By the Book

by Julia Sonneborn

  The Huntington Library presents

  THE SUSAN BARTHOLOMEW / DICKENS CLUB

  LECTURE IN LITERATURE AND SOCIETY

  “THE WORLD OF THE NOVEL”

  Richard Forbes Chasen

  Author of The Nation State, War’s Citadel, and Subterranean City

  OPEN TO THE PUBLIC

  “Hurry! The lecture’s about to start,” an elderly museum volunteer said, nudging me inside before I could protest. I squeezed into a chair in the front row, one of the only empty seats remaining. The audience was packed with old people, academics, curious visitors, and even a reporter from the Los Angeles Times. Wearing a white shirt that was open at the collar, a black blazer, and jeans, the author Richard Chasen was at the podium, flipping through his notes and adjusting his microphone, sending crackling sounds over the speakers. I’d heard Chasen interviewed on the radio before, but I was unprepared for how good-looking he was in real life. He was in his thirties, with wavy blond hair and hazel-green eyes, black glasses, and a few days’ worth of stubble.

  The director of the Huntington, a white-haired man with glasses, a little mustache, and a bow tie, gave a brief introduction, covering Chasen’s illustrious career. Born in the United States but educated in England, Chasen had burst onto the literary scene at the age of twenty-one and had immediately been hailed as “the voice of a generation” and “a once-in-a-lifetime talent.” His first book had won several prestigious literary awards. His second book, a war novel, was picked up by Oprah and sold in the millions. And his third book, a historical thriller set in Dickensian England, had recently been awarded the Booker Prize. The audience broke into loud applause and cheers. A professional photographer stepped in front of me to shoot pictures of Chasen, forcing me to lean over to one side. I glimpsed Chasen placing his hand to his chest and giving a slight bow to the audience before vigorously shaking the director’s hand and thanking him for the wonderful introduction.

  Chasen cleared his throat and the room quickly hushed. He spoke with an elegant British accent, leaning over with his arms resting casually on the podium.

  “I’m so glad to be here among such great scholars and lovers of literature,” he said. “Every time I visit the Huntington, I feel like I’ve entered a wormhole into the past. This place is a real hidden treasure.” He paused to acknowledge another round of applause. “Much of the research for my last book, Subterranean City, took place here, and I look forward to spending more time in the archives as I’ve just accepted a writer-in-residence position at Fairfax College.”

  I straightened up. I hadn’t known Chasen would be teaching at Fairfax.

  “My lecture today is from an article I’m working on for the New Yorker,” he said. “I was asked to contribute my thoughts on contemporary fiction.” He paused. “I guess Jonathan Franzen was unavailable.” The audience laughed at his self-deprecating humor, and Chasen gave a wry half smile.

  Chasen straightened up, adjusted his glasses, took a quick drink of water. “The world of the novel,” he began, his voice suddenly booming and authoritative, “is a world that is, by its very nature, mimetic, appropriative, and voraciously imperialistic.” He was confident, even brash, as he described his literary technique. I pretended to be listening attentively, but I was really just staring at his face. He didn’t look like a writer. He looked like a mountain climber, or an Australian movie star, or a Nautica model. I glanced at his hand. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  Beside me was an old man wearing a Dickens Club T-shirt with a picture of Tiny Tim waving his crutch. He turned to his wife and loudly asked, “What the hell is he talking about?”

  “I don’t know, honey,” she whispered back, patting his hand. “I thought he was going to lecture on The Old Curiosity Shop.”

  Chasen must have heard them because he glanced in our direction. Before I could look away, he had locked eyes with me and given me a coy wink. My God, I thought. Is he flirting with me? I looked down at my lap, but every time I looked up again, Chasen seemed to be seeking out my gaze, his eyes holding mine for a second before moving away again. He spoke for perhaps twenty minutes and then took questions before being besieged by a crowd of fans clamoring for him to sign their books.

  I lingered afterwards, debating whether to introduce myself. I wasn’t usually one to speak to authors after readings or lectures. Most writers, especially the ones whose books I most admired, were awful to meet in person. A lot of them didn’t even seem to like their readers. I’d once met a famous author in graduate school who was on a visiting fellowship and would occasionally sit in on our graduate seminars. She was young—just around my age—and gorgeous, with an angular face that demanded she be a fashion model if the writing thing didn’t work out. While the rest of us watched in cowed silence, she would get into fierce arguments with our professor, challenging his readings, asking for citations, ignoring the rest of us in the room. Later that semester, she gave a reading at the local bookstore, and I approached her afterwards, book in hand.

  “I—I loved your book,” I said, knowing how trite I sounded but not knowing what else to say because it was the truth. She was a beautiful writer.

  She looked at me disdainfully. “Name?” she asked.

  “Oh! Of course. Anne with an e,” I said.

  “You’re in that seminar with me, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “Yes!” I said, incredulous and flattered that she recognized me. “It’s a great class, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a fucking waste of time,” she said, slamming the book shut and handing it to me.

  I’d learned my lesson after that. It was a rookie mistake, imagining that I could be friends with my favorite writers. Now I knew that I preferred my authors to keep at a safe distance—and they preferred the same of me.

  Richard Chasen was different, though. I’d never read any of his novels, for one. And we were going to be colleagues, after all. Besides, he seemed to be encouraging me to come over. From behind the scrum of fans, he glanced in my direction, his green eyes pleading, “Please come introduce yourself. I’m waiting.” I stayed in my seat for a few minutes, watching as he finished being interviewed by the Times reporter and started signing books. A small cluster of die-hard fans clustered around him, asking for selfies and tittering as he made some dry jokes.

  He’s busy, I thought and got up to leave. But Chasen saw me and hastily excused himself from his fans.

  “Forgive me,” he said, catching up to me. “Have we met before?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m Anne Corey.”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “I could have sworn— Well, never mind now. Please, let me introduce myself. I’m Rick. It was very kind of you to come to my lecture.”

  I shook his hand. His attention was flattering but also strangely disconcerting.

  “I was meaning to introduce myself to you,” I said. “It looks like we’re going to be colleagues at Fairfax. I teach in the English department there.”

  “You do!” Rick said. “How serendipitous!” He glanced behind him at the group of fans who were staring at us curiously. “Are you free for lunch?” he asked. “I’ve got a few hours before I head back to the airport, and it’d be lovely if you could join me.” Leaning over, he whispered into my ear, “Please rescue me, I’m begging you.” He smelled wonderful, like soap and some kind of cologne.

  “Sure,” I said, tentatively.

  “Let’s try the tearoom,” he said. “I hear it’s quite good.”

  After wrapping up his signing, Rick opened the door for me with a chivalric flourish and we headed onto the grounds of the garden, strolling down stone pathways surrounded by large green lawns. To our right was the original library, festooned with banners advertising the exhibits inside; to our left, the special gardens, like the cactus collection, the tropical gardens, and the orchid greenhouse. We followed the signs to the tearoom, situated next to the rose garden. The roses were in full bloom, climbing up the l
atticed terraces and creating a white cloud around a temple that housed a sculpture of Cupid and a young maiden.

  We didn’t have a reservation at the tearoom, but the hostess made an exception for us, leading us to a small table tucked in a corner. A server brought us a pot of tea and a basket of scones. The rest of the food was in a central buffet that looked unappealingly like a pig trough, with people loading up on finger sandwiches, strawberries, and pastries.

  “So tell me about Fairfax,” Rick said. “Do you enjoy it there?”

  “Oh, it’s a great place to teach,” I said, taking a bite out of a strawberry and hoping none of the seeds would lodge themselves in my teeth. “The class sizes are small, and the students are generally smart and motivated.”

  “And the town?”

  “It’s charming and quiet,” I said. I laughed nervously. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s not LA or New York. There’s not a ton going on.”

  “That sounds quite nice, actually,” Rick said, looking pensive. “You know, I was embedded with coalition forces in Fallujah for almost a year, and that was rather too much excitement.”

  “You were in Iraq?” I asked. Most of the writers I knew never strayed beyond a five-mile radius of Brooklyn.

  “Yes, doing some reporting. Nearly lost my life when our convoy was struck by an IED.” He paused, his voice suddenly quiet. “One of my mates didn’t make it. Bled out on the side of the road.”

  “Wow,” I breathed. “I’m so sorry.” I thought about my own research, which rarely required more than a library card and some trips to dusty archives. What I did wasn’t dangerous or even particularly exciting most of the time. But Rick was out there doing things, risking his life, witnessing real tragedy.

  Rick shook his head as if to clear it of painful memories. “Fairfax sounds positively heavenly. You must be so glad to be there.”

  “I am,” I said. “Though honestly, I may not be there for much longer if I don’t get my book out soon.” I felt a wave of despondency come over me.

  “You haven’t found a publisher yet?”

  “No. In fact, I got a rejection from Bloomsbury just the other day. It was pretty depressing.”

  “Oh, it’s terrible, isn’t it?” Rick agreed, his eyes on mine. “Like a punch in the gut, really. But you must carry on. If I could tell you how many times my work has been rejected . . .”

  “Really? But you’re so . . . successful.”

  “We all have to start somewhere,” he said, smiling. He looked at me thoughtfully. “Now that I think about it, I actually know a few people at some academic presses. I could call them up for you. Would you consider going with a place like Cambridge? Or Oxford?”

  “Would I?” I said, gaping at him. “That would be a dream!”

  “Let me see what I can do,” Rick said, his finger pressed to his lips.

  “I’m speechless—thank you.” I couldn’t believe it. Rick was a Booker Prize–winning author, and he wanted to help me? He’d barely met me! He’d never even read my work! Yet here he was, being unbelievably generous.

  “I enjoy helping other writers,” Rick said, as if reading my mind. “It’s a solitary profession, and we have to support one another.”

  He reached across the table and took my hand in his. I suddenly imagined what it would be like to kiss him and felt my heart flutter.

  He squeezed my hand. “I know that things will work out.”

  chapter five

  “DR. COREY,” I HEARD Larry boom from in front of the chapel. “You’re late for convocation!”

  “It’s only five past two!” I protested, jogging up to him. “The ceremony’s not starting for another half hour!” I was wearing my black polyester doctoral robe, rented from the bookstore, with my dark blue hood slung sloppily around my neck and my mortarboard tucked under my arm. It was eighty degrees out, and I was sweating under my robe.

  “How do I look?” Larry asked.

  Larry was dressed in his full Harvard doctoral regalia. The robes were supposed to be crimson-colored, but in the sun they looked more like a hot pink. His sleeves were edged in black velvet stripes, and he was wearing a dapper black velvet tam with a large gold tassel. Around his neck was a collection of medals, some on chains and some on pieces of ribbon.

  “What’s all that metal around your neck?” I asked.

  “Oh, these?” Larry said. He picked up a gold medallion on a red ribbon. “This one is for a teaching prize I got at Fairfax.” He picked up a silver medallion on a blue ribbon. “This one I got for distinguished scholarship.” He fiddled around and found a third medal shaped like a book. “This one is from the English Honor Society.”

  “What about the others?” I asked.

  “Oh, these?” Larry pulled another three or four medals from the tangle around his neck. “This one I got for running a 5K in Santa Barbara last year. And this one’s my niece’s gymnastics all-around medal. Oh! And this one’s my favorite. I got this at Mardi Gras when I was in college. Isn’t it nice?” He admired the purple-and-green fleur-de-lis medal on its plastic beaded chain.

  “You look like Mr. T,” I said.

  “Thank you!” Larry said. He carefully arranged his medals in a neat fan across his chest.

  A faculty marshal was yelling at all of us to get into some semblance of a line so we could process into the chapel. Everyone ignored him. No one was worse at listening to instructions than a bunch of professors—we were used to telling people what to do, not being told what to do.

  “So how’s your father doing?” Larry asked, talking over the marshal’s pleas.

  “Not good,” I sighed. “Lauren called me from Florida the other day and said it looked like an episode of Hoarders in my dad’s condo. She found six months’ worth of unpaid bills under a pile of garbage—it was a miracle the electricity was still on.”

  “Uh-oh. What did the doctor say?”

  “She was seriously concerned. Lauren tried to get my dad to take some cognitive tests, but he flat-out refused. I don’t know what we’re going to do—we can’t leave him the way he is. The doctor thinks we should consider moving him to an assisted-living facility.”

  Larry whistled. “That’s a huge decision. When my grandma was first diagnosed with dementia, she wouldn’t even let us take away the keys to her car.”

  “Yeah—my dad’s not going to be happy. There’s a place here in Fairfax we’re hoping he’ll like—it’s more like a retirement community than a nursing home. I’m crossing my fingers it works out.”

  A bagpiper appeared and started droning away. After several more pleas, each more heated than the one before, the marshal started physically herding us into line. I got in line beside Larry, just behind a group of economics professors who were clearly whispering about all the medals around Larry’s neck. “Is he the provost?” I heard someone ask. Larry smiled smugly at me and tossed his gold tassel like a ponytail.

  The line began to move, following the bagpiper as he entered the chapel and led us past rows of gaping students. Larry hummed “Here Comes the Bride” under his breath as we walked, tipping his head graciously to each side. There were faculty members in purple robes with gold details, gray robes with red details, orange robes with navy blue details, powder-blue robes with black details. And the hats! There were plain, boring mortarboards like mine, but then there were also black velvet tams like Larry’s, Tudor bonnets with feathers, eight-cornered hats that looked like muffins. One professor, who got his doctorate in Finland, wore a silken top hat and a sword.

  The first few pews of the chapel had been cordoned off for us with velvet rope. I squeezed next to Larry, a few seats away from the center aisle, watching my colleagues file in and waving at the ones I knew. Beside me, Larry fished two pink cans of champagne from his sleeve.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “A toast to the new school year,” he said, cracking a can open, sticking in a pink straw, and handing it to me. “Cheers.”

  The orchestra struc
k up a coronation anthem, led by trumpets and backed by a full chorus. By some unspoken cue, everyone abruptly stood up and craned their heads toward the back of the chapel, where the board of trustees was making its entrance, led by a wizened old professor, the longest-serving faculty member at the college, carrying an oversized ceremonial mace that looked like it weighed more than he did. Adam was the final member of the procession, and a great hush fell over the crowd as he walked in, alone, backed by the triumphant orchestral music. He was also dressed in black academic regalia with a scarlet stole embroidered in gold and an enormous university medallion draped around his neck. I heard Larry gasp beside me. “Now where do I get one of those?” he asked.

  Adam was tall, and his gown didn’t pool around his feet like mine did but hung several inches above the ground. His robes made him look even more distinguished, emphasizing his broad shoulders and upright posture. The silence gave way to a great wave of applause. Around me, even my curmudgeonly colleagues began to clap. It was the beginning of a new era—the Martinez era. Fairfax was giddy with the possibility.

  I joined the applause, feeling increasingly self-conscious as Adam walked closer to my pew. I tried to stare at his shoes, then let my gaze drift up, pausing at the big gold medal before I glanced at his face. He was smiling slightly and acknowledging the applause with a slight nod of his head. As he passed by, he caught my eye. I saw him register the slightest bit of surprise—his left eyebrow raised and his smile stiffened—and felt myself wanting to hide in my ceremonial hood.

  Around us, people began flipping through their programs as the college chaplain recited a blessing and the president of the board of trustees began the investiture ceremony. I slumped a little farther in my seat. This was going to be a long, long year.

  *

  THE RECEPTION AFTERWARDS WAS held at the President’s House. Larry and I changed out of our regalia and headed over, crossing through the campus in the mellow afternoon sunlight. The lampposts lining the quad had been hung with festive red banners to celebrate the convocation, and even the streets of Fairfax looked more charming than usual. All the houses looked freshly painted, all the gardens replanted, all the hedges trimmed. The mansion was strung with lights and red bunting, with the sound of a string quartet drifting from the garden, where cocktails and hors d’oeuvres were being served by waiters in black vests. Larry grabbed two flutes of champagne as we walked in. “Round two! And check it out—they sprang for real glassware, not plastic!” he said approvingly.