Patty wished she was back in the bathroom again — this time to slit her wrists.
Karl frowned at her, increasing her discomfort. “You’re sure you want to go back into publishing?”
“Of course!” Fred answered for her. “We have to make sure all our friends become important editors so they’ll publish our books!” Fred guffawed, scanning the room with glistening eyes for others who would enjoy his open statement of opportunism. Fred suffered from the delusion that to confess to calculation was disarming and sophisticated. He believed it simultaneously revealed himself as aware of such conniving, disapproving of it, and yet showed he was prepared to take advantage of it himself — a combination of attitudes that Fred thought was self-aware and humorous (like a Woody Allen hero, Fred would have said) rather than the tail of the comet of self-doubt that raged constantly throughout the galaxy of his insecurities.
“I guess you’re right, Fred,” Tony Winters said to cover the embarrassed silence that threatened the room. “That’s probably the only way we’ll get any of our stuff published.”
“No!” Patty instantly protested.
“I don’t think you should go back into publishing,” Karl said in a grave and considered tone.
“Hear, hear,” Marion said.
Tony smiled at her. She returned his glance demurely.
“See,” Tony said to Patty. “And Marion’s an editor. Ask her how lucky you are to be out of it.”
“You know the problem with being an editor?” Marion said, leaning forward eagerly.
Fred broke in, flashing a look at his new agent, Bart. “Just don’t say it’s agents who ruin the business.” Again he guffawed.
“Well, they’re not a big help, Fred,” Marion said.
Tony smiled at Marion admiringly.
“Business,” Karl mumbled into his drink, unheard by the others.
“But they’re not the big problem,” Marion continued, looking into Tony’s handsome eyes. She felt encouraged by them: this kind of declamation was difficult for Marion. “It’s the mixed messages. Nothing is straightforward. They hire you and say, ‘Oh, we want you to aggressively acquire books, discover young writers, and demand big printings.’ Then they reject every unknown writer you bring in, while agents only give the track-record authors to the big boys—”
“Well, I don’t know if I can agree with that,” Bart said quietly. His still manner made the words impressive: Marion shut up and the room gave its attention to Bart. “Bob Holder at Garlands & Company is only twenty-eight. I give him a crack at all my six-figure authors.”
“Gosh, doesn’t that sound nice,” Tony Winters interrupted with a show of greed. Patty, Marion, and David Bergman all laughed instantly. Karl also laughed, but so violently that it seemed more like anger. The others looked puzzled, except for Fred, who was torn between appreciating Tony and not offending Bart. “It’s like a chest measurement for women,” Tony went on. “What’s sexier? A high six figures or a low seven?”
Patty’s lips made a small circle. “Oh, a low seven, for sure.”
“I bet you say that to all the boys,” Tony said. “That should be a hint to the National Book Awards, or TABA, or whatever the hell it is now.”
“TABA,” Karl said into his drink.
“TABA.” Tony nodded. “Well, anyway, they should have a swimsuit competition in the future. Can’t you see Bill Styron in a bikini?”
“How about Mailer?” David Bergman offered.
“No, no. Mailer stays in shape,” Tony argued. “You want the real slobs, the people who have gone to seed.”
“Mailer!” David Bergman called out again, laughing. “His writing fits.”
“That’s not true,” Karl said, so exercised that he raised his head and spoke clearly.
“Despite your joking, that is the idea,” Bart said to Tony. His serious tone again caused everyone to focus on him. Once they had, he continued. “TABA is an attempt to create superstar writers and superstar book events, like the Academy Awards. I think it’s a good thing.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Fred said. His leg bounced up and down nervously. “I don’t understand why you guys at the Authors Guild and PEN voted against it,” Fred said to Tony and Karl.
“I’m not a member of the Authors Guild or PEN,” Tony protested.
Karl wasn’t either, but he didn’t like to admit it.
Fred stayed on Tony. “Yeah, but you know the presidents of both of them.”
“You make me sound like Secretary of State,” Tony answered, smiling. He stubbornly resisted Fred’s attempt to link him with a literary establishment, not out of modesty, but fear that if he admitted to Fred he had access to such people, within twenty-four hours he would get a call from Fred requesting introductions.
“It seems to me,” Marion said, “writers objecting to TABA is typical of how hypocritical writers can be. Authors want to be celebrities, they want their books advertised, and all the rest, but God forbid they should participate in the selling, or admit that it’s a business. Only writers can decide who are good writers, is what they’re saying. It’s bullshit.”
Karl coughed. “Excuse me.” He cleared his throat. “But that’s silly. Writers have always decided who are good writers. What do you think literary critics are? Painters? They’re writers.” He laughed and looked around for support, but the vehemence of his tone caused only worried looks.
“Karl.” Bart said the word like a parent: a warning against throwing a tantrum. “With your first novel coming out, you can’t have that attitude.”
David Bergman, unaware that Bart was Karl’s agent, and irritated by his arrogant manner, got up from his chair and walked around the couch to face Bart, saying, “Why the hell shouldn’t he? Seems to me with his first novel coming out, it’s the best possible attitude. Artists can’t take the judgments of businessmen to heart — not if they hope to continue to be artists.”
“Editors aren’t businessmen.” Marion said.
“Of course they are!” Karl sputtered. His drink spilled as he put it down on the coffee table. “That’s why—”
Bart’s commanding voice interrupted: “So are writers.”
Karl shut up and looked at his agent with the wide-eyed, trusting, and slightly frightened expression of a dutiful student.
“Never forget it,” Bart said in the sonorous tone of a newscaster signing on: “A writer is a businessman first. And then, if you’re lucky, you can be an artist too.”
David Bergman looked at the other writers. Tony, though he wore a slight smile to indicate distance from Bart’s judgment, looked at the floor. Fred, his leg bouncing up and down nervously, nodded his enthusiastic agreement. Karl simply closed his mouth, clamping down on his unfinished objection. And Patty, for the first time, looked at David with wide-eyed interest.
“Look,” David said. “I know I’m a hack journalist. One of the advantages I have over other writers at Newstime is I admit it to myself. But I’m not a businessman. And these fellows, they’re not hacks. They can’t be businessmen. It would kill them to even try.”
Bart looked up at David slowly. “To get what they want — they’d better be.”
There was a silence, a few seconds of embarrassed uneasiness at Bart’s dramatic tone.
Brett. Bart’s date, stood up, her long blond hair swinging like a slow-motion shot for a commercial. David stepped back, startled.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Where’s the little girls’ room?”
No one answered at first. Then David put his arm out — a gentlemanly escort. “I’ll take you there.”