Last week in Barry Smith’s new novel Only Milo, Milo started publishing his own manuscripts under Mexican author José Calderon’s name. As our story continues, José’s advent is an epiphany for all concerned, since he sees something mutually advantageous in the arrangement….
………………………………
12
“Milo, mi amigo, you are a genius!”
I started to breathe again.
He grabbed my face with both hands and planted a
kiss on my forehead.
I guess he assumed I knew who he was.
“You made my book far better than the original. What
can I do to thank you?”
Another kiss.
That would not have been my first choice.
13
We ate birthday cake to celebrate.
It wasn’t bad.
I told José it might be best if he didn’t mention
to Margaret that my “translation” was only loosely
based on the original.
“Señorita Margaret told me she is running out of
books to sell and will be making more. Many more. In
Mexico, we sold less than three hundred copies.
“I have no intention of rocking the canoe.”
He was actually quite endearing.
We both had a second piece of cake.
14
José asked about the story line for the second novel.
Under normal circumstances it would have seemed an
odd question, coming from the book’s author.
I told him about my JFK assassination conspiracy
theory novel, set in Mexico City during the summer
of 1963. Did he know who Lee Harvey Oswald was?
“I wasn’t sure how well my second book would translate.”
We didn’t have to worry about that anymore.
I told him the story needed a great deal of revising
and updating, given it was my first novel and it had
been written about forty years ago. I told him I
had been going to the library to review the Warren
Commission Report and had been sifting through
hundreds of Internet sites for information.
He asked if he could help. He seemed eager, in a
puppy sort of way.
I decided it was only appropriate, given it was his
novel.
15
Until now, José had never been out of Mexico.
His life in Mexico City had been hard. His father
left home before he was three. His mother was a
drunken whore. He was raised by his grandmother.
Writing had been his only escape.
He considered his small apartment in Brooklyn a
palace. Indoor plumbing, clean water, and a shower
were luxuries to José. As was the computer that sat
unused on his desk.
He didn’t like any of the Mexican food he could find
near his apartment. He said it was too greasy and he
had trouble keeping it down.
I rarely saw him eat.
16
Margaret told José they needed to make arrangements
for his third novel.
The rights she inherited only included translation
rights for novels one and two. With the runaway
success of the first translation, she was eager to
purchase the rights to his third novel.
“I was quite sick in Mexico City,” he told her. “It
still needs a lot of work.”
She said she would prefer to publish it directly in
English if he thought that was possible.
“I will get Milo to help you.”
17
José was always sick.
He looked like he still lived in the slums of Mexico
City. No matter how hard Margaret and I tried to
fatten him up and bring color to his face, he looked
worn out and malnourished. He reminded me of the
lead character from that foreign film, Il Postino,
the actor who died the day after filming ended. José
always appeared to be at death’s door.
He told me things had not gone well in Mexico after
he finished his two novels, which had both been
written before he turned twenty-five. He had been
driving a cab and waiting tables for most of the
intervening years. The income had barely provided
for necessities.
And he had not written a word in more than five years.
18
“When I was a boy, I was sexually abused by my
priest.”
It was said completely out of context. We were
watching a “Seinfeld” rerun.
José said it was the reason my “translation” was so
powerful for him.
“It was as if you wrote the book I was unable to
write, mi amigo.”
He began to weep.
19
Margaret needed a new office.
Her converted warehouse in Brooklyn was no longer
suitable. José’s success led to the initial Howard
Rush breakthrough, and that opened the floodgates.
It seemed as though everything she touched turned to
gold.
Her investment banker began discussing a real
expansion, an IPO. Strike while the iron was hot.
Sell millions of shares to the adoring public.
Margaret would become a multimillionaire in his
scenario.
She needed a plush new office. Upscale. Something to
entice the public to purchase millions of shares in
her firm.
And she needed to have José finish his third novel.
20
Margaret had no idea José had not even begun his
third novel.
She assumed he was having marathon writing sessions
in his apartment, pounding out another masterpiece,
while I was finishing my translation of novel number
two.
In reality, he had become hooked on afternoon soap
operas and “Seinfeld” reruns.
There were days he went to the library with me, but
rarely more than once or twice a week, and it was
primarily out of boredom and loneliness.
He really wasn’t much help. I got more research and
revising done on those days when he stayed in his
apartment. Once again, the translation was entirely
my work, not his.
He was closing in on year six of his writer’s block.
21
Margaret loved it.
“It’s far better than his first novel, Milo. I can
see his growth as a writer. It must have been quite
satisfying for you to see how his work evolved. His
voice is becoming stronger and more confident.
“It deserves a major ad campaign.
“Do you know how his third novel is coming along? He
seems very secretive about it. I hope that’s a good
sign.”
What could I say?
22
I thought José would enjoy the circus.
Barnum and Bailey at Madison Square Garden.
He was thrilled by the elephants. He was shocked by
the fire eaters. He was enthralled by the skill of
the trapeze artists.
He loved the clowns.
It was the only time I saw him laugh.
23
I went to Margaret’s apartment to watch “Oprah.”
She lived in Brooklyn, but at the opposite end of
the city from my roach-infested slum. It was my first
visit.
Her apartment had a 42-inch flat-screen high definition
TV.
And drapes.
And no SPAM.
Oprah could hardly wait to have José appear on her
show, but Margaret carefully controlled the timing.
His first “translation” sold more than 200,000 copies.
A phenomenon.
With the second translation complete, Margaret had
planned a Thanksgiving week release. She made Oprah
wait until early November, and she insisted José be
the only guest.
Christmas season. 400,000 copies.
Another phenomenon?
Faded jeans, blue denim shirt, rumpled corduroy
jacket, dirty gray socks, two-day-old beard, tousled
hair, no makeup. Downtrodden, third-world existence,
risen from poverty, bright-eyed, soft spoken.
The sympathetic young Mexican novelist.
Christmas season. 400,000 copies. Second print run
in March.
When he walked on stage, it looked as though he
might collapse before reaching his seat. Nervous,
fidgety, eyes at his feet, deathly gray complexion,
hollow cheeks, greasy hair, oversized ears.
And then he smiled.
Christmas season. 400,000 copies. Third print run in
June.
His speech was slow and halting, but his face began
to exude confidence. Raised in rural Mexico, absent
father, drunken mother, steady grandmother, no
friends.
First trip to America. Many people to thank.
Grandmother. Only constant in his life. Solid as a
rock.
Mexican publisher. First true amigo. Suicide.
Long, hushed pause.
He squirmed uncomfortably. He turned away from
Oprah. He looked directly into the camera.
Margaret, Margaret, Margaret.
Guardian angel, protector, savior, goddess.
Successful first novel, best time of his life, bright
future.
Margaret, Margaret, Margaret.
Guardian angel, protector, savior, goddess, genius.
Humbled by his success, beyond his comprehension,
how could he thank her?
His eyes began to tear.
Christmas season.
400,000 copies.
Final print run in September.
Paperback rights.
Movie rights.
New Spanish translation.
Cut to commercial.
…………………………………………
To be continued …next week!
Only Milo, winner of the 2010 IPPY Gold Medal for Popular Fiction, is published by Inkwater Press (© 2009).
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