Ithaca (16 page)

This launch has the scale of a Bollywood premiere and the pomp of a Punjabi wedding. Giant chandeliers descend
like blazing arks from the vaulted ceiling of the enormous banqueting hall of the Taj Mahal Hotel on Mansingh Road. The light bounces off glittering jewellery, burnished hairdos, and glassware polished to perfection. A blowup of the cover of the book is the backdrop to a large stage that has been set up at the front of the room; on the stage are two comfortable sofas, a low table with a massive floral arrangement, and a podium with the hotel’s logo prominently displayed. Beside the stage are tables on which copies of the book, a minor maharaja’s memoir, are piled up under the watchful eye of the publisher’s representative. Not that anyone seems the least bit interested in the displayed books. This is a social event, and the richly caparisoned men and women from Delhi’s smart set swish to and fro dressed in the latest fashions from London, Milan and Paris, chatting and laughing and air-kissing each other, between sips from the champagne flutes, wine glasses, and tumblers of whisky that sprout from their hands. Decked out in an exquisite salwar kameez that must have cost her far more than she could afford on her salary, Apoorva points out some of the notables in the crowd. Over there is a leading fashion designer with violet hair and eyeshadow, dressed in what appears to be a giant wickerwork chair; a few feet away is a captain of industry in an expensive bandh gala surrounded by a group of unctuous admirers; next to him a politician (who is temporarily out of favour) in a crisp white kurta-pyjama is being harangued by a famous TV journalist; in a corner stands a solitary man with a whisky and a samosa who has been a fixture at every book launch in Delhi for the past decade; making a lateish entrance is a much feted British
author who is immediately mobbed by a crowd of socialites bright as macaws. The Page 3 photographers who have been focusing on a distinguished, pipe-smoking diplomat abandon him and train their lenses on the writer; he affects not to notice them and falls into animated conversation with a well-known book critic. Here and there, publishing folk wander, a less showy breed in dress and demeanour; a publicist fends off importuning journalists begging her for free copies of the book – the scene around them is replicated a dozen times, a hundred times, under the impersonal glare of the chandeliers. Food has begun to circulate, expensive looking hors d’oeuvres, plump prawns, and kebabs, and other things he cannot identify, and the celebrants gather them up from the circulating white-clad wait staff without breaking stride or conversation. There must be at least six hundred people in the room now. Apoorva points to the author, at the centre of a knot of people. He looks nothing like a maharaja, for he is a small, mournful-looking man dressed in an unflashy suit, although it does seem rather well cut. He is extremely well connected, Apoorva tells Zach, which is why the event has drawn such a large crowd. He still hasn’t been able to spot the publisher and asks Apoorva who he is. She points to a man sheltering behind a potted palm in a far corner of the room who seems almost incidental to the festivities.

A slender woman in a sari the colour of fire that goes well with her hazel eyes wanders up, greets Apoorva languidly, is introduced to him and says, in an accent he is unable to place: “Mr. Angels himself. So tell me, sir, how do you create a bestseller?”

“If I knew I would be the most successful publisher on the planet,” he says.

“Does anyone know?” the woman asks. Her perfectly pencilled eyebrows arch as she asks the question.

“There are some editors, especially in the States, who have an extraordinary ability to keep finding authors especially genre authors, repeaters, who write a book a year that with focused marketing will reliably make it to the bestseller lists. But I doubt even they would claim to have the ability to unerringly pick the next Rowling or Brown or Hosseini or Larsson –”

“Or Seppi,” she chimes in, flirting in a bored sort of way. Perhaps this is how she keeps herself amused at these occasions, he has certainly sensed no attraction between them.

“I suppose,” he says.

“Oh, come now, no need to be so modest,” she says with mock severity.

“I don’t think I’m alone in thinking that in the digital age the role of publishers is effectively over,” a tall, grey-bearded man, somewhat scruffy-looking, chimes in. Apoorva had introduced him as they walked in; the newcomer’s name had not registered, but he obligingly provides it again. Professor Malik. A midwestern twang. Zach wonders which university he teaches at.

“Oh, I don’t think we’re done for yet. Do you know the word
docent
?”

“Yes, I do, I teach literature,” the professor says. He sounds irritated. Good. Zach is tired of these Cassandras who
harangue publishers at every turn as though they were incapable of thinking for themselves.

“Readers will continue to look to publishers for authors they would like to read,” he says to the professor. “Formats might change, delivery systems might change, pricing models might change, but I doubt our essential role will change all that much. And despite all the talk, it’s not as if the world of publishing has already changed beyond all recognition.”

“You hope.”

“We know – if statistics about our industry are anything to go by. The vast majority of books are still being made, marketed, printed, and sold as they have always been. The industry is flat in the UK and other mature markets, but there is no worrying decline in sales.”

The woman in the flame-coloured sari has wandered off with Apoorva. Is he to be stuck with this pedantic bore?

“Maybe so, but if the readers of tomorrow decide they want to buy their content direct from creators what role do middlemen like you have to play?”

“Selection, packaging, marketing, the protection of copyright –”

“Which online companies can do just as well as you can. Amazon Books. Apple Books. Why not? They pay better royalties than you guys, and when the majority of readers begin to read digitally –”

“There is no reason why we can’t add newer skills to the ones we possess. We already produce digital versions of our print editions, we’re beginning to figure out how to repurpose content in new and exciting ways, we’re learning how
to market direct to consumers, we will just need to keep pace with the changes in the way people buy, read. And to answer your question about Amazon starting to publish, as you know they already do so, as do some of the other big retailers, but that’s not what is encoded in their DNA at the moment. That might change, the world of business is not static and companies will slide up and down the value chain depending on changes in the environment and their own strategic imperatives, but at the end of the day in the book business, just as in every other business, each link in the chain will need a specific focus. The brand names might change, certain companies will disappear, others will replace them, but publishing will not die.”

“Or maybe, two decades from now, no middlemen like publishers or agents will be required,” the professor responds. “Authors will sell work directly to their fans, just like in India and elsewhere in the civilized world a thousand years ago, when wandering storytellers and bards and minstrels communicated directly with their audiences. Nobody taking a slice off the top.”

“I think that’s a simplistic view. You forget that publishers support writers with advances –”

“– and make off with the lion’s share of the profit,” the professor cuts in querulously.

“A common misconception. Most books don’t make their money back. And, contrary to what people think, the majority of publishers feel that they have had a successful year if they have made a profit of ten per cent, which is less than what successful authors make.”

“That may be so but in the digital age it will be possible for authors to go direct to their readers and keep most of the value that has been attached to their work.”

“Sure and there will be a few authors who will do that, especially those who have made a name for themselves, but don’t forget that most authors only become famous because publishers have taken a gamble on them, and nurtured them through the years when they weren’t as well known. For the few who decide to take the self-publishing option there will be hundreds of thousands of others who will want to do nothing but continue with what they are best at, which is to write and create. All these writers will be happy to leave the editing, marketing, selling, and safeguarding of their work to publishers. I doubt that that is going to change any time soon.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. There must be a reason why even writers who have uploaded their work to popular online publishing sites like Wattpad rejoice when their work is picked up by a regular publisher.”

The conversation is beginning to exhaust him; he can’t wait for the event to start. He reaches for a refill from a passing waiter.

Screeching noises from the microphone. A young woman in a green sari, a PR lady from the hotel, waits for the static to die down, asks everyone to take his or her seat as the event is about to begin. Nobody pays the slightest attention; the laughter and the conversation continue to rise up to the ceiling. Various other people take their turn at the mike, the publisher,
an important hotel functionary, the harassed publicist, the PR lady again. While the concerted effort manages to shake loose a few people at the fringes of the gathering who drift towards the chairs, everyone else is too busy eating and drinking and having a good time to budge. Finally a chunky-looking man, who may or not be connected to the organizers but who has the air of someone who must be listened to, strides up to the microphone and roars at the audience to sit down. Unhurriedly people begin looking for seats.

“Zach, Professor Malik, this way please, I’ve reserved seats for you,” Apoorva beckons. The professor leads the way and she whispers to Zach, “I’m trying to get Professor Malik to give us his next book, a novel.” Despite himself, he says, “The professor doesn’t seem to think publishers are necessary.” She grimaces and shrugs; it is obvious she has heard the man’s rant before.

They have seats near the front. It takes another blast from the tubby man before the rest of the audience is seated.

“How on earth can publishers afford all this?” Zach asks Apoorva.

“They can’t,” she replies. “The hotels comp all the expenses, they have a cultural budget for these things, publishing events are hot, get them tons of free publicity. And I hear for this party the author provided a few crates of Black Label.”

There are three people on the dais, the author who is talking to the junior minister who will launch the book, and the publisher who is going through his notes. The PR lady at the microphone announces the publisher and leaves the stage.

At this point, he switches off – he knows the drill, and he has no interest in the author (Apoorva has told him she has heard rumours that he intends to buy back five thousand copies from the publisher). The publisher introduces the book, the author, and the minister, and disappears, whereupon the minister, a lean, wolfish-looking man, begins to make a speech that can be barely heard above the background noise. Zach’s mind begins to wander. Small wonder, he thinks, that some of the world’s greatest novels have featured social gatherings like this one. Hundreds of beautiful, famous, successful people gathered together in one place, all apparently having a good time, but at what cost? For the novelist what is fascinating is the price of admission to events like this, and he is not thinking here of the fancy pieces of cardboard that are nominally the means to get in; no, what is of interest is the tough journey that every one of these people, whether high born or low, has had to make through life to get here. The youthful ambition and self-regard, the early successes and defeats, the constant struggle and effort, the disappointments and the wrong turns, moments of brilliance and moments of compromise, acts of selfishness and sensitivity, incidents of duplicity and honour, the courage and the pathos of their endeavour, the ruthlessness and the betrayals they have had to take in their stride … Told by someone with the requisite skill, the stories of many of those present here today would make compelling reading.

The minister’s speech begins to wind down. When at long last he finishes to polite applause, the author’s speech seems more like an afterthought. After it is over, the minister unwraps a copy of the book, which the author and he hold
up to the cameras, and the formal part of the evening comes to an end. At least a quarter of the audience has paid no attention whatsoever to the proceedings.

Apoorva, the woman in the flame-coloured sari whose name turns out to be Mandira (and who, he gathers, lives in Berne – do none of these people live in Delhi?), and the professor decide to repair to the bar upstairs for a drink. He is conscious that Apoorva would like to publish both of them, so he resolves to be as helpful as he can, although he hopes never to see Professor Malik again.

Fortunately for Zach, the professor, who has been throwing back large glasses of rum all evening, seems to have lost all interest in him. He speaks earnestly and drunkenly to Apoorva, and Zach is left to amuse himself with Mandira (he still does not know whether she is a novelist or poet or celebrity chef). She is witty and coolly intelligent, and he is beginning to thoroughly enjoy her company when Apoorva cuts in to say that he should probably be thinking of getting back to the hotel if he is going to make his flight early in the morning.

The professor beams at him drunkenly. “The crash will come, buddy, never fear, it will come.”

“Not for a long, long time,” he says. He smiles insincerely. “Apoorva tells me you are writing a novel, which I can’t wait to read. And when it’s ready you must give it to us. We’ll do a great job of publishing it.”

“Oh, it will be a few years before it’s done. By then who knows whether or not you guys will be around?” The professor aims a wink at him but doesn’t quite pull it off, ends
up blinking like a mole in the harsh light of the lobby where they are gathered as they wait for their cars.