maki.
“The suspense is unbearable,” said Gustave.
Alice turned her face once more toward the group of people sitting at the back of the restaurant. She then said, leaning toward Gustave and Nicolas, “Dagmar is the most feared, the most respected, the most famous of all publishers. She holds the publishing world in the palm of her hand.”
When Nicolas repeats this exact sentence to Malvina, she says, “Wow!” in an awed voice. Then, plucking at lint on her towel and lowering her voice all the more, even if they are now alone, she asks, “Is she here because of you?”
The vain part of Nicolas would like to say, Yes, yes, of course she is here for me, Malve. What are you thinking? She has already sent three people indirectly to try to lure me away from Alice Dor. Suzanne Cruz, pert, pretty agent from L.A. with a shrewd smile. Guillaume Bévernage, French publisher, known for his audacious alliances with Dagmar Hunoldt. And finally, Ebba Jakobson, powerful New York agent, also known for her close working relationship with Dagmar. Three lunches in the most exclusive restaurants of Paris, New York, and Santa Monica, and three polite nos to the juicy contracts, the unbelievably high advances. Nicolas now remembers reading about Dagmar Hunoldt recently in Newsweek magazine, and he recalls a couple of lines that had both amused and impressed him: “Hunoldt has the sharpest instinct about a book, about an author. Her entourage considers her utterly ruthless, extraordinarily intelligent, and totally perverse.”
The lucid part of Nicolas mutters, “I’m not sure. She could be here on holiday. There is no way to find out.”
“Does she publish Novézan?” asks Malvina.
Nicolas laughs curtly.
“No! Novézan’s not that big in the United States. I’m bigger than he is.”
“Does Novézan know who she is?”
Nicolas stares at Malvina, noting again, distractedly, how pale she is.
“Malve, Dagmar Hunoldt is like the Madonna of publishing.”
“Well, not physically.”
“Of course not physically,” snorts Nicolas, exasperated. “I mean that she has that power. She is that powerful. Get it?”
Malvina nods meekly. Nicolas feels a twinge of guilt and squeezes her hand. It is getting cooler. The staff members fold up chairs, towels, and tables and take down the parasols. It is time to go back upstairs and get ready for the evening.
As they go up in the James Bond elevator, Nicolas cannot stop thinking about Dagmar Hunoldt and her presence at the Gallo Nero. He forgets Sabina’s BBM, unread on his BlackBerry. He forgets to phone his mother, who has still not returned his calls. He forgets about contacting François. He has even stopped thinking about Delphine taking showers with other men. He marches into the room, accompanied by the silent and pale Malvina. He does not glance at the new array of flowers, fruits, the turned-back bed, the chocolates thoughtfully placed on the pillows with the weather forecast for tomorrow (sun, thirty-two degrees centigrade). He hardly looks at the card from Dr. Otto Gheza, the hotel director, propped up on the desk, asking them to attend a cocktail party tonight. Instead, he goes out on the terrace, looks out to the sea, and he thinks.
How will he say no? Can one say no to Dagmar Hunoldt?
An even worse thought comes and makes him cringe. How can he ever tell Dagmar Hunoldt, if she has indeed turned up at the Gallo Nero for him, that there is no book, that he has been lying to his publisher, to himself, to the world? Will he have to lie to her, as well?
J OURNALISTS WERE PERSISTENT IN trying to find out why Nicolas had decided to remain with Alice Dor despite his impressive success. It was public knowledge he was coveted by every single publisher and agent on the planet. So why did he stick with a small independent company? Nicolas indefatigably gave the same answer. Alice Dor changed his life when she said yes to The Envelope on that dark winter day in 2007. She read
“The suspense is unbearable,” said Gustave.
Alice turned her face once more toward the group of people sitting at the back of the restaurant. She then said, leaning toward Gustave and Nicolas, “Dagmar is the most feared, the most respected, the most famous of all publishers. She holds the publishing world in the palm of her hand.”
When Nicolas repeats this exact sentence to Malvina, she says, “Wow!” in an awed voice. Then, plucking at lint on her towel and lowering her voice all the more, even if they are now alone, she asks, “Is she here because of you?”
The vain part of Nicolas would like to say, Yes, yes, of course she is here for me, Malve. What are you thinking? She has already sent three people indirectly to try to lure me away from Alice Dor. Suzanne Cruz, pert, pretty agent from L.A. with a shrewd smile. Guillaume Bévernage, French publisher, known for his audacious alliances with Dagmar Hunoldt. And finally, Ebba Jakobson, powerful New York agent, also known for her close working relationship with Dagmar. Three lunches in the most exclusive restaurants of Paris, New York, and Santa Monica, and three polite nos to the juicy contracts, the unbelievably high advances. Nicolas now remembers reading about Dagmar Hunoldt recently in Newsweek magazine, and he recalls a couple of lines that had both amused and impressed him: “Hunoldt has the sharpest instinct about a book, about an author. Her entourage considers her utterly ruthless, extraordinarily intelligent, and totally perverse.”
The lucid part of Nicolas mutters, “I’m not sure. She could be here on holiday. There is no way to find out.”
“Does she publish Novézan?” asks Malvina.
Nicolas laughs curtly.
“No! Novézan’s not that big in the United States. I’m bigger than he is.”
“Does Novézan know who she is?”
Nicolas stares at Malvina, noting again, distractedly, how pale she is.
“Malve, Dagmar Hunoldt is like the Madonna of publishing.”
“Well, not physically.”
“Of course not physically,” snorts Nicolas, exasperated. “I mean that she has that power. She is that powerful. Get it?”
Malvina nods meekly. Nicolas feels a twinge of guilt and squeezes her hand. It is getting cooler. The staff members fold up chairs, towels, and tables and take down the parasols. It is time to go back upstairs and get ready for the evening.
As they go up in the James Bond elevator, Nicolas cannot stop thinking about Dagmar Hunoldt and her presence at the Gallo Nero. He forgets Sabina’s BBM, unread on his BlackBerry. He forgets to phone his mother, who has still not returned his calls. He forgets about contacting François. He has even stopped thinking about Delphine taking showers with other men. He marches into the room, accompanied by the silent and pale Malvina. He does not glance at the new array of flowers, fruits, the turned-back bed, the chocolates thoughtfully placed on the pillows with the weather forecast for tomorrow (sun, thirty-two degrees centigrade). He hardly looks at the card from Dr. Otto Gheza, the hotel director, propped up on the desk, asking them to attend a cocktail party tonight. Instead, he goes out on the terrace, looks out to the sea, and he thinks.
How will he say no? Can one say no to Dagmar Hunoldt?
An even worse thought comes and makes him cringe. How can he ever tell Dagmar Hunoldt, if she has indeed turned up at the Gallo Nero for him, that there is no book, that he has been lying to his publisher, to himself, to the world? Will he have to lie to her, as well?
J OURNALISTS WERE PERSISTENT IN trying to find out why Nicolas had decided to remain with Alice Dor despite his impressive success. It was public knowledge he was coveted by every single publisher and agent on the planet. So why did he stick with a small independent company? Nicolas indefatigably gave the same answer. Alice Dor changed his life when she said yes to The Envelope on that dark winter day in 2007. She read
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