translate to arabic:"walking around Wall Street during the weekend, one gets the
impression that the world’s affairs have been settled once and for
all, that the age of work is finally over and that humanity has
moved on to its next stage.
Bevel disliked the excitement of downtown Manhattan on workdays.
Because he avoided his office during the week, he often had his closest
people come in on Saturday morning so he could catch up with paperwork
undisturbed. He had asked to see me after one of those quiet work sessions at
his office. There was something buoyant about him.
I handed him my latest pages, all about Mildred—her life at home, the first
pronounced symptoms of her illness and how her health compelled her to
host concerts at home. I dwelled at length on her sophisticated,
uncompromising taste that favored radically modern artists.
“Yes. Good. The domestic passages really do capture Mrs. Bevel. A few
remarks, though. These paragraphs about Mildred’s experimental,
untraditional ideas about music need to go.” He crossed out half a page. “We
wouldn’t want anyone to believe she was arrogant or affected. Keep it
simple. Make her love of the arts approachable for the common reader.”
I would receive similar directives over the course of the following weeks.
With each crossed-out paragraph or toned-down sentence my sense of
betrayal deepened.
“We ought to convey Mildred’s lovely softness with a bit more emphasis. I
do realize that ‘softness’ and ‘emphasis’ may seem like contradictory terms.
But truly, that’s where the focus ought to be. Her delicate nature. Her frailty.
Her kindness.”“Of course. Perhaps you have a few stories about her that illustrate this.”
“Oh, I think you’d do a much better job.”
I did not repress a perplexed look.
“Why, with that delicate touch of yours I’m sure you’ll strike the right
tone.”
“Thank you. But if you could provide me with a few examples showing
Mrs. Bevel’s warmth and kindness. Small everyday stories, as usually the
most . . .”
“Exactly right: some small everyday stories. You should impress on the
reader her exquisite sensibility and how her artistic inclinations suffused
every aspect of our domestic life. Regrettably, I’ve never had much time for
books and recitals myself, so I’m unable to provide extensive details. But,
again, this is for the best: we wouldn’t want our readers to think she was
pretentious or, heaven forbid, a snob. Which, of course, she wasn’t. And we
most certainly don’t want any artistic eccentricities that could be taken for
some sort of . . . mania.” He paused to make sure the implications and
importance of this registered with me. “Make it homey. As a woman, you’ll
do a far better job painting that picture. I’ll review the pages once you’re
done, naturally.”
This time I did my best to conceal my absolute confusion.
“Before we begin I must share a piece of excellent news.” He rearranged
himself in his seat. “After long negotiations I’ve finally taken Mr. Vanner’s
slanderous book out of circulation. Because it’s a novel, my case for libel and
defamation was dismissed. I attempted a friendly approach first, but neither
Mr. Vanner nor his publisher would accept my generous offer for his
contract. Yesterday, however, after protracted discussions whose details
you’d only find tedious, I managed to acquire a controlling stake in his
publishing house. Mr. Vanner’s book shall remain in print forever, which
means his contract with my newly acquired publishing house will never
lapse.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“As long as the book sells, Mr. Vanner will be bound to his current
contract. And sell it shall. Because I will buy every single copy of every printrun. And pulp them all.”
There did not seem to be a correct reaction or response to this.
“What if he writes another book or exposes this?”
“He may write as many books or articles as he wishes. But I can assure
you that no publisher or editor in this town (or in London, New Delhi or
Sydney, for that matter) will ever touch his work. That is, if he ever finds the
time to write. At the moment he must be overwhelmed with the many
lawsuits my attorneys have been piling on him. We don’t care to win any of
them, of course. But it will be up to him and his lawyers, if he can afford
them, to prove that he isn’t a plagiarist and a fraudster.”
“Isn’t taking the book out of circulation enough?”
His eyes thinned. He let my question linger for a while.
“Could you be implying that my actions are gratuitous?”
I had finally managed to anger him.
“Are you saying, perhaps, that I am moved by spite, revenge or, even
worse, that I am seeking some sort of perverse thrill in cruelty? It seems to
me that you don’t understand what our work here is about. It seems to me
that you don’t understand what any of this is all about.”
“I do.”
“Is that so?”
“Bending and aligning reality.”
At the time, I was not entirely sure if the phrase applied to this situation.
But I did know that most men enjoy hearing themselves quoted.
“Exactly. And reality needs to be consistent. How incongruous would it be
to find traces of Vanner in a world where Vanner never existed?”
For the first time since meeting Andrew Bevel, it occurred to me that I
should be afraid."