Double Act
On a plinth in a dark corner of her office stood a replica of the famous twin statue of Niuserre. Well, yes, I did the classic double take. Concealed lighting below it had the effect–- don’t know if it was intended or not–-of making the office rather intimidating. Why she chose that statue remained a mystery until later. The whole day and my appointment seemed ruined when I had to walk on in an unseasonal hailstorm, for which I was unprepared.
Although the sky cleared to allow streaks of dirty sunlight around the building, I arrived annoyed and drained, having trotted most of the way to avoid getting wet. I made a mental note to carry a raincoat to the next interview. To manage my writing life better. To take trains on time. I already had enough regard for the ancient pharaohs. What was needed was reverence for publishers, perhaps. One must not harbour cynicism for the gatekeepers of this world.
‘I don’t usually meet my authors in person,’ she started, after a cursory greeting. ‘Especially for a first novel.’ Pointing me to one of the chairs in front of the desk, after looking at my damp shoulders, she tapped together pages of a thick manuscript, standing it on its end and drumming it up and down until the sheets slid into place.
‘Oh?’
She raised an eyebrow at my puny sound. What could I say to that, though? Offering abject gratitude was not my way. Besides, it was too soon. She thumped the pages another two times.
It was startling to see it was my novel. ‘Oh.’
The title was legible, even upside-down from where I looked. I was buoyed, hopeful, because I had sent her the file attached to an email. I did not expect to see it printed like that. I raised a finger. ‘I … it …’
‘The middle bit–-chapters uh, seventeen to twenty-three–-are what interest me. And they’re the reason I’ve invited you here.’ Her tone was not friendly.
I felt like a schoolchild who had done something naughty, or bad-mannered, or unforgivingly insolent. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s almost impossible for writers like you to find a publisher.’
Well, thank you very much. Should I respond to self-evident truths?
‘At Vargar and Vargar, uh, V-&-V,’ she pronounced the letters with snarled lips. ‘We’re known for ancient history and significant historical fiction. That is, fiction that pays more than just passing respect to the ancients. More than a semi-reverential nod.’ She sighed.
I sighed.
‘Most of the work we’re sent is predictably Regency England. You might like to guess what I think of that. Ancient? Egyptian, around Tutankhamun.’ She wrinkled her Roman nose.
‘New …’
‘Exactly, New Kingdom.’
Did she like that I knew my history, or not? Impossible to tell.
‘But this …’ She lifted the stacked pages.
‘This?’ I stared at her black-painted fingernails. Her hands were decorated with heavy silver rings, more suited to a biker than an editor. One of them was a Medusa’s head. So she did Greek history and myths too, I imagined. This woman had some of what I wanted. Double doses of guts. Confidence. Out-there style.
‘This is Third Dynasty. You’ve written about Djoser, of all pharaohs.’
Right, we could now get into the good stuff. ‘I have, I have. Djoser is …’
‘Unusual, seeing how little is known about him. And you pour scorn on those who suggest that Netjerikhet and Djoser are one and the same person. Double disdain. In a novel!’
I could not let that kind of contempt go by with one syllable. ‘Perhaps a novel is the best place to do that. For a learned article or monograph, I’d have to provide precise and irrefutable evidence … references.’ I took a breath. ‘And stuff.’
Her facial reactions were good enough for the stage. ‘You’re saying this is pure conjecture.’
‘In a way.’
‘It either is or it isn’t, Miss …’ She looked at the front page of the manuscript. ‘Miss Gamal.’
‘I’m trying …’
She stood and pulled at her jacket, printed in what looked like hieroglyphics; aleph, wsjr, and khepri.
‘Khepri.’ An involuntary whisper.
She looked down at her jacket and gave a cryptic smile. ‘Ah–-you obviously do your research, so it’s a mystery to me why you started this novel in the way you did. One must have regard for the …’
‘For the readers’ background knowledge, yes.’
‘I meant their attention span.’
‘I’m trying–-’
She straightened in a final kind of gesture. Was I being dismissed so soon?
‘Yes, you are trying. And you only manage in the middle chapters.’ She saw my crestfallen expression. ‘Come with me.’
Tip-tapping and clomping to a storeroom, we went. Replica statues of all sizes were ranged on shelving from one side to the other; a tomb for forgotten effigies. All it needed was a central sarcophagus and a set of canopic jars. There–-I glimpsed some in a corner.
Effigies of Horus, Anubis, Osiris, Hathor.
Hathor, Hathor; goddess of many things. Love, the dance, beauty, music, fertility, and pleasure. Protector of women. Hathor, protect me now.
She pointed at statues of pharaohs. ‘Did you see the one in my office?’
‘The double statue?’ It was hard to miss. ‘Niuserre. Is this a test?’
She laughed. ‘I’m an acquisitions editor, not a teacher. You can relax.’
Relax? She did not inspire ease or confidence.
One of her black-lined eyes gave a deep blink, and she went on. ‘Tell me what you know about the stepped pyramid at Saqqara.’
Still feeling like a pupil reciting a lesson, I saw she allowed me silence while I articulated whole sentences of what I remembered, knew, lived, breathed, honoured. This was my chance, my clammy uncomfortable opportunity to shine. My feet were cold. Her eyes added to my mental agitation.
‘So …’ she prompted.
Running up a ramp. Scaling a crumbling pyramid. Big breath, and; ‘Imhotep, the architect of the stepped pyramid, was a highpriest of the sun god Ra, at Heliopolis.’ My head gave an involuntary bow. ‘Not a lot is known about him–-’
‘–-except that people in later millennia deified him, for reasons not entirely clear.’
‘Yes.’ I stepped on my own left toe to urge myself onward. ‘Well, he was a vizier, a priest, who wrote medical discourses about diseases that … um, which regarded injuries and illnesses as natural instances. Natural human phenomena, rather than punishments sent by gods or perpetrated by spirits.’
‘Hmm?’
‘He said they were definitely not the result of curses.’ Should I keep speaking to her back? ‘Furthermore, departure from a rectangular base to a square one for pyramids was pure inspiration. Doubly inspired! Yes-–he was an architectural muse! A man with humanity … and superhuman ideas!’
She spun on a heel and pointed a finger at my chest. ‘And that, Miss Gamal, is what you do well in your novel. You bring Imhotep to life.’
‘I do?’
‘We need a rewrite of the first chapters, and a fitting and exciting conclusion, perhaps with some cliff-hanger thrown in for good measure.’
A cliff-hanger? I was out of genre there.
‘… and then you can show me a second.’
‘What? A second novel?’ It had taken me three years to put together the pages on her desk.
She went on. ‘Which is why I chose Niuserre for my office today.’
Today–-that statue looked like it had always stood there.
She lowered her voice and chuckled. ‘It took them half an hour to carry him in.’ She held up a V of fingers. ‘Two men.’
Two, to impress me? For my benefit? Why?
I walked behind her, back to the office. She drummed black fingernails on the huge desk, pointed me to my chair. Her profile was formidable.
Again, I invoked Hathor. Please, please.
I sat.
‘We must devise a series. A double ...’
‘What’s a double series? We?’
She moved to the door and pushed it shut. ‘A double act.’ She winked, pointed at the double statue, and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Here’s the plan.’
Acceptance, approval, recognition, respect, publication … adulation, perhaps. I could not believe my luck.
‘Listen–-we’ll work on the series together.’ Those two fingers again. ‘Shaped, articulated, expressed like those middle chapters. Hemiunu! Nefermaat! Kanefer!’ She mentioned Egyptian architects like she was pronouncing the names of male spiders she had eaten.
I could not help but gulp. ‘My goodness, more architects. What do you mean, together?’ Together–-but we were as dissimilar as Cleopatra and Nefertiti.
‘Indeed. I don’t want to be an acquisitions editor forever, Miss … ah … Gamal. This will be my project.’
‘Your project!’
‘Your remuneration will be considerable. Double in advance of what most first time authors get. I know how to make the series go. Go! Go! Promotions at V-&-V are legendary.’ Her hand shot up, pointing to the pinnacle of some imagined pyramid. Two eyes tunnelled into mine. ‘But the name on the front will be mine.’
Ye gods. My heart fell. My stomach contracted. Really? ‘And mine?’
‘Um … uh, underneath it somewhere.’
And that was the catch.
She ticked off two fingers. ‘Take it ... or leave it.’
© Rosanne Dingli 2024