Chapter 2 MARCEL
Chapter 2
M ARCEL
“Couldn’t we have met somewhere a tad more discreet?” protested Marcel when he returned from the bathroom. “There are more people on this damn rooftop than on the set of Game of Thrones. Some of whom are very rude, I might add. Some girl bumped right into me and didn’t even bother to apologize.”
Or perhaps he was the one who had bumped into her. He hadn’t seen her face, but she smelled very nice.
“Argh! Where will it end!” exclaimed Alex ironically.
“That’s what I want to know. And don’t get me started on the music.”
“What’s wrong with Taylor Swift?”
“She’s for fifteen-year-olds?”
Alex shrugged.
“I like it.”
“Well, you have terrible taste, then.”
“Okay, why don’t you stop complaining and just enjoy the moment, Mr. Scrooge? They make the best dry martini in all of Midtown here. I took the liberty of ordering you one while you were powdering your nose, so you’ll see for yourself. And just look at the views, my god!” he exclaimed, gesturing toward the iconic One Times Square lit up by billboards for Apple, Walgreens, and Forever 21, at the intersection of Broadway and Forty-Second. “Don’t you feel privileged? Winter’s miserable, but Manhattan in June is beautiful. There’s no humidity, the air is balmy, Shakespeare in the Park gets going soon, and the girls start baring their midriffs.”
“Have you started smoking weed, or is it the midlife crisis that’s causing this stream of garbage?”
“I haven’t smoked since my college days. And no crisis. I might have lost a bit of hair recently,” he admitted, running his hand over his very short blond cut, “but I’m still in decent shape. In fact, there’s a really hot girl over there who can’t take her eyes off me,” he claimed, jerking his chin in her direction.
“The one with the glasses and the feminist tattoo?” asked Marcel, who had turned around to look.
“No, the redhead. And try to be a bit more subtle. Looking at a woman like that is kind of frowned upon nowadays; it could be seen as harassment.”
“Isn’t she the one who’s supposedly looking at you?”
“Well, you never know. Things can get tense in the era of MeToo. That’s why I’m on Tinder. Things are far less complicated in the virtual world, I can assure you. Hiding behind a screen means you can be yourself; the great paradox of the times in which we live.”
Marcel looked at him skeptically.
“So, you use a dating app because you’re afraid of not being as politically correct as a white, hetero, paid-up member of the Democratic Party with a college education and a social conscience ought to be.”
“You say it as though I’m an oddity, when in actual fact 48 percent of Americans use dating apps. And for your information, I’m not affiliated with the Democrats.”
“But you vote for them.”
“Don’t you?”
“I don’t vote. And when I like a woman, I go and tell her; I don’t mess around.”
That had sounded arrogant. Of course, for Marcel, relationships with the opposite sex did nothing more than obey a biological imperative, and as long as all parties involved were in agreement on the what, the how, and the when, he saw no need to be so formal about it.
“It is what it is. We don’t all have that exotic Southern accent that drives New York women wild.”
“Oh, I can assure you it’s not my accent that drives them wild,” replied Marcel, a mischievous smile flitting across his lips.
Alex mimed shooting himself in the temple, as if to say, Lord, give me patience.
“You’re an arrogant bastard,” he said reproachfully.
“I know. You tell me about two hundred times a day. So, why did you want to see me?”
“Ah, yes. That.” Alex rolled up his sleeves and interlaced his fingers on the table. “How’s the novel coming along?”
Marcel didn’t answer, not immediately anyway. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and a sudden panic churned his insides. He tried to calm himself down. He feigned an imperious tone and eventually said:
“Is that why you brought me here? I understand you can’t live without your wonder boy, but you could have found a better excuse. You know perfectly well I don’t like talking about my work until it’s finished. I mean ... asking an author about the book they’re writing is like asking someone with a terminal illness how they’re feeling.”
“Come on, there’s no need to get all passive-aggressive with me. Give me an approximate date when you’ll be done, and I’ll be happy.”
Marcel’s face contorted in barely concealed anguish. He took a sip of his drink and let the liquid slosh from one side of his mouth to the other before swallowing, in a vain attempt to soothe his anxiety.
Or to gain time.
“There’s a chance I might need a few extra weeks.”
“How many? Two? Three? A month?”
“How the hell should I know!” he exclaimed dramatically. “Why the hurry? We’re not talking about the final installment of a Patrick Rothfuss trilogy. This is an independent work.”
“I refuse to believe that you don’t know how this industry works yet, Marcel. Gunton is a real pain in the ass, that’s why the hurry. I won’t lie to you: The End of Days hasn’t sold as well as we hoped, and as far as I know, you don’t have a safe full of unpublished manuscripts like J. D. Salinger. So I need something to placate your editor and get him off my back at the same time. Why the hell do you think I’m losing my hair? Listen, here’s what we’ll do. You let me read a few pages of the manuscript, and I’ll take care of him. Fifty or sixty should do it.”
Silence.
“The first chapter?” Alex countered.
Marcel averted his gaze.
The truth was that he hadn’t written a single word. His mind had been blank for months, and he hadn’t dared admit it to his agent. He had tried. God knows he had tried. Every day he shut himself away in his study for hours and forced himself to type. Something, anything. He would write a sentence, then go back and delete it. He would stare at the computer screen for a while, cursor flashing, the glow of the white page blinding. He would try again. And again, he went back and deleted it. Nothing was up to the standard he expected of Marcel Black. Expectations. He wanted to crush them to bits. His mind was like a tangled ball of yarn: the threads were there, but he couldn’t unravel them. It was the first time anything like this had ever happened to him, and he felt lost. The discovery that having written fifteen novels didn’t mean he knew how to write number sixteen was a cause of terrible distress. Perhaps the moment had come to face up to reality and accept the consequences.
He silently counted to three and turned to face his companion.
“There is no novel, Alex,” he said. “I’m really sorry for not telling you sooner.”
His agent stared at him, his face suddenly pale.
“What do you mean there’s no novel? Writer’s block?”
Marcel’s lips tightened.
“I suppose Mira Yamashita was right: I’m finished,” he muttered. “Do you know how many emails from angry readers your assistant has forwarded to me since The End of Days came out? That bastard William J. Knox is still plaguing me even after I got rid of him.”
Alex shook out his hands energetically.
“Okay, number one: you’re not finished. Number two: since when have you cared what people think? Don’t you always say you don’t owe anyone shit? And number three,” he added, noticing their glasses were almost empty, “we need more alcohol.”
“Since I haven’t been able to string together a single miserable sentence.”
He was referring to point two, of course.
“In that case, we need to take urgent corrective action.”
“Okay. And by that, you mean what, exactly?”
A veil of suspense fell between the two men. Alex took a deep breath before verbalizing what he was thinking. He sensed it would be no easy task to convince the man in front of him.
“Twitter.” Marcel’s thin brows shot upward. He opened his mouth to reply, but his friend put his hand up to stop him. “Before you get mad, hear me out. Everyone is on Twitter.” He counted them off on his fingers: “Politicians, journalists, Hollywood actors, NFL players, writers, and—the cherry on top—readers; a whole bunch of readers who want the authors of their favorite books to interact with them. You know why? Because it makes them feel important, which is good for the industry as a whole. Getting to know a writer you admire helps you understand their work better. You follow?” Marcel nodded. “Good. There are two types of reader we’re interested in: those who still haven’t read anything of yours and those who have but are disappointed in you for having eliminated Knox and who aren’t planning to read anything else. Your job is to show up where they are and get them eating out of your hand. You know, make them feel important. I don’t mean revealing your identity—just let them get to know a little bit about you, that’s all.”
Marcel folded his arms and pinned Alex with the gaze of a hardened criminal.
“Let me get this straight. You want me to open a Twitter account and turn on the charm for everyone? To talk about my writing process and answer questions about my political preferences and my private life. Wow.” He shook his head and applauded sarcastically. “A brilliant and flawless plan. What a shame you’ve forgotten one tiny detail. I. HATE. PEOPLE. Wanting to get to know a writer because you like their books is like wanting to get to know a chicken because you like nuggets; it makes no sense. The only valid relationship between a reader and an author lies in the act of reading. Period. For god’s sake, Alex, are you sure you’re not smoking weed? You know perfectly well this won’t work; we’ve known each other long enough.”
“Okay, you aren’t exactly the sociable type, I know, but that’s what PR consultants are for. You have to adapt to change, Marcel. The publishing industry isn’t what it used to be. There’s nothing less profitable than a book nowadays. People are more interested in the artist than the art. Their life, their face, their past, their romantic relationships, which party they vote for, and whatever bullshit they publish on the socials. That’s why editors look for authors who know how to connect with their audience. Being likeable is important for sales. Why do you think Jimmy Fallon is so successful?”
“Well, that’s a dumb example. A writer isn’t the same as a Tonight Show host on NBC; the only thing you can demand of them is literary quality. Whether they’re handsome, friendly, witty, or able to achieve the requisite level of social outrage is irrelevant. Or at least it should be.” Marcel exhaled and rubbed his eyes vigorously. “I don’t want to be part of the show or the center of attention. My job is to write books, not to sell them. I could give you a thousand reasons, but I don’t think I need to. That’s why I chose to live anonymously.”
“And I respect that, you know I do. Even so, the world is changing fast these days. Are you willing to keep up with it, or would you rather fall into the void? Think about it.”
“There’s nothing to think about,” he replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to Blue Note to listen to some real music.” And with that, he got to his feet.