End of the Jews (24 page)

At first, he'd judged the comment by the person, trusted the professors he liked, the kids whose writing he respected. But good writers weren't always good readers, and vice versa, and a better system soon imposed itself. The criticisms you had to pay attention to were those that made you feel as if you'd been kicked in the gut by a Budweiser Clydesdale. If it hurt, it was true. And when Tris opened the mailer from his agent and read the photocopied
Publishing Preview
review inside, the truth of it reached up and slapped him starry-eyed.

The pain was immediate, but just what had inflicted it proved harder to determine. There was the truth of
this book is not going to conquer the world
, the truth of
no PEN/Hemingway First Novel Award for me
, the truth of
I have just been publicly dismissed, and casually at that
. The truth of
Grandpa will see this.
And then there was the possible truth skulking just outside Tris's peripheral vision: that all of the above was instant, brain-generated spin control, intended to distract him from the review itself, from an opinion he could not discount and still be honest with himself.

That discomfiting suspicion has yet to be fully unpacked. Tris has been busy. He's given decently-to-sparsely attended readings in five East Coast cities and made sure to sign the store's entire stock each time, thus rendering the copies unreturnable. He's watched his Amazon.com sales rank level off in the mid six figures, meaning there is literally a warehouse full of titles that have outsold his. He's read and reread his on-line reader reviews and waited in vain for somebody to post one besides Zone and his remaining grad-school buddy, Kat. Glowed for a whole day when a third review, complimentary, finally appeared, only to be sick to his stomach when a fourth, long and scathing, borderline vindictive, materialized out of cyberspace like an enemy battleship and neutralized the first three.

He's done a handful of radio phoners from his apartment, over the carnal woofing of the pit bulls. The questions never quite focus on his book: How did Tris get into hip-hop? Was it difficult to write African-American characters? Did he introduce his grandfather to the world of graffiti he writes about so masterfully in
Rage
? A mellifluous-toned black guy from a talk station in Baltimore is the only one who seems to have read past
Contents'
cover flaps and press kit.

The impotent fury of three months ago has dulled into a dreary, wounded stasis. In an effort to tap into the hard vein of comeback-kid resolve he can feel throbbing somewhere deep inside, Tris has decided a few things:

1. His book is not as good as he thought.

2. While it is far from perfect, the critical blows he's taken have mostly been unfair, caustic, and lazy. He's a victim of narrow-minded, complacent racists who think they're liberal, and their bullshit identity politics.

3. This is a war, and it's not over.

4. Writing three more books about hip-hop is not going to make him win—in fact, they may not even be published.

Marty Hammerman, when he punches up the sales figures, tells Tris as much. “It's not a disaster,” he says in his dour, nasal voice. Marty's squeezing a stress ball in one pudgy fist and sporting a phone headset with a wraparound microphone, as if he's about to play Madison Square Garden and needs his hands free for the dance routines. This despite the fact that he told his latest almost-pretty blond assistant, as she ushered Tris into his office, to hold all calls. Perhaps he'll wear the thing to his lunch date later on. Marty has never taken Tris to lunch.

“You've sold about five thousand; call it four when the returns come in. Figure the same for the paperback, knock on wood, and…” Marty removes an oversized calculator from his desk drawer and taps at the keys. “Well, you're not gonna earn out.” He shrugs. “Look, it was never a very commercial book. The reviews coulda been better, but hey, at least you got some. Even a bad review can sell books. Gotta have thick skin about it. Besides, most of them say something positive—even that obnoxious fuckin'
Times
short; there's a sentence we can use for the paperback.”

Marty reclines in his ergonomic chair, crosses his little Tyrannosaurus rex arms behind his head. “So whatchu working on?”

“Well—”

“Ya gotta change direction. You know that.”

“Okay. You're fired.”

“Funny. Maybe that's it. You could do funny. You're a funny guy. But—” Marty points a finger at him—“no more hip-hop. That's dead in the water. Ya got burned, ya learned not to touch the stove. Right?”

“I could kill you right now,” Tris says. “I could pull you across this desk and strangle you with the phone cord before anybody stopped me.” The beauty of Marty, if any, is that you can say whatever you want to him. He doesn't give a shit.

“But you won't. Look, do something different. Take a risk. You're good with dialogue. Do a crime thing. Do the big epic family novel. You've got the talent for it. I can get you money for that, if there's enough sex.”

“How's Scarsdale?”

Marty and his budding family have recently abandoned Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, in favor of a return to the suburb from whence he and his wife came. It's like evolution in reverse. Tris imagines a prehistoric Marty Hammerman lizard turning around and slithering back into a sludgy ocean.

“You know what I did this weekend? Cleaned my gutters. Took both days. Home ownership's a pain in the freakin' ass, my friend.”

“At least your kids will grow up around other WASPs.”

The business part of the meeting is over, if it ever started. They will now insult each other for fifteen minutes, maybe talk some baseball. On the way out, Marty claps his client on the back and, unable to resist, tosses off his usual crass, half-assed come-on about Tris's grandfather.

“So how's the old man? He happy over there at Gromley? Thinking of moving at all? You tell him what a stand-up guy your agent is?”

“I tell my grandfather the truth.” Tris steps aboard the idling elevator.

“Go do some work,” Marty barks back as the doors close, aiming a little thumb-and-finger pistol at him. Tris nods, points one back. The doors close.

“Bang.” He blows smoke from the barrel, holsters his gun.

Back home, the answering machine's message light is struggling to be seen through a thick blanket of dust. Speak of the devil: it's Tristan. Tristan never calls.

Unlike most members of his generation, the old man has no problem talking to machines; they allow him to soliloquize in private. “I call to present you with an opportunity of a singular nature,” he says. “My old friend Albert needs some assistance this week, down at the Blue Note. I told him you might be available. His wife will call.” A pause. “I strongly advise you to accept. Just what the doctor ordered.”

Tris waits for more, but that's it. Dead air, then a beep, and then a woman with a strong Japanese accent is speaking.

“Hello, Tristan. This Mariko Van Horn. Grandfather tell me you can work this week. Fantastic! We see you no later than seven-fifteen, okay? Blue Note. Corner Sixth Avenue and Third Street. I see you seven-fifteen. Thank you, Tristan. Good-bye.”

Tris sinks onto his bed. Well, there it is. Fait accompli. Seven-fifteen, yes ma'am. He's got no control over anything anyway, so he might as well be useful to somebody.

Just what the doctor ordered
, huh? For what ailment? Failure? Lack of talent? Acute internal bleeding, hoof-shaped abdominal bruises?

This taking-inspiration-from-the-raw-black-stuff-of-life bullshit might have been acceptable in 1930-whatever, might have opened up the old man's eyes when he was some blank canvas of a kid, but that time is long gone. Screw Tristan and his Wise Negro Jazzman home remedies; why haven't the media come at
him
with snide insinuations that he's part of some tradition of awestruck voyeurism, savvy exploitation? Just thinking about that shit makes Tris want to rip out somebody's vocal cords and strum them like a banjo.

It is he, though, who's been rendered dumb. Kicking some self-justifying résumé,
I been down since I was eight, hip-hop flows through my fuckin' veins, I paid mad dues,
would only bring the case against him into sharper focus. Tris could have been standing behind the turntables with DJ Kool Herc in the 1520 Sedgwick Avenue community center in 1973, and it wouldn't matter. He'd still have to adorn his opinions with the same stupid disclaimer about how, sure, as a white boy there may be certain things he doesn't understand, can't understand, would never claim to understand. As soon as he says it, they've got him: he's invalidated himself. They get him every time, even in the arguments that play out in his head.

It's barely three o'clock, but there's no point in haunting the two rooms of his apartment, so Tris hoofs it back down Fulton Street and grabs the train. Everyone on board is reading; none of them is reading his book. He imagines what he'll do when it finally happens: sit down opposite the woman (it's a woman) and wait until she glances up, sees him, furrows her brow, flips the book over to check his face against the brooding author photo, flushes with excitement, comes over. He'll pretend it happens all the time. Whenever he rides the subway.

Jesus H. Christ, why is he even thinking this shit? Sometimes Tris wants to punch himself right in the fucking brain. How long is he going to pretend he hasn't failed? More to the point, when is he going to get his act together and do something to change the fact?

By 5:30, the Village is bereft of diversions. He's wandered in and out of record stores and head shops, avoided bookstores, copped a slice of pizza, lingered on the outskirts of the throng watching the basketball game through the chain-link fence around the court at Waverly. Thought too late of seeing a movie, walked by the theater anyway and confirmed that there is nothing he wants to see, just like there's nothing he wants to read, eat, listen to, or buy.

Finally, bored and cold and tired-footed, Tris pushes open the smoked-glass door of the Blue Note and steps into the long, high-ceilinged room. A crew of eight young waitresses in black stretch pants is setting chunky cut-glass candleholders on the dark wood tables. Tris asks one of them for a coffee, then strolls importantly through the room, pretending to be Albert's manager, passes the stage, and heads for the raised tier of tables in the rear. It seems like the best spot to set up shop: discreet but all-seeing, a perfect place to reinvent his career and ogle the staff. He pinpoints a four-top in the back corner, and makes for it.

Nobody's there, but it is clear the table's taken. Photographs and contact sheets are strewn about; a red wax pencil and a blue hardback borrowed from the Hunter College library perch atop the unintentional collage. Tris can't resist a closer look. He bends to peer at a partially obscured black-and-white image of a trombone player standing before a wide bathroom mirror, then slides the print out from the pile and rotates it right side up.

The room's geometry is elevated to perfection. The floor tiles, the gleaming fixtures of the sink, even the way the musician's horn meets his lips—everything comes together with seamless, casual grace, makes Tris wonder if life is always this elegant and he just fails to notice.

“Hey girl, you want another tea?”

“Yeah, I'd love one. Thanks, Stace.”

Tris turns, to see a young woman climbing the stairs. He steps back from the table, but it's obvious that he's been poking through her shit; the look on her face says so. Whether she's annoyed or amused is harder to determine.

“Just looking, or do you want to buy something?”

The glint in her eye gives him permission to smile. “Sorry.” Tris points at the trombonist. “I really like this one. Where was it taken?”

She's definitely amused now. “Here. You don't recognize the men's room?”

“Oh yeah,” Tris says, unwilling to cop to his neophyte status. “No kidding. It's never looked so beautiful.” The musician looks semifamiliar, enough so that Tris doesn't want to ask who it is and sound ignorant again.

“Thank you.”

He can't be certain, in this light, what color her eyes are. Only that they're incredibly bright.

“You always hang around in men's rooms?”

“Yes.”

A waitress appears at the top of the stairs. “One tea and one coffee.” She deposits the drinks on a neighboring clutter-free two-top.

The photographer slides onto the couch seat, sours her drink with lemon. Tris takes the chair and sweetens his with two fake sugars. Few situations make him as comfortable as hunching over a table before a coffee. The way he holds the cup between a braced thumb and a finger looped through the handle, the slight wrist flick he employs when he tips it to his mouth, even the motion with which he stirs: these things gratify him. They may be all he does with elegance.

This girl, on the other hand, could not care less for form. She squeezes the lemon slice, drops it in her cup, submerges it with a stab of her long index finger, changes her mind, retrieves it with the spoon, and finally drapes it over the side of the saucer like some small expired fish. It doesn't matter, though. She's fucking beautiful.

They introduce themselves, and then she says, “What do you play?”

“Nothing.” Tris switches to an overhand five-fingered grip on his cup and takes a quick sip, a technique he thinks of as
diner-style
. “I'm a novelist, actually.”

He used to say
writer
—preferable for its workingman modesty, and also for the fact that the inevitable follow-up question, “What do you write?” allowed him to shed that modesty in equally modest fashion, as if the spectacular truth was being dragged from him. But no more; it's too much of a charade. Although
novelist
rings false, too, these days. More honest would be “I'm a guy who's written one novel.”