Mitla Pass - Leon Uris [28]
J. III MUST have felt pretty certain of his ground. He knew the book’s history of rejections and doubted if Gideon would give him any problems.
He had picked on the wrong Jew.
We were so starved for success and now we could taste it, feel it, smell it. I prayed Gideon wouldn’t upset the cart at this stage.
I don’t know who Gideon communicated with, but after two days of pondering without sleep, he came into the kitchen with blood in his eyes.
“It’s no use, Val. I can’t do it. I’m not going to release the galleys until they agree to change the book back to the way I wrote it.”
God! I thought I’d drop dead, right there, on the spot! I personally couldn’t see that it made that much difference. Moreover, the people in New York certainly had more experience in these matters than Gideon. Worst of all, what if they refused to publish? All the punch-drunk nights, all the rejections, all the years of struggle and fear, down the drain.
“I think we’d better let them have their way,” I said shakily.
“Not you too, Val.”
“Don’t make me a traitor, Gideon. Honey, they’re just trying to improve the book.”
“I don’t believe you, Val.”
“And I don’t believe you. You’re just looking for a fight.”
“If they’re too stupid to understand what I’m trying to do—”
“Shut up for once! There are other people involved in this. Maybe that’s why this damned thing has been rejected fifteen times. Maybe once, just once, they know better than you.”
“I can’t believe that you don’t understand!”
“I understand, Gideon. I understand. I peeled your clothing off every night. For your sainted information, we have just about spent the thousand-dollar advance and you’ve quit your job against everyone’s advice. I have something to say about this book. My blood is in it too.”
“Strange! Strange! You went through all this with me and you haven’t got idea one what a writer is supposed to be.”
“Take that lily-white banner and shove it up your ass,” I screamed. “We can’t eat ideals ...Look ... look ... let’s cool down. Honey, nobody’s going to know if they change it.”
“I’ll know,” he cried, poking his thumb into his chest. “They’ve put me at the crossroads. They want me to go left, I want to go right.”
“But don’t you see—when you’re stronger, when you’re established, you can retrace your steps and go any way you want.”
“Val, you’re crazy, baby. Once you compromise, you can never get it back. You’ve got to put your foot down and make your fight when you’re hungry. Once you’re fat, you’ll always do as they say.”
“Oh God ... Oh God ... all those God-damned nights ...” I just bawled. “Oh shit ... shit, shit, shit.” I felt his hand on my shoulder. “Please, honey.”
“I can’t, Val,” he said. “I—uh—uh—I’ll go down to the union next week and see about getting back on one of the newspapers. Don’t ... don’t worry about me ... I’ve got to walk it off for a few days ... I’ll be back. I wish I could explain what being a writer means to me.”
Gideon didn’t have to explain. We’d live it out, bloody battle by bloody battle. He sent Bascomb a telegram refusing to release the galleys, left the house, and disappeared for three days.
“MOMMY! Daddy’s back!”
Lord, he looked like he’d been in a flophouse on skid row. I don’t know how I felt at that moment. Like throwing my arms about him. Like hitting him over the head with a chair.
“Union’s going to put me on the Chronicle,” he said. “I’ll be driving a truck temporarily. No problem getting back on. Just lose a little seniority.”
“You don’t have to,” I said. “The publisher has agreed to your demands.”
MARTIN REAVES died before Of Men in Battle was published. The house was ripped to pieces. J. Bascomb III replaced publishing skill with cunning, candor with deceit. Without a program, no one knew who was talking to whom.
Gideon really needed someone now, to guide him through the coming months and give him some direction for his second novel.
Of Men in Battle had built a sizable advance sale to the booksellers and was to become the first novel in history to be sold with a money-back