“Clothilde,” he said aloud.
“What?” the publisher asked. “Who is Clothilde?”
“Clothilde is a French girl I met while studying in Paris,” Justin began to explain. It was the only connection he could think of. “She was writing a thesis on Barbier.”
“So what?” the published lashed out. “A lot of people have—at least until Barbier went off the rails.”
“Clothilde actually met him and did some secretarial work for him. And she sent me a weird e-mail a few days ago. I didn’t understand—”
“Read it to me.”
Justin pulled out his cell phone and scrolled down until he found the e-mail. He began reading, omitting the sexual banter at the beginning. “‘Justin, chéri, you will soon need to brush up on your knowledge of French wine. Your career may depend upon it. Bisous!’”
The publisher stopped pacing. “That’s Barbier all right. He once quizzed three separate publishers about wine before deciding which one to go with.” She looked at her young editor. “Do you know French wines? I don’t drink.”
Justin nodded.
She looked at her watch. “It’s evening now in Paris. Text or e-mail this Clothilde person. Ask her what’s going on.” Justin ran through his contact list, amazed that he still had Clothilde’s cell number. He sent her a text, and while they waited, he cruised his Facebook page and saw that he and Clothilde were friends. She could have easily seen his employment status. She rarely posted photos or news, nor did he, but he read her latest status. She now worked for Canal Plus, one of the big French television and film companies. That didn’t surprise him.
In minutes his cell phone beeped. The publisher, who had been looking out at the Hudson River from her eleventh-floor window, swung around. Justin read Clothilde’s text, again omitting the sexual innuendo: “‘I’m still in contact with Valère Barbier, cher Justin. Ran into him the other day at work, and we had some mojitos together. Imagine! Mojitos avec Barbier! Sounds like a film title, n’est-ce pas? He told me he is unhappy with his publisher—a big competitor of yours—and I gave him your name. He wants to write another book, an autobiography! Voilà! I told him you love France.’” Justin paused and said, “True . . . and I love his new books,” then looked at the publisher and shook his head, grimacing. He silently finished reading the text: “La vie est belle. Ciao, darling! Trop cuuute!” The publisher meanwhile sat down and folded her hands on her desk. “Well, that’s that,” she said. “Who’s to argue with the Great Man?” To Justin’s delight, she gave him permission to proceed. He got up and shook her hand, thanking her.
She returned his handshake and smiled. “I was silly as an undergraduate.”
Justin looked at her, perplexed.
“I, too, did a year in Paris, but I didn’t have a love affair.”
Justin was still grinning when he got to the restaurant. He looked at his watch—ten minutes early—opened the heavy glass door, and walked in. His publisher had booked the quietest table possible. Justin introduced himself to the hostess and followed her long legs as she led him through the nearly empty restaurant, to a table in its own snug room. The walls were painted a golden hue, the lighting was subdued, and wine bottles in wooden niches ran, floor to ceiling, around three sides of the room. It bothered Justin that the room wasn’t climate controlled, but perhaps these were cheap wines or bottles that sold easily. “There’s a curtain, if you need more privacy,” the hostess said, pulling lightly at the beige velvet drapes on either side of the room’s entrance.
“Thank you,” Justin said. “We’ll leave them open until my, um, acquaintance arrives.” He had almost called Valère Barbier his friend. Too much hyperactive Clothilde influence. Trop cuuute! “He’s elderly, kind of. Sixtysomething. With thick white hair and a French accent.”
The hostess nodded. “Would you like to drink something while you’re waiting?”
“Water, please.” Justin coughed, realizing how nervous he was. “Sparkling.” May as well go all out, he thought. It’s my first expense-account dinner.
“Forget the sparkling water,” an accented voice sounded from behind the hostess. “Bring two glasses of your house champagne.”
Justin quickly stood up, and the hostess coolly nodded to the Frenchman and walked away.
“The house champagne will be good, non?” Valère Barbier asked in perfect but accented English.
“Oui,” Justin said, coughing again. “Il est très bon.”
“We can speak English,” Barbier said. “I lived in New York for five years, to escape the French press after my infamous genre switch.” He smiled. “How do you know that the house champagne is good?”
“I looked up the wine list before coming. It’s Drappier.”
“Excellent!” Valère said. “You’ve done your . . . devoirs!”
“Homework. Yes, I hope so. Please, have a seat.”
Valère Barbier sat down across from the editor. He was taken aback by his youth, but, then, Clothilde had said Justin Wong was a friend, so of course they must be roughly the same age. Almost thirty. Valère realized that he himself had done much by that age. “I like people over eighty and under thirty. One of my best friends in Aix-en-Provence is eleven years old. The ages in between are full of la merde! How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-nine,” Justin said. “One year away from becoming une merde.”
Valère slapped the table. “Énorme! Quel garçon!”
Justin smiled, wondering if the author had been drinking before he came. But it didn’t matter. The hostess returned with two flutes of champagne. Valère reached over and swiftly plucked them from the platter. “Merci beaucoup!”
“Tell me, which of my books is your favorite?” Valère asked, lifting his flute to Justin’s and giving it a strong tap. “Santé!”
“Well,” Justin began. “When I found out we were going to meet, I started reading An Honorable Man.”
Valère leaned forward. “And are you finished?”
“Halfway.”
“Énorme, ce garçon. You won’t lie and say that you love all my books?”
“No,” Justin
