The Gordian Knot - Bernhard Schlink [3]
In his mind there were endless feature articles, short stories, and mystery novels that he would have liked to write. But the strongest element was fear. When might Monsieur Maurin call again? Or when should I call him? Maurin had told me the day after tomorrow, but what if he has a job for me tomorrow and can’t get in touch with me? Will he give the job to someone else? Should I call him tomorrow after all?
Like all despondent people, Georg became irritable. As if the world owed him something, and he had to speak up. Sometimes he was more at odds with the world, sometimes less: less, when he had written letters to potential employers and taken them to the post office, irresistible letters; or when he had completed an assignment, had money in his pocket, and was hanging out at Gérard’s restaurant, Les Vieux Temps; or when he ran into people who were struggling as much as he was, but not giving up hope; or when there was a nice fire in the fireplace and the house smelled of the lavender he had picked in the fields and had hung from the mantle; or when he had visitors from Germany, real visitors, not just people who were using his place as a rest stop on their way to Spain; or when he had an idea for a story, or came home and his mailbox was filled with letters. No, he wasn’t always despondent and irritable. In the fall the neighbors’ cat had a litter, and Georg acquired a small black tomcat with white paws. Dopey. His other two cats were called Snow White and Sneezy. Snow White was a tomcat too, all white.
When Georg arrived home from Marseille and got out of the car, the cats rubbed against his legs. They caught plenty of mice in the fields and brought him the mice, but what they really wanted was food out of a can.
“Hi there, cats. I’m back. No work for me, I’m afraid. Not today and not tomorrow. You’re not interested? You don’t mind? Snow White, you’re a big cat, old enough to understand that without work there’s no food. As for you, Dopey, you’re a silly little kitten who doesn’t know anything yet.” Georg picked him up and went over to the mailbox. “Take a look at that, Dopey. We got a nice fat letter, sent by a nice fat publisher. What we need is for there to be a nice fat bit of news for us in that envelope.”
He unlocked the front door, which was also the kitchen door. In the refrigerator there was a half-empty can of cat food and a half-empty bottle of white wine. He fed the cats and poured himself a glass, put on some music, opened the door that led from the living room onto the terrace, and took the glass and the envelope over to the rocking chair. All the while he continued talking to the cats and to himself. Over the past year it had become a habit. “The envelope can wait a bit. It won’t run away. Have you cats ever seen an envelope running? Or an envelope that minds waiting? If there’s good news inside, then the wine should be at hand for a celebration—and if it’s bad news, as a consolation.”
Georg had read a French novel he’d liked that hadn’t yet been translated into German. A novel that had the makings of a best seller and cult book. A novel that fit perfectly in that specific publisher’s list. Georg had sent them the book and a sample translation.
Dear Herr Polger,
Thank you for your letter of … It was with great interest that we read … We are as enthusiastic as you are … indeed fits our list … we have negotiated the rights with Flavigny … As for your proposal to translate this work, we regret to inform you that our long-term relationship with our in-house translator … We are returning your manuscript … Sincerely …
“The damn bastards! They snatched my idea and sent me packing. They don’t even feel the need to pay me, or offer me another job, or at least something in the future. For two weeks