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John walked into his office. He would love to keep its grandeur, in order to impress clients. But the expense was too high.
He had looked at a much smaller space that morning, a former shop in Le Marais. Its best feature was an exposed wall of ancient Paris stone. Someone had put a fixture at the bottom of it that washed the rough wall with light. A spiral staircase in the corner led down to the loo in the cave. Anjali would sit by the window; passersby would be able to look in on her. John would have an office behind a screen.
He tried the intercom to summon Anjali. It didn’t work. He fiddled with it for five minutes and it still didn’t work. He called Anjali in a loud voice, and she appeared at the door.
“Please find a technician to get the intercom fixed,” he said. Then he panicked.
“But find out how much he wants first. These Paris workmen expect cash up front. What a racket! Tell me what he says. We’re on a budget now, kid.”
John felt terrible about having to think before hiring someone to repair something. This was not his style.
“Okay,” Anjali said, making a note on a yellow pad.
“I’m making calls to drum up new business. Cross your fingers.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Are you ready for the writers’ group tonight?”
“Yes, but I need to print it out. Can I use—”
“Yes, yes, fine.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Oh! I’ll email you mine. Print it out, please.”
“Thanks,” she said and disappeared.
John swiveled in his chair and stared out at Paris, the city of small, narrow shops. He thought of the rough stone wall in the space he had looked at. He imagined all the French shopkeepers who had worked there for centuries before him, standing behind a counter, resting their backs against the bumpy wall, desperate for customers, for money to change hands so they could grab a part of it. It must not have been easy during the French Revolution, he thought. Or the Prussian War or World War I or during the Nazi occupation. Then again, being in business was never easy.
He sighed and picked up the phone. It weighed one hundred pounds. He opened his little black book, started at A, and flipped through each page, hunting for a name that he would feel comfortable calling. It wasn’t until he was in the Ls that a name jumped out at him. Kurt Langen. He had taken him out on the Grey Skies two times so far this season, and they’d had a great time.
John dialed. A woman’s voice answered.
“Put me on with Kurt, please.” John could feel a little of his confidence returning. Cassandra would come panting to him by the time he was done rebuilding. Not that he would take her back.
“Who’s calling?” She was poised, she was snooty, she was good at being a rich man’s gatekeeper. He felt his ego deflating just a bit.
“John Germaine.”
“Please hold one moment.”
John held the line. And held some more. His confidence ebbed as he sensed that he was about to hear a lame excuse. Finally she came back on.
“Mr. Langen is with a client. Leave a message?” She sounded so very bored.
“No, I’ll call back.” John thought, I can try him again in a week. Maybe he’d relent, pick up the phone for his old bud John with the sailboat.
John went back to his black book.
