A labour of love

Edward climbed up the last set of stairs. His right kneecap crackled when he flexed the joint under it, and he was breathing heavily. Under his moustache and around his hatband he sweated invisibly. At last he reached the fourth floor landing. He bade his heart slow down, and noticed that his surroundings had, between there and the floor below, become much more ornate: opulent in a faded, wistful way. The colour of the wallpaper was dark, and that of the wood darker. All was illuminated by a solitary, dim lightbulb, hung inside the trappings of what was once a gas mantle. Perhaps this part of the house had been fitted out in some earlier period of affluence, during which the then owner had not cared to make repairs to the rest of it; thus, unprotected, the lower floors had suffered more than this one since.

There were only two doors on the landing. Edward envisioned them leading to tiny dormer rooms, squeezed into the attic space and criss-crossed with beams. He padded as quietly as he could between them to ascertain which one might reveal the object of his quest. One was unmarked and looked long unused: dust on the doorhandle and a plain storecupboard keyhole. The other was more in keeping with the once-proud décor, with brass fittings and a name tag that read:

Mr MARTIN JONATHAN ERIN

Having read this, Edward knocked on the door; too quietly, he felt, and he was about to repeat the manœuvre with more authority when the door was blown inwards as if by a gust of wind. Standing in the opening was a tall, thin gentleman in a suit that seemed to be made entirely of pieces of drainpipe. His head was round and almost bald, with tufts of dark hair over the prominent ears and peeping out from his beak of a nose. His eyes were large, bright blue, and seemed none too pleased at the vision of Edward outside his lodgings.

"Mr Erin?" Edward enquired as politely as the heaves of his chest permitted. Suddenly remembering, he swiped off his hat and held it between his hands.

The figure nodded once, and the gesture carried weight as if it were made from lead and granite. Then Edward's host strode away from the door. Uncertainly, embarrassedly, Edward crossed the threshold and followed him.

Once inside, Edward was certain that the room could hardly have been described as a poky garret. It was instead a glorious penthouse suite, spacious and light. A billiards-green carpet stretched away into the distance, with furniture dotted about as if on a great lawn and spots made golden with sunlight to complete the illusion. A round table, six foot across, was baized with material of the same colour as the carpet, and a few leather chairs were arranged round it. Mr Erin cut across the room to one of those chairs. He sat down suddenly but with restraint, like the blow of a hammer. Next to his seat was a large album, stuffed with postcards of different colours, their dog-ears poking out from the pages. As Edward walked nervously over to join Mr Erin he looked across at high windows leading out onto a patio, and mirrors on the walls enlarging the room to a fearful infinitude. In the distance were three of doors leading, Edward presumed, to Mr Erin's personal rooms: his toilet, perhaps, and his bedroom and kitchen. He sat down opposite the thin man and waited.

Every two seconds a clock ticked, pausing in between like a sickly heart. It must, Edward thought, rest on a mantlepiece so far in the distance that had not even noticed it. There was the distant sound of the cabs and crowds in the street—more muffled even than out on the stairs—the squeak of Mr Erin's shiftings on the leather chair, and Edward's own breathing, now settling. No other noise could be heard, and the moments fell into the silence like drips from a tap.

Suddenly Edward spoke. "Mr Erin," he started, and coughed, and said it again: "Mr Erin, I hope you received my letter of introduction from Markus Dowager." (In one sharp movement Mr Erin picked it up from behind the album, and in another he thrust it back onto the baize.) "He came to me after having received your, uh, manuscript last week. He seemed quite excited, in fact, although in the normal course of events I would prefer not to call Mr Dowager an excitable chap, if you understand me correctly."

Impassively Mr Erin sat straight in his chair, regarding Edward lazily, almost contemptibly. This stare forced Edward to continue.

"In fact, I do believe that your work had a profound and not altogether healthy effect on Mr Dowager's mental constitution. I would state further that such an effect was the intention of your work. Would that be correct, Mr Erin?"

Mr Erin smiled a little, and it brought a sharp glint to his eyes. From his seat Edward could just make out words on the cards, but could not leaven the distant letters with any kind of sense. The smile was not encouraging, but Edward felt that he ought to at least smile back—a joke shared between gentlemen—and made a weak attempt. It gave him time to collect his thoughts and deliver his speech.

"Given the nature of the, uh, effect which your book appears capable of working upon the character of such a man as Mr Dowager, I have come here today, uh, Mr Erin, to offer to promote your book to such a publisher as will be willing to print it for you. I will negotiate competitive royalties for you as the author of this work, and will extract only a modest percentage for myself. With your permission I would like to start immediately on securing rights, engaging typesetters and developing a scheme whereby as widespread a distribution of your book as is possible can be begun."

Edward stopped, triumphant. Mr Erin opened the album, watching the interloper until the last possible second. Then he ran his eyes over the first few pages, and picked out a card which was left loosely in between two of them. It was yellow: in the system of Mr Erin's own devising the colour yellow indicated a query. He held it up towards Edward, who read:

WHY?

It made Edward blink. How unusual! he thought. An author wanting Edward to justify interest in his work? What an easy question to answer! "Oh, Mr Erin!" he cried. "Why? Because it will make money!" he declared gleefully. "What other reason do I require as a literary agent? Mr Dowager tells me that, although Prebin and Pevsner tried their damnedest (pardon my language, sir) to stifle any external reference to the matter, your manuscript drove two of their editors out of their jobs, and one of them is now drinking himself into an early grave. I cannot speculate on why it had such an effect on them, but imagine the interest that might be generated among the public if we reveal, indirectly perhaps, that your book may be dangerous! They would hesitate once, then snatch such a book from our hands as if their lives depended on it. In a world where nothing may be taken for granted, yet I still hope that the success of your book is guaranteed."

Edward was now in his element, painting a picture of the book both in his mind and, by a cunning projection which his salesmanship enabled him to practice, in the minds of all the customers he could see queuing for it at bookshops across the country, if not the world.

"You may have complete faith in my labours, Mr Erin. I foresee very few difficulties in publishing your work, despite its content: in fact, because of it! I hasten to add that I have not read the book myself. Markus advised against it, and from his vague and frankly delirious descriptions of its contents I do not wish to rest my eyes upon its pages.

"But suffice it to say that, as a man of commerce, with knowledge of the market and of Mr Dowager's opinion of the book, there is no need for me to actually read the work before presenting it to the man in the street for his immediate, greedy acquisition. I have, it is true, published many authors' books without having read a single line of print. Such a chore would greatly decrease my enjoyment of the whole enterprise, for I would scarcely consider myself a literary gentleman. If anything a lack of direct knowledge of what is in a book often helps the process of selling it—"

Suddenly, Mr Erin held up another card:

WHOSE?

Whose? Whose books, perhaps, Edward wondered? "I hope you do not mind my presumtion, Mr Erin, in answering the question I believe you to have posed. I have handled a number of clients of both the highest and lowest public esteem, both of these extremeties requiring tremendous discretion. The names of many of these I could not permit myself to speak of, even if I wished to do so: I hope you understand.

"Yet it may impress you to hear that the imminent arrival on the literary scene of the autobiography of a certain Alfred Douglas was in no small part down to my diligent negotiations with a number of publishers. They each eventually agreed to take only the rights in countries in which they felt they had little audience for their existing titles. Hence they would have no popularity to lose should the venture fire a shot back in their faces. I have no doubt that, with careful choice of publisher, we will see your book published in what might be considered no time at all. Indeed, I already have such a publishing house in mind!"

WHICH?

Already Edward had been thoroughly disconcerted by Mr Erin's forthrightness: outright rudeness he might have called it, were Mr Erin not such a poor, pitiable victim of misfortune. The suddenness of each question's appearance made it difficult for Edward to collect his thoughts and answer promptly. Yet he paused to do so, and continued.

"Well, Mr Erin, I cannot imagine Prebin and Pevsner publishing this work under any circumstances. After hearing of the distress that its contents appear to have caused their staff, Lord Prebin himself burned the copy you sent them, I believe. However, I have been able to apply a certain duress on an employee at — & co, a respectable publishing firm, without a doubt. My bond is sufficient with this gentleman that he in turn will convince his employers to request the worldwide copyrights from you, as soon as I report your decision to their secretaries."

Edward shifted in his chair. Mr Erin did not move, but gazed levelly back. With cold, malevolent eyes he took in the whole of Edward, preyed upon him, sizing him up as if for eventual consumption. Edward looked down, losing a small battle by this involuntary action.

"I must warn you, though, Mr Erin," he mumbled, hoping that those saucer ears might not hear. "There may be one area of difficulty in this project that I am proposing."

Mr Erin's eyebrows raised, and his mouth tensed into a line. He shuffled through the small deck on the table, then thrust a card at Edward:

WHAT?

Edward sighed. It would have to be spoken of sooner or later, and perhaps this way he might enter into a contract of greater solidity with Mr Erin. Better, too, that he deliver the news as downcast as he dared, so that the deliverance that he had already planned and set in motion might seem all the more impressive.

"The censors, Mr Erin. They will hear of your book and may attempt to have it banned before even the advanced publicity appears in the newspapers." He looked down at his hands again for a moment. "Nonetheless, it may be that we might in a sense avoid the circuitous route which approval must normally take, and quickly secure the permission at least to publish immediately, and this would propel us forwards until the hullaballoo (which I have no doubt will follow the first sales of your book) forces the authorities to take further action against you."

HOW?

"As with my debtor in — & co, there exist men in the censors' office whom I have to some extent tamed, over the years, by means of reciprocal favours. Some of them served with me in the last war. While I cannot guarantee the long-term safety of your book from the tearing, senseless hands of the censors—not in the United Kingdom, at least—I can nonetheless see that its copies reach the shelves, and leap from them, before Lady Justice grinds round to your spot on the great wheel. In the interim, with a botched-together approval from their department, your work will enter the marketplace unhindered. And the publicity will guarantee sales from abroad, such as they can be managed, for years to come."

Edward was about to continue to speak, but then thought better of it and closed his mouth. Mr Erin saw Edward's confusion, but did nothing. To bridge the silence would have been difficult, so dependent was Mr Erin on his reams of coloured cards. By such time as Mr Erin might finish piecing together a consolation, Edward might want to speak again. And, besides, Mr Erin felt a cool loathing for Edward. It was but a splinter of the great beam of misanthropy that Mr Erin had carried across his shoulders all his life, an upwelling of poisonous spite in his bosom that he dammed and reserved for his own purposes, in the absence of anything else upon which to dote. If Edward were having difficult with words, then let him. While his guest struggled, Mr Erin cast his inward eye across those phonemes and lexemes of which he had been bereft all his life. As a baby he had never cried. So let his garrulous guest stumble over something so minuscule and so enormous as a sentence!

Edward ceased faltering abruptly, and burst out, turning red with embarrassment: "Mr Erin. I would not refer to the matter were it not for the peculiar content of the book. Will you... that is to say, do you wish to publish this work under a pseudonym?"

Mr Erin leapt for a card of a similar hue to Edward's blushes: a decision.

NO.

"You surprise me a little, Mr Erin. You are aware of the negative publicity that will be generated by this work in certain quarters, notwithstanding its undoubtable success in others? Some will doubtless find your work repellent: artistically, morally, in content or form. We will of course attempt to manipulate such apparently adverse publicity, but... would you not prefer some distance between yourself and the hoi polloi that would doubtless react aversely to the fruit of your intellectual loins?"

NO.

Edward sighed. "Very well, sir. Well, with your agreement, I will begin negotiations immediately, and see to it that you are published as soon as is humanly possible."

WHEN?

"If you're willing to let us use the uncorrected proofs—I would suggest that this is the wisest course of action, given what Mr Dowager feels is the nature of your work—then we can probably begin communicating with the typesetters within the next few days."

WHO?

"Well... I feel it would be better for us to employ a couple of firms working on alternate pages; Mr Dowager has, without really realizing it, I fear, assured me that such a ruse should avoid either gentleman from becoming—shall we say?—overexcited by the book. The typographical eccentricities demonstrated by a number of authors recently have established a precedent for almost any curiosity we dare to visit upon the setters. We can tell each body of men that the book is intended to have only odd or even pages, and I dare say they will believe it with not a raised eyebrow between them."

WHERE?

"Do you know, Mr Erin, that's a very good point!" Edward became animated, as if Mr Erin's monosyllabic communications comprised genuine interest in the plan he had brought before him. "I had not considered the location of the companies, but I suggest our plan might be made optimal by placing one half of the book with a company here in the city, and perhaps the other with one of the great printers in Germany or Italy. I know a team at Mannheutium-Verlag that will be the very model of discretion. I will contact them directly.

"So, Mr Erin. Do I have your consent to act as your agent in this matter?"

Edward waited. As he cleared his throat, to repeat the question, Mr Erin suddenly breathed in through the caverns of his nose. From the table in front of him there was a flash of brick-red.

YES.

Relief flooded through Edward's body, not least because the interview had been successful. Despite the great space in the room he had begun to feel as if he were in the smallest of cupboards, cramped by brooms, buckets and other household implements into an uncomfortable and unsustainable position. He passed over a contract which was autographed rather than signed before being returned to him. At this point Edward rose from the chair with a longing to stretch his legs, and formulated such farewells as were appropriate for his new client, the terrible, mute Mr Erin.

But his host raised a hand, and half-pointed his forefinger at the ceiling. Attend, the gesture said to Edward. For his part Edward was fearful of jeopardizing the agreement, even now. Though the contract was signed it was for complicated legal reasons not entirely binding. There was still the possibility of failure for Edward. He therefore paused, as respectfully as he could, in his leave-taking.

Though standing right before him, Edward receded in Mr Erin's great, feverish brain. Still seated, this freakish figure took up the album, laid it in his lap, and began turning its pages. The cards he used most were loose, and slid towards the spine as he leafed through; the rare words were held in place by the cutouts intended for photographs. Rarer still were the later words, those least visited by Mr Erin's questing, pinching fingers.

He read each word quickly, piling them on top of each other in his mind. They compressed under the weight of their own meaning into a dense mass of nonsensical sense. These powerful words that others flung around like juvenile kisses: he of all people had collected all of them together and distilled their mortifying knowledge into his opus. Only he understood the power of what he could not himself possess. And now he would have his revenge, he knew, on the noise and the mockery that had taunted him and eluded him since he first saw the dirty light of the world. He would wrap this verbiage around in itself and squeeze it into a rock so hard that it would dash out the brains of all who charged against it....

As he came to the end of the book, Mr Erin saw that one card had been hidden behind another, pinned together by the corners on the very back page, the least visited page, of his album. A phrase doubly, triply rare, then! He pulled away the card in front and read what had been uncovered on its blue background: blue, he remembered, meant an interjection. Mr Erin could not remember when last he used this phrase, but suddenly it had acquired some meagre relevance in his woeful life; even in the presence of this man who disgusted him. And so, smiling grimly, he plucked the card from its mount and held it up for Edward to see.

THANK YOU.