«Come on, go,» she said, «and charge it to us.»
«Good God, still more generous. Why?»
«Because you’re a good and loyal author of ours.»
«Thanks, but I’ve always been that. Why now?»
«Because I know that Giles Devore will be there and I want you to talk to him. You know what’s happening, I suppose. Tom must have told you.»
«He told me,» I admitted. «Giles is pushing for the big money. Obviously he’s found himself a hard-nosed agent.»
I’ve never had an agent myself. Maybe I’m wrong in this, and maybe that’s why I haven’t advanced any farther than I have, but I value doing my own dickering even if I take a loss. Besides, it means that I can take on small jobs on my own terms and consider something other than money in the process. Considering anything other than money is something agents never do.
She said, «Of course he has an agent, but that’s not the trouble. You writers make me laugh. To hear you talk every publisher is a bastard, every agent is a son of a bitch, but every writer is a saint. I tell you it’s not the agent, it’s Giles who wants the pelf. The agent is a friend of mine and he says so, too; he can’t do anything with him.»
«Of course the agent says that. It’s a common ploy.»
«It’s true in this case. We have to reach Giles somehow and convince him not to turn his back on us. That’s where you come in.»
«Why, what can I do? If he’s determined to get himself the whole apple pie, what arguments can I raise against it? The great wealth and fame that I have achieved by not going for it?»
«Don’t talk like that, Darius,» she said earnestly. «He respects you.» She took my hand in hers and looked into my eyes as though she were trying to hypnotize me. «He respects you.»
I took my hand away and made the kind of sound that is sometimes spelled «Tchah,» when you encounter it in writing.
«He has so much respect for me that he never consulted me on his new book.»
«And it shows it, Darius.»
I shrugged. «I can’t do any good, Teresa. If he respects me, it doesn’t show. It’s not as though he dedicated the book to me.» I was trying to be flip.
Funny thing. I didn’t really mind the ten-thousand advance, the demand for fifty, the drive for the big time, all that fame and fortune. I had discounted it for myself a dozen times over in the dozen years past and I was hardened. I was aware of the sting, but it was on the other side of a thick skin, and though I felt the touch of it, I did not feel the pain.
I despise envy on principle and I feel only contempt for those who fall prey to it; so I never let myself feel it, you see, unless I can call it something else. If I can call it resentment at lack of just and proper appreciation, then that is much more noble and the matter of dedication supplied that.
Teresa seemed to be on my side. Perhaps she thought I was more likely to help her out if she was (she’s bright enough, or calculating enough, if you prefer, to see it that way). She said, «We suggested he dedicate Evergone to you, you know.»
On the outside I had to be stoical. «What the hell,» I said. «A wife comes first. Flesh of your flesh; bone of your bone; beneficiary of your will. I never had a wife, however, so I’m just guessing.»
Teresa seemed to huddle over her drink. My own ginger ale was gone and I kept sucking at the ice and cracking pieces between my teeth.
Teresa said, «You know it’s not proper of Giles to leave us. We made him; Prism Press and you. If we hadn’t published the book where would he be? Or if you hadn’t coached him?»
My resentment against Giles wasn’t great enough to allow me to succumb to the sophistry. I had to protect the honor of writers in the abstract. I said, «Not so, Teresa. He’d be nowhere if he hadn’t put the work into it himself. If he were someone else, I could have never beaten him into success, nor could you have published him into it.»
«All right, but he’s made money and he’s going to make more money. Why does he have to grab for it all? Why can’t Prism Press make a little money, too? We’re a small house and this is big time for us. It’s the first chance we’ve had to do something on the grand scale. Haven’t we earned the right to go up, and won’t he go up with us? It’s not so much me, either; it’s poor Tom. If you knew how many years—»
«Granted,» I said, hastily, to cut her off. «Let’s say you have the moral right to capitalize on having been his first publisher and the ethical right to share in his good fortune. I’m not a great philosopher on questions of morals and ethics, but let’s suppose you have. One thing I know is that you don’t have the legal right to share in it. If you can’t meet his financial terms and he wants to leave you, you can’t stop him.»
«But it’s not even to his benefit, Darius. You know that. We’re a small firm and he’s our big writer. The star. No competition.» She must have understood my feelings then, for she added, «I mean as far as he’s concerned, Darius. You know that we’ll always love and appreciate you, but your books don’t quite have the kind of trashiness that would make them—»
«It’s all right, Teresa. Don’t try to plaster up the cracks. You’re selling Giles on staying with Prism and for that reason you must convince him that he’s the big star without competition. I can take it. Go on.»
«You understand, Darius. I know.» And she patted my hand. «We can concentrate on Giles, because we go up with him and we can’t go up without him. If he’s with any of the large houses, however, he’s just one of a dozen or more and not the largest. He’ll be lost in the shuffle. In the long run, he’ll do much better with us. Can’t you explain that to him, Darius? He’d listen to you.»
I said, «I can’t guarantee that Prism Press will make him rich, you know. He’ll tell me that I’m a better writer than he is; that I’ve taught him all he knows; that I brought him to Prism Press in the first place—and what is Prism Press doing for me, with all my good writing and enormous loyalty? And what do I say to him?»
«Now, Darius, you know we’ve always done what we can. There’s no accounting for the way the lightning of public fancy strikes.»
Well, that was true, too. I said, «If I see him, I’ll talk to him.»
«That’s all I ask,» she said, and stood up. «I’ve got to join Tom. I’ll tell him you’ll talk to him and maybe that will keep him from killing himself. Thanks, Darius. We won’t forget it.»
I didn’t gather much comfort from her promise of eternal gratitude. Eternity lasts five minutes in the world of publishing. So I just said, «Of course, if he doesn’t show up—»
«I’m sure he will.»
She left and I was alone—to brood over my new role as errand boy to the literary eagle. I had fed and warmed him when he was nothing but beak and feathers—seventy-five inches of them—and now he was in his aerie and I had to climb the heights to face him and plead with him.
I felt myself sliding deeper into frustrated resentment and the feeling was unpleasant. I had half an hour before the doors would open for the party and I tried to shake the feeling by watching and listening to others in the bar.
8 ROSEANN BRONSTEIN 6:05 P.M.
Booksellers’ conventions are like any others, I suppose.
Most of the action is in the bars.
The booksellers set up formal discussions and panels, of course. There are some aimed at the beginner, the fellow with the store who has just opened a line of books, or the other fellow who just bought into a bookstore. There are panels on the special problems of occult books (a big line—showing you can be literate and stupid, too) and of religious books and of large paperbacks and of children’s books and of questions of promotion and production and sales and so on.