“Well,” he said a third time. “Here I go. I’ve been thinking that I would like to call the book Wild. Wild Taxes, possibly. Although Hot and Dusty has always been in my mind. A year or so ago, when I started conceiving this novel, it was very different. Then I called it At the Bench, or Up to the Bench. Or even just Bench. At first, it was a courtroom novel, which all took place in a small dark room, very formal, presided over by a woman judge from Calcutta,” he said, and smiled. But he paused for a minute, almost lost. Unexpectedly nervous. He recovered quickly, though, and continued. “She had her training in England. Very smart. You can’t put one over on her. Her name, for your information, is May. Un-Indian, that. But we have had many influences. The first book, not actually the first, but last year’s book, we’ll call it for clarity’s sake, was about a murder. A man murdered his wife because she made his life impossible. After her death he found a master plan in her top stocking drawer in the closet. It was to murder him. She had enlisted the support of his mistress, who’d secretly become his wife’s lover. I know this plot is not a first. But I intended to make it different through my choice of particulars.”
Arlette nodded.
Harbinger suddenly seemed very confident. He looked Arlette in the eye, and spoke a little too loudly.
“Now, though, something else has replaced this idea. Now I would like to try something we can call for today just Wild Taxes. Not a murder. A simple love story, of a passionate love that failed. Circumstances wouldn’t allow it to be,” he added, and looked satisfied with his own explanation, as though he’d finally said something he’d wanted to say for years.
“What were those circumstances?” Arlette asked, and wrote the word circumstances under Harbinger’s name. Her authors’ files were only words, jotted here and there.
“If I were to say now, I might lose the impetus to begin,” said Harbinger Singh. “I don’t know that I am able to tell you just like that. There are only two characters, however. Their relationship is set against corruption all around. Incest, murder, death, homelessness, war, the world,” he said vaguely. “Big corporations, the British, others whose motives are less than admirable. You know,” he added, and she nodded. “A difficult world,” he said. Moslems, Christians, Hindus, Jews.” His voice trailed off.
“Yes,” said Arlette. “Very difficult.”
“One of the reasons why I have in mind to write a novel,” he continued, “is that the tax business, while it is lucrative enough, is not very satisfying on a spiritual level. I’m sure you understand this.”
“Yes,” said Arlette. She was trying to keep an open mind. She knew all writers were nervous, particularly in the beginning. Still she felt a twinge of contempt for Harbinger Singh. And taxes. There was something about choosing to do taxes that bothered her.
“I enjoy my work,” he said, as though he knew what she was thinking. “It gives me a chance to see many people. To ask them questions, and hear about their lives. To help them,” he said, then added, “even somewhat. I have no illusions on that score.” He looked at her and smiled, as though she were the client, not him.
She liked him a little better.
“And you?” inquired Harbinger. “And you?” he repeated. “When I meet new people, I often explain myself, to put them at ease. Perhaps we can do the same. Let’s begin with your process, and your fees. I am interested in both. I can describe more of my character if that will help you. I collect takeout menus. One of my few idiosyncrasies. I enjoy them. They are peculiar artifacts of Americana. In fact, if I were an archaeologist, they would be my typology. They are numbers and words in lines, so they fulfill other needs of mine as well.”
“Well,” she said, not knowing what to say about his menus. “My fees, first of all, are yours. I receive what you get per hour. In your case, I assume that’s about one hundred dollars, more or less. But you’ll have to tell me.”
He looked annoyed. “But you have no overhead,” he said. “No secretarial help, for example. No equipment. No expenses except for your pen,” and here he smiled. “I don’t even see a fax machine. Not that you need it of course. I am making no judgments, I can assure you of that. I myself am a technical caveman. Or is it cave person? Do forgive me.”
“I am providing a service that is hard to evaluate financially,” she said. “I’m sure people have this problem all the time with their taxes. What is a novel worth? One dollar? One million dollars? Somewhere in between? What is it worth for you to write your novel? Fifty dollars? Three thousand ? I’m afraid the way I resolve this question for myself and for my clients is to suggest that my work is equivalent in value to theirs.” Arlette stood up, moving around the room like a teacher in a classroom. She felt unsettled, and yet she’d said these same words many times. “I don’t think, of course, that money and art are connected. A wonderful poem, for instance, is worth millions. But a bad poem’s not worth nothing. I want to make it possible for everyone to work in this way if they want. If you don’t find the process acceptable, of course I understand. Perhaps you can find someone cheaper,” she added. “As for how I work, that depends completely on you. I give you exercises to help you think about your characters. To make them real. But you’re the one who tells the story. I help you do that,” she added. “When we’re through, you’ll have written enough to make you comfortable with the process,” she said. “You’ll have a better idea what you’re doing once you start.”
“I’d like some time to consider this,” he said. “The finances add another dimension to the equation. I thought it would be cheaper. Not that I am disparaging your services. Not at all. But I will think carefully, and call you in a few days. In any case, I will be happy to pay you for this initial consultation,” he said. “Please,” he smiled, and stood up, removing his wallet tentatively. It was old brown leather, well used. He opened it toward her, to display very neat bills, a large enough stack. She imagined them organized by serial number.
“No,” she said. “Our first meeting is free. Everyone is entitled to one free session in all service industries. Don’t you agree?”
“Not entirely,” he said. “That might put many out of business. Just one question, by the way. Will I be able to make enough from the sale of my novel to cover your expenses?” His question seemed innocent.
“This is about writing,” she said. “Only writing. But you’re not the first one to ask me that question. There’s a poet I like very much, named Edward Field, who wrote a poem called “Writing for Money.” I learned it years ago. It goes like this:
My friend and I have decided to write for money, he stories, I poems. We are going to sell them to magazines and when the cash rolls in he will choose clothes for me that make me stylish and buy himself a tooth where one fell out. Perhaps we will travel, to Tahiti maybe. Anyway we’ll get an apartment with an inside toilet and give up our typing jobs. That’s why I’m writing this poem, to sell for money.
“I can give you a copy, if you like,” she said.
“Oh no, that won’t be necessary,” he said. “Perhaps later on I may have the need for a copy. But not right now. Please don’t stand,” he said. “I am capable of going without undue fanfare. But thank you,” he said. “I feel optimistic.”
Then he left. She wasn’t sure if she’d hear from him again. She waited a few minutes, until he was clearly gone, to pick up her mail from downstairs. She thought about him, but very, very briefly. A small moment.
There
