The Last Time They Met_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [27]
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The configuration of the hospitality suite seemed different when she entered late into the event; it was nearly time to assemble for dinner. The noise was louder than it had been the night before — more drinking on the last night of the festival? No, it was something else: the festive temperature in the room had been raised a degree or two with a sense of importance that had previously been missing. There was a woman, diminutive and dun-colored, in the center of the largest group. A flashbulb popped, and Linda strained to see, but felt disinclined to join the crowd, a natural diffidence taking precedence over curiosity. She went to the bar and ordered a beer, but then remembered Marcus and changed her mind. She ate instead, cheese and crackers, pickles from a side dish. Her mouth was full of Brie when the Australian, now neglected, appeared at her side and addressed her.
—You’ve heard the news.
—What news? She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin.
He looked the healthiest of anyone in the room: fit and tanned — more like someone who wrestled with horses for a living, not with words. It would be fall now in his own country.
The news did indeed take her by surprise: while she and Thomas had been on the ferry, a diminutive, dun-colored woman had won a prestigious prize.
—Festival lucked out, I’d say, the Australian offered pleasantly. Linda turned and noticed, as she had not before, the bottles of champagne in buckets on the table.
—I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of her.
—You’re not alone. Plucked from obscurity. She’s meant to be very good, I’m told. Well, she would be, wouldn’t she? I’d venture there aren’t two people in the room who’ve read her.
Linda shifted to get a better view. There were more photographers now, asking others to move apart.
—She uses “fuck” a lot, the Australian said.
A memory was triggered. Maybe she had read this poet after all. It’s the Age of Fuck, Linda said, though she herself did not use the word.
—There are so many flowers already in her room, she’s had to ask the bellman to take them down to the front desk.
Linda felt a touch of envy. She and the Australian smiled, each knowing what the other felt. One could not admit to envy, but one could silently acknowledge it. It would be disingenuous not to.
The Australian’s smile faded. Beside her, Linda sensed a bulky presence.
—Too bad your boy didn’t get the prize. Robert Seizek’s lower lip was fat and wet, his sibilants loose and threatening.
—He’s not mine, and he’s not a boy, Linda said of Thomas.
—Odd thing is, said the Australian, there weren’t a dozen people at her reading last night. Now they’re trying to get her to do a special appearance tonight.
—I’m pleased for her, Linda said, trying to ignore Seizek.
—She’s a librarian in her day job. From Michigan. The Australian collaborating.
—You’re pretty tight with Thomas Janes, Seizek said too loudly, unwilling to be dismissed.
Anger, so successfully tamped just minutes ago, stretched its limbs inside her chest — a caged animal to Seizek’s lion. She turned to face him and was daunted (only momentarily) by his excessively large head.
—Thomas Janes has not published any work in years. She spoke in as controlled a voice as she could manage. And therefore cannot even have come to the attention of any prize judges. Though I’m sure if you were at his reading last night, you’ll agree that future publications might win prizes in any number of countries.
—And if you were at Mr. Janes’s panel this afternoon, Seizek said, not missing a beat, I’m sure you’ll agree with me that your boy made a perfect ass of himself.
Linda glanced at the Australian, who looked away.
She knew that she was behaving like a schoolgirl whose friend had been insulted on the playground. But she couldn’t leave now; she was in too deep.
—I for one, Linda said, would rather have the brilliant words of a man who may or may not have embarrassed himself in public than the watered-down prose of