The Last Time They Met_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [3]
A woman said her name, and Linda turned to an outstretched hand belonging to a slight woman in a woolen suit, its cloth the color of irises. It was pleasant to see a woman not dressed in black, as everyone seemed to be these days, but if she mentioned it, this might be taken as insult for being provincial. Linda shook the proffered hand, her own wet and cold from her wineglass.
—I’m Susan Sefton, one of the organizers of the festival. I am such a fan. I wanted to thank you for coming.
—Oh. Thank you, Linda said. I’m looking forward to it, she lied.
The woman had feral teeth but lovely green eyes. Did she do this for a living?
—In about half an hour, we’ll all be heading down to the front of the hotel, where we’ll be taken by bus to a restaurant called Le Matin. It’s a bistro. Do you like French?
The answer couldn’t matter, though Linda nodded yes. The idea of being carted out to dinner put her in mind of senior citizens, an image not dispelled in the next instant when she was informed that dinner would be early because of the various reading schedules.
—And then each author will be taken to his or her event. There are four separate venues. A vinyl binder with colored tabs was consulted. — You’re in Red Wing Hall, and you’re reading at nine-thirty.
Which would ensure a smallish crowd, Linda thought but didn’t say. Most people with tickets to a festival — authors included — would be ready to go home by nine-thirty.
—Do you know Robert Seizek?
The name was vaguely familiar, though Linda could not then have named a title or even a genre. She made a motion with her head that might be construed as a nod.
—You and he will be sharing a stage.
Linda heard the demotion implicit in the fraction, a sense of being only half an entertainment.
—It was in the program. The woman seemed defensive, perhaps in response to a look of disappointment. Didn’t you get your packet?
Linda had, but could hardly admit that now, it being inescapably rude not to have glanced at it.
—I’ll see you get one. The feral teeth were gone, the smile having faded. Linda would be but one of many wayward writers Susan Sefton was in charge of, most too disorganized or self-absorbed to do what was expected. She looked pointedly at Linda’s breast.
—You have to wear a badge to all events. It’s in the packet. A rule against which writers surely would rebel, Linda thought, looking around at a room filled with white badges encased in plastic and pinned onto lapels and bodices. Have you met Robert yet? Let me introduce you, Susan Sefton added, not waiting for an answer to her question.
The woman in the iris-colored suit interrupted a conversation among three men, none of whom seemed to need or want interruption. The talk was of computers (Linda might have guessed this) and tech stocks one might have bought if only one had known. Seizek had a large head — leonine one would have to say — and an even larger body that spoke of appetites, one of which was much in evidence in his nearly lethal breath and in the way he swayed slightly, as if attached to a different gyroscope than the rest of them. Perhaps she would be solo on the stage after all. One of the two remaining authors had an Australian accent that was pleasant to listen to, and Linda deduced (as if tuning into a radio broadcast that had already begun) that he was a novelist about whom it had been said just the Sunday previous in a prominent book review that his prose was “luminous and engaging,” his insights “brilliant and incisive.” (A novel about an Australian scientist? She tried to remember. No, an engineer.) And it was impossible, despite