Dance Lest We All Fall Down - Margaret Willson [113]
The first woman laughed. “I had dinner with Erik the other night and told him he had no choice but to write in the next volume. You know he’s up for the Fischer Prize?”
“And is he doing it?”
“Well, you know, I think he will. He does owe me after all, doesn’t he?” All three laughed.
I didn’t ask how she had indebted this writer. “Pet piranhas,” my friend Gus had called such fundraisers—who had helped him raise an astonishing sixty million pounds for a university building project. “You want them to be aggressive, willing to take on anything, get what they want from anyone, regardless. But then you have to, at least marginally, keep them on a leash, make sure they can’t turn and bite you.”
“Is this my future?” I thought as I wandered aimlessly through the room. Not my best skill. I was walking, solitary, when I should have been chatting up the rich and famous, who were clearly in ready supply. If only I could recognize them. Why didn’t I put together a book like the one the fundraisers described? Because (I answered my own question) I didn’t know any famous writers who would draw an audience by their name alone. This part of Bahia Street I had never thought much about.
Bahia Street was becoming a success, even outside my mailing list letters. Rita was managing more and more on her own. The staff in Salvador was getting better and better. I was still helping Rita figure out how to do accounts (something I was just learning myself), but in general, my hopes of passing power and control of Bahia Street to Rita were close to being realized. This was what we wanted.
But where did this leave me? We still needed money. Was I just supposed to raise money, become uninvolved with the process of the change? Perhaps not completely. Rita called me several times a week. We consulted with one another. I offered her advice I thought was useful to her. But what about the future? How long would she need me and my advice? The aim, after all, was that she wouldn’t need me. So, was my future a lonely one, one of begging people for money to support a wonderful project with which I had less and less connection? Would I become like these fundraisers, where everything, every contact and friend, was leveraged to a specific end?
By now I was thoroughly depressed and unable to talk with anyone. Then, outside in the garden, I saw a man standing alone. He had a pleasant face, and no one seemed to be interested in talking with him. So I approached him and said hello. He gave me huge and charismatic smile.
“Look at this garden,” he said. “Their gardener’s very clever the way he, or she, has placed these leaf textures and color, mixing gray and gold with those muted black greens I so love.”
As we ambled the garden together, his enthusiasm captivated me. I listened, fascinated, as he showed me how the plants were set together to complement each other, not only for color and shape, but also for the way they balanced soil composition and gave needed shade or space to each other. I said very little.
Suddenly our hostess swept up upon us. “Oh, Darling! There you are! I have some people here you simply must meet!” She took his arm, gave me a swift smile, and hastened him away.
“Darling” looked at me over his shoulder and gave me his wonderful smile. “Nice meeting you,” he said.
Alex came up to me, laughing, drink in hand. “You are amazing, Margaret.”
“What?”
“You’re so good at this. Pick out the star of the room and chat him up. And seem completely comfortable. Everyone else was too shy, or reserved perhaps. The difference between you Americans and us English.”
“Who? What?”
Alex laughed even harder. “Are you telling me you didn’t recognize him? He’s a famous movie star. The reason most people here even came.” Alex told me some name I didn’t recognize and don’t remember. “Well, part of your charm, Margaret. You treat everyone equally. You gave him your card, didn’t you?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” I lied. Alex nodded,