Based on what Vivian had learned from her friend Norma Stiles, whose knowledge was based on what she had learned from her co-worker Geoffrey Burnham, what Ferguson knew about Aubrey Hull was limited to these facts: thirty years old, married to a woman named Fiona and the father of two small children (ages four and one), a graduate of Oxford’s Balliol College (where he had met Burnham), the son of a wealthy chocolate and biscuit manufacturer, a quasi — black sheep (a gray sheep?) who liked to travel in artistic circles and had a good nose for literature, a serious publisher but also known as a party person and a bit of an eccentric.
The vagueness of that portrait led Ferguson to imagine Hull as one of those pompous British gentlemen who showed up frequently in American films, the snide and snooty fellow with a ruddy face and a penchant for mocking, under-the-breath remarks that were supposed to be amusing but never were. Perhaps Ferguson had been watching too many films, or perhaps his instinctive fear of the unknown had taught him to expect the worst in all new situations, but the truth was that not only did Aubrey Hull not have a ruddy face or a snide disposition, he turned out to be one of the most affectionate and lovable human beings Ferguson had ever run across in his travels through life.
So small, so much a miniaturized sort of man, just five foot three and every one of his features miniaturized in proportion as welclass="underline" small head, small face, small hands, small mouth, small arms and legs. Bright blue eyes. The creamy-white complexion of a person who lived in a sunless, rain-soaked country, and a crown of curly hair that fell somewhere between red and blond on the spectrum, the shade of hair Ferguson had once heard someone call ginger. At a loss for words when they shook hands and sat down for lunch at Fouquet’s on the afternoon of the nineteenth, Ferguson forced himself to try to make conversation by witlessly telling Hull that he was the first person he had ever met with the name Aubrey. Hull smiled and asked Ferguson if he knew what the name meant. No, Ferguson said, he had no idea. The ruler of the elves, Hull said, and so comical and unexpected was that answer to Ferguson that he had to struggle to push back the laugh that was gathering in his lungs, a laugh that could have been misconstrued as an insult, he realized, and why would he risk insulting the man who had accepted his book within the first two minutes of their first meeting? But still — how apt it was, how perfectly fitting that this little man should be the ruler of the elves! It was as if the gods had walked into Aubrey’s house the night before he was born and had instructed his parents on the name they should give their child, and now that Ferguson’s head was filing up with images of elves and gods, he looked at his publisher’s small, handsome face and wondered if he wasn’t sitting in the presence of a mythical being.
Until that day, Ferguson had known nothing about how publishing houses operated or what they did to promote their books. Other than designing and printing them, he had assumed the principal job was to get them reviewed in as many newspapers and magazines as possible. If the reviews were good, the book was a hit. If the reviews were bad, the book was a flop. Now Aubrey was telling him that the reviews were only one element in the process, and as the ruler of the elves elaborated on what some of the other elements were, Ferguson grew more and more interested, more and more amazed by what would be happening to him when his book was published. A trip to London for one thing. Interviews with the daily and weekly press, interviews with reporters from the BBC, perhaps even an appearance on live telly. An evening event at a small theater, where Ferguson would read passages from his book to the audience and then sit down for a conversation about the book with a sympathetic journalist or fellow writer. And — still to be worked out, but what a pleasant prospect if it did work out — a Laurel and Hardy night at the NFT or some other cinema with Ferguson on stage to introduce the films.
Ferguson in the limelight. Ferguson with his picture in the paper. Ferguson with his voice on the radio. Ferguson onstage reading to a hushed crowd of devoted fans.
How could anyone not want that?
The point is, Aubrey was saying, your book is so damned good that it deserves the whole bloody treatment. No one is supposed to write books at nineteen. It just isn’t heard of, and my bet is that people are going to be fucking bowled over by it, just as I was, just as Fiona was, just as everyone on my staff was.
Let’s hope so, Ferguson said, trying to keep a lid on his excitement so as not to get carried away by Aubrey’s words and end up making a fool of himself. But how good he was beginning to feel now. Doors were opening. One by one, Aubrey was opening doors for him, and one by one there would be new rooms for him to enter, and the thought of what he would find in those rooms filled him with happiness — more happiness than he had felt in months.
I don’t want to exaggerate, Aubrey said (probably meaning that he did), but even if you dropped dead tomorrow, How Laurel and Hardy Saved My Life would live on forever.
What a strange sentence, Ferguson replied. It could be the strangest sentence I’ve ever heard.
Yes, it was rather odd, wasn’t it?
First I’m dropping dead, then I’m saving my life, and then I’m living on forever, even though I’m supposed to be dead.
Very odd indeed. But delivered from the heart and meant as a sincere compliment.
They looked at each other and laughed. Something was beginning to rise to the surface, something strong enough to make Ferguson suspect that Aubrey was coming on to him, that his jolly, ginger-headed lunch companion was the same kind of two-way person he was and had been down this road many times before. He wondered if Aubrey’s dick was as small as the rest of him, and then, starting to think about his own dick, he asked himself if he would ever have a chance to find out.
You see, Archie, Aubrey continued, I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re a person apart from most other people, a special person. I sensed that when I read your manuscript, but now that I’ve met you face to face, I’m convinced of it. You’re your own man, and because of that you’re a thrilling person to be with, but also because of that you’re never going to fit in anywhere, which is a good thing, I believe, since you’ll be able to go on being your own man, and a man who is his own man is a better man than most men, even if he doesn’t fit in.
Actually, Ferguson said, putting forth his best and biggest smile as he plunged into the seduction game Aubrey seemed to have started, I try to fit it in wherever I can … with whomever I can.
Aubrey grinned back at him after that obscene retort, heartened to know that Ferguson understood every nuance of the situation. That’s what I mean, he said. You’re open to all experiences.
Yes, Ferguson replied, very open. To one and all.
One and all in this case meant the one who was sitting across from him in the posh and pleasingly clamorous Fouquet’s, the thoroughly engaging Aubrey Hull, a man who had dropped out of nowhere and was going to do everything in his power to transform Ferguson’s life by turning his book into a success, the charming and flirtatious Aubrey Hull, a most desirable and intoxicating sort of man whose pretty little mouth Ferguson so urgently wanted to kiss, and then, after Aubrey had thrown back another glass or two of wine, the supposed eccentric started calling Ferguson a bonny boy and a lovely lad, a good lad, a fine lad, which wasn’t eccentric so much as endearing and arousing, and by the time they finished their lunch it was all out in the open, with no more mysteries to ponder or questions to be asked.