Changing the Past (23 page)

John pressed the button. After a moment he heard a shout from above. He went out of the entryway, onto the top step, and looked up to see a face in an open window on the top floor.

He waited until it was clear that the face would not speak until he did. “My name is John Kellog,” he shouted up. “You wanted to see me?”

“Why?”

“You're publishing a story of mine in
Budding—?”

The presumable answer to this question was provided by a buzzing at the lock of the inner door. John scrambled to get inside and catch the knob before the noise stopped. He climbed until there were no more stairs and arrived on the top floor out of breath. Philbin, if indeed it was he, waited for him in an open door.

“You're better-looking than I thought you would be. Those
sensitive
little stories are so often written by small toadlike people.”

John followed him into the apartment, breathing heavily. Philbin, a tall, thin, fairhaired man of an indeterminate age, flopped onto a couch upholstered in a charcoal-gray fabric, scattering a pile of vividly colored pillows. He wore a loose shirt but very tight dungarees, and his feet were bare and a bit dirty.

Apparently no invitation to be seated could be expected. At length John took one of those modernist butterfly chairs he had seen depicted in slick magazines. Its body-bearing part was constructed of sleek black leather but proved none too comfortable to the behind. Everything in the room looked quite fashionable, in either black or white except for the accessories and the paintings on the walls. The latter were all originals and not the reproductions of nonobjectivist pictures Daphne clipped from the pages of
Life
and attached, with masking tape, to the walls of the short hallway that led to the bathroom. Philbin's pictures too were essentially just messes of bright colors.

“So,” Philbin said, crossing his long legs. Slumped on the couch as he was, with John necessarily in a similar posture in the sling chair, the editor seemed all knees for a moment, until he parted them and showed a long chin with a smile. His eyebrows were darker than his hair, and his eyes were pale. “We liked your story a
lot
. You are a talented man. We foresee quite a future for you.”

John was thrilled to hear these words, but he believed he should not make a naïve show of his pleasure. “I realize I still have a way to go.”

Philbin's stare was piercing. “I'd say you've arrived, if you've been recognized by
Budding
.
“
He crossed his legs the other way and pointed, with an oddly curved finger. “Pour yourself something.” There was a low, glossy black cabinet in the corner indicated, atop which was a trayful of bottles.

“No, thanks,” said John. He would have been embarrassed to struggle up out of the chair and, under his host's gaze, walk to the cabinet and make a choice among drinks he probably wouldn't recognize. Knowing nothing of life on this level—which was not exactly luxurious but it
was
sophisticated—he believed he should remain cautious lest he be dismissed as a hopeless bumpkin.

Philbin continued to stare. Suddenly he showed a glorious grin and brought his long hands together. “We should celebrate! Make me a drink, too.”

When the request was put that way, John could hardly fail to honor it. He rose with the anticipated gracelessness and went to the cabinet. As expected, several of the bottles bore labels that signified nothing to him.

He turned to Philbin. “What would you like?”

“Pernod,” said his host, then, with an impatient movement of his knobbed wrist, “the green bottle…that's it. Now pour about an inch and a half into one of those tumblers. Then add some ice water from that jug—just till it turns milky…. Good. Now taste it.”

The flavor was reminiscent of licorice, but strange and unpleasant. Having sipped of this one, however, he kept it for himself and made another for Philbin.

The editor smiled up at him when he delivered the glass. “May I call you—uh, what?”

“John.”

“Yes, you did say that when you shouted up, didn't you?” He sipped at the Pernod. “I'm Jamie.”

John had returned to the uncomfortable chair. “Uh,” he asked cautiously, “is that a nickname?”

“No.”

Tired of feeling so awkward in every way, John came right out and asked, “Aren't you Ross Philbin?”

“Ross had another appointment,” said Jamie. “Anyway, I'm the fiction editor. He likes your story, of course, or we wouldn't have accepted it. But he takes my word for what's good in fiction.”

After a few more sips, John began to get the point of Pernod. He hoisted the glass. “This isn't bad.”

“In a more civilized place and time,” said Jamie, gesturing with his own tumbler, “it would be real absinthe, wormwood and all.”

John nodded. “I've written some other stories as well. I don't want to ruin my welcome, but if you'd like to see them…”

“As soon as we put this one in shape,” said Jamie, who rose abruptly and left the room in a swift glide. He returned more slowly, wearing a pair of hornrimmed glasses and peering at the manuscript in his uplifted hands. “I've taken the liberty of deleting the first two pages and beginning in the middle of things.”

He extended the sheaf of paper towards John, but stayed so far away that the latter, fearful that the butterfly chair would tip over if he leaned so far to the side, felt obliged to rise and take two steps.

John sat down and examined his story, the first two pages of which bore each a vast X in blue pencil, touching each corner of the sheet. Page 3 had not been excised in toto but looked radically rewritten, the interlinear spaces filled with blue handscript. He turned to page 4, of which an entire paragraph had been marked for deletion. He looked no further, but put his glass on the floor and stood up.

“I'm sorry,” he said as coldly as he could. “I'm going to withdraw the story. If you want to publish your own work, why not just write something from scratch? You don't need a manuscript of mine.”

Jamie made a sly smile. “I was just trying to help. You've got talent, but you lack discipline. All writers worth their salt begin that way and need the help of people like me. That's professionalism. If you reject all assistance, you will remain a tourist.”

“No thanks,” said John, going to the door.

Jamie came after him. “I hope you reconsider. I'm really eager to work with you!”

John again declined with thanks and turned to seize the doorknob. Jamie's hand swooped around his hip and closed gently on the lump of his genitalia.

John literally had to struggle for freedom against a man who was stronger than he looked.

He complained bitterly to Daphne that evening.
“You
got me into that.”

“Well,” said Daphne, “I could hardly have known.”

“You ought to have been able to tell from reading the magazine.”

She frowned. “I did read a couple of issues. I didn't see anything suspicious.”

John sawed off and forked up a segment of rubbery frankfurter. He gestured with it before dipping it into the ketchup he preferred over the local mustard. “That's because all your favorites are fairies: Proust and Gide and so on.”

What he really couldn't stand about her was that she suddenly wouldn't fight back, but rose above such mean matters, preserving herself for better things: putting in a full day's work, preparing to be a mother, and thinking about highbrow literature.

“This pansy wasn't even the editor-in-chief. I guess he's his boyfriend. Jesus.”

Daphne contritely served him more cole slaw from the container in which it came from the delicatessen. She herself had quite a small appetite for someone who was pregnant: he thought such women were supposed to eat more than usual, but what he then assumed was his pride (and only in time to come understood was rather vanity) kept him from inquiring.

Two days later he got a letter from Ross Philbin.

John was conquered by the note, and when the day came he found the restaurant and entered it some twenty minutes early. He waited at the bar while one by one all the tables were claimed by other customers. Apparently there was only one room in the establishment, and a modestly proportioned one at that. The bar was only about eight feet long, with no seating facilities whatever. Soon it too was fully occupied, and next a second rank had formed behind the first. By one o'clock Philbin still had not arrived, and as the bartender assumed a surly expression, John could nurse his glass of Pernod no further. He paid the tab: seventy-five cents, for God's sake. He had brought along only two dollars. It was a good thing he had not taken a table and eaten any food.

When he had maneuvered himself through the people standing at the bar and was about to leave the restaurant, he collided with the entering Jamie Quill, who poked an index finger at him.

‘John Kellog.”

John acknowledged him with a cool nod. “I was supposed to meet Ross Philbin here for lunch. I'm sure it's the right day, but he hasn't shown up.”

“Ah,” Quill said excitedly, “that's why I came! Ross alas is all tied up and can't get away. He sent me instead, with his apologies.”

John could not help showing his disappointment, but Quill proceeded strenuously to seek his favor, using the most effective means.

“I thought we might talk seriously about your future. You know, you're such an exciting discovery that we're thinking of exploiting our opportunity: maybe devoting an entire issue of
Budding
to your work, several stories, along with assessments of your talent by some well-known critics, Maxwell Wholey, Louis T. Klein, people of that caliber.”

John had never heard of these persons, but necessarily believed them to be renowned, and Quill was making sense today. Furthermore, he was not likely to make sexual importunities in a crowded restaurant.

“It looks like we'll have a long wait.”

“Oh, not here,” petulantly said Quill. “We never eat in this dump!”

John followed him out the door. Today Jamie wore a sweater under which was no shirt. The tips of both his elbows could be seen through the holes that had been perforated by long use. His feet were naked in strap sandals. Moving rapidly, he led John for several blocks and around more than one corner, eventually plunging into the doorway of another little restaurant of similar size to that of Yolanda's, as crowded, and with much the same aroma, though judging from the name, Au Milieu De, it was French.

Quill went to the bar, at which two places were suddenly made available by a pair of persons who departed for a table in the dining area.

“I'm on the wagon,” said he. “But you get what you want.”

John ordered a Pernod. Quill turned up his nose at it when it was delivered. “I'm on aitch two oh,” said he, gulping at a tall iced tumbler. “Now,” slapping his free hand on the bar-top, “let's get to work. I trust you know your story as well as I do: page eight, second paragraph, I really insist on deleting in its entirety. Paragraph three can get by with extensive rewriting.” He thirstily consumed, in one long swallow, the remainder of his glass. “But I'm getting ahead of myself. The first two pages, really, should be moved from the beginning to the very
end
of the story! Just think, and you'll realize I am spectacularly right about this.”

John had hardly touched his Pernod. Eventually he said, quietly, “Aren't you aware that Ross Philbin wrote me a letter promising to print my story without any changes whatever?”

Jamie Quill nodded judiciously. “I changed his mind.”

John retained a calm exterior. “Why are you doing this to my story?”

The bartender had brought Quill a new glass of water, of which Jamie had already drunk a third. “Because I want to make it better!” he cried. “I want to display your talent in the best light possible. That's the point of
Budding
, to find and launch new people in the best possible way. And, believe me, Ross and I are authorities on that process. Look at Maynard Means, Harvey Speck, Timothy James Wine.” He smiled angelically. “Timmy's work was a real mess. You had to dig to find the diamonds.”

John had decided at least to pose as being more patient this time. He asked who Timothy Wine was, and Quill identified him as the winner of some literary prize that was presumably of great prestige.

“And it's not just the work,” Jamie added. “Far from it! It's how it is presented. For example, we've decided to print your story as a prose poem, in stanzas of no more than three sentences each, separated by white spaces of varying widths.” He gulped more water and almost screamed, causing some other people at the bar to glance their way in the mirror and the bartender to shrug. “No, I've got it! We'll do another marvelous story, by someone else, in the same way, in the spaces between the segments of yours: Willi Mülhausen's. They'll be perfect complements to each other. Willi's a young German protégé of Ross's.”

John was very hungry by now, but he decided he was being so badly dealt with that he must forgo a free lunch. He was somewhat tipsy from the two Pernods, though certainly not sufficiently drunk to lose his temper in public.