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“That was quick,” I mused, sort of recognizing the name.
I had only a vague memory of hiring a Vega Alejo. Though it did ring a bell in the deepest part of my subconscious. It was bound to, not being the sort of name one saw every day. My spelling was almost embarrassing and the structure underlying my sentences even more ESL than usual. I really couldn’t explain it.
My father was French, but one of the few who could speak English well. My mother was from Louisiana and completely bilingual, at least in their version of French. I’d grown up with both and couldn’t quite accord for the distinct French dominance in my speech and writing. It likely had something to do with me spending the first 25 years of my life in France. Environment having even more of an effect than family. I understood English well enough. It was the practice when things tended to fall apart.
I looked back over my letter and her response. She was certainly eager. At my count she had applied for fifteen different projects in the space of five minutes. Taking the shotgun approach, no doubt. Still, it was impressive, and I was pleased with her initiative. The reply I’d sent connected back to her application.
Out of sheer curiosity, I tapped it for a look. Despite her apparent youth, 25 if I had my math correct, Ms. Alejo had a very impressive resume. Not to mention references. No wonder Emmi had suggested I hire her.
The company was being run day-to-day by the assistants. Though all major decisions still came down to me. Under serious advisement, of course. There were times I thought I would have made quite a good politician. I would just need the right people around me to tell me what my opinion was.
The more I read, the more interested I became. There was something about her, even though it was only being communicated through text on a screen, the resonated with me. Peaks of experience as well as gaps. All speaking of a history that was at least interesting, if not tragic.
It was the picture that did it. The photograph that Vega had opted to send with her application.
We couldn’t request it anymore because of the law. Though applicants could do so if they chose. I preferred it when they did. Not for any prurient purpose. I just found it easier to connect with someone when I could see their eyes. Even if they were at a distance. Especially then.
It was a selfie. Done on a phone. An older model going by the slight blurring effect I doubted was intentional. She didn’t have much money. Few people did in those days of sickness and strife. Remote work was an option, but that only went so far. I was even more sure I’d done the right thing.
She needed to be working. Not just for the sake of the economy or her health, but her soul. The need in dark eyes, the desire, going beyond immediate subsistence. She looked like a caged animal. One that had never forgotten the jungle.
Chapter Three - Vega
The tyranny of the blank page was never an issue for me. Others had always filled them in long before I got there. My job as an editor, not a proofreader or a copy editor mind you, was to enter that forest of prose. Trimming and pruning the thickets of text with my honed tools. Shaping the branches to the guidelines and preference of the publishing company. All while keeping the original form intact.
At least as intact as possible. It was not for me to editorialize, despite the name attached to the job. I was an aid to the story, meant to polish what was there, not add my own narratives. Through there seemed to be many who forgot this. Like the jumped-up little toads who re-wrote Bukowski posthumously. An act that surely would have led to him breaking their nose were he still above ground at the time.
My eyes were doing that thing again. Locked on the screen, unable to move by themselves. It was my head that was moving. Running along the lines, before bouncing back, for the beginning of the next. Like an electric typewriter. I’d been told it was creepy, but it had always worked for me.
Not least as a sign that I might have been at it too long and wasn’t balancing properly. Still, no one could blame me for being sucked in. The book I was working on, the one that Hugo had assigned me himself, was one of the most thrilling literary experiences of my life
Considering I’d worked in publishing nearly my entire adult life to that point, that was really saying something.
The prose was lean and visceral, putting me in mind of Hemingway. Yet, with a restrained poetic flourish. The semi-true tale of an umpteenth generation collector and guardian of arcane books. It was left mostly open whether those who come after him, as well as his inventory are rival dealers, occult posers, or something more sinister.
