her about making love. "Oh, you know," she said vaguely, hoping her answer would satisfy him. "They do the same old things."
"Sounds rather boring," he said with a touch of amusement in his voice.
"Oh, it is!" she said, grateful to see the discussion coming to a close. "It's very boring."
He covered her hand with his for an instant and gave it a fatherly pat. "Waitress! Check, please."
There was only one elevator on night duty, and as they waited for it to come to take them back upstairs neither of them spoke. She was glad the steaks had sobered her; now she would be able to take good shorthand and not make mistakes. It was almost impossible to decipher what you'd written the day before if you were sloppy. They could probably finish the report in another hour, she was thinking, and she tiailed him into his office glancing at the wall clock in the bullpen on the way. It seemed funny to see tlie office clock read ten o'clock and know it was ten o'clock at night instead of in the morning.
He had left the desk lamp on and the office was soft with shadows. What a nice living room it would be, if the desk were not there. Through the half-open slats of tlie Venetian blinds she could see the great, mysterious evening city. New York . . . City of excitement, of promise, gathering place of all the unknown, vibrant people she hoped someday to meet, who were at this very moment spending planned and unplanned evenings in ways that seemed so much a part of that sophisticated, gay unknown out there and so remote from everything she was used to. She leaned against the desk, moved and speechless, looking out at mecca.
"What are you thinking?" Mr. Shalimar asked, behind her.
"I can't say," she breathed. "I wouldn't know how to say it."
He came up to her so quickly she had more a sense of movement than any warning, and took her into his arms. His arms were like
straps around her, so that she could hardlv breathe, and his mouth covered hers, hot and violent and authoritative. A
s soon as the first instant of numb incredulity shattered she was filled with terror. She twisted her head from side to side, trying to escape the lips and teeth that were trying to devoiu- her, and gave a choked Httle cr)'. He let her go.
"Mr. Shalimarr she said, and it sounded so stupid in the quiet room and so much a line from one of Fabian's own worst magazines that she started to cry.
He stood there looking at her, smiling, not particularlv angr' but just amused. He handed her his handkerchief, smelling of lavender. "It's not as bad as all tliat," he said, smiling.
She wiped her eyes and mouth (the mouth quickly, so he would not notice) and handed the handkerchief back. She was too embarrassed to flounce off in a huff, and she tried to think of something to say to him but her mind was completely blank with shock. An old man, at least fifty! A married man! Right in front of his wife's picture on the desk! He shook his head as one would to a child, wiped his mouth quite carefully, looked at the lipstick on his clean handkerchief, folded it, and placed it neatiy in his breast pocket.
"Come on," he said, "111 put you in a taxi."
She kept a foot away from him all the way down the haU and descending in the elevator, and when they were finally on the street. He hailed a taxi and held the door open for her. She cHmbed in as quickly as she could, and with her hand on the inner handle said, "Good night."
"Wait," he said. He handed her two dollar bills, crumpled together. "For the fare. I hope you don't live in the Bronx."
She shook her head.
"Take it." He pressed the money into her hand and she shrank from his touch. "Your books," he said. He had carried the envelope with the four paperback novels in it all the way down in the elevator and she had not noticed because she had deliberately been avoiding looking at him. "Don't forget to read them," he said pleasantly. He tipped his hat, and shut the taxi door. It took her a moment to remember her own address.
The inside of the private, dark taxi was comforting. She pushed the envelope of books to the far side of the seat as if it were a dead animal, and put her face in her hands. Funny . . . she did not feel