picked up her cup and sipped. “I want to give him some encouragement,” she said before she could stop herself.
“About the book? You may certainly tell him that it is under consideration, and that you will have a response by mid-February if all goes well,” he said to her. “The Editorial Board will meet just after the new year. I will send a copy to each of the members in a week.”
“That should relieve him,” she said, and wondered what form that relief might take.
“I cannot yet promise you a contract, for I haven’t read your manuscript—oh, yes, I do read what I publish—but your topic is intriguing. I, myself, have some knowledge of those times, and I’m inclined to believe that it is an area of study that has been neglected. Your work will receive close attention: believe this.”
“Oh,” she said, feeling less nervous with this revelation. “Any location or period in particular? that you have studied?”
“Praha—Prague—during Otakar the Great’s reign, and Padova in the decade before the Black Plague, among others,” he said. “Would you like to discuss these periods when I return to Paris, if you will still be here?”
“I would be delighted,” she said with enthusiasm. “How long will you be gone?”
“Ten to fourteen days, or that is presently my plan,” he said, and saw her face fall. “I’ll be in Amsterdam for a week; Eclipse Publishing Amsterdam is also getting new presses installed, and I expect to be there for the event; beyond that, I cannot anticipate how long I will need to remain with the various branches of my company. After Amsterdam, I have business in Venice, including a branch of Eclipse Publishing. I’ll be in Paris after that, and keep you abreast of any changes in my plans.” He watched her more closely than she knew, and saw the little moue of disappointment touch her mouth. “I will have to be in Paris for three weeks in November. Perhaps we might meet then?”
She restored her calm. “I’d like that very much.” Then she chuckled at her own confusion. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that,” she said, and took another, longer sip of milky coffee. “Be good enough to chalk it up to my American ways.”
“Hardly on the spot,” he said, and continued genially, “I’ve been to your country, you know, and have some understanding of American ways. I was there shortly before war broke out. I drove from Chicago to San Francisco. It’s quite a remarkable place.”
Mentally chastising herself, she said, “Which crossing did you use? Forty? Sixty-six?”
“Forty,” he answered.
“Then you haven’t seen the Gulf Coast,” she said.
“No, which is unfortunate,” he confessed, and, after a brief pause, remarked, “You will pardon me for saying it, but your accent does not seem to be of the American South. I would have supposed you came from Illinois, perhaps, or Michigan.”
“Neither. I was born in Colorado, but grew up in Madison, Wisconsin. My dad taught at the University of Wisconsin. I did my doctoral studies at Chicago, and taught at Wake Forest in North Carolina for two years. Someone in the southern academic grapevine recommended me to Tulane. I’ve been on the faculty there for nearly a decade.” She coughed once, afraid she might sob instead, and resolutely went on, “As a Coloradan, I have to know what you thought of the Rockies.”
“Even an old Transylvanian like me must be impressed with the Rockies, and the Pacific Ocean.”
“Transylvanian?”
“Romanian, if you like. In the east end of the central plateau of the Carpathian Mountains, to be more specific,” he said.
“The USSR holds that territory, don’t they?” she asked, then put her hand to her mouth, finally saying, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“For now, the Russians are in charge. The Hungarians have been several times before, and the Ottomans. The Romans gave the country its name, but the Daci were there before them,
“About the book? You may certainly tell him that it is under consideration, and that you will have a response by mid-February if all goes well,” he said to her. “The Editorial Board will meet just after the new year. I will send a copy to each of the members in a week.”
“That should relieve him,” she said, and wondered what form that relief might take.
“I cannot yet promise you a contract, for I haven’t read your manuscript—oh, yes, I do read what I publish—but your topic is intriguing. I, myself, have some knowledge of those times, and I’m inclined to believe that it is an area of study that has been neglected. Your work will receive close attention: believe this.”
“Oh,” she said, feeling less nervous with this revelation. “Any location or period in particular? that you have studied?”
“Praha—Prague—during Otakar the Great’s reign, and Padova in the decade before the Black Plague, among others,” he said. “Would you like to discuss these periods when I return to Paris, if you will still be here?”
“I would be delighted,” she said with enthusiasm. “How long will you be gone?”
“Ten to fourteen days, or that is presently my plan,” he said, and saw her face fall. “I’ll be in Amsterdam for a week; Eclipse Publishing Amsterdam is also getting new presses installed, and I expect to be there for the event; beyond that, I cannot anticipate how long I will need to remain with the various branches of my company. After Amsterdam, I have business in Venice, including a branch of Eclipse Publishing. I’ll be in Paris after that, and keep you abreast of any changes in my plans.” He watched her more closely than she knew, and saw the little moue of disappointment touch her mouth. “I will have to be in Paris for three weeks in November. Perhaps we might meet then?”
She restored her calm. “I’d like that very much.” Then she chuckled at her own confusion. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that,” she said, and took another, longer sip of milky coffee. “Be good enough to chalk it up to my American ways.”
“Hardly on the spot,” he said, and continued genially, “I’ve been to your country, you know, and have some understanding of American ways. I was there shortly before war broke out. I drove from Chicago to San Francisco. It’s quite a remarkable place.”
Mentally chastising herself, she said, “Which crossing did you use? Forty? Sixty-six?”
“Forty,” he answered.
“Then you haven’t seen the Gulf Coast,” she said.
“No, which is unfortunate,” he confessed, and, after a brief pause, remarked, “You will pardon me for saying it, but your accent does not seem to be of the American South. I would have supposed you came from Illinois, perhaps, or Michigan.”
“Neither. I was born in Colorado, but grew up in Madison, Wisconsin. My dad taught at the University of Wisconsin. I did my doctoral studies at Chicago, and taught at Wake Forest in North Carolina for two years. Someone in the southern academic grapevine recommended me to Tulane. I’ve been on the faculty there for nearly a decade.” She coughed once, afraid she might sob instead, and resolutely went on, “As a Coloradan, I have to know what you thought of the Rockies.”
“Even an old Transylvanian like me must be impressed with the Rockies, and the Pacific Ocean.”
“Transylvanian?”
“Romanian, if you like. In the east end of the central plateau of the Carpathian Mountains, to be more specific,” he said.
“The USSR holds that territory, don’t they?” she asked, then put her hand to her mouth, finally saying, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“For now, the Russians are in charge. The Hungarians have been several times before, and the Ottomans. The Romans gave the country its name, but the Daci were there before them,
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