My Summer With George Read Free Page B

not married and did not appear to be gay. And—wonder of wonders in a man—he asked me questions about myself! I was always vague about my distant past and, if pressed, would lie about it. But I didn’t need to lie about the past thirty-odd years. For that period, my record was socially impeccable.
    “So you’re a writer?” he exploded. “And you write novels! God, I respect that! I edit a first-rate newspaper, but I’ve always wanted to write novels. You know, in novels you can tell the truth about things. You can’t do that in a newspaper, not really. You can tell certain facts, but not the truth. Well! That’s great!”
    I could be wrong, but I believe that around this point, his glance became a little brighter, he peered at me with more interest, even some intensity. Strangely, his way of speaking contradicted his appearance: his language suggested someone burly, muscular, red-faced, outgoing, his hand extended to greet every stranger; not a lanky, pale, delicate-limbed, slightly potbellied man.
    “And I envy you your work. How thrilling to edit a newspaper! I would love to do that in my next life.”
    “Do it in this one. Come on down to Louisville, and I’ll give you a shot.” A half-smile played around his mouth.
    It had been a long time since anyone had flirted with me, so long that I could not be certain that was what he was doing.
    “That would be fun,” I said, smiling back at him with a certain glint.
    “Be great. We’d have a ball. Show you the town.” His eyes glittered unmistakably. At least, I thought it was unmistakable. But then he looked around uncomfortably.
    Time to backtrack, perhaps. I looked around too. “Is there someone here you’d like to meet? I know almost everyone,” I offered.
    He brought his eyes back to me. “Somebody said Ellis Porter was here. God, I respect him! That book of his on the CIA, that was great stuff—he really probed for that book, he broke all the taboos. I tell you, that book made him a hero of mine!”
    “Yes, he is.” I searched the room, finally spotting Ellis near the bar, talking to Martin Samuels, the publisher. From the look of them, this would not be a good time to interrupt them: Ellis was speaking intensely, and Martin was riveted by him. They looked as if they had just discovered mutual passionate love, although neither had previously shown inclinations toward the same sex.
    “We could meander toward the bar,” I suggested to George. “He’s over there engrossed in conversation, but we could wait until they finish.”
    It took some time for us to get to the bar—the room was still crowded, although the party was several hours old. But Ellis’s voice reached us even before we reached the bar.
    “Fucking goddamned liar told me I was getting the highest advance any journalist had gotten since Woodward and Bernstein, and I believed him—fuck, you believe your agent!”
    Martin raised his hand. “Listen, it was a damned respectable advance, Ellis! I don’t know what Billy told you, but the advance was the best we could come up with—we worked the figures. I don’t like to go into all this, it’s so unpleasant, but your last couple of books didn’t do all that well…”
    Ellis’s face was deep red. He seemed to be exploding and I feared he would have a stroke. “What kind of promotion did you give those books, Samuels, just how much did you extend yourself for them, huh? You didn’t get me a Time interview, you didn’t get me the Today show…”
    “We agreed on an advertising budget of a hundred thousand, Porter, and we abided by that agreement. We can’t deliver major media, you know that, they’re independent…”
    Both men were yelling now, drawing the attention of half the room. I glanced at George: he was staring at them, open-mouthed. “Would you like to see the gardens?” I asked.
    He nodded.
    As I led him past the arguing men, Leo Altshuler stepped in between them, put his arms around them, and whispered