Mao II - Don Delillo [41]
“Sounds pretty fucking fishy to me.”
“I know. An element of mutual interest. But listen.”
“Your new group gets press, their new group gets press, the young man is sprung from his basement room, the journalists get a story, so what’s the harm.”
“Right. And with this one success we can open up everybody’s thinking. How do you create a shift in rooted attitudes and hard-line positions if not through public events that show us how to imagine other possibilities? Besides, it’s the only way to get this poor guy out of there. Isn’t that enough, all by itself? We’re obligated to do everything we can to save him and if we learn something about the people who took him, so much the better.”
“Where the hell do I fit in?”
“If I hadn’t run into Brita that evening, you wouldn’t fit in at all. But when she said she was taking your picture, bells went off in my head. If you’re willing to be photographed after all these years, why not take it one step further? Do something that will help us show who we are as an organization and how important it is for writers to take a public stand. Frankly I’m hoping to create a happy sensation. I want you to show up in London and briefly read from the poet’s work, a selection of five or six poems. That’s all.”
“Get a Swiss writer. Won’t the Swiss feel left out?”
“I can get any writer I want. But I want Bill Gray. Look, I didn’t tell anyone you were coming here today. Not even my secretary. Because if I had there’d be a queue outside that door stretching like a conga line into the distance. There’s an excitement that attaches to your name and it will help us put a mark on this event, force people to talk about it and think about it long after the speeches fade. I want one missing writer to read the work of another. I want the famous novelist to address the suffering of the unknown poet. I want the English-language writer to read in French and the older man to speak across the night to his young colleague in letters. Don’t you see how beautifully balanced?”
Bill said nothing.
“This is the soul’s own business, Bill. I think it’s something you need to do. Get out of your room, away from your preoccupations. And I make these promises. There will be no advance announcement of your presence. No interviews after your appearance. Still cameras only. The conference will be kept to fifty or sixty people, all inclusive. I want a ripple effect. Word will spread, follow-up stories will appear, curiosity will build. I want our work to have a future. Your French still passable?”
Bill began searching for a cigarette. There was a silence, a period of thoughtful review. The bright badge at Bill’s lapel read Visitor Access Only.
Charlie said softly, “We used to argue on street corners at three in the morning.”
“It’s true, Charlie.”
“There were times you made me furious. All those infamous ideas of yours. I felt so sensible and petty. You were almost always wrong but there was no chance I could ever win an argument in any way that really counted.”
“I think I’m supposed to be out of here soon.”
“Don’t you find yourself remembering? Things come flooding back with a force that’s overwhelming. Christ, Bill, I’m happy to see you.”
“I remember everything. Almost constantly.”
“What do you hear from Sara?”
“Are we doing my former wives in chronological order?”
“What do you hear from her?”
“She’s okay. She likes to stay in some kind of touch. It means a lot to her that we still talk once in a while.”
“Of course I barely knew her. You had some kind of quarantine in effect.”
“She was young, that’s all.”
“Too young. Not ready for the hopeless task of wifing a writer like you.”
“They’re all like me.”
“Not that I was any readier. I was never sure what I was supposed to be guilty of.”
“You were guilty of being my editor. A writer has complaints.”
“Well, this is surely true.”
“You were guilty of being in the vicinity. No matter what you said or did, I had a way of using it to my bleak advantage.”
“For many happy years I’ve listened