Chapter 17 MARCEL
Chapter 17
M ARCEL
Note to self: kill Alex with my bare hands next time I see him.
He had done it on purpose. That bastard had taken off with the express intention of leaving them alone together. Manuscripts to revise—yeah, right. And what was that horseshit about sparks? Was it so obvious that he liked Siobhan? Because, if that was the case, he had an additional problem. As for her friend, would she have noticed, or was she too caught up in her display of rehearsed woke moralizing? Perhaps the reason he had been behaving like a boorish, immature asshole for most of the meal was precisely that: to hide his feelings from prying eyes. Although it seemed he hadn’t tried hard enough, given the circumstances. Now that they were alone, his body was crying out for him to stop feeling irritated by everything and nothing at the same time. Though he didn’t particularly want another drink, he did feel like enjoying her company for a while longer. So, in an act of part-generosity, part-selfishness, he suggested they take a walk.
“Are you sure the Brooklyn air won’t make you vomit?” asked Siobhan.
“I think I can handle it.”
They headed for the Promenade, a broad pedestrian walkway next to the East River. The air, thick and sweltering even in the evening, stuck cloyingly to his skin. The sky glittered under the mantle of lights reaching as far as New Jersey. In the distance, the Statue of Liberty waited impassively for a new day to arrive and with it, the hordes of tourists with cameras and green foam crowns. Beyond the dark waters rose the silhouette of Manhattan. For a moment William J. Knox entered his thoughts. He imagined him right there, in a turbulent summer in the 1920s, with the sun rising at his back, watching the dawn reflected in the urban skyline still under construction. Today, it was the most recognizable cityscape in the world. It was interesting to look at that changeable urban jungle from the opposite shore. It didn’t seem real. Except that it was. He had walked along those blocks crammed with people who didn’t care who he was or how he had gotten there. He had become just another New Yorker. The city had taught him how to become anonymous, to show what he wanted to show and no more.
“I don’t really think you have a pole stuck up your ass,” Siobhan blurted out.
Marcel gave a one-sided smile.
“And I don’t think you write like a groupie. I mean, you’re no Joyce Carol Oates, but I’m sure you have a great future ahead of you.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“It might be.”
“Wow! To what do I owe the honor?”
“Who knows. Anyway, don’t get used to it. I’m not the kind of man who goes around handing out compliments to newbie writers.”
“No shit,” she replied. Then she smiled.
She was lovely when she smiled naturally like that.
“How’s your hand?”
“Much better, thanks,” she said, rotating her wrist to demonstrate. “I’ve been doing the stretches you taught me.”
He would be lying if he said he hadn’t been recreating that apparently insignificant gesture over and over in his mind since it happened.
It was ridiculous.
It was new.
“Well, princess. You need to strengthen your muscles if you don’t want the pain to drive you crazy over the next few weeks. And believe me, we’ve got some really intense weeks ahead of us. The hardest part of the process is about to begin—the real rock ’n’ roll.”
Siobhan took a deep breath.
“You know what? Sometimes I think writing a book is kind of like sex: you need to put in the work if you want to climax.” And then she added: “I mean the perfect, choreographed Hollywood kind of sex. In real life, you’re more likely to get stalled along the way.”
Marcel guffawed and gave a spontaneous clap. He was laughing so hard he had to stop walking for a moment and bend over.
“I think you need to change gender, sweetie,” he said in a honeyed voice that made his accent even more pronounced.
Was he flirting?
Goddamn it if that didn’t sound like a come-on.
They walked for a while, enveloped in a comfortable haze of silence. Marcel, with his hands in his pockets; Siobhan, gripping the strap of her purse. The red lights of airplanes starting their descent into LaGuardia and JFK flashed ceaselessly. Along the walkway, groups of teenagers were listening to rap, couples were making out, and tourists were all taking selfies with the skyscrapers in the background.
“How did you and Alex meet?”
“It’s a long story. You’d find it boring.”
“But your skill at summarizing is astounding.”
Marcel sighed with resignation. He sensed that Siobhan wouldn’t give up, so he decided to satisfy her curiosity.
“When I arrived here from New Orleans,” he began, “I spent two years juggling various low-paid jobs to make rent while I was writing my first novel. I lived here back then. You know that?”
“You mean ... in Brooklyn?” she asked incredulously, looking really quite astounded.
“Yup. In a filthy apartment in Bed-Stuy, between a Black salon and an old Baptist church converted into a rehab center for the worst drug addicts, whores, and dealers in the neighborhood.”
“How inspiring.”
“You can’t imagine.”
“So that’s why you hate Brooklyn, because it reminds you of your difficult early days here, before you became a shining example of the American dream.”
“Believe it or not, I’ve never forgotten who I am or where I come from. Money hasn’t washed the melanin from my skin or turned me into an Oreo. I’m not Black on the outside and white on the inside, even though I live on the Upper East Side.”
A long silence followed, long enough for Marcel to rewind and realize he might have been a tad hard on her. An imaginary BuzzFeed caption appeared in his mind, saying:
You’ve blown it, asshole.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean ...”
“It’s fine, Marcel. Honestly,” she reassured him, patting his arm gently. And every single hard edge on him softened to her touch. “Go on.”
“All right. I met Alex by chance. One of those lousy jobs was washing dishes in a diner in Hell’s Kitchen. Sometimes, if it was really busy, I would lend a hand waiting tables. One night, I noticed a man sitting at the back. He caught my attention because he was reading, and well, you know, a diner isn’t the kind of place you go to read. So I served him his house special hamburger and checked out the book he had on the table. Paul Auster’s New York Trilogy . So, I tell him it’s not bad, but Leviathan is much better because the plot isn’t as linear as it first appears and blah blah blah. I remember he looked at me and then to either side, like he was searching for a hidden camera or something. It was very funny. I don’t suppose he was expecting to hear literary analysis in a place that reeked of onion rings. And much less from a Black waiter with earrings and a Louisiana accent.”
“No! I can’t believe you used to wear earrings.”
“Thankfully, I’m a reformed man,” he added, touching his lobes. The holes had closed up over time.
“So, what happened?”
“He said, ‘I’ll let you in on a secret. I actually think Auster’s a bit of a drag.’”
Siobhan raised both thumbs.
“Retweet.”
“I liked him right away. When he explained he had just started his own literary agency, I thought it must be some kind of sign from the universe, and I decided to tell him about An Ordinary Man . The idea interested him. Even though all the publishing houses had already rejected it.”
“Wait. What? They rejected you? You?”
“They did indeed. And each rejection was like a blow to the heart. But then, it was also the prelude to success.”
Siobhan snorted disbelievingly.
“I bet those editors must have wanted to end it when they realized.”
“Some of them really excel at letting golden opportunities slip through their fingers. You know how many publishers rejected Stephen King’s Carrie ? About thirty.”
“Carnage.”
“It’s all part of the process. You, Miss Harris, are an extraordinary exception.”
“I know. I’m aware of how lucky I am. Although Paige always says that luck is a relative concept. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. What did Alex make of the fact that they turned down your novel?”
“Said I probably hadn’t sold it well. ‘Okay, so how am I supposed to do it?’ I asked him. And he answered, ‘Leave that to me.’”
“It sounds like the start of a beautiful friendship.”
Marcel’s mouth curved into a nostalgic grin.
“One thing’s for sure: if it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be where I am now. It wasn’t easy, of course. The publishing industry is a complex ecosystem. But Alex is a very intelligent man who knows what he wants. If you ask me, you should get his agency to represent you. Nothing against Bella Watson. I’m just saying that Shapiro is the best in the business.”
Silence.
“It’s kind of you to be concerned about me.”
Marcel snorted with laughter.
“Who said I’m concerned about you, princess?”
She responded with a mocking smile.
Near Fort Stirling Park, a saxophonist was playing “Summertime” under a streetlight in front of a small improvised audience. They stopped to listen, hanging a few steps behind the crowd.
“That’s the way to play, brother,” said Marcel, keeping beat with his fingers and nodding his head rhythmically.
Then, he noticed Siobhan pulling her phone out of her purse and getting ready to record a video. It infuriated him so much that he grabbed her phone from her hand impulsively and held it behind his back.
“But what ...? Why did you take my phone?”
“Because you have to learn to live in the moment. Without recording it.”
“Bullshit. Come on, give it back.”
“No chance.”
“Please could you return my cell phone to me, Marcel?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, you asked for it.”
Everything that happened next seemed to happen in a haze. Siobhan stepped toward Marcel and started to grapple with him to retrieve the phone. The considerable height difference between them didn’t make things easy. During the ensuing tug-of-war, she lost her balance and fell against him. Marcel caught her, one hand on her shoulder, the other around that slender waist.
The sax leaned into a sensual crescendo.
“I got you,” he whispered.
“You got me.”
Siobhan’s eyes seemed to darken. Suddenly, in a stupid and rash gesture, Marcel slid his hand from her waist to the curve of her bare back, above the line of her dress. He wanted to touch her hot skin, run his fingertips through the embers, play with fire. Burn himself. She moistened her lips, and all intelligent thought had abandoned him. For half a second, the music, the people, and all the rest of it seemed to exist on the other side of a bubble.
And again, that goddamn feeling of vertigo fluttered in his stomach.
As though he was on the edge of a cliff, about to fall into sin.
The question was whether he would be able to step back in time.