The Bookman's Promise

by John Dunning

  He was the last to arrive, forty-five minutes late. Miranda showed him in at a quarter to eight, accompanied by a pretty young woman she introduced as Erin d’Angelo. I saw Ms. d’Angelo make a gesture of apology to Lee when Archer wasn’t watching, but it was brief and his response was even more so. Miranda was unruffled at the delay in dinner: it would be perfect, I knew, because it always was at her house. She knew her guests and planned for their little quirks accordingly, and that told me yet more about Mr. Archer and his ways. A man who will keep an entire dinner party waiting for most of an hour has a pretty good opinion of himself.

  Archer took center stage at once when he arrived; even Lee stood back with what I thought was a look of quiet amusement while his old friend held court. There was some talk about a new book coming but Archer turned that quickly aside, implying that whenever it came, it would certainly be important but he couldn’t talk about it now. A national booksellers association was having its annual meeting in Denver that year and the great man was in town to speak at the banquet, receive an award, and do local media appearances. Ms. d’Angelo was his escort, one of those super-competent people provided by publishers for writers on tour, and occasionally for writers between books if they are important enough and their business is somehow career-related. The Pulitzer had locked in Archer’s importance for the rest of his lifetime, and so he got Ms. d’Angelo to drive him—not forever, I hoped for her sake.

  Her name suggested an Irish-Italian clash of cultures but to me she looked only like the best of America. She might have been a freshman college student straight from the heart of the country, a professional virgin with taffy-colored hair, a lovely oval face, and big eyes that radiated mischief. “She’s actually a thirty-year-old lawyer,” Miranda told me during a quiet moment in the kitchen. “She’s extremely bright and as tough as she needs to be.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She could go very far in law is what it means. Sky’s the limit, if she wanted to.”

  “That sounds like pretty deep exasperation I hear in your voice.”

  “Yeah, it is. It’s really none of my business, but Erin’s like the kid sister I never had and she’s been like a daughter to Lee. She lived with us after her father died and we love her like family. We want the best for her and she could have it all. She’s got a great legal mind; she could climb the heights and make a ton of money while she’s at it.”

  “Maybe she just wants a quieter, gentler life.”

  “I should have known I’d get no sympathy from you. You couldn’t care less about money.”

  “Long as I’ve got enough to keep my act together.”

  “Erin’s father was like that. Until one day when he really needed it and didn’t have it. Knock wood and hope that doesn’t happen to you.”

  “Hope what doesn’t happen?”

  “Oh, don’t ask. It’s a story with a bad ending and I never should have brought it up.”

  I didn’t say anything. She gave me a sad look like nothing I had ever seen from her. “D’Angelo and Lee were partners very early, a pair of idealistic young eagles right out of law school. Mrs. D. had died. I was a silly adolescent worshiping Lee from afar and Erin was just a child.”

  She wavered, like maybe she’d tell me and maybe she wouldn’t. “I really shouldn’t have gotten into this,” she finally said. “Do me a favor, forget I said anything about it.”

  “Sure.”

  “Promise.”

  “I promise, Miranda. I will never breathe a word to anybody—not that I have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s not important now. If Erin ever brings it up, fine. I’d just rather it didn’t come from me. She’s a great girl and we’re very proud of her. What’s not to be proud of? She got perfect grades all through college and look at her now, working in a big downtown law firm.”

  “What’s she doing schlepping writers around? Can’t be much money in that.”

  Exasperation returned in a heartbeat. “See,that’s what I’m talking about. She’s been doing that since her days at the DU law school, and she won’t give it up. Suddenly she’s tired of law. Now what rings her bell is lit-tra-ture. She’s even been writing a novel, God help her, in her spare time.”

  “I can’t imagine she’s got any time to spare.”

  “She works by day and drives by night, writes when she can. Are you interested, Cliff?”

  “I don’t know—would you want me to be?”

  Miranda gave me a long, wistful look. “You’re a good guy, Janeway, and I mean that. But I’m afraid you’d only reinforce all her bad ideas.”

  The woman she had invited as my opposite was certainly nice enough—a ravishing redhead named Bonnie Conrad—and we spent much of the evening, when we weren’t listening to Archer, in a pleasant exchange of views on world events. But my eyes kept drifting back to Erin d’Angelo, who provided such a cool presence at Archer’s side. Once she caught me looking and her eyes narrowed slightly, as if she had picked up a whiff of my thought and found it as welcome as a fresh dose of herpes. Then she must have seen the beauty of my inner self, for she smiled, and in the heat of that moment all I could think was,Oh, mother, what a wonderful face.

  Rounding out our party were Judge Arlene Weston and her husband, Phil, a plastic surgeon who had carved up some famous Hollywood noses before moving to Denver in the sixties. It was Phil who brought up the Supreme Court. “Arlene says you had an interview with Reagan.”

  “You’re not supposed to talk about that, sweetheart,” Arlene said. “It’s bad luck to bring it up before the fact.”

  “I don’t think it matters much,” Lee said. “It was just a visit, certainly not what I’d call an interview. Tell you the truth, I’m still not sure what started it all.”

  “Somebody gave him your name, that’s pretty clear. Must’ve been a hell of a recommendation from one who’s very close to that inner circle.”

  “Maybe he’s looking for a pal to come in on slow afternoons and keep him company while he watches his old movies,” Phil said, joshing.

  “All his afternoons are slow,” said Archer.

  “Whatever it was, it’s pretty hard for me to take it seriously at this point,” Lee said.

  “I don’t see why,” said Bonnie. “You’d make a great justice.”

  “That’s not how they choose them,” Archer said. “Politics is what counts in that game, not legal acumen.”

  “Hal’s right about that,” Lee said. “I imagine it’s the same in academia. The good teachers get lost in the shuffle, while those who play the game get ahead.”

  “And the same in books,” Archer said. “Them that sits up and barks gets the awards.”

  “I never saw you barking for anybody.”

  “Maybe the Pulitzer committee’s above all that,” Archer said. “Or maybe I just got lucky.”

  “Maybe you’ll both get lucky,” Arlene said. “Wouldn’t that be something? A Pulitzer prize winner and a Supreme Court justice from that one graduating class in college.”

  “High school, actually,” Archer said. “Lee and I have known each other forever.”

  “We graduated from a tiny high school in Virginia,” Lee said. “Our graduating class had twenty-two boys and twenty-two girls.”

  “Isn’t that romantic?” Miranda said. “I just love that.”

  “That’s because you got somebody’s guy,” Arlene said. “You’re so evil, Miranda.”

  “Yep. I love to think of the poor, weeping wench, doomed to a life without Lee.”

  I said nothing during this light exchange, and it went on for a while before the inevitable swing to books came, at around ten-thirty. “So,” Miranda asked privately at one point, “how do you like Mr. Archer?” I told her I had always loved his books and prepared to let it go at that. The Westons left in the next hour, and then we were six. Miranda had sensed the spontaneous hostility between Archer and me, and now she did her heroic best to overcome it. “Cliff has been a bi
g,big fan of your books forever, Hal,” she said, but this only made things worse. Archer’s comment, “How very,very nice of him,” was a startling breach of etiquette, too pointed and caustic even for him. He barely saved himself with a weasely “of course I’m kidding” smile, but the private look that passed between us told the real story. How dare I pass judgment, good, bad, or indifferent, and who the hell needed my approval anyway?

  Normally at this point I would take off my kid gloves and bring up my own verbal brass knucks. I almost said, And listen, Hal,that was even before I knew what an accomplished asshole you are…now I’ve got two things to admire you for. I would have said this with my pleasantest smiling-cobra demeanor, and then, into the shocked silence, I’d have had to say,Yes siree, Hal,you’re way up there on my list of favs, right between Danielle Steel and Robin Cook. Damn, I wanted to say that. I wanted to say it so badly that I came this close to really saying it. In my younger days I’d have let it rip instantly, in any crowd. I caught the eyes of Erin d’Angelo, who still seemed to be reading my mind from afar with a look of real mischief on her face.Go ahead, say it, I dare you, her look said. But I had my host to consider. I gave a little shake of my head, and Erin rewarded me with a soft laugh that no one could hear and only I could see.

  Then she mouthed a single word and pulled me into the screwiest, most extended repartee I have ever had with a stranger. I couldn’t be sure, but the word looked like coward.

  I gave her my Tarzan look, the one that said,A lot you know, sister, I eat guys like him for breakfast.

  She made a show of her indifference. Glanced at her nails. Looked away at nothing.

  I stood up straight, my face fierce with my savage cavemanhood.

  I had the feeling she was laughing at that; I couldn’t be sure. In another moment, people would begin noticing what idiots we were, and I looked away, cursing the darkness.

  Round one to her, on points.

  We were in the library by then and Bonnie was ogling the books. Suddenly Archer said, “My goodness, Lee, don’t you ever show anyone your real books?” Lee seemed reluctant, as if this would be much too much ostentation for one evening, but the cat was out of the bag and down the stairs we all went. We came into a smaller room that was also shelved all around, the shelves glassed and containing books that were clearly from another time. Archer stood back while the rest of us marveled at pristine runs of Dickens, Twain, Kipling, Harte, Hawthorne, Melville, so many eminent Victorians that my head began to spin as I looked at them. There wasn’t a trumped-up leather binding in the room, and the sight of so much unfaded original cloth was gorgeous, inspiring, truly sensual.

  “This is how my book fetish started,” Lee said. “I inherited these.”

  “From his good old grandma Betts,” Archer said. “Ah yes, I remember her well, what a dear old gal. Show them the Burtons, Lee.”

  And there they were, the greatest works of their day. With Lee’s permission, I took each book down and handled it carefully. Archer talked about Burton as we looked, and his own zeal lit a fire that spread to us all. He seemed to know everything about Burton’s life, and at some point I figured out, at least in a general sense, what the new Archer book was going to be. You can always tell with a writer: he gets that madness in his eyes whenever his subject comes up.

  The room had gone quiet. Then I heard Erin’s soft voice.

  “There aren’t any men like that anywhere in the world today.”

  I gave her a challenging look. She rolled her eyes. I said, “He’d go crazy today,” and she cocked her head: “You think so?” I said, “Oh yeah. Ten minutes in this nuthouse world and he’d be ready to lie down in front of a bus.” She said, “On the other hand, how would a man of today, say yourself as an example, do in Burton’s world—India, Arabia, or tropical Africa of the late 1850s?” I said, “It’d sure be fun to find out,” and she looked doubtful. But a few minutes later she slipped me a paper with a telephone number and a cryptic note,Call me if you ever figure it out.

  Round two to me, for brilliant footwork.

  It was one o’clock when I left the judge’s house. All my annoyance with Archer’s arrogance had dissolved and I was glad I hadn’t retaliated at his stupid insult. I felt renewed, as if the pressing question in my life—what to do now?—had just been answered. Sometimes all it takes is the touch of a book, or the look on a woman’s face, to get a man’s heart going again.

  I opened my eyes the next morning thinking of Erin and Burton together. Neither gave ground to the other; each grew in stature throughout the day.

  I called her number. Got a machine. Her voice promised to call me back.

  I let Burton simmer.

  She called the next day and talked to my machine. “If this is a solicitation call, I gave at the office. But I’m a registered Democrat, I’ll talk to anybody.”

  “Nice line,” I told her machine. “I liked it almost as much when Jim Cain used it in that story he wrote thirty years ago.”

  “Veryimpressive,” she said to my machine later that day. “I wondered if you’d catch that Cain heist. My God, aren’t you ever home?”

  “I’m home right now,” my machine said to hers. “Where are you?”

  “I’m off to Wyoming, dear heart,” was her final attempt, hours later. “We’re heading into what looks like a long, long trial. The environment of the very planet is at stake and the partners need my young, fertile mind far more than you seem to. Good-bye forever, I guess.”

  My machine said, with an incredulous air, “Wyoming has environment?”

  Then she was gone, a loss I hoped to hell was temporary. But Burton kept perking away like a stew in fine wine. On the morning of the fifth day I commenced strategic reconnaissance. In military terms this means a search over wide areas to gain information before making large-scale decisions. In bookscouting it’s exactly the same: I got on the phone. I ordered some reference books. I fished around for cheap Burton reading copies. Strategic reconnaissance indeed: it was the bookman’s madness, and I was hooked again.

  2

  Within a week I had read Fawn Brodie’s Burton biography and had skimmed through three of Burton’s greatest works. I began to read Burton slowly, in proper chronological order. I read Norman Penzer’s Burton bibliography from cover to cover and I started a detailed file of points and auction prices on Burton first editions.

  To a bookman a good bibliography is far better than any “life” pieced together by even a diligent scholar like Brodie—the subject is revealed through his own books and not through the eyes of a third party. Burton had been unfortunate with his early biographers. Long before Brodie made him respectable in 1967, he had been presented as a scoundrel, and sometimes, because of his frankness in translating the sexual classics of the East, as a pornographer. He was luckier with his bibliographer. Penzer was a fierce Burton advocate. His 1923 bibliography contains superb scholarship on Burton’s books, and Penzer added pages of color on Burton’s character, unusual in such a work. Penzer considered Burton the greatest man of his century, but a tragic man who could not suffer fools and was damned for all but his greatest accomplishments. Knighted near the end of his life in an empty gesture, he was treated shabbily by his government. He lived in the wrong time, said Penzer: “His queen should have been Elizabeth rather than Victoria.”

  Burton’s story is a grand one in the most sweeping tradition of the book world. He was a Renaissance man long before the term came into popular use: master of twenty-nine languages, perfecter of dialects, great explorer, student of anthropology, botanist, author of thirty books, and in his later years translator of the Arabian Nights in sixteen volumes, of The Kama Sutra, and other forbidden Oriental classics. He was an excellent swordsman, a man of great physical and mental strength. He would need it all for the hardships he would face in unknown deserts and jungles around the world. His knowledge of human nature was vast, his powers of observation both panoramic and exhaustive, his memory encyclopedic. Wherever he went, he sa
w and noted everything, so that he was able to produce, almost immediately after a whirlwind trip across the American desert to Utah and California in 1860, a dense, seven-hundred-page work describing the flora and fauna, the people, the customs, and the land, and follow this two years later with a book of advice to the prairie traveler. His observations on the American Indian, with a long description on the practice of scalping, are classic passages of travel writing. Penzer believed Burton stood with the greatest explorers of all times: compared with Burton, he said, Stanley traveled like a king. Burton’s expeditions into unknown Africa would read like myth except for the prodigious mass of detail he recorded about everything he saw there.

  These accomplishments alone should have made him a giant of British folklore, but he was also “one of the two or three most proficient linguists of whom we have authentic and genuine historical records.” He taught himself and was fluent in Arabic, Hindustani, Swahili, and Somali; he spoke Persian and Turkish, Spanish, Portuguese, and Greek. Of course he knew Latin. Wherever he went he soaked up languages, often perfecting dialects in a few weeks.And, Penzer reminded, he was a master of ethnic disguise. That’s how he was able to go among natives as one of them, risking his life to breach the ancient holy cities of Mecca, Medina, and Harar.

  He wrote of his travels in the Congo, Zanzibar, Syria, Iceland, India, and Brazil. He wrote books on bayonets, swords, and falconry. He was one of those brilliant swashbuckling wizards who comes along rarely, who understands life and writes exactly what he sees without pandering to rules of propriety or knuckling under to religious tyranny. His kind does not have an easy life. He is resented and shunned by churches and genteel society; if he’s lucky, he may escape being burned at the stake. In Burton’s case, he was victimized after death by his pious, narrow-minded Roman Catholic wife. Lady Isabel torched his work, burning forty years of unpublished manuscripts, journals, and notes in her mindless determination to purify his image.