Elise Blackwell - Grub

Her voice modulated like a radio stock-market report, his agent said, “The prose isn’t quite on par with that of Sea Miss , but you’re writing well. I’m worried that the plot is a bit quiet, but there is a plot this time. Still, after the last disaster, we don’t want to set ourselves up to be accused of being too quiet.”

“Quiet?” Eddie asked. “There’s a plane crash, death, adultery, bribery, surgery on a child’s ear, a world premiere, a drunken cellist, and a beautiful shameless slut of a violin player.”

“Eddie, I’m on your side. I want to sell this book even more than you do.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“But you do believe I’m on your side, so let me finish. It’s true that you have events in the book, and I’m going to emphasize them when I pitch the book. But your style does have a way of understating even the plane crash. It happens off the page, and the response of the violist to her lover’s death is so muted.”

“The plane crash can’t be on the page. You can’t kill off a point-of-view character. And the novel isn’t about the plane crash; it’s about what happens after the plane crash.”

“I didn’t say I couldn’t sell the book. I think I can. I think a lot of educated women could want to read it. If nothing else, they’ll think they’re learning something about classical music. And the violin slut is good, particularly that one scene. Heterosexual sodomy is very in, after that dancer’s memoir and all. And it’s great that she’s Scandinavian.”

“So one plane crash is enough?” Eddie tried to suppress the sarcasm he felt surfacing like sweat.

“Is the music stuff accurate?”

“As far as it goes, yes.”

“Eddie, I’m worried about you. You’re starting to sound bitter. You’re my writer, my artist, and I need you to stay calm. I do think I can sell this novel, but I don’t want your expectations to be too high. This isn’t an auction project. I want to send the manuscript one at a time to a few special editors — there aren’t many editors who can really appreciate what you write.”

“That could take forever. Can’t you send it to those same editors simultaneously, like with Sea Miss ?”

“Very young writers were in when I did that.”

“They still are.”

“But you’re not twenty-three this time out, so it’s not really the same situation, is it? Look, if I submit one at a time, the book will arrive with the patina of the exclusive. You’re a boutique writer, and that’s how I need to pitch this. I’m going to get you an advance, but I’m also going to let them know we aren’t looking for body parts here. I know you’re not in it for the money.”

“I just want it published,” Eddie said softly before adding, “but I do need some money.”

“Of course. And this book is going to sell by word of mouth, by hand selling. I have a really good feeling about this one, Eddie. The only thing is, and this is important, if an interested editor wants to talk to you about creating a little more drama — around the events you already have, of course, I’m not talking a second plane crash — don’t dismiss it out of hand.”

“Right,” said Eddie. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

The phone call left Eddie in a peculiar mood, jittery and a bit deflated. At least, he told himself, she was going to try to sell the book. After Vapor , that hadn’t been a given. Still jumpy, he was unable to sit and read. The refrigerator held nothing much beyond Amanda’s fat-free yogurt, fruit, skim milk, white wine, lettuce, and blueberries. It wasn’t any great wonder that she was so goddamn thin.

He scanned the apartment, which evoked unpaid bills, and decided to take a long walk. What he needed was to see a friend who expected nothing from him. A few months ago, Jackson would have been his first choice, but he didn’t have the energy for him now and wasn’t certain he even liked his old pal. He sure as hell didn’t want to be around when Jackson got the call Eddie knew was coming. He pictured the new, big-time Jackson, talking about his enormous advance and the foreign-rights deals and the film-option nibbles. Eddie didn’t want to hear about the rewards soon to be heaped upon Jackson’s so-many-pages-a-day, plot-before-all regimen. This conclusion was not guilt-free — he remembered that Jackson had cheered him through every bottle of champagne after Sea Miss was accepted — but they were older now, living grown-up lives, playing for more complicated stakes.

He grabbed his jacket and headed out into the overcast day, walking the long cross-town blocks toward Hell’s Kitchen, stopping for a bag of bagels on his way. He lumbered through the theater streets, relatively still in mid-afternoon, except for a few waiters setting out the placards announcing prix fixe dinner specials and some out-of-costume performers carrying bags to their back-stage entrances. Eddie wondered if being in theater was as awful as trying to make it as a writer. This was likely, though no doubt that line of insanity held its own set of problems and annoyances: height taking precedence over talent in casting, temperamental associates, falling sick ahead of an audition. At least writers get to work alone, he concluded, and have their nights free for drinking.

After buzzing twice and hearing nothing, Eddie concluded that the ancient intercom in Henry’s building was busted. He hollered up as he tried to throw a stone, then another, then a small stick, four stories up. After rather too long, Henry’s shaggy head protruded from his window.

“I don’t want to interrupt your work,” Eddie called up.

He couldn’t hear what Henry said, but whatever it was, he was buzzed in.

Henry met him at the door, as breathless as if he’d been the one to hoof up the four flights of banister-free stairs.

“I don’t want to interrupt work on Bailiff ,” Eddie repeated.

“It’s fine, fine. I’m due for a break. I’ve been working, well, working too hard. I am very close though, very, very close to having the first perfect New Realist novel.”

“That’s great Henry, just great.” Eddie summoned his enthusiasm and set the bagels on the tiny table. “Here, I’ve brought food.”

“Food,” Henry said, as though it were a new-fangled concept, a curiosity that had yet to be tested by time.

From the looks of him, Eddie could believe that food was so far in Henry’s past that he didn’t remember it. Eddie wished that he’d thought to get cream cheese or had brought his friend a large sandwich or pizza or side of beef.

Spitting poppy seeds, Henry spoke as though he had not had companionship since his last substantial meal. “Great, great, yes, great. Except that now I have every reason to doubt the very foundation and premise on which my New Realism is based.” He tossed Eddie the latest copy of Swanky and held up a cinnamon-raisin bagel. “Do you mind?”

“Knock yourself out,” Eddie said.

On the cover of the magazine was the notorious picture of dogs playing poker, except that semi-human faces had been photoshopped onto the faces of the dogs. Eddie turned to the table of contents and then the letters page. “Your fan letter! Congratulations.”

“But that’s just it. That’s the terrible thing. Reading that letter, enjoying it even, I realized that what I’m trying to do with fiction is utterly superficial. I’m right — but so what? I’m trite. I’ve said nothing more profound than if you mix red paint with yellow you get orange.”

“Not following you, my friend.”

Still chewing, Henry went on. “Don’t you see? I’ve said what everyone already knows. Everyone smart who’s thought about it, I mean. I’ve identified the symptoms of a problem evident to any reader. But I’ve done nothing to root out the problem. I have no solution. I’m nothing but an anodyne.”