Sascha Arango - The Truth and Other Lies

The door to his wood-paneled office stood open as usual. It was now ten o’clock. Impatiently, Moreany got up from his desk, fished a sheet of paper out of his wooden inbox, and stepped into the outer office, where his secretary worked.

Honor Eisendraht stopped her proofreading and looked at the meaningless piece of paper he was holding out to her. She’d been working in Moreany’s outer office for over twenty years. After the early years, the good years, she had witnessed the creeping decline of the publishing house, Moreany’s battle against old age, and falling sales. When the figures turned red, she began to wear brighter clothes and went to the hairdresser to keep Moreany’s hopes up.

She believed in the power of invisible signs that, like hidden markers, guide to their destinations those who seek. One by one, she had replaced the gloomy illustrated calendars in Moreany’s office and removed the non-sellers from the bookshelves — and for years now she had been making decaffeinated mocha with a pinch of cardamom. The relaxing powers of this member of the ginger family are said to have prevented world wars. Moreany seemed not to notice any positive effects, which strengthened Honor in her conviction that she’d gotten the dose just right. He was clearly improved, since the shadowy semidarkness of his office smelled subtly of Maghrebi mint and sandalwood, and the flowers on his desk were no longer left to wilt.

In spite of her gentle interventions, however, insolvency drew nearer. The energy with which Moreany had run the firm for so long began to wane. Honor now dealt with his private correspondence and took control of that holiest of holies, the bookkeeping. An intuitive understanding of numbers and sums is a gift that cannot be learned. Reading the annual accounts like a musical score, Honor could see the dynamic nature of a business; she found sources of income in foreign rights and film options. It did not escape her attention that Moreany had been incurring losses for years. She also noticed that he was already making arrangements for his will and paying regular visits to a doctor. Potential buyers materialized. They had smelled blood and brought their numbers men along on even their first visit. While these vultures were casting an eye over the inventory, Honor served coffee that she’d made out of old flower water, and passed around biscuits. She sat in the outer office and waited. It wasn’t long before the first of them asked for the bathroom. He did not return.

Even so, as things stood, it was only a matter of time before the company died a death. Honor Eisendraht’s quiet hope, that her time at Moreany’s side was approaching, evaporated when that woman — vain, ignorant, and far too young — entered the outer office with the manuscript of Frank Ellis under her arm.

Honor put the woman at half her age. Betty was smooth and well rounded and beautiful. In an open declaration of war she was wearing a short black-and-white checked skirt. The gun barrels of her thighs were pointed straight at Moreany, who had gotten up from his desk when she entered his office. After a few words, Moreany shut the door, something he never did. It proved to be a horrifically long day. The woman stayed for four hours. Honor heard her boss on the phone. He didn’t have his calls put through from the outer office as he usually did, but dialed direct — another bad sign. In the end he came out, manuscript in hand, in a state of excitement, and asked her to go and get champagne. The smell of cigarettes and lily-of-the-valley perfume emanated from his office. Honor could see the toe seam of Betty’s stockinged foot bobbing up and down in Moreany’s Eames chair, which was usually reserved for guests of state.

Honor went to the supermarket on the corner, bought the champagne, and then got a few glasses from the kitchen. She herself was not invited to have a glass of champagne. After closing hours she aired the outer office and cleared up Moreany’s room. She washed up the glasses, emptied the full ashtrays on Moreany’s desk, and counted the lipstick-stained butts. It was the twenty-third of March. Moreany had forgotten her birthday. Man is his own worst enemy; woman’s worst enemy is other women.

The success of Frank Ellis changed everything. Moreany blossomed. Betty put in a daily appearance to discuss who knows what. After a deliberately patronizing “Good morning, Honor,” as if addressing a servant, she shut Moreany’s door behind her. Only her revolting, cheap-smelling lily-of-the-valley perfume lingered in the outer office.

It is said that dragon trees grant unspoken wishes. Honor bought one and put it in the window of her office. The plant put out sword-shaped leaves like little daggers, and half a year later Betty’s visits did indeed grow less frequent. Honor saw the first sweet-scented flowers on the dragon tree. “Betty’s started to take work home with her,” Moreany explained, and he didn’t look particularly happy about it. Honor had absolutely no desire to know what kind of work. So he’d realized he was too old for her. Or, better still, Betty had found another man, some stupid young lout who’d succumbed to her lure. The door to Moreany’s office was left ajar once more — the dragon tree came into full flower.

“Isn’t Betty here yet?” Moreany asked, paper in hand. Honor Eisendraht got up, went to the window, and looked down at the parking lot.

“Her car’s not there.”

Moreany was annoyed. Why had he betrayed the impatience of his heart instead of looking out the window himself? At that moment, Betty walked through the door. She was wearing a gray-green suit that accentuated her phenomenal waist. She looked a little tired, and paler than usual.

“Sorry, Claus, my car’s broken down. I had to get a rental car.”

Honor Eisendraht observed that Betty’s apology was not directed at her. It was a long time since the women had deigned to look at one another. Moreany withdrew into his office so as not to get wet, for as soon as Betty’s warm front met Honor’s cold front, it started to rain in the outer office.

Betty shut the door behind her as usual and put two editor’s reports on Moreany’s desk. She took the inevitable menthol cigarette out of a packet; Moreany gave her a light.

“I spoke to Henry yesterday,” said Moreany. “His manuscript will be finished in August. Has he called you?”

“Me? No.”

“It sounds as if he’s having trouble with the end.”

Betty inhaled the smoke. “Doesn’t everyone? I mean, isn’t it necessary? Isn’t it normal?”

“He can’t make up his mind.”

“Is that what he said? What did he mean?”

Honor brought in the coffee; the two of them waited in silence until she’d disappeared again. Moreany noticed grains of sand on Betty’s right heel. His gaze lingered on the little veins on her ankle.

“Give him a ring, Betty. Maybe he needs help.”

She shrugged.

“I can try, but who can help Beethoven with the Ninth, eh?”

Moreany laughed. Be my wife this instant! he wanted to shout. Let me kiss your feet, touch your breasts, comb your golden hair! But he didn’t speak. Betty stubbed out her unfinished cigarette in the brass ashtray that Moreany had put on his desk especially for her. He didn’t smoke himself. So far she hadn’t noticed.

“What’s the matter with your car?”

“It wouldn’t start this morning. Maybe I left the lights on.”

“Do you have time to accompany me to Venice?”

She didn’t seem overjoyed by the idea.

“When?”

The telephone on his desk began to buzz. The white light flashed. Honor was trying to put a call through. Moreany ignored it.

“What’s the matter with your car?”

“You just asked me that. It wouldn’t start, that’s all. Don’t you want to take the call?”