38
The following week, I returned to the writers group red with fright. I had no idea how they would receive my work. It was not particularly profound, like the girl's story of aging told through the lens of glasses, nor the whiskered man's dystopian epic of a world without books. My work was simply good fun. I hoped my new group of literary friends would take to it, as I did not think it was mere superficial fun, but the wholesome kind, the fun that comes from leaving your home, and living on an overstuffed boat without a penny in your pocket or a calorie in your belly. A worthy distraction, I suppose. However, my hopes were not high.
Happily, their feedback well exceeded my hopes. The writers group was positively fawning. They loved every word, each for their own reason, and I was instantly catapulted to the top of the group's hierarchy. I thus became doubly determined to finish my second novel.
At the end of our meeting, just when I thought the day had gone perfectly, and thus could not go better, the man with the whiskers approached me on my way out. He re-introduced himself, repeated that he thought my work excellent, and reported, for the first time, that he had worked at a top publishing house, but was leaving to start his own. He wanted my book on his roster of first prints. He would pay me $4,000 for the work, plus 15% of sales. He would pay me another $4,000 to write a second. I couldn't believe it. That was more than I made in a year. That was enough to bring Inès to America. That was enough to leave Ziegfeld and write full time. I shook his hand and thanked him. I told him I would come to his office and sign my life away. Once we had finished up, I walked to the bathroom, sat on the toilet and wept. It was one of the happiest moments of my life. Although I hate to ruin a good surprise, that happy moment would only become happier.
I am quite confident there is no rhyme or reason in life. To think that there is may be dangerous, life can be so unfair. Yet there are curious patterns to it. One pattern in life is that we worry too much about those things we cannot change, and so neglect the things we can. Another is that both good and bad events frequently occur all at once, like a flood gaining momentum with each broken dam. Well, the latter happened to me following the book review.
When I had finished weeping joyfully in the bathroom, I ran into James, the leader of our writers group, on the street. James complimented my novel, and informed me he had been looking for me. I thanked him, informing him that the novel was just purchased by the man with whiskers. James replied that he himself would like to purchase my book. He worked at a leading publishing house in New York, one that had previously refused to even consider my work, let alone reject it.
James offered the same as the man in whiskers--$4,000 plus 15% of sales—but I told James I would go with him. I wanted to publish with an established house. More than that, I wanted to publish with James. I did not like the whiskered man. I found his writing painfully stylistic, and his person even more so. How could I trust the judgement a man who wrote like that? I could not. Thus, I assured James I would meet him the following morning—my meeting with the whiskered man was to occur in the afternoon—and firm things up.
I left James in high spirits, turned around, and fumbled into the bespectacled girl. It seemed no one had yet gone home. I apologized for knocking into her, and she did me. I complemented her on her work, and she did me. I asked her where she was going, and she did me. We lived, as it turned out, two blocks apart. Thus, together we walked home.
The sun was setting as we walked. The girl's name was Ruth. Although I told Ruth I enjoyed her work, the truth was, I had not yet read it. But I knew, simply from Ruth's demeaner, that her work was strong. There was intelligence in her eyes and wisdom in her movement. She was not a pretty girl, but her presence was rejuvenating and calm, like sunrays on a summer's eve. I asked her all kinds of questions, poking and prying like she was an object of curiosity, and at each turn, she had something clever to reply. She had an easy intellect in a way that Inès did not. Where Inès worked for it, Ruth came to it blithely. I could not help but feel for her in a way that forsook Inès. Even after I dropped Ruth at her apartment, her spirit stayed with me.
The following morning, I attended James' office. I arrived two hours before it opened and waited patiently on a bench across the street. I was eager to firm things up. Once the doors opened, I waited in the reception, talking excitedly with the secretary; she had expected me. Finally, James arrived. We talked lightly for a minute at most, and then he brought the contract. I signed without reading it, and he handed me a cheque for $4,000. I left in hurry, worried someone would walk in and call the whole operation off, citing some horrible mistake.
In the afternoon, I skipped the meeting I had at the publishing house of the whiskered man. My novel would be published instead by James, and I used this newly freed time to attend the bank and cash my cheque. A wave of euphoria passed when the cheque cleared. I took a small amount from it, and I telegraphed Inès eight pages of good news, which could be summarized more briefly for the reader as follows: 'We're rich; come to New York.'
I received her reply two weeks later. She informed me that it would take some time to arrange the journey, and that she hoped to arrive in six months. In the meantime, I set up a home to which she could arrive. I bought a quiet little Georgian home in a quiet little Connecticut town. The house had a yard in the back, trees in the front, and not much inside. I left the home mostly unfurnished so that Inès could decorate as she pleased. Of course, I could not afford to furnish it, even if I desired to, as I had spent all my earnings on the house.
I also worked frenetically on my unfinished second novel, hoping to have it ready before she arrived. I also passed more time with Ruth, I am ashamed to admit. I had James hire her to edit my books. It turned out to be a smart decision professionally. Ruth was the literary counterpart to a good washing: by running my work through her, it came out much cleaner than it went in.
After about two months, my first book was set to print. James, Ruth and I had high hopes for it, but low expectations. It was a first novel; those rarely do well. Yet James had the publisher put considerable resources behind it. I had an ad placed in the Times; I travelled across Pennsylvania and Massachusetts to promote it; and I gave advanced copies to any critic who would take it. All that trouble was worthwhile, it turned out. The book was a top seller. Americans, new ones especially, took to the story. Their lives needed more fun and Inspector Dmitri gave it to them. Overnight, it seemed, I had found myself. Or, I should say, Americans found me. The book was the most popular novel of the year, and, as the weather warmed, the public spent even more cents on a summer read. I was happy to oblige.
Ruth, James and I celebrated with the writers group. Ruth and I got along all too well, so well I forget about Inès, lost instead in Ruth's presence. I loved Inès like I could not love anyone else. She was there when no one else was, believed in me through difficult times, when easy ones were nowhere in sight. If only Inès and I were together—I would care little for Ruth, I knew. But I hadn't seen Inès in nearly two years. Although Inès said she would soon arrive, her person seemed more a work of fiction than anything I had written. Ruth, however, was real, as real as my stirring libido. Thankfully, nothing passed between me and Ruth that night, or ever. Still, the guilt remains today.
At last, Inès arrived, and not a moment later than she said she would. I cried when I saw her. She was make believe come to life. I wore trousers, cut to fit, a smart jacket, and had a buggy ready to drive us home. The buggy had been rented by James and the publishing house as a gift for a job well done. Inès could not believe the man she saw; it was make believe come to life for her too. I put Inès' bags in the buggy, and we sat in the back as the horseman drove us home.
Inès cried when she saw our house. Our dreams had come true. By now, I had begun furnishing the home. I could afford it, and then some, as the sales from my book continued to surpass expectations. Yet the place was furnished simply, and I assured her she could change it as she liked. Inès, for her part, assured me she wouldn't change a thing: it was perfect just the way it was.
Once she had bathed and eaten and toured the place from top to bottom, lying in bed after a long day, she cried once more. This cry was painful. I had made quite a life without her. I had wealth she never knew, friends she never knew, and skills she never knew. Had I become a person she never knew? What place, if any, would she have in my life?
I assured her that she took up all my life, that she would be mine forever. I meant it. I assured her that she need not worry about a thing, not my loyalty, nor money, nor comfort. I told her we would set out immediately for children. I bade her goodnight, and I left, crying privately outside her door. My tears were joyous. All was well, just as I imagined it. What an incredible stroke of luck! I simply had to take care not to let it fall.
In the coming months, I finished my second novel. I saw little of Inès during the day, locking myself in the office until I had written the pen dry. To have my own office was a treat and a thrill. Working there was as pleasurable as work could be. I walked into the place every morning like I was trespassing on the property of a statesman. But as soon as I settled in, I made the place my own—papers thrown this way, pillows thrown that. Feet up, shoes off, anyway I could get comfortable. I worked until my fingers were numb and my brain was raw. Sometimes Inès would leave food outside my door; Most times she would not. We carried on like this until the novel left my hands, and were transferred to those of the publisher.
My second novel involved Inspector Dmitri too, but it was more ambitious than the first. For one, the plot was complex, turning this way, then that, looping around and around until I damn near strangled myself in it. For another, the characters were three dimensional, not the good or evil cut-outs of my first book. Indeed, the first book I wrote for myself, and was surprised by its success. The second I wrote for the public, and expected success.
When I handed the work to James and Ruth, they agreed it was good, but spent more time dwelling on the bad. The main character, James opined, spoke too formally; the heroine, Ruth assured me, was a laughable male idealization. I could not understand how two individuals so excited about my first work could be so critical of my second. Nothing had changed between them. The prose sprung from the same mind, did they not?
Again, Ruth edited the work. Her suggestions were, as always, right and helpful. Every problem she identified was accompanied by an elegant solution. I spent time with her outside the office, too. Her company pleased me in a way Inès' did not, but I came to realize, that was just fine. Inès was mine; I was hers. As long as Inès remained close, Ruth would never jeopardize our relationship. She never did, although she remained a dear friend always.
My second novel released to the public a year later. It sold well, better than the first. Yet the critics were harsher. I thought hard on why, and I decided that the world is eager for a fresh face, but turns quickly on that face once it gets too pretty.
My second novel did not result the way I had hoped, but my life had been tough enough not to pay it much mind. The fact was my books were selling, I had a house that was my own, and a wife whom I adored. My life was not at all what it should have been, and I mean that in the best way. Besides, I had more important pressures to consider: Inès was pregnant, after months of trying. The wandering portion of my life was finally over; I had arrived in Canaan.
The following year I took to myself. I had worked hard and established myself as an author. I had a readership, a steady income, and a book contract to last four more novels. During my time off, I tended to my wife, who was expecting and in constant need. I read many of the books I should have read before becoming an author. I considered what I should write next. The critics, it seemed, had tired of Inspector Dmitri, thinking me a one trick pony. So I decided to tell another story, the most compelling, most fantastical story I knew. The story of a farm boy from Austria, who dreamt of drinking coffee in Vienna, who ran from home to become a magician, who met the love of his life in France, and who ended up a novelist in America, rich and happy. Hard to believe, to be sure. But one that I knew just well enough to bring to life. I knew it because it did in fact happen. It happened to me.
THE END