I had some twenty minutes, so I found myself a seat in an odd, sequestered corner of the lobby and let my eyes close. I remember wondering if that might be the place where the semi-porno bookstand Sarah had referred to could be found.
I lacked the energy to look for it, so I thought of Sarah herself for a dispassionate moment and somehow fifteen minutes vanished between two ticks of a wall clock I could hear above my head.
I started rather violently and checked my pockets to see if a sympathetic pickpocket had lightened the load of a clearly weary man. I was still in one piece and, feeling better for the few moments of unconsciousness, I left the hotel.
17 THOMAS VALIER 6:40 P.M.
I suspect that there is scarcely an hour of the day on any day of the week that somewhere a party isn’t being given, complete with bartender, free drinks, and lavish buffet.
And with enough guests imperfectly known to those in charge, it becomes possible for anyone to enter provided only that he maintain an air of cheerful self-possession and wave, now and then, to people at the other end of the room.
I am sure there are some people who manage to provide themselves with much of their food supply for the year by attending such parties—but, of course, at a price. There is the noise and the stale tobacco smoke and the crowds and the gradual accumulation of drunkenness and the indifferent food and having to watch, ad nauseam, people striving to maintain an image, make a contact or an impression, broach business, or stab an enemy.
Generally, the price is too high for me, but I notice that when I do attend such a party, I become as bad as the rest.
For all I know, every single person at any such party is convinced that he (or she) alone is a real, decent human being and that everyone else is to be condemned as a phony or worse.
I didn’t have an invitation, but I had my ABA badge and, if questioned, I could prove my status as a writer, if not as a bookseller. However, I wasn’t questioned and I don’t think the fact that I wasn’t actually wearing my badge bothered anyone. Presumably, the publishing firm of Sewall, Broom and Company was investing its money in the hope of obtaining goodwill among the booksellers and any touch of nastiness in keeping out anybody, even if justified, would introduce an unpleasantness that would turn them all off.
Better some wastage on party crashers than a negation of the entire purpose of the evening.
The drinks were, of course, of no interest to me, and I passed them by except for a quick study to see if Henrietta was in view. She wasn’t. I had a horrible notion that if I did see her I wouldn’t recognize her, for I couldn’t seem to bring her face before my mind’s eye. If I could hear her speak, though, I would have no trouble. My memory for hearing is much better than for seeing.
I moved over to the buffet, which consisted largely of a mountain of fried chicken and was overcome by a feeling of déjà vu, of having done all that before. Except that it wasn’t the illusion one usually describes by that French expression, but the real thing. I had done all that before. The night before, I had stepped through a room with a bar, stopping only to look for someone, and then passing on to the buffet.
Last night it had been Giles I had been looking for; this night it was Henrietta. And as I hadn’t seen him last night, I didn’t see her this night.
I concentrated moodily on the fried chicken. It looked and smelled good and my appetite was with me in a bound. (I may get too upset to eat from time to time, but that state never lasts for long and I consider this to signify that I am a healthy human being.) I helped myself to a leg and a breast because I hate to have to pick and choose between white meat and dark meat, ladled on two or three sausages and some French fries. That, plus a salad and, later on, a cup of coffee and a sliver of cake, would represent all my inner man would need. After that, I could devote myself to finding Henrietta if she was there to be found.
In moving about in search of an empty table, I passed the gantlet of a set of senior editors of Sewall, Broom, one of whom was a woman who headed a subsidiary house and whom I had known when that subsidiary house was an independent. I greeted them all with my head full of smiles and my hands full of food, managed to lean forward to kiss my friend without spilling anything, and got into the other room. The kiss meant my credentials for attending the party were full-blown and evident—not that I had worried about it.
Sewall, Broom isn’t a bad firm. I wouldn’t mind working with them, if I could be sure they would let me have my own way. Prism Press, at least, doesn’t interfere with me and that’s an advantage that balances out quite a bit of money.
I suspect that thought passed through my mind because somewhere out of the corner of my eye, I became aware of Tom Valier, my esteemed publisher and the Prince of Prism Press. He saw me, too, more clearly than I saw him, for I had not as much as gotten one somber bite out of the chicken leg (and remembered that I had had one for lunch, too) when he joined me.
«Hello, Darius. Terrible thing,» and he shook his head solemnly.
I knew what he meant, of course. «Yes, terrible thing,» I said, and went on eating.
He said, «You found the body, I heard.»
«I was the lucky man,» I said.
«He fell in the bathtub and killed himself?»
«That’s what it looked like,» I said.
«Terrible thing,» he said.
«Terrible.»
He shook his head. «It happens all the time. Slipping in the bathtub, I mean. There must be thousands of people every year injured that way. The tub is a deadly weapon. Poor Giles.»
«Terrible thing,» I said.
«Terrible,» he said.
Not for one minute did I think he had come just to tell me what a terrible thing Giles’s death was, and his indoctrination of me into the dangers of the bathtub interested me.
I said, «Spying out the competition?»
«I’ve got good friends at Sewall, Broom,» he said feebly, still brooding, apparently, over what a terrible thing it was.
I finished my chicken leg and had a few French fries before tackling the salad.
He said, «You know, Darius—»
It was coming. I said, «Yes?»
«What we talked about yesterday?»
«About Giles leaving Prism Press?»
«Not leaving. He was talking about leaving. He hadn’t left yet.» He smiled in a deprecating way. «Under the circumstances, I don’t think we ought to mention that unnecessarily. The man’s dead, you know.»
«Yes, I know. Terrible thing.»
Tom looked suspicious, but I suppose the point he was making was too important to take off on side issues. «I mean, let the dead lie in peace. Why bother with useless scandal?»
«There’s no scandal in changing publishers,» I said. (Maybe publishers thought there was, of course—if they were on the losing end.)
«Yes, but nothing came of it, you see, so why talk of it?»
«Sure,» I said. «I have no reason to talk about it, Tom. I’ll consider it confidential.»
«Thanks, Darius.»
And as though I had relieved him enough to make it possible for him to think of food, he said, «I think I’ll get something for myself.»
He came back a few minutes later with chicken on his own plate and by then I had had a chance to think a little.
«We’ve got to look at the bright side, Tom,» I said. «His book will do better than ever. It’s not every author who dies in the middle of a promotion campaign.»
«Oh, no,» he said uneasily, «we don’t want to capitalize on a thing like this.»
«Why not? What about the signed books you were going to hand out as door prizes? Are they all gone?»