Chapter 14 August 1995 Lily Jacobsen—Program Manager
Lily Jacobsen—program manager
Dearest Lily,
Thank you for your last letter. It’s always a joy to hear from you. While it’s always interesting to hear about the goings on at the library, I can’t help but wonder what you aren’t telling me. I sense that something is wrong. I’m worried about you.
All my love,
Odile
After the disastrous dinner with Mary Louise, I’d thought long and hard about our relationship.
I acknowledged that I put too much pressure on her.
In Paris, she’d been my everything—best friend, roommate, cherished piece of home, book mate, psychologist, short-term lending bank, cheerleader, and crutch.
Filling all these roles was a lot to ask of anyone.
To save our friendship, I needed to lift some weight from Mary Louise’s shoulders and expand my social circle.
I phoned Wendy and invited her to tonight’s lecture.
She accepted, which made me feel a bit better.
I stared at the receiver. Maybe instead of writing to these publishers, I should just call.
I rummaged through my drawer to find publishers’ catalogs of their forthcoming publications.
The phone numbers were listed inside. Hayes had cited National Book Award winner Pat O’Malley.
I’d written to his French publisher, and received a response.
Maybe it was up to me to follow up. I called them now and asked to speak to his editor.
I was shocked when the receptionist put me through.
“Yes, this is Colette Levy,” she said in French. With her deep voice, I imagined her as a chain-smoking brunette surrounded by piles of manuscripts.
“Allo?” she said.
After a brief pause, I gathered my wits and introduced myself. I asked if Pat O’Malley could speak at the ALP when he was in France to promote his forthcoming book.
“Yes, I received your request,” she said briskly. “I warn you, he’s very busy that week. Today alone, you’re the third person who’s requested him. Everyone wants Pat.”
I should have realized. My heart fell. Maybe it was better to get the rejection on paper.
“Oh, okay,” I stuttered. “Sorry to bother you.”
I was about to hang up when she added, “I understand you might be under pressure. That is the book life.” As she spoke, I could hear the flicking of pages and imagined her scanning the schedule in her Filofax.
“Tell me about your little library. What is its capacity? Can you sell Pat’s books in English and French?
Pat would come straight from the TV studio, with no time to eat a proper meal.
A long, tiring day of promotion, starting with an early morning radio show. Will you fete and feed him?”
“Counting folding chairs and standing room, we can cram in two hundred attendees, the bookseller will order his work in both languages, and I’ll ask my boss about food.”
“Well, Lily.” She pronounced my name Lee-lee. “We could perhaps fit in a reading on Thursday the seventeenth, after Pat’s appearance on La Grande Librairie at 5:00 p.m. You get back to me with the information about hosting a dinner in his honor.”
“Merciii, oh merciiii!” I gushed, then recited my work and home phone numbers and told her she could contact me day or night. She laughed at my eagerness.
Finally, I’d received a maybe. These days, everything felt fragile, so I remained cautious. Hayes was in a meeting with the board. When he and a handful of trustees exited his office, I discreetly asked him about hosting a dinner for Pat O’Malley.
“The Pat O’Malley?” he boomed. He bounced from one leg to the other, so excited I thought he might pee his pants.
Jennifer de Narp was speechless.
Pam de Laney said, “Of course, we’ll honor him. He’s a national treasure!”
“A National Book Award–winning treasure!” Moe Mandelbaum, the chairman, corrected. “Powwow now.”
They all returned to Hayes’s office to scheme.
While they worked out which wealthy donor would pay the tab, I called Colette Levy.
Unfortunately, she was out. I’d fulfilled her requirements, and now had to pray she’d keep her end of the bargain.
At lunchtime, I got out my journal to edit a scene in my novel, French Kisses.
When I’d recounted the real-life versions of my dates to Mary Louise, we’d laughed our heads off.
But now, skimming the pages alone at my desk, I found nothing funny about being stood up and let down.
And speaking of a letdown, unfortunately, tonight’s speaker showed up drunk.
I dragged him to my desk before Hayes could notice and somehow blame me for the mess.
I served the guy a trough of coffee and assured him he had nothing to worry about—our audience was the kindest in all of Paris.
As Hayes delivered the introduction, I feared it would be a rocky reading, but the art historian gripped the podium to steady himself and recounted the fascinating life of élisabeth Vigée Le Brun, portraitist of Marie Antoinette and Catherine the Great.
At the back of the room, I leaned against the wall to steady myself, and didn’t realize how nervous I was until Wendy put her hands on my stiff shoulders, which were almost to my ears, and lowered them gently.
“It’s a nerve-racking job,” she whispered.
“On any given night, you never know what will happen. Will the author get stuck in traffic, or show up high? Will they go off on an anti-Semitic rant? Will audience members get in a shouting match? Or worse, no attendees, and you’re an audience of one for the author, who is equal parts pissed and humiliated. ”
I looked at her gratefully, glad that she got how I felt. “That’s my biggest fear.”
“Which scenario?”
I exhaled nervously. “All of them. This job is killing me. Shouldn’t working in a library be more…” What was the right word? “More peaceful?”
“As long as you’re working with humans, you’ll never find peace. Maybe that’s why we love writing. We’re out of the rat race and on the page.”
Afterward, she and I lounged in the cozy kitchen of the ALP, noshing on leftover Brie and baguette. Most events nights, these leftovers were my dinner.
“It’s so cool that you have the keys to this place,” she told me. “When I was program manager at the NYPL, I’d have loved to come and go as I pleased.”
As we sipped our wine, she asked about my writing. I couldn’t bear to admit that the queries I’d sent recently weren’t for my own stories. They were to French editors in the hope of scoring a coup by booking a “big-name” speaker.
Instead, I confided that I’d become unsure about my work in progress. She told me that I shouldn’t feel bad, that the first book is practice. She didn’t publish hers, but writing it gave her confidence and honed her skills. She advised me not to put so much pressure on myself.
“Is there a goal you can manage, even a small one?” she asked.
“Maybe writing a paragraph each workday?”
“There you go. A strong paragraph.” Then she added, “Could it be that writing about failed relationships isn’t where your passion lies? Is there a bigger story you want to tell?”
I told her I loved how she’d recounted the story of Jessie and the Cards, bringing in themes of class and cultural differences, and that I couldn’t wait until her presentation next week.
I half-expected Hayes to boycott Wendy’s Entre Nous event, given the way Jennifer de Narp had used it to stir up trouble; however, when Wendy arrived with her father and husband, he gave them a tour in magnanimous director mode (“This is a photo of Dorothy Reeder, the sexy directress who defied the Nazis.” “And here’s trustee Clara de Chambrun, the old broad who capitalized on family ties to the French prime minister in order to protect the ALP during the Occupation”).
Though there was nothing to be gained, Hayes treated them with the same respect he gave to rich donors.
Promptly at 7:00 p.m., he ushered the trio to front-row seats next to Jennifer de Narp.
From across the reading room, my gaze met his, and I put my hand to my heart in thanks.
He nodded in acknowledgment before welcoming the crowd.
A thrill ran up my spine at seeing all seventy chairs taken.
Proof that you didn’t need a big name to bring in big audiences.
I kept an eye out for Chris, but it appeared he hadn’t been able to get off work.
We’d exchanged numbers, but our chaotic work schedules kept us from chatting on the phone.
Wendy was my first real guest speaker, and I wanted Chris to admire her work as much as I did, wanted him to be impressed by my discerning taste.
After Hayes’s warm introduction and appeal for donations, Wendy took her place at the podium and greeted the audience, many of whom pulled out pads of paper to take notes. Meanwhile, Hayes headed toward his office and presumably slipped out the back door.
“Whether you’re reading novels or writing them,” Wendy told us, “you never know where books will take you. This one began at my job in the basement of the New York Public Library. Under the flickering fluorescent lights, I discovered my predecessor, Jessie Carson. Though my colleagues and I had never heard of her, she quickly became one of the great loves of my life. I’m inspired by her, and in awe of the road we’ve traveled together, albeit seventy-five years apart.
I never dreamed I’d be standing in the hallowed reading room of the American Library in Paris like she once did.
It’s an honor and a privilege to be here.