The End of the Book (18 page)

“We have an excellent theater, and I could introduce you to some of the writers in the Little Room. Quite a literary scene is coming together in Chicago, and Jane is a major part of it.”

George asked what days Helen was at Hull House, and she said Thursdays and Fridays, sometimes on weekends. As they were preparing to part ways, a man a few years younger than George, Teutonic and blond, with a wide gap between his front teeth, passed through the room and touched Helen on the shoulder. “I'm running low again,” he said, not stopping for introductions.

“How low?” Helen called after him.

“I could use fifty loaves, if it's not too much trouble.” He waved and said, “You're a jewel,” then made his hasty way out of the room.

“That's the baker, Stefan. He's overworked, so I've arranged to have some restaurants donate their extra bread.”

George considered admitting that he'd seen her at Henrici's but thought better of it. Instead, he wished her well, said he hoped to catch her again sometime. “How many from our town end up in a megalopolis like this? The ones who leave ought to stick together.”

“I know what you mean.” That shadow of melancholy crept over her face again.

Before turning to leave, he said, “Today is my twenty-ninth birthday.

Can you believe how old we've become?”

“Speak for yourself, George Willard.” Helen took his hand then gave it back to him. “Happy birthday, all the same.”

Back at home that evening, George was greeted with a surprise. Margaret had hired a string trio to play just for the two of them, and had borrowed Nettie McCormick's chef to lay out a dinner fit for crowned heads. Course after course arrived—broiled squab and supreme of guinea fowl, asparagus tips and Paris Sugar Corn, Russian caviar and a raft of imported cheeses, Golden Gate peaches and chocolat blancmange. After dinner the string trio took their leave, the servers retired to the kitchen to clean up, and Margaret led George to the parlor, where she unveiled a brand-new stereopticon and a set of slides of paintings from the Louvre.

“We can't let another summer pass without a trip to Europe.” She kissed his cheek and peered into the viewfinder. “You can look at the
Mona Lisa
every day without leaving the house, but in nine months we could be standing this close to da Vinci's own hand.”

“I can only imagine,” George said.

“You don't have to imagine. We can go. Promise me you won't reach thirty without seeing Europe?”

In fact, George had never been farther east than Cleveland, farther west than the Union Stockyards. “The world has come here,” he said. “We're becoming a great cultural center.”

“You needn't be so provincial.”

“What about work? I can't just drop everything and set sail for a month or two.”

“Father won't mind.” Margaret changed a slide in the magic lantern and urged George to peer into it: a large group scene of men and women in red, yellow, and blue garments in an ancient open courtyard.

“Veronese's
Wedding Feast at Cana
. You should see what an enormous canvas it is. It would take up the entire wall of our living room,” Margaret said. “Some of the trip could be business. You could meet prospective clients in Paris, help grow the agency overseas. Who knows? If all goes well, we could live there for a while.”

Lazar would never let George do such a thing. If he were to ask, Lazar might say it's a fine idea, but he'd send Kennison instead. George never confided in his wife his frustrations at work, and though Margaret must have known, must have heard details from her mother, they rarely talked about the office. It was the horse in the corner.

Then again, Margaret did have a talent for getting her way, and her father spoiled her. Perhaps she could convince Lazar to make an arrangement overseas. George's arc at the agency was on the descent, so what harm would it do? He could start over, in Paris of all places. What would people back home think of him then? What would Helen White think?

She wouldn't be impressed, he decided. She'd think he'd lost his way. It was when he put on airs this afternoon that she gave him a certain look—of having seen through him, of disappointment, perhaps. He couldn't go to Paris. What good would it do him to idle about European capitals and depend on his wife to translate the language and customs? He wasn't a college man, wasn't born to be a gentleman of leisure. He was George Willard of Winesburg, Ohio.

“Well, I love the stereopticon. It's a beautiful gift,” he said. “And you can tell Nettie McCormick that we're keeping her chef. I've never had such a meal!”

“I'm not letting you off the hook yet. I mean it about Paris.” Margaret put another slide on the plate:
Bathsheba at Her Bath
, Rembrandt's painting of the famous nude, King David at her feet. “I intend to go back to Europe at least once more before we fill this house with children. And I shall need an escort.”

He knew she would keep pressing if he didn't make some gesture toward a promise. “Paris. Next summer. Okay, then,” he said. “And speaking of culture—I heard the most astonishing violin recital today.” He went on to talk about stumbling upon a prodigy at Hull House while taking a client on a city tour. “And of all the coincidences, I ran into a schoolmate from back home in the bargain. She helps coordinate some of their arts programs.”

George hadn't meant to bring up Helen, nor had he expected that Margaret would be familiar with the settlement's theater. But to his surprise she brightened. “You know someone at Hull House?” she said. “I've been wanting to see a play there since college. Everyone says they have the best little theater in the city.”

“Why did you never go?” George asked.

Margaret brushed her curls from her temples, her bracelet sliding down her arm. “For a visit to that neighborhood I would need a bodyguard.”

“It's not that bad. We could have Virgil drive us,” George said. “If you'd like, I can find out what's on.”

That week he intended to buy tickets but was mortified to discover that the current play was George Bernard Shaw's comedy
The Philanderer
. He wondered if this was some devilish sign that he should abandon the thought of ever seeing Helen White again, but he chose to dismiss the idea—he had done nothing wrong—and continued to check the papers for the next production.

Meantime, his work life had grown ever more unpleasant. Lazar broke the news that Kennison was taking over the Nuvolia contract. Tidy Town was officially retired, shuttered like Hindman's Harness Shop in Winesburg, its moment eclipsed.

George demanded an explanation, and Lazar said it was time for
Prove They Need It
.

“What's the campaign?” George asked.

“We have an entirely new approach here, if you haven't noticed. The trick is to introduce a problem and then go about demonstrating that your product is the solution,” Lazar said. “Clyde talked to some doctors and found a dozen bacteria that cause body odor. The one with the best ring to it was bromhidrosis. We'll make a big fuss about the evils of this chronic condition, bacteria that emanate from the skin. We'll say that millions don't even realize they're suffering from it. And then we'll provide the remedy.
Nuvolia: the Bromhidrosis-Fighting Soap
.”

George thought this would never work, but over time he would be proven spectacularly wrong. Within a year Kennison would bring Nuvolia back to second place, and within three years the brand would reclaim the top position. For now, George refused to believe that such a dull campaign could ever succeed. “I guess we'll see,” was all he said, resignedly.

“We're lucky even to keep Nuvolia,” Lazar added. “Do you want to tell me what you were thinking on your ill-begotten tour? Richard Trumbull did not come to Chicago to visit the slums or be converted to socialism.”

“I thought he had a perfectly decent time.”

“You thought wrong.”

“Should I have taken him to the slaughterhouses?” George asked.

“Our job as advertisers is to give people what they want. If we don't agree with what they want and try to force our beliefs on them, we doom ourselves to failure,” Lazar said. “Our industry is changing. You can lead, or fall behind. That is up to you.”

As 1906 wound to a close, George felt increasingly that he had no choice, that he was washed up at twenty-nine. He had lost his major client, and the campaigns that fell to him were for local businesses or products on the verge of obsolescence: cylinder records, straight-front corsets, patent medicines. He did manage to keep his office, he still had a place at the conference table, but Kennison and his adjutants ran the show.

Brought low by the situation at work, George hadn't checked the papers to see what was on at Hull House since noting a puppet show and children's operetta that had played in November. But soon after the New Year an article appeared in the
Chicago Daily News
about a new book Jane Addams had written, calling for peace in a troubled time. This sent George to the entertainment listings, where he found that a play had recently opened at Hull House:
Odysseus in Chicago
, a three-week run with an all-Greek cast that critics were raving about. He brought the reviews home, Margaret said she would love to go, and on a frigid night in early February 1907, a Thursday, one of the days when Helen would likely be working, George and Margaret set out for the theater on the dodgy side of town.

Ravenous Bookstore & Café sat at the end of a stretch of boutiques and restaurants on Armitage, the main shopping avenue in Lincoln Park. It was more café than bookstore, with a clutch of tables in the middle, floor-to-ceiling shelves along the left wall, and on the right a huge mural of a raven on the shoulder of an especially unflattering likeness of Edgar Allan Poe. Lucy had arrived before me, and she was standing at the shelves in profile, one of only a couple of browsers. She wore a slim-fitting lilac dress and her hair loose, tumbling in a sandy sheen to her arms. She'd told me she was working from home today, so I tried to make sense of why she'd dressed down for our first meeting and up for this one.

“What are you reading?” I asked as I approached.

She smiled and gave me a quick hug, then turned the book so I could see the cover:
Jane Addams and the Struggle for Democracy
. “The Press published it a couple years ago. Have you read it?”

“I've been woefully behind on reading,” I said. “But I did drive by Hull House yesterday. Does that count?”

“No—and you're missing out. Jane Addams was incredible, one of the great women of the century. And a surprisingly good writer, too. That combination of thinker and doer is so rare.” She pressed the book into my hands. “I'm buying it for you.”

“Lucy—”

But she was already on her way to the register, pulling her wallet from her purse.

“Let me,” I said.

“I insist. Now aren't I a model employee—supporting the company's books?”

When we sat down for lunch, I couldn't help saying, “I have a good job, you know.” Lucy had always paid for everything, wouldn't have it otherwise, and when I used to tell her I wasn't a starveling, she would bristle and say
There are worse sins than generosity
. “I work at Imego.” I came out with it, because she was going to find out one way or another.

“I thought you were a proud Luddite. I don't remember your taking computer science.”

“Actually, I'm on the books project. I was going to tell you, but I thought you might never speak to me again.”

She sat back in her chair and gave me a look that said
If this is a hoax, I'm on to you
. But I held her gaze long enough for her to realize I wasn't kidding. She asked how I got the job, and I told the whole story about Dhara and Lakeside and how I wound up, almost accidentally, at one of the world's wealthiest and most ambitious companies.

“Well, this is surprising news,” she said.

“I guess we're on opposite sides of the table.”

“Yes, I'm here and you're there.” Lucy's neck flushed red. “And apparently I'm David and you're Goliath.”

“We're not out to kill each other.” I picked up a menu and cast my eyes over the list of sandwiches. “Imego and publishers just signed a settlement agreement, right?”

“And a lousy agreement it was,” she said. “We're looking at a future where a single company could control all the world's books. All the pricing, all the distribution. If the Internet is killing print publishing, Imego is robbing its grave.”

I made an effort to appease her. “You know, we've had a slowdown at work. Libraries are nervous.”

“That won't last long. How many books have you scanned so far?”

So much for appeasement. “Close to ten million.” I slid Lucy her menu, but she left it on the table.

“And what about copyright? Why should U. Chicago and other presses do all the work of finding writers, editing their manuscripts, managing their neuroses, and bringing good books into the world, only to have Imego copy them and rake in the proceeds?”

“Most of the ten million are orphaned or in the public domain,” I pointed out.

“But some are not, and that's troubling, especially since Imego's idea of fair use is pretty much the entire text.”

“When you search, you can only read a snippet,” I corrected her. “You have to pay for the rest.”

“Again, why is the book yours in the first place?”

“Because Imego undertook one of the craziest, most daunting tasks in the history of civilization,” I said. “No one else was going to do it.”

“If I had twenty billion dollars to burn, I would have. But I'd partner with publishers and writers, not screw them.” She picked up her menu, tapped it on the table, and put it down. “You're a writer, Adam. Aren't you worried about how your books will be published?”