Ithaca (24 page)

“God, I love the Dutch,” Julia says happily as he takes his seat at her table. “After all these years I still don’t know how they do it. Such a tiny country, and yet I’m sure they buy more foreign fiction than any other country in the world per
capita, and make it work. And they continue to pay decent advances.”

“So I guess your UEA chap is going well.”

“Better than well, Zach. I’ve just sold him to the wonderful people at Haarlem after an auction between three publishers drove the advance to more than twice the floor I’d set.”

“That’s fantastic.”

“Yep, and there’s interest in three more territories, which if I manage to close will take the total up to seven. The new McEwan they are calling him.”

“Now all you need is for him to get on to the shortlist of the Booker and you’re all set–”

“Hey, don’t go saying that, you’ll attract the evil eye,” she says grinning, the English irregularity of her teeth giving her a waifish charm. He is so happy for her, he so wants to be with her, he so wants her to be happy with him, he feels his head could burst with the emotion of it all.

“Have dinner with me tonight,” he blurts.

She frowns. “You know I can’t do that, Zach. Why, what’s the matter? Why can’t this wait until we get back to London – you know I have a packed schedule. I still don’t get how one is expected to sell a book in something like thirty seconds to a prospective publisher.”

He laughs. “You know, I was talking to this Israeli publisher who said he could tell in ten seconds whether a book was going to work in his market or not.”

“Good thing people seem to like my guy. But non-stop pitching takes a lot out of you!”

“I know, I just thought you might want to take some time off.”

She looks at him as if he were mad. “You can’t be serious, this is Frankfurt. Don’t you have any appointments this evening?”

He does, a dinner that he must go to with the German publisher of
Storm of Angels
. But he had hoped in an impulsive moment that he and Julia could just have a quiet, intimate dinner together.

“I do,” he says grumpily.

“Oh, come on, Zach, don’t be a bore.” Seeing that he still looks unhappy, she makes a face, pulls out her BlackBerry, checks her schedule, and says, “OK, maybe I could do an after-dinner drink. Just one, all right?”

His mood lightens immediately. “Woo-hoo,” he says, “you’re on.”

“Hey, I saw the Archangel Gabriel wandering about here earlier today. He looks sensational, but how did he get through security?”

“Come on – he’s an archangel.”

She laughs. “You’re the toast of the fair, Zach. This morning I opened the daily newsletter and who should I see but Seppi on the front page.”

“Yes, it’s been great. Seven Star Studios just bought the option, and they’re going to fast-track the movie for a Christmas release next year.”

“When do you launch the book?”

“We’re hoping to drop it in for Christmas this year, we’ll do the movie tie-in next Christmas, mass market the year
after, and on the day the world officially comes to an end we’re proposing to launch the trade paperback – a hundred lucky winners get a ticket to heaven with the archangels as escorts.”

“You’re joking!”

“I just made that up,” he confesses, “but why not? By the time December 2012 rolls around the crazies will have amped up doomsday scenarios to such an extent that a free pass to Heaven might not seem too implausible. Perhaps we could get Virgin to provide the spacecraft to get there.”

“You’re nuts, you know that, don’t you?”

“Only about you,” he says.

“OK, you’re going to have to go now, I can see the worthies of Gallimard approaching. See you this evening.”

In all the years he has been visiting Frankfurt he has never been to an authentic German eatery, preferring like most foreign visitors to limit his choice to more familiar cuisines – Italian (good), Japanese (just once and it was awful, for some reason most of the food had a sweetish taste) and Thai (not bad). Upon hearing of this gaping hole in his gastronomic experience of the city, Dieter, Seppi’s German publisher, has suggested they meet at a restaurant that has been serving authentic Hessian food for over two hundred years.

After he has showered and changed for dinner, he joins one of the unending queues for taxis outside the hotel. A thin evil rain is falling. He has barely been in line for a few minutes
before a Canadian publisher whom he had just missed during his visit to Toronto hauls him out of it. He insists that Zach have a drink with him. Zach demurs briefly before they go back into the lobby, where they join a genial group of Canucks, some of whom he knows. His friend introduces him to the people he doesn’t know, orders two whiskies, and joins the conversation, which seems to be about an agent prone to erratic behavior. From there the discussion drifts to an order fulfillment problem that all are facing back home. Zach finds it heavy going, and after ten minutes or so when there is no sign of the subject being abandoned, he is about to excuse himself and leave when the whisky he has forgotten has been ordered for him arrives.

He pours in some soda from a beaker on the table, takes a swig, and almost gags at the hideously sweet taste. Fucking German whisky, he thinks, but he does not want to appear rude, so he continues to sip from his glass and listen in on the conversation, which continues to bore the hell out of him. Finally, he can take it no longer. He sets his glass down and whispers to his friend that he is leaving.

“What whisky is this?” he asks as he gets up to go.

“Oh, I don’t know some single malt, Macallan, I think.”

“Does it taste odd to you?”

“No, why?”

“Mine did it was kind of sweet.”

He points to his glass. His friend’s eyes fall on the beaker next to it that he has been using to dilute the liquor.

“Christ, Zach, you must have a serious case of Frankfurt fatigue. No wonder your whisky tasted sweet, you’ve been
mixing it with lime cordial.” He leaves with their laughter ringing in his ears.

He takes a taxi to Sachsenhausen, bypassing the queue outside the Marriott by walking to the train station close by and quickly finding a cab there. He finds Dieter waiting for him outside the Wagner restaurant. It’s chilly so they decide not to dine on the patio but to look for a place inside.

“Mein gott,” Dieter mutters as they make their way into the astonishingly loud, crowded room, “I haven’t been here for a year, I’ve forgotten how busy it can get.”

Nobody pays the slightest attention to them; the burly waiters carrying huge platters of food seem exceptionally harassed.

“Come on,” Dieter says, and wades into the room, heading for one of the long wooden tables at the back that already has four loud-voiced patrons occupying it. At one end, there is space for two more.

“This place doesn’t take reservations after six so I hope you don’t mind sharing a table,” Dieter yells.

“Hey, no problem. After visiting the fair for ten years, I figure it’s about time I had an authentic Frankfurt dining experience.”

“Oh, you’ll get that my friend, don’t you worry. I hope you like meat, lots of it.”

Dieter flings his coat on a hook on the wall, indicates to Zach that he should do the same, and takes his seat at the
table. Zach follows suit. The big, red-faced fellow next to him gives him a friendly nod, then turns back to his companions, all of whom are talking at the same time.

“You’ll let me order, ja? No dietary restrictions?”

Zach shakes his head.

“Apfelwein?”

“Never drunk it.”

“Well, give it a try. Only don’t drink too much, you’ll get – how do you say it? – the runs.”

“I’ll give it a go, I’ve drunk whisky mixed with lime cordial this evening, I don’t see why I shouldn’t try apfelwein.”

“Wunderbar!”

Dieter grabs hold of a passing waiter, orders their drinks and food, and settles back, giving Zach a huge grin. “I hope you’ve brought along a big appetite, you’re going to need it,” he says.

The apfelwein arrives within minutes in a large ceramic pitcher. The waiter puts down two glasses with a diamond-pane pattern next to the wine, and is gone without any ceremony.

“Not exactly the Hessischer Hof,” Dieter shouts, “but you won’t get anything more authentic anywhere in Germany. They boast that they have been making their wine and food the same way for more than a hundred years.”

Zach takes a deep swig from his glass. The wine tastes like a combination of filtered lager and apple juice with a sour aftertaste. Dieter has been watching and asks whether he likes it. “Tastes just fine,” he yells.

While they wait for the food to arrive they carry on a shouted conversation. Dieter tells him that while the German
book industry is in somewhat better shape than a few years earlier, the current recessionary trends, along with the changing nature of the marketplace, means that every major publisher has to fight to stay afloat, never mind increasing profit.

“I must thank you, my friend,” he says, raising his glass in a toast. “Without
Storm of Angels
I don’t think I would have been able to make my sales number this year.” He explains that he has collapsed his translation and production schedule in order to have the book out by Christmas. Zach tells him about the movie deal that has just gone through, and Dieter beams with happiness. He leans across the table and says, “You know my deepest regret until
Storm of Angels
came along was that I didn’t bid enough for Hilary Mantel when I had the chance a few years ago. Have you read
Wolf Hall?

Zach shakes his head.

“It’s a great book, the best novel I’ve read this year. I think it will win the Booker.”

The food arrives quickly; they have scarcely been here fifteen minutes. On an enormous white platter are piled mounds of meat – pork sausages, grilled pig’s knuckles, pork belly, and other bits and pieces he can’t identify – with heaping sides of sauerkraut and fried onions. Nary a green vegetable in sight. Dieter looks amused as he sees Zach eyeing the mountain of animal protein.

“When in Germany …” Dieter says, and tucks his napkin into his collar.

Zach remembers a night in Singapore, somewhere on the water, where after donning a huge white bib he had waded into some of the biggest crabs he had ever seen in his life.
This will require a similar effort, he thinks. He takes a long swig at the apfelwein, mimics Dieter and dives in. Forty-five minutes later, there is still enough food on the serving dish to fill a decent-sized stroller or feed a starving refugee family (pick your nationality) of four.

“I’m done, Dieter,” he says.

His host cups a hand to his ear.

“I’m done.
Basta
!” he roars. Dieter smiles, and asks if he would like dessert or coffee. “Just coffee, my friend, just coffee,” he says weakly.

Later, as he waits on the pavement outside the restaurant for the taxi Dieter has summoned, he reckons he has never in his life eaten so much meat at one sitting. His stomach is distended and he feels as ungainly as a hippo.

“What’s this I hear about Litmus being sold?” Dieter asks, lighting a cigarette.

Fuck, Zach thinks, Frankfurt, a place where nothing is sacred, no secret safe.

“Absolutely untrue,” he says, looking Dieter steadily in the eye. “We’re in excellent health, and I know that Gabrijela values our independence. And now with
Storm of Angels
, it looks like we’ll have our best year ever.”

“Everyone knows that Globish has had its eye on you for some time now. And someone told me that they saw you, your boss, and the big guy at Globish having breakfast this morning at the Marriott.”

“True enough, my boss and Mortimer are old friends.”

“Mortimer has no friends,” Dieter growls. “You had better watch out; you know his reputation in the industry.”

“I’m just the publisher, my friend,” he says, “all I do is publish books, I leave corporate wheeling and dealing to my superiors. But I can say with confidence that Gabrijela will not easily give up control of the company she has fought so hard to build.”

“How much of it does she own?”

“Enough,” he says, “I don’t know, but enough to keep her from surrendering so easily.”