Another Life_ A Memoir of Other People - Michael Korda [20]
We chatted briefly, and with a certain embarrassment (in those innocent days, I didn’t know how hard this kind of job interview is from the other side of the desk), about my studies at Oxford, my languages (Henry was fluent in German but knew no French), my aspirations. Henry was, in fact, the first person I had met so far in book publishing who could actually be described as cultured and well-read in the European sense, who had read the same books I had, could talk about them like an Oxford don, and seemed to feel they mattered. I felt at home. He had traveled widely in England with his first wife, Margaret Halsey, and knew Oxford well.
Henry had edited the complete works of Shakespeare for the Pocket Books edition that Herb Alexander was so proud of and had published an edition of Beethoven’s piano sonatas. That his was not a donnish job, however, was made clear by how his telephone rang constantly. From time to time, his secretary, Nancy, appeared to say that the call was from an important agent or author. Henry grimaced, lit a fresh cigarette, and, cradling the receiver between his shoulder and his ear, leaned back in his leather desk chair, placed his feet on the desk, closed his eyes, and engaged in what appeared to be difficult discussions, each of which seemed to depress him deeply. Once we were interrupted when a stranger, his face puffy and contorted with rage, strode briskly into the room, flung a piece of artwork down on Henry’s desktop, shouted, “You tell your goddamn author he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about!” then turned on his heel and stalked out. Henry winced. His gray face looked suddenly weary, and he shook his head. “That was our art director,” he explained. He held up a sketch for a book jacket. It showed a man in what looked like a Roman helmet, set against a scene of mild Attic debauchery. The title was Dara, the Cypriot, by Louis Paul.
“What do you think?” Henry asked. “It’s a historical novel set in ancient Greece and Crete.”
“The helmet is all wrong.”
He sighed and put it back on his desk. “That’s what the author said.” He lit a fresh cigarette and inhaled deeply. “I think you and I would get along,” he said, breathing out two plumes of smoke. “On the other hand, you’ve had no experience at editing.”
“I’m a quick learner.”
“I don’t have time to teach you, frankly. And I’m even not sure that it’s a skill that can be taught. It really requires Fingerspitzengefühl—a certain instinct which you’ve either got or you don’t.… Would you mind very much if I gave you a manuscript to read, as a kind of test?”
I said it was fine with me. Henry got up and walked over to his couch, which was awash with manuscripts, boxes, and bulky, rubber-banded, tattered, and dog-eared piles of paper. It struck me that if this was his backlog, Henry Simon really needed an assistant. He rooted around in the pile, letting loose a cloud of dust, and chose one manuscript, seemingly at random. “I won’t tell you whether we’re publishing this or not,” he said. “Just read it, see what you think, and write me a report, all right? Take your time.”
I grasped the manuscript. Henry showed me to the door. As we shook hands he gave me a small, embarrassed smile. “It’s a shame you didn’t come to see me a day or two sooner.… There’s, ah, one little problem, I should tell you. There is another candidate, some fellow from New Jersey, to whom I more or less promised the job yesterday.”
My spirits sank. What did “more or less” mean, I asked? Henry thought about this. “I told him I wanted to sleep on it. He seemed very qualified but not at all experienced, just like you. If you don’t mind being in a two-horse