Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [62]
When he put out his cigarette, it didn’t seem right to toss it on the ground. So he wrapped the butt in his handkerchief and put it in his pocket. Then he opened the bookseller’s bag, took out the book and started at the beginning:
When I wrote the following pages, or rather the bulk of them, I lived alone, in the woods, a mile from any neighbor, in a house which I had built myself, on the shore of Walden Pond. . . .
SUMMERTIME
CHAPTER TWELVE
Twenty Pounds Ought & Six
Nathaniel Parish was a senior fiction editor at the Pembroke Press and something of a fixture. With a pitch-perfect ear for the nineteenth-century narrative sentence and a religious conviction that the novel should illuminate, he had been an early champion of the Russians and originated authoritative translations of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky into English. Some say that he traveled all the way to Yasnaya Polyana, Tolstoy’s country homestead, just to discuss an ambiguous sentence in the closing paragraph of Anna Karenina. Parish had been a correspondent of Chekov’s, a mentor of Wharton’s, a friend to Santayana and James. But after the war, when editors like Martin Durk came to prominence by trumpeting the timely death of the novel, Parish opted for a reflective silence. He stopped taking on projects and watched with quiet reserve as his authors died off one by one—at peace with the notion that he would join them soon enough in that circle of Elysium reserved for plot and substance and the judicious use of the semicolon.
I had seen Parish a few times when I had gone to meet Evey after work. He had wispy eyebrows and hazel eyes; in summer he wore seersucker and in winter an old gray raincoat. Like other aging, awkward academic sorts, he had come to a point when young ladies gave him anxiety. When he left his office at lunch he would virtually run to the elevator. Eve and the other girls would torture him by blocking his way with their literary queries and tight-fitting sweaters. In self-defense, he would wave both arms and invent improbable excuses (I’m late for a meeting with Steinbeck!). Then he would go to the Gilded Lily, the long-in-tooth restaurant where every day he lunched alone.
That’s where I found him, the day I quit my job. He had just taken his seat at his usual table. After perusing the menu unnecessarily, he ordered soup and half a sandwich. Then, before turning to the book that was sitting beside his plate, he did what any of us would do: He surveyed the restaurant with a relaxed smile, satisfied that his food was ordered, his hour was empty, and all was well with the world. That’s when I approached him, a copy of Vishniovy Sad in hand.
—Excuse me, I asked. Are you Martin Durk?
—Certainly not!
The old editor’s retort was so emphatic, it even caught him off guard. By way of apology, he added:
—Martin Durk is half my age.
—I’m so sorry. I’m meeting him for lunch, but I don’t know what he looks like.
—Well, he’s a few inches taller than I am with a full head of hair. But I’m afraid that he’s in Paris.
—Paris? I said in distress.
—According to the society pages.
—But I’m here for an interview. . . .
I fumbled and dropped my book. Mr. Parish leaned out of his chair to retrieve it. When he handed it back, he studied me a little more closely.
—You read Russian? he asked.
—Yes.
—What do you think of the play?
—So far, I like it.
—You don’t find it dated? What with all that fuss over the end of agrarian aristocracy? I should think it very old-fashioned to sympathize with the plight of the Ranevskayas.
—Oh, I think you’re wrong. I think we all have some parcel of the past which is falling into disrepair or being sold off piece by piece. It’s just that for most of us, it isn’t an orchard; it’s the way we’ve thought about something, or someone.
Mr. Parish smiled and handed me back the book.
—Young lady, Mr. Durk has no doubt done you a service by failing to keep his appointment. I’m afraid your sensibilities would be wasted on him.
—I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.