by Bud Crawford
"Are they your outfitters in Asheville?" Geoff asked, "This Shop for Men?"
"One of. And, yes, to anticipate the question, payment for my purchases is in play. But that's between me and them, doesn't involve Ellen in any way." James turned directly to Ellen, smiling into her snarl. "Here's a lemon, here's a walnut: squeeze some juice, crack open the shell. Or leave them on the counter. Do what is best for you."
"It's tainted, though," Geoff said. "Your shopkeeper knows you were on your way to lobby Ellen on his behalf. Who has he told, who would he tell? Anything she does, she's become a piece in your game."
"Could be that way, but it isn't," James said. "He knows nothing about Meachum. And what I told him was, I had no influence. I could mention his name, that was all. Maybe he was already in the article, for better or worse, maybe she wasn't covering shopping, maybe I'd make her mad. I told him I'd ask, nothing else. He said, go ahead."
"Everything here," Honoria said, "depends on how truthful you are, doesn't it?"
"Yes, exactly so, truth in intent and truth in delivery," James said. "In most of my transactions that's all I have. Sometimes there's a history, a person knows I came through in the past. But either I deliver on my promises, both to old accounts and new accounts, or I'm over."
"Does the chef know about the haberdasher?" Geoff asked.
"Nope. I'm the blind end of both paths, except for you-all at this table." James leaned back in his chair.
Harold said, "But that's five people. What if one of us, just imagining things, has a fight with Ellen. Each person here has ammunition, including you, that could damage her professional reputation. Why so many witnesses?"
Stephanie said, "Harold! I didn't think you were even listening. That's a really good question."
"Well," Harold said, "I was kind of zoned out, staring at my coins. Then I thought, what if James comes to me a year from now, and wants some kind of favor. You might say to me, remember what a good deal he gave you on those coins. It wouldn't be just my decision, you'd be in it, too."
"Okay," James said, "it is a good question. I guess I'd say making the proposition public protects me. I've got witnesses, too. If I had somehow enticed Ellen off into a dark corner, there'd be the possibility that she might misrepresent or maybe just misunderstand what I said. Likewise, unless she told you what I said, you'd be wondering, making up stories. This way it's on the table, no secrets, no tricks."
"It also makes us complicit," Honoria asked, "does it not?"
"I wouldn't say 'complicit,'" James said, "that implies something unsavory or unethical. It's up to Ellen what to do. I suppose she could choose to be unethical, to compromise her principles, but I doubt she would. I'm not asking her for an answer. I've just said, Ellen, here's A and here's B. Do as you please, do the honorable thing, do what makes you happy."
"That's a little disingenuous," Stephanie said. "You'll know the answer, before long, by what's published or not published."
"Okay, Stef, James, everybody, leave it," Ellen said. "I'll work it out. Thanks for the possibilities." To Geoff she said, "What are you smirking about, mister?"
"It's a pretty puzzle you've been set, whatever else," Geoff said. "Watching you work it out will bring moral enrichment to us all."
"I may have another learning experience to offer, in that case. To you, Geoffrey," James said. "This one is a tale of two books, one that's old, very scarce, and one that doesn't exist yet." He took a manuscript from his bag, a hundred sheets of paper held with a binder clip. "Her father believes she's the Emily Dickinson of the twenty-first century, wonderfully talented, but too sensitive, too reclusive to put herself forward. He's old and ill and anxious that she gets the recognition she deserves, if possible, before he dies."
"You need a publisher, a literary agent, a printer. I'm not any of those," Geoff said.
"He isn't looking for a vanity job. That's easy, but also pointless, as far as he's concerned. He wants it accepted by a real publisher, on its merits. He says it's hard to get any new work published, by an unknown author, especially poetry. He needs a helping hand."
"Well," Geoff said, "that leaves agent, I suppose. Although direct submission works sometimes, too."
"He doesn't want to fill up a drawer full of rejection letters, from publishers or from agents. He doesn't have the energy or the time."
"So," Ellen says, "he's looking to purchase the agent. Whether because he just wants to avoid the long slog of getting her published, or because he knows the work doesn't really merit it."
"Yes, to the avoiding the slog. No, to him doubting the worth of his daughter's work." James tugged up the knee of his jeans and crossed his legs, twisting away from the table.
"You said, he wants," Honoria said. "What does she want? Does that come into it?"
"I haven't met her," James said. "He's stuck on the Emily Dickinson thing; right or wrong, he believes it. And that includes the idea that she does actually appreciate the quality of her own work, knows how good it is, wants it published and appreciated. But she's emotionally incapable of enduring the normal process. So nothing will happen if it's left to her. That's what he says, I believe he means it. But I don't know the girl, the woman."
"That's why he's pushing so hard, to wrap it up while he still can?" Stephanie asked.
"Exactly," James said.
"So," Ellen asked, "why didn't he do something last year, or ten years ago?"
"He's sixty-four, his daughter's forty-four. The mother died in childbirth, he never remarried. He wasn't expecting leukemia, there was no family history, no warning. He was just suddenly very sick and, he says, all the rules changed."
"Why does he think he's qualified to assess the work, aside from being a doting father?" Geoff asked.
"He sells insurance, now. In college he was an English major, has written poetry himself, even got a few pieces published. His judgment may be skewed. He knows that, but he's got some basis."
"What's the old rare book?" Harold asked. "You said there were two books."
"It's this," James said, pulling the last item from his bag. He handed the brown envelope to Geoff.
"Yikes," Geoff said, sliding out the book. He opened the cover and scanned the first few pages. "Insurance sales must be soaring."
"It was my pick, though he has approved it. The path to that specific book isn't part of the main story. My commission from him was simply to find something sufficient to his purpose, there were a number of steps in between."
"What's the book?" Stephanie asked.
Ellen had taken it from Geoff. She looked up from the cover. "Ezra Pound, very early wasn't it? A Lume Spento."
Honoria reached to take the book from Ellen. "Earliest work." Honoria said. "Semi-self-published, which is slightly ironic in this context." She looked directly at James, who smiled at her happy but noncommittal. "There were not many copies of the first edition."
"The 1916 edition" Geoff said, "around five hundred were printed. There were a few thousand copies of a 1923 edition, with some additional work. I don't think it's the rarest or most valuable twentieth century work in English literature. But it's in the top five. A hundred thousand dollars, James, more?"
"It also is the only one of those top five that you'd actually kill somebody to own, isn't it Geoff?" asked Ellen.
"They change hands so infrequently," James said, "there isn't an established price. But collectors actively seeking one have made offers that high, higher, the past several years. Now, to be sure there's no misunderstanding. This proposition is not like the pair I put to Ellen. This is direct linkage, quid precisely pro quo. Meet the man's terms, get his daughter properly published, the book is yours. If you decline or can't get it done, it goes back to a collector in Cashiers who has a little shrine ready to receive it home."
"Yikes," Geoff said.
"Got you, didn't he, dearest?" Ellen said. "Now you, too, have one of these horny little dilemmas humping your leg."
"Ellen!" Stephanie said, "You're
milking your metaphors."
~
James was pleased. He drove unhurriedly back to his cabin in Chimney Rock after a nice slow dinner with an old pal at the Grove Park Inn. That was eight transactions at Juniper House wrapped up in less than an hour, capped by a fantastic Alistair tea. The orchid seeds were nothing if Toni couldn't propagate them, but she meant to, so a little hook was set. And since the truffles were about a five-hundred-fold overpayment for the tea, the way was clear to drop in again over the next couple days if he needed to finish up something. Besides making it harder to have a quarrel over Marti. Probably even a good basis for a few days free board in Asheville, if the need ever arose. He'd known Stephanie would pick up on the birthstone, they usually did. He wasn't surprised Ellen and the old lady did, too: girl power. But it was a surprise, Geoff getting it. Maybe not the birthstone, but he'd sussed out the energy. Viable transactional intelligence there, besides the book-learning, not abstract at all. He'd missed that, first take. It's a very long shot that the old lady would ever come up useful, but she had really liked the pendant, and you never know. Someday, somewhere.
Ellen was still pissed, more than he'd anticipated, he hadn't talked her down at all. Appealing combination, that tough-minded, that good-looking. What was most intriguing: he wasn't sure which way she'd go. Didn't matter, stakes weren't especially high. Better if she did the interview and wrote up the shop, but he was clear, either way. His self-defined commitment was to present the choices, not to win. Geoff hadn't said much, everybody else sure had, but you could see wheels turning behind his eyes. Ellen was going to be all over him. Always fun to poke at hornets if you have a long enough pole. But he was invested in Geoff's outcome, seriously high stakes for him. Only the results matter. A bust with the books and he could find too many markers being called over too short a time.
Well, tomorrow was tomorrow. Meanwhile he had picked up some food and wine to take back for this evening. Marti would show up in about an hour and she'd be hungry. Best to feed her a little, before; then a little more after. More fun when they weren't twitchy. Going to be a sweet evening, no better way to fall asleep than counting freckles in the moonlight.
~
Ellen and Geoff had brought Honoria and Stephanie back to the Biltmore house after tea, to tour the greenhouses and grounds. The Farley sisters had to meet with their new franchisee. Harold had walked enough and wanted some time with his puzzle. Alistair promised Stephanie he'd bring him up a little supper later on. But Dwight and Jerry had finished work for the day, so they joined the Biltmore party. They had both seen the house, several times, so they were happy just to walk through the gardens, and join the others for dinner. A half hour in the winery, an hour for the two huge green houses, another couple hours walking the garden paths, and they were ready for food. Their reservation was for eight, but it was a light night and they were seated early. The waiter had taken their orders, and already brought wine and fresh bread with olive oil drizzle.
Dwight asked Geoff, "Do you have the Pound book? Or did James keep it?"
"I've got custody. It's in Alistair's safe. I'm sorry I didn't show it to you, I was kind of in a trance when James left. I just wanted it stowed, while I pondered."
"Have you looked at the daughter's book?"
"If it is the daughter's. No, not yet."
"You think it might be daddy trying for an end run, using his reclusive daughter as a foil?" Dwight chuckled. "That's kind of delightful, as well as awful. Are you just running out permutations, or is there a reason for suspicion?"
"Nothing hard, whispers in the brain." Geoff said. "Only concerned with getting this book published, no talk of contracts or future work. No reference to content or subject except saying Emily Dickinson over and over. Doesn't prove a hoax or a fraud, but consistent with, maybe. Obviously I'm racing in neutral. I have to sit down and read it."
"Do you want the Pound?"
"Yes, and that surprises me. I have the 1964 reprint, so essentially I have it already. I'm not a collector of first editions or autographed copies. All I have, a dozen or two among thousands of books, is either friend's work, or something thrust upon me. The content of a book matters, it's my whole working life, but I've never set much value on the carcass. If you lose it or give it away, you buy another copy."
"Yes, dear," Ellen said, "but you have got a Pound fixation. His books affect you differently."
"He was the great teacher of the century," Honoria said. "Also the great jackass. This is a serious bit of history, for a poetical person, in a category by itself."
"I agree," Dwight said. "I see the attraction. You could maybe say the same thing for a special edition of Eliot or Yeats or Joyce depending on your allegiances."
"Dodgers fan, Yankees fan? Like that?" Jerry asked.
"Comes down to it, yeah." Dwight said. "Personal favorites, people who've moved you, who've made you. A Lume Spento, though, the candle's out, or the light's done, however you translate it: maybe it's not special enough to kill for or die for, but it's substantial treasure."
"What if the new book, whoever wrote it, what if it's truly awful?" Honoria asked.
"Then the only issue is covetousness." Geoff said. "It would simplify things for me. Do I or do I not want the booty enough to lie and steal a bad book into print, simultaneously incinerating my honor and professional credibility? Nice clear choice."
"Just as simple if it's wonderful, but better for you." Jerry said. "You still keep your Lume, but your honor and credibility are enhanced. You've uncovered a new star and your sleep is untroubled. Unless the word gets out, about what you were paid."
"Yeah, just like Ellen's conundrum, even the best outcome is besmirched," Honoria said.
"Will a shared a moral crisis bring us closer, dear husband?" Ellen asked. "Or dissolve the union?"
"You want to interview Meachum. And I want A Lume Spento. We didn't have them yesterday, we won't die if we don't have them tomorrow. But we've crossed a line: either we get what we covet, or we will regret that we didn't get it, forever after."
"Nah, for half a century, tops, Then we'll be dead or demented." Ellen said. "It's not forever."
"What would Vanderbilt have done?" Honoria asked. "Since we are dining in the shadows of his castle?"
"Not a second's hesitation," Dwight said. "I want it, I buy it. I build a showcase for it."
"No hit to his reputation?" Ellen asked.
"For kind words about a fellow businessman?" Jerry asked, "Interviewing a chef? Helping some gent's daughter? Collecting one more first edition? The dilemmas are dehorned. If you're rich enough, you're presumed incorruptible." Jerry smiled at Dwight. "Sometimes I forget to be a Republican."
"And make my heart swell from pride and love, sweet boy," Dwight said. "We'll have you in our party yet."
"What will you do, Geoff?" Stephanie asked.
"I can temporize by saying I don't know because I haven't read the manuscript. But at every mark on that dial, the question's still open. The issues shift shapes, but there are always issues. The only easily navigable honorable course would be: flat refuse the old book, then treat the new book entirely on its merits."
"But," Dwight said, "this is your profession. You are paid to assess and edit. Why should you jump up in this instance and work free? Whether you're bowing too deep or bending over backwards, you end up bumping your head on the ground. How could you come to the manuscript unaffected?"
"I can't uncouple, either," Ellen said. "I wasn't intending a comprehensive shopping guide to Asheville, it's not my charge and there's not room in the article. But I had intended to say in passing: Asheville's got scores of nifty independent shops, charming, varied, unique. Then I planned to pick half-a-dozen instances. Perfectly in keeping if one was a men's store, no reason why not. Of course I'd check it first, make sure it deserved a mention. A tiny price to pay for an interview with food's JD Salinger. An interview apparently earned by my existing work, not because I might say something nice about men's
wear. But all my existing work is predicated on not saying nice things, except by my own undirected judgment. Would I kill the very core of my process if I cheated this? Am I stupidly over-dramatizing an everyday adjustment, something everybody does? I'm not a virgin, I've been with other shops in other articles, directed by a friend or a random event. There's just never been a specific payoff."
"Dear child," Honoria said, "you are over-analyzing. Visit the shop. If it is an especially nice men's store, say so in your article. If it isn't, leave it out. But talk to your chef regardless, don't let that slip past. That honors both sides of the issue. Sufficiently."
"You're giving her a complete pass," Geoff said, "but not addressing my angst at all?"
"Do you want me to?" Honoria said. "I can't unsay."