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“Are you sure?” Sam repeated.
“As sure as I am that Bristol Rovers will never win the Cup.”
“Who are Bristol Rovers?”
“We don’t know each other well enough for me to burden you with their problems,” said Seb as they left the park. “Perhaps given time, a lot of time, I’ll tell you about eleven hopeless men who regularly ruin Saturday afternoons for me,” he added as they reached Fifth Avenue.
* * *
When Harry walked into the offices of the Viking Press, a young woman he recognized was waiting in reception.
“Good morning, Mr. Clifton,” said Harold Guinzburg’s secretary, stepping forward to greet him. He couldn’t help wondering how many authors received this sort of treatment. “Mr. Guinzburg is looking forward to seeing you.”
“Thank you, Kirsty,” said Harry. She led him through to the publisher’s oak-panelled office, adorned with photographs of past and present authors: Hemingway, Shaw, Fitzgerald, and Faulkner. He wondered if you had to die before your picture could be added to the Guinzburg collection.
Despite being nearly seventy, Guinzburg leapt up from behind his desk the moment Harry entered the room. Harry had to smile. Dressed in a three-piece suit and wearing a half-hunter pocket watch with a gold chain, Guinzburg looked more English than the English.
“So how’s my favorite author?”
Harry laughed as they shook hands. “And how many times a week do you greet authors with those words?” he asked as he sank down in the high, buttoned-back leather chair facing his publisher.
“A week?” said Guinzburg. “At least three times a day, sometimes more—especially when I can’t remember their names.” Harry smiled. “However, I can prove it’s true in your case, because after reading William Warwick and the Defrocked Vicar, I’ve decided the first print run will be eighty thousand copies.”
Harry opened his mouth, but didn’t speak. His last William Warwick novel had sold 72,000 copies so he was well aware of the commitment his publisher was making.
“Let’s hope there won’t be too many returns.”
“The advance orders rather suggest that eighty thousand won’t be enough. But forgive me,” Guinzburg said, “first tell me, how is Emma? And was the maiden voyage a triumph? I couldn’t find a mention of it, despite scouring the New York Times this morning.”
“Emma couldn’t be better, and sends her love. At this moment, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s buffing up the brass-work on the bridge. As for the maiden voyage, I have a feeling she’ll be quite relieved there’s no mention of it in the New York Times—although the whole experience may have given me an idea for my next novel.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Not a hope,” replied Harry. “You’ll just have to be patient, which I’m well aware is not your strongest suit.”
“Then let’s hope your new responsibilities won’t cut into your writing schedule. Many congratulations.”
“Thank you. Though I only allowed my name to go forward as president of English PEN for one reason.”
Guinzburg raised an eyebrow.
“I want a Russian called Anatoly Babakov to be released from prison immediately.”
“Why do you feel so strongly about Babakov?” asked Guinzburg.
“If you’d been locked up in prison for a crime you hadn’t committed, Harold, believe me, you’d feel strongly. And don’t forget, I was in an American jail, which frankly is a Holiday Inn compared to a gulag in Siberia.”
“I can’t even remember what Babakov was meant to have done.”
“He wrote a book.”
“That’s a crime in Russia?”
“It is if you decide to tell the truth about your employer, especially if your employer was Josef Stalin.”
“Uncle Joe, I remember,” said Guinzburg, “but the book was never published.”
“It was published but Babakov was arrested long before a copy reached the bookshelves, and after a show trial he was sentenced to twenty years in prison, with no right of appeal.”
