The Ingredients of Love (8 page)

That always struck me when I was standing on the travelator at a book fair and whole phalanxes of chatting, thoughtful, or laughing book people came toward me. There was an animated buzz and flutter about the whole fair and the hall vibrated with millions of thoughts and stories. It was like a mercurial, intelligent, funny, vain, nimble-witted, effusive, over-lively, loquacious, and extremely intellectually active family. And it was a privilege to belong to it.

Of course, as well as the great publishing characters and personalities who were admired or hated, there were also the glib manager types who maintained that in principle it didn't matter if you were trading in cans of cola or books, in the end it simply came down to professional marketing and, yes, I suppose, even just a little bit to the content. But in the long run even those guys could not remain untouched by the product they were dealing with every day, and ultimately there was a difference between holding a finished book in your hand rather than a cola can.

Nowhere else did you meet so many impressive, clever, intriguing, witty, curious, and quick people in one place. Everyone knew everything, and with the words “Have you heard the latest?” all the secrets that the business had to offer were revealed under the seal of strictest secrecy.

Have you heard the latest? They say Marianne Dauphin's having an affair with the marketing manager of Garamond—and she's pregnant. Have you heard the latest? Borani Press is bankrupt and is going to be sold to a perfume company before the end of the year. Have you heard the latest? The editors at Éditions Opale are now writing their own books and Robert Miller is in reality a Frenchman, hahaha!

I noticed the room beginning to spin around me. In those days you were still allowed to smoke, and at three in the morning Jimmy's Bar was a uniquely anesthetic combination of smoke, drinks, and voices.

“But why does it have to be an English name? It's all getting too complicated for me,” I said lamely.

“Oh, Andy, come on! That's the whole joke! A Parisian writing about Paris—nobody wants that. No, no, it must be a genuine English author who fits all the clichés. British humor, a crazy hobby, if possible a good-looking bachelor with a little dog. I can see him right here in front of me.” He nodded. “Robert Miller is perfect, believe me!”

“That's really clever,” I said, impressed, and took a handful of salted almonds.

Adam knocked the ash off his cigarillo and leaned back in his leather seat. “It's not clever—it's brilliant!” he said, just like his favorite cartoon character King Rollo used to do every ten minutes in the TV series of the same name.

The rest was history. I wrote the book—and it turned out to be easier than I'd thought. Adam prepared the contracts and even contributed a photo of the author—a picture of his brother, two years older than him, a good-natured dentist from Devon who'd read a maximum of five books in his whole life and was now more or less made aware—less rather than more, actually—that he was the author of a novel. “How very funny,” was, according to Adam, all that he said about it.

I had serious doubts about whether this placid man would still find it funny to come to Paris, talk to journalists about his book, and give a reading. Did he even know the city he was supposed, according to his biography in the blurb, to have such a liking for? Or had he never left his sleepy county? Was he likely to be up to speaking and reading in public? Perhaps he had a speech defect, or would refuse on principle to act as a ringer. It was only now that I realized that I knew nothing at all about Adam's brother, except that he was Libra with Libra in the ascendant (and so, according to Adam, a miracle of equilibrium) and a thoroughbred dentist (whatever that might mean). I didn't even know his name. No, of course I did: Robert Miller.

“Holy shit!” I laughed desperately and cursed the evening this whole lunatic plan had been hatched. “It's not clever, it's brilliant!” I mimicked my friend. Yes, that was in fact the most brilliant drunken idea that clever Adam had ever had and now everything was threatening to go off the rails and I was going to be in deep trouble.

“What can I do, what can I do?” I murmured, staring as if hypnotized at the screen-saver, which had flicked on and was showing a continuous series of dreamy Caribbean beaches. What wouldn't I have given to be that far away now, lazing on one of those white beach loungers under the palms with a mojito in hand, just staring into the empty blue sky for hours on end?

There was a timid knock at the door.

“What is it this time?” I barked, and sat up straight.

Mademoiselle Mirabeau came carefully into the room. She was carrying a big pile of printed paper and looked at me as if I were a cannibal who wolfed down little blond girls for breakfast.

“I'm sorry, Monsieur Chabanais, I didn't mean to disturb you.”

Heavens, I must pull myself together!

“No, no, you're not disturbing me!” I tried a smile. “What is it?”

She stepped closer and put the pile of papers down on my desk. “This is that Italian translation that you gave me to edit last week. I've finished working on it.”

“Good, good, I'll look at it a bit later.” I took the pile and laid it to one side.

“It was a good translation. Didn't need much work.”

Mademoiselle Mirabeau put her hands behind her back and remained in the room as if rooted to the spot.

“Glad to hear it,” I said. “Sometimes you just get lucky.”

“I've tried to write the jacket copy as well. It's on top of the pile.”

“Wonderful, Mademoiselle Mirabeau. Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

A gentle blush spread over her fine, heart-shaped face. Then she said abruptly: “I'm so sorry that you're having such problems, Monsieur Chabanais.”

My goodness, she was really sweet! I cleared my throat.

“It's not that bad,” I replied, and hoped that it sounded as if I had everything under control.

“Looks as if that Miller guy's being a bit difficult. But I'm sure you'll talk him round.” She gave me an encouraging smile and went over to the door.

“Sure thing,” I said, and for one happy moment forgot that my problem wasn't Robert Miller, but the fact that he didn't exist.

*   *   *

It was just as I expected. The very moment I unwrapped my ham baguette and took a hearty bite, the phone rang. I grabbed the handset and tried to maneuver the unchewed bite into the corner of my cheek.

“Hm … yes?” I said.

“There's some woman on the line. Says it's about Robert Miller—should I put her through or not?” It was Madame Petit, unmistakably still on her high horse.

“Yes, yes, of course,” I managed to choke out, trying to swallow the lump of baguette somehow. “It's Goldberg's assistant, put her through, put her through!” Sometimes Madame Petit really had trouble adding two and two together.

There was a crackle on the line, and then I heard a somewhat breathless female voice saying: “Is that Monsieur André Chabanais?”

“That's me,” I replied, having got rid of the baguette. Adam's assistants always had such pleasant voices, I thought. “Great that you've been able to call back so quickly, I need to speak to Adam urgently. Where's he been?”

The long pause at the other end of the line irritated me. I suddenly went ice cold, and I thought of that awful story the previous fall when an American agent had collapsed at the bottom of his stairs with a brain hemorrhage on the way to the book fair.

“Adam's okay, isn't he?”

“Er … well … I wouldn't know anything about that.” The voice sounded a bit baffled. “I'm actually calling about Robert Miller.”

She'd obviously read my e-mail to Adam. Adam and I had agreed at the time that we wouldn't tell
anyone
else about our little secret, and I hoped he'd stuck to the plan.

“And that's precisely why I need to talk to Adam,” I said cautiously. “It's because Robert Miller is supposed to come to Paris, as you probably know.”

“Oh,” said the voice with delight. “That's just
wonderful.
No, I didn't know that. Tell me … did you get my letter? I hope it was all right that I just dropped it in like that. And would you be so kind as to forward it to Robert Miller? It's extremely important to me, you know.”

I was gradually beginning to feel like Alice in Wonderland when she met the White Rabbit.

“What letter? I haven't received a letter,” I bleated in confusion. “Tell me, you
are
from the Goldberg Literary Agency, aren't you?”

“Oh, no. This is Aurélie Bredin. Not an agency. I think I've been given the wrong extension. I wanted to talk to the editor who deals with Robert Miller,” the voice said with cheerful certainty.

“That's me.” I was gradually getting the feeling that the conversation was beginning to go round in circles. I didn't know anyone called Aurélie Bredin. “Now, Madame Bredin. What can I do for you?”

“I dropped a letter for Robert Miller at your office yesterday evening, and just wanted to make sure that it had arrived safely and will be forwarded to him.”

At last the penny dropped. Nothing ever went quickly enough for these press people.

“Ah, now I know … you're the lady from
Le Figaro,
is that it?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Well, but … who are you then?”

The voice sighed. “Aurélie Bredin, I've already told you.”

“And?”

“The letter,” the voice repeated impatiently. “I'd like you to forward my letter to Monsieur Miller.”

“What letter are you talking about? I haven't received any letter.”

“That can't be right. I brought it personally yesterday. A white envelope. Addressed to the author Robert Miller. You
must
have got the letter.” The voice was becoming persistent, and now it was I who was beginning to lose patience.

“Listen, madame, if I say that there's no letter here, then you can believe it. Perhaps it may still come, and then we'll gladly forward it. Can we leave it at that?”

My suggestion seemed not to meet with much enthusiasm.

“Would it be possible to get Robert Miller's address? Or does he perhaps have an e-mail address where he can be reached?”

“I'm sorry, I'm afraid we don't give out authors' addresses on principle. They do have a right to a private life, after all.” My goodness, what was the woman thinking of?

“Couldn't you make an exception just this once? It's really important.”

“What do you mean—
important
? What's your relationship to Robert Miller?” I asked suspiciously. It was actually very unusual for me to ask a question like that, but the answer that now came was even more unusual.

“Well, if I only knew … I've read his book, you see … it's a really great book … and there are a few things in it that … well … I'd really like to ask the author a couple of questions … and thank him … he sort of saved my life…”

I stared at the phone in disbelief. This woman obviously wasn't right in the head. Obviously one of those overexcited female readers who pester authors mercilessly and, in their excessive enthusiasm write things like “I'd really
love
to get to know you!” or “You think just like I do!” or “I want to have your babies!”

Fine, I admit that in the readers' letters that had arrived for Robert Miller—that is, for me—there hadn't so far been any statements like that. But there had been a few enthusiastic missives that I had “forwarded.” In other words, I'd read them and, since out of a certain degree of vanity I could not bring myself just to throw them away, I had stuck them in the very back corner of my steel cabinet.

“Now,” I said. “I'm very glad about that. But I still can't give you Miller's address. I'm afraid you'll just have to make do with me. It's the only way.”

“But you said you hadn't received my letter. If so, how can you forward it?” the voice asked in a mixture of truculence and despondency.

I would have liked to shake the voice, but it's an unfortunate quality of voices on the telephone that you can't actually shake them.

“Madame—what did you say your name was?”

“Bredin. Aurélie Bredin.”

“Madame Bredin,” I said, trying to keep completely calm. “As soon as your letter reaches my in-tray, I'll forward it, all right? Perhaps not immediately today or tomorrow, but I'll take care of it. And now I'm afraid I have to bring this conversation to an end, because I do have other things to do—admittedly not as important as
your letter,
but they do have to be done. I wish you good day.”

“Monsieur Chabanais!” the voice shouted quickly.

“I'm still here,” I responded grouchily.

“But what will we do if the letter is lost?” The voice trembled a little.

Exasperated, I ran my hand through my hair. In my mind's eye I could see an elderly lady with disheveled hair and a lot of time who scratched line after line on her paper with arthritic fingers, giggling quietly as she did so.

“Then, my dear Madame Bredin, you'll just have to write a new letter. And with that in mind,
bonne journée
.”

As far as I'm concerned you can write a hundred letters, I thought grimly as I slammed the phone back on its cradle. None of them will ever reach their target.

I'd hardly hung up when my office door opened and Madame Petit stuck her head round. “Monsieur Chabanais!” she said reproachfully. “Monsieur Goldberg has already tried to reach you twice and your line is always busy. I've got him on the line now, shall I…?”

“Yes!” I shouted. “For heaven's sake, yes!”

My friend Adam was as always in a state of almost Buddhist serenity.

“About time too!” I snarled at him as he coolly murmured his “Hi-Andy-how's-it-going?” down the phone.