say, ‘What of your wife, Guizot? Oh, you adored her so.’ Ah, well, my friend, you cannot waste your whole life worrying about one woman. So I am getting a divorce. It is not my style, no, I agree, and it will give my Catholic mother a heart attack—
“I’m sorry, Guizot. I’m really not up for this right now.”
“Of course you are, you are my advertising genius! I need you. I know I fired you, forget it, don’t be mad. It’s over. We’re going to do this together, today, right now.”
“I don’t think so, Guizot.”
“Listen”—the little man shook his finger at Will—“I want to tell you this, whatever shit is going on in your life, it has no place in your work. That is the most important part of any man’s life. Work is the only thing that means anything. Ever. Whatever your problem is, you roll up your sleeves, you spit in your hands, you rub them together, and you work. Work can solve the biggest problems in the world. Money issues? Family? Constipation? I tell you, Will, work solves it.”
Will shook his head. “It’s none of those, Guizot. It’s a woman. A woman left me.”
For the first time since he entered the apartment, the little man paused. “A woman, eh?”
“Yes,” Will said. “A woman.”
“So, you like her? You miss her? That’s what this is all about?”
“Yes. I gave her my heart and she walked out.”
“Oh.” Guizot sat down on the kitchen stool and for a moment he was quiet. “What is her name?”
“Zoya.”
“Oh, that is a beautiful name.” It looked as though tears were welling up in Guizot’s eyes. Neither of them spoke; the soft electric buzz of the kitchen clock was the only sound in the room. Then Guizot smiled and snapped his fingers. “Okay, I have a brilliant idea. A spectacular idea. A big, colossal, amazing idea. You know where we can get a band?”
Will sighed. “Yes, I think I know where we can get a band.”
Guizot smiled. “Well then, let’s go.”
Three hours later, Guizot and Will were sitting behind the glass with the engineer at the Studio Pathe- Magellan watching as Kelly, Flats, and Red fleshed out the tune Guizot had written in the cab driving over. The engineer finessed the levels as the little man ran in and out of the booth, barking instructions at the players in between takes. The band took his comments in stride, seeming bemused by Guizot’s antics—probably because he was paying them such good money. (When Will had tracked the jazz boys down, the three had been wary of the offer. As Kelly put it, “Singing jingles ain’t gonna do much for our sterling reputations.” But Guizot had waved enough francs in their faces to convince them, even throwing in a case of perfumed bath soap for Flats to seal the deal.)
As the session slid into the afternoon, Will’s faith in their enterprise slowly faded. “This isn’t going to work,” he said.
“Ah, but of course it is. My guys are back in the warehouse right now scraping the old Parfait d’ Amour labels off and sticking on the new Eglantine labels. My trucks will distribute them before dawn all across the city. By the time we get this to the radio station tomorrow, Eglantine will already be on the shelves. I’ll have France covered by the end of the week, then Dusseldorf, Hamburg, Milan—boom, boom, boom.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Will. “The song won’t work.”
“Ah, of course it will, listen to that background. Nobody will hear it but her. “
Will leaned back in the studio couch and listened as the little man sang and danced along with the recording, bouncing around like the ball in the sing-along films.
They kept working on the jingle, repeating it take after take; the music was better than a lot of the tunes Guizot had written. Still, Will realized, his funny little client had been right, days before, in his passionate diatribe against his industry. It wasn’t only the ads, it was the whole cultural mechanism of manufactured emotion: it had torn down, abused, and then reconstructed the way people lived. Before movie romances, he wondered, how did people kiss? How did they caress before they saw Bogart and Bergman embrace? Before pop songs told them to dance and twist and hold hands, how did they discover their passions, improvising and fumbling and finding their way blindly behind all those closed doors? But now, movies, television shows, radio programs, billboards, and advertisements all swamped, swarmed, and buzzed about them, blinding their eyes and drowning their ears, telling them what to feel and how to act.
The band took a break and came out of the booth. Red lit a cigarette. “Okay now, we can only do this for another hour or so, we’ve got a gig tonight.”
Will nodded.
“How do you fellows like the tune?” Guizot asked, beaming.
Kelly leaned back against the wall. “Well I don’t know now. Some music takes you to a nicer place, lifts your spirits up, or maybe only says good luck. Then there’s the music that just gets you paid.”
Guizot laughed and patted Kelly on the back. “That’s good. Now maybe try a little flamenco style?”
The jazz boys went back into the booth and the engineer started rolling the tape. As the rhythm picked back up and Red sang the tune, Guizot became blissfully engrossed in the band’s every gesture and beat. Will wasn’t listening anymore, he knew none of this mattered now. These canned tricks might work well for Guizot as he flew from one wife to the next, but it wouldn’t work on Zoya. She was a woman who knew the weight, measure, and meaning of things. Will could imagine exactly what she would look like when she heard the tune; it would be that same expression she had given him back in the bar when she had asked, “What happens after these victims of yours buy your product and the spell is broken? When they awaken to find their life is as empty and sad as it was before, only now a little poorer too?”
The band was still swinging, and Flats was blowing his horn, as Will quietly rose, put on his coat, picked up his hat, and slipped out of the room without saying goodbye. And that was the last day of Will Van Wyck’s once promising career in advertising.
VIII
When Adele walked into her apartment, she screamed. Vidot sprang up from where he had been sitting on the couch. “Oh no! There is no need to be frightened, my dear. I am not a ghost, I am simply here, I am home.”
She looked thin and pale. He knew that no matter what emotions she held for him in her heart, his absence must have been a source of great stress. But though he wanted to, he did not reach out to embrace her. He simply stood smiling at her, a little awkward and formal, feeling stiff in his newly tailored light wool suit. The main room of their apartment felt very small and empty, he had never been more aware that they were the only two living things it contained. Seeming unsure of what to do, she merely stood there too. She straightened her skirt with her hands. “Where have you been? What happened to you?” she asked.
“I honestly do not know where to begin.” He shrugged. “I have been working, investigating, solving a crime, tying up loose ends. But I am home now, and I will not be going back in to work for a little while.” His smile felt awkward on his face, his stomach churned with worry. “Oh here, look, I brought home a present for you.” He pulled a large frame wrapped in butcher paper out from beside the table. He bent over and tore the paper away, trying not to shake from all the emotion he was working to contain. He stepped to the side so she could see the painting.
It was rough and Impressionistic. Done mostly in shades of blue—cornflower, Persian, and cobalt—it showed an older woman with melancholy eyes gazing out a garret window. She looked as if she might be recalling
