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the thing is, Johnny, the reward I most enjoy comes when I read the
letters from my fans. The pleasure they've received from Fletcher's
Cove is more important than material success .
It's what this business is about. The reading public."
Eric paused. The interview had gone too smoothly. Smoothness didn't
sell his book. What people wanted was a controversy.
Beneath the blazing lights, his underarms sweated in profusion .
He feared he'd stain his sharkskin suit and ruin it, but then he
realized he could always buy another one.
"I know what Truman Capote says, that Fletcher's Cove is hardly
writing-it's mere typing. But he's used that comment several times
before, and if you want to know what I think, he's done several other
things too many times before."
The audience began to laugh, but this time cruelly.
"Johnny, I'm still waiting for that novel he keeps promising. I'm glad
I didn't hold my breath."
The audience laughed more derisively. If Truman had been present,
they'd have stoned him.
"To be honest, Johnny, I think Truman's lost his touch with that great
readership out there. The middle of America. I've tasted modern
fiction, and it makes me gag. What people want are bulging stories
filled with glamor, romance, action, and suspense. The kind of thing
Dickens wrote."
The audience exploded with approval.
"Eric," Johnny said, "you mentioned Dickens. But a different writer
comes to mind. A man whose work was popular back in the fifties.
Winston Davis. If I hadn't known that you wrote Fletcher's Cove, I'd
have sworn it was something new by Davis. But of course, that isn't
possible. The man is dead-a tragic boating accident when he was only
forty-eight. Just off Long Island, I believe."
"I'm flattered you thought of him," Eric said ." In fact, you're not the
only reader who's noticed the comparison. He's an example of the
kind of author I admire. His enormous love of character and plot .
Those small towns in New England he immortalized. The richness of his
prose. I've studied everything Davis wrote. I'm trying to continue his
tradition. People want true, honest, human stories."
Eric thought what Winston Davis wrote was dreadful. Wretched .
He hadn't even heard of Winston Davis till fans began comparing his book
with Davis's. Puzzled, he'd gone to the New York Public Library and
squirmed with keen discomfort as he'd tried to struggle through a half
dozen books by Davis. He couldn't finish any of them. Tasteless dreck.
Mind-numbing trash. The prose was deadening, but Eric recognized it.
The comparison was valid. Fletcher's Cove was like a book by Winston
Davis. Eric had been frowning as he'd left the Public Library .
He'd felt that apprehensive tingle again. Despite their manifold
appearance throughout Fletcher's Cove, he'd never like coincidences.
"One last question," Johnny said ." Your fans are anxious for another
novel. Can you tell us what the new one's about?"
"I'd like to, but I'm superstitious, Johnny. I'm afraid to talk about a
work while it's in progress. I can tell you this, though." Eric glanced
around suspiciously as if he feared that spies from rival publishers
were lurking in the studio. He shrugged and laughed ." I guess I can
say it. After all who'd steal a title after several million people
heard me stake a claim to it. The new book is called Parson's Grove."
He heard a sigh of rapture from the audience ." It takes place in a
small town in Vermont, and-well, I'd better not go any further. When
the book is published, everyone can read it."
"Totally fantastic," his agent said. His name was Jason Epstein .
He was in his thirties, but his hair was gray and thin from worry. He
frowned constantly. His stomach gave him trouble, and his motions were
so hurried that he seemed to be on speed ." Fantastic. What you said
about Capote-guaranteed to sell another hundred thousand copies of your
book."
"I figured," he said. Outside the studio, he climbed in the limousine
and waited for his agent ." Jason, you're not happy, though."
The chauffeur drove them through the evening fog in Burbank.
"We've got problems," Jason agreed.
"I don't see what. Here, have a drink to calm your nerves."
"And wreck my stomach? Thanks, but no thanks. Eric, listen to me. I've
been talking to your business manager."
"I hear it coming. You both worry too damn much."
"But Eric, you've been spending money like you're printing it .
That jet, that yacht, that big estate. You can't afford them."
"Hey, I've got five million bucks. Let me live a little."
"No, you don't."
Eric stared ." I beg your pardon."
"No, you haven't got five million dollars. All those trips to Europe.
And that beach house here in Malibu, the place in Bimini."
"I've got investments. Oil and cattle."
"But the wells went dry. The cattle died from hoof-and-mouth disease."
" You're kidding me."
"My stomach isn't kidding. Eric, you've got mortgages on those estates.
That fifty-thousand-buck Ferrari-it's not paid for. And the Learjet
isn't paid for either. You're flat broke."
"All right, I've been extravagant, I'll grant you."
Jason gaped ." Extravagant?" he said ." Extravagant? You've lost your
mind is what you've done."
" Hey, you're my agent. Make another deal for me."
"I did already. What's the matter with you? Have you lost your memory
with your mind? A week from now, your publisher expects a brand new
book from you. He's got two million dollars for the hardback rights. I
let him have the book. He lets me have the money .
That's the way the contract was arranged. Have you forgotten?"
"What's the matter then? Two million bucks will pay my bills."
"But Eric, where's the book? You don't get any 'money if you don't
deliver that new book."
" I'm working on it."
Jason moaned ." Dear God, you mean it isn't finished yet? I asked you,
Eric. No, I pleaded with you. Please stop partying. Get busy .
Write the book, and then have all the parties you want. What is it,
Eric? All those women, did they sap your strength, your brains, or
what?"
" You'll have the book a week from now."
"Oh, Eric, I wish I had your confidence. You think writing's like
turning on a tap? Hey, it's work. Suppose you get a block. Suppose
you get the flu or something. How can anybody write a novel in a week?"
"You'll have the book. I promise, Jason. Anyway, if I'm a little late,
it doesn't matter. I'm worth money to the publisher. He'll just extend
the deadline."
"Eric, you don't listen. Everything depends on timing. The publicity
is set to start. The printer's ready, waiting. If you don't deliver, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]