Death by Publication by J.J. Fiechter

Author:J.J. Fiechter
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Arcade
Published: 1993-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 7

While Nicolas was busy making a name for himself as a writer, I too had become a publishing success. With the small inheritance left to me by my mother, I bought back the Turner Press—to the enormous delight of an elderly Archibald, who more and more regarded me as his adopted son. I immediately increased the number of books the press published. One success bred another, and our list grew until soon I had to employ battalions of new editors, assistants, and secretaries to help with the volume of business. These were heady times. We moved into an elegant building off Regent Street. I opened an American affiliate. In addition to an enviable stable of prestigious house authors such as Vladimir Nabokov, Samuel Beckett, Lawrence Durrell, and Romain Gary, Turner Press boasted the most promising young talent from around the world. I, Edward Destry, had become one of the most influential publishers in the world—renowned, respected, and in due course knighted.

The pace of my life was madness itself. I routinely worked fifteen-hour days and through the weekend, unable to slow down, like a bicyclist afraid that if he stops pedaling he will fall.

A few minor commercial disasters brought me back to earth. I overprinted heavily on several titles, and they sold dismally. These setbacks frightened me into realizing how blindly I had been forging ahead, stumbling forward beneath the oppressive weight of an unhappiness whose source, given my outward success, seemed unidentifiable. I went to doctors, of course, but they could diagnose only the obvious—nervous depression brought on by physical exhaustion—and recommend I take four weeks of absolute rest and relaxation.

I took their advice and went to Capri. Why Capri? Because that was where Nicolas was. I could have taken the waters at Vichy in my beloved France, or sprawled on some sun-bleached Pacific island and danced under palm trees with nut-brown natives straight out of a Gauguin painting. But I didn’t. My demons pushed me toward Nicolas—this other self, this drinker of my blood, this inhibitor of life.

How handsome he was in his house overlooking the ocean, my shining twin, how resplendent! He had chosen Capri for the azure of its sea and sky—and the beautiful models who paraded along the sides of the swimming pools, their breasts jiggling like so much ripe fruit waiting to be plucked. How could you blame him? How much more pleasant to sip Chianti in a dream landscape than to live, as I did, drowning lonely sorrows in a pint of warm ale in some musty urban pub.

There in Capri, surrounded by adorers and admirers, Nicolas reigned as supreme as a satrap. He was cock of the walk, imposing his whims, alternately playing the charmer and the sadistic prison warden for his guests. One morning while I was there he organized a walk along the beach, then for no apparent reason called it off an hour later. Poor Nicole, the pretty brunette who was his mistress of the hour. He would treat her like a slave one moment, shower her with flowers the next.

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