More Tales of the Black Widowers (2 page)

“No,” said Stellar. “I just write when I feel like. But I feel like all the time.”

“Actually,” said Rubin, “you're a compulsive writer.”

“I've never denied it,” said Stellar.

Gonzalo said, “But steady composition doesn't seem to be consistent with artistic inspiration. Does it just pour out of you? Do you revise at all?”

Stellar's face lowered and for a moment he seemed to be staring at his brandy glass. He pushed it to one side and said, “Everyone seems to worry about inspiration. You're an artist, Mr. Gonzalo. If you waited for inspiration, you'd starve.”

“Sometimes I starve even when I don't,” said Gonzalo.

“I just write,” said Stellar, a bit impatiently. “It's not so difficult to do that I have a simple, straightforward, unornamented style, so that I don't have to waste time on clever phrases. I present my ideas in a clear and orderly way because I have a clear and orderly mind. Most of all, I have security. I know I'm going to sell what I write, and so I don't agonize over every sentence, worrying about whether the editor will like it.”

“You didn't always know you would sell what you wrote,” said Rubin. “I assume there was a time when you were a beginner and got rejection slips like everyone else.”

“That's right. And in those days writing took a lot longer and was a lot harder. But that was thirty years ago. I've been literarily secure for a long time.”

Drake twitched his neat gray mustache and said, “Do you really sell everything you write now? Without exception?”

Stellar said, “Just about everything, but not always first crack out of the box. Sometimes I get a request for revision and, if it's a reasonable request, I revise, and if it's unreasonable, I don't. And once in a while—at least once a year, I think—I get an outright rejection.” He shrugged. “It's part of the free-lance game. It can't be helped.”

“What happens to something that's rejected, or that you won't revise?” asked Trumbull.

“I try it somewhere else. One editor might like what another editor doesn't. If I can't sell it anywhere I put it aside; a new market might open up; I might get a request for something that the rejected article can fill.”

“Don't you feel that's like selling damaged goods?” said Avalon.

“No, not at  all,” said Stellar. “A rejection doesn't necessarily mean an article is bad. It just means that one particular editor found it unsuitable. Another editor might find it suitable.”

Avalon's lawyer-mind saw an opening. He said, “By that reasoning, it follows that if an editor likes, buys, and publishes one of your articles, that is no necessary proof that the article is any good.”

“None at all, in any one case,” said Stellar, “but if it happens over and over again, the evidence in your favor mounts up.”

Gonzalo said, “What happens if everyone rejects an article?”

Stellar said, 'That hardly ever happens, but if I get tired of submitting a piece, chances are I cannibalize it. Sooner or later I'll write something on a subject that's close to it, and then I incorporate parts of the rejected article into a new piece. I don't waste anything”

'Then everything you write sees print, one way or another. Is that right?” And Gonzalo shook his head slightly, in obvious admiration.

“That's about right.” But then Stellar frowned. “Except, of course,” he said, “when you deal with an idiot editor who buys something and then doesn't publish it.”

Rubin said, “Oh, have you run into one of those things? The magazine folded?”

“No, it's flourishing. Haven't I ever told you about this?”

“Not as far as I remember.”

“I'm talking about Bercovich. Did you ever sell anything to him?”

“Joel Bercovich?”

“Are there likely to be two editors with that last name? Of course, Joel Bercovich.”

“Well, sure. He used to edit Mystery Story magazine some years ago. I sold him a few items. I still have lunch with him occasionally. He's not in mysteries anymore.”

“I know he isn't He's editing Way of Life magazine. One of those fancy new slick jobs that appeal to the would-be affluent”

“Hold it. Hold ill” cried out Trumbull. “This thing's degenerating. Let's go back to the questioning.”

“Now wait,” said Stellar, waving his hand at Trumbull in clear annoyance. “I've been asked a question as to whether everything I write sees print and I want to answer that because it brings up something I'm pretty sore about and would like to get off my chest.”

“I think he's within his rights there, Tom,” said Avalon.

“Well, go head, then,” said Trumbull discontentedly, “but don't take forever.”

Stellar nodded with a sort of grieved impatience and said, “I met Bercovich at some formal party. I don't even remember the occasion for it, or very much who was involved. But I remember Bercovich because we did some business as a result. I was there with Gladys, my wife, and Bercovich was there with his wife and there were maybe eight other couples. It was an elaborate thing.

“In fact, it was very elaborate, and deadly. It was formal. It wasn't black tie; they stopped short of that; but it was formal. The serving was slow; the food was bad; the conversation was constipated. I hated it —Listen, Manny, what do you think of Bercovich?”

Rubin shrugged. “He's an editor. That limits his good points, but I've known worse. He's not an idiot.”

“He isn't? Well, I must admit that at the time he seemed all right I had vaguely heard of him, but he knew me, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” said Rubin, twirling his empty brandy glass.

“Well, he did,” said Stellar indignantly. “It's the whole point of the story that he knew me, or he wouldn't have asked me for an article. He came up to me after dinner and told me that he read my stuff and that he admired it, and I nodded and smiled. Then he said, 'What do you think of the evening?'

“I said cautiously, 'Oh well, sort of slow,' because for all I knew he was the hostess' lover and I didn't want to be needlessly offensive.

“And he said, I think it's a bomb. It's too formal and that doesn't fit the American scene these days.' Then he went on to say, 'Look, I'm editor of a new magazine, Way of Life, and I wonder if you couldn't write us an article on formality. If you could give us, say, twenty-five hundred to three thousand words, that would be fine. You could have a free hand and take any approach you want, but be lighthearted.'

“Well, it sounded interesting and I said so, and we discussed price a little, and I said I would try and he asked if I could have it in his office within three weeks, and I said maybe. He seemed very anxious.”

Rubin said, “When was all this?”

“Just about two years ago.”

“Uh-huh. That was about when the magazine started. I look at it occasionally. Very pretentious and not worth the money. I didn't see your article, though.”

Stellar snorted. “Naturally you haven't.”

“Don't tell me you didn't write it,” said Gonzalo.

“Of course I wrote it. I had it in Bercovich's office within a week. It was a very easy article to do and it was good. It was lightly satirical and included several examples of stupid formality at which I could fire my shots. In fact, I even described a dinner like the one we had.”

“And he rejected it?” asked Gonzalo.

Stellar glared at Gonzalo. “He didn't reject it. I had a check in my hands within another week.”

“Well then,” said Trumbull impatiently, “what's all this about?”

“He never printed it,” shouted Stellar. “That idiot has been sitting on it ever since, for nearly two years. He hasn't published it; he hasn't even scheduled it.”

“So what,” said Gonzalo, “as long as he's paid for it?”

Stellar glared again. “You don't suppose a one-time sale is all I'm after, do you? I can usually count on reprints here and there for additional money. And then I publish collections of my articles; and I can't include that one until it's published.”

“Surely,” said Avalon, “the money involved is not very important.”

“No,” admitted Stellar, “but it's not utterly unimportant either. Besides, I don't understand why the delay. He was in a hurry for it. When I brought it in he slavered. He said, 'Good, good. I'll be able to get an artist on it right away and there'll be time to do some strong illustrations.' And then nothing happened. You would think he didn't like it; but if he didn't like it, why did he buy it?”

Halsted held up his coffee cup for a refill and Henry took care of it. Halsted said, “Maybe he only bought it to buy your good will, so to speak, and make sure you would write other articles for him, even though the one you wrote wasn't quite good enough.”

Stellar said, “Oh no. . . . Oh no. . . . Manny, tell these innocents that editors don't do that. They never have the budget to buy bad articles in order to buy good will. Besides, if a writer turns out bad articles you don't want his good will. And what's more, you don't earn good will by buying an article and burying it”

Trumbull said, “All right, Mr. Stellar. We listened to your story and you'll note I didn't interrupt you. Now, why did you tell it to us?”

“Because I'm tired of brooding over it. Maybe one of you can figure it out Why doesn't he publish it? —Manny, you said you used to sell him. Did he ever hold up anything of yours?”

“No,” said Manny, after a judicious pause. “I can't recall that he did. —Of course, he's had a bad time.”

“What kind of a bad time?”

“This dinner took place two years ago, you said, so that was his first wife you met him with. She was an older woman, wasn't she, Mort?”

Stellar said, “I don't remember her. That was the only time we ever met.”

“If it was his second wife, you'd remember. She's about thirty and very good-looking. His first wife died about a year and a half ago. She'd been ill a long time, it turned out, though she'd done her best to hide it and I never knew, for instance. She had a heart attack and it broke him up. He went through quite a period there.”

“Oh! Well, I didn't know about that. But even so, he's married again, right?”

“Sometime last year, yes.”

“And she's a good-looking person and he's consoled. Right?”

“The last time I saw him, about a month ago—just in passing—he looked all right.”

“Well then,” said Stellar, “why is he still holding out?”

Avalon said thoughtfully, “Have you explained to Mr. Bercovich the advantages of having your article published?”

Stellar said, “He knows the advantages. He's an editor.”

“Well then,” said Avalon, just as thoughtfully, “it may be that on second reading he found some serious flaw and feels it is not publishable as it stands. Perhaps he's embarrassed at having bought it and doesn't know how to approach you.”

Stellar laughed but without humor. “Editors don't get embarrassed and they're not afraid to approach you. If he found something wrong on second reading, he'd have called me and asked for a revision. I've been asked for revisions many times.”

“Do you revise when they ask for it?” said Gonzalo.

“I told you. . . . Sometimes, when it sounds reasonable,” said Stellar.

James Drake nodded as though that were the answer he would have expected and said, “And this editor never asked for any revision at all?”

“No,” said Stellar explosively, and then almost at once he added, “Well, once! One time when I called him to ask if it were scheduled—I was getting pretty edgy about it by then— he asked if it would be all right if he cut it a little, because it seemed diffuse in spots. I asked where the hell it was diffuse in spots, because I knew it wasn't, and he was vague and I was just peeved enough to say, no, I didn't want a word touched. He could print as it was or he could send it back to me.”

“And he didn't send it back to you, I suppose,” said Drake.

“No, he didn't. Damn it, I offered to buy it back. I said, 'Send it back, Joel, and I'll return the money.' And he said, 'Oh, come, Mort, that's not necessary. I'm glad to have it in my inventory even if I don't use it right away.' Damn fool. What good does it do either him or me to have it in his inventory?”

“Maybe he's lost it,” said Halsted, “and doesn't want to admit it”

“There's no reason not to admit it,” said Stellar. “I've got a carbon; two carbons, in fact Even if I wanted to keep the carbons—and they come in handy when it's book time— it's no problem these days to get copies made.”

There was a silence around the table, and then Stellar's brow furrowed and he said, “You know, he did ask once if I had a carbon copy. I don't remember when. It was one of the more recent times I called him. He said, 'By the way, Mort, do you have a carbon copy?'—just like that, 'By the way,' as if it were an afterthought. I remember thinking he was an idiot; does he expect a man of my experience not to have a carbon copy? I had the notion, then, that he was getting round to saying he had mislaid the manuscript, but he never said a word of the kind. I said that I had a carbon copy and he let the subject drop.”

“Seems to me,” said Trumbull, “that all this isn't worth the trouble you're taking.”

“Well, it isn't,” said Stellar, “but the thing bothers me. I keep careful files of my articles; I've got to; and this one has been in the 'to be published' file for so long I can recognize the card by the fact that its edges are dark from handling. It's a sort of irritation. —Now why did he ask me if I had a carbon copy? If he'd lost the manuscript, why not say so? And if he hadn't lost it, why ask about the carbon?”