A Creed for the Third Millennium Page 22

  8

  God in Cursing: A New Approach to Millennial Neurosis, by Joshua Christian, Ph.D. (Chubb), came out on Friday, October 29, of the year 2032, in hardcover and paperback simultaneously, both published by the Atticus Press, though the paperback bore the Scroll Books imprint.

  The in-house gossip had reached boiling point by the end of June, the in-trade gossip was spreading from New York to London, Paris, Milan and Frankfurt by the end of July, and finally halfway through August the unprecedented wraps which had been kept on the book were broken by issue of the bound galleys to the Atticus sales staff for presentation to major booksellers. This edition of uncorrected proofs was limited to two thousand copies and of course not destined for sale, but because everyone confidently expected them to become collector's items later on, those lucky enough to be given one carried it everywhere with them, even to the toilet.

  The whole publishing industry buzzed with the name of Dr Joshua Christian, papers began to leak little articles about the book, and only the horrors of travel prevented droves of journalists from making premature forays to West Holloman. A few intrepid byline hunters did, of course, but got little for their pains save Mama, who was more than a match for any journalist, and besides looked far too young to be the mother of a distinguished Ph.D. Truth to tell, she revelled in those early tastes of the fame to come, and in the compliments showered upon her.

  After hot debate within the Atticus house, it was finally decided that the world was not to know very much about Dr Joshua Christian until it watched the premier NBC talk show, 'Tonight with Bob Smith', on the night of Friday, October 29. The Atticus publicity director was still walking on air, unable to believe that she had finally cracked the big one, number-one guest spot following right on the monologue; in the history of the show it had never been given to an unknown writer before his book was the talk of at least a big portion of the country. But from the moment the publicity director picked up her phone to begin the hi-there-how-are-you-dear-old-buddy-boy-have-I-got-a-guest-for-you routine, things happened with the kind of magic ease usually found only within the pages of children's books. One show after another agreed to give Dr Christian its prime guest spot before the dazed publicity director had a chance to get into full stride — sure, sure, any day she wanted was fine, sure, sure, let us know later. And shows like 'Tonight with Bob Smith', that never committed themselves to any untried guest without exhaustive pre-interviews, waived the rules of decades in order to accommodate Dr Joshua Christian. There was not even one show that attempted to bluff the publicity director into granting an 'exclusive'. Unbelievable! Gorgeous! What was going on, for Pete's sake?

  Of course the book was a runaway long before it was officially published, and it went into the Times as number one on both hardcover and mass market bestseller lists. The reviews were uniformly wonderful, many of them raves; Publishers Weekly, the Kirkus Reviews, and the Times Book Review all led with articles about God in Cursing and its author. But the most encouraging fact of all to the Atticus sales representatives who hawked their wares to booksellers all over the country under ghastly conditions of travel and accommodation was the response of these booksellers to God in Cursing once they had read it. They didn't gush, they didn't rave. They spoke of the book with extreme respect, and they refused to part with their own copies even if these were not the coveted bound proofs.

  Not all the combined resources of NBC were sufficient to ensure that Bob Smith had read God in Cursing; Bob Smith refused to read a book whose author was likely to appear as a guest on his show. He believed that a writer guesting on his show was better approached fresh and uncluttered, and as a technique of interviewing it had stood up to the test of time remarkably well.

  Atlanta, Georgia, was the home of all the national media networks. They had moved out of New York City in the eighties and nineties of the previous century, and out of L.A. soon after the beginning of the third millennium, driven from both places by prohibitive rents, airport hassles, unions, the cost of gas, and a multitude of other problems. Where they would go from Atlanta when its turn came not to need the networks they didn't know, but they figured there was always going to be somewhere to welcome them with open arms, and they were probably right.

  Before he left for Atlanta and his appearance on 'Tonight with Bob Smith', Dr Joshua Christian was subjected to the horror of a major press conference for newspapers only; the periodicals, news magazines, Sunday supplements and the rest of the printed media were slotted into Dr Christian's Atlanta stay, as was network radio. He acquitted himself at this press conference surprisingly well, undismayed by the exploding flashes and the questions fired at him from faces he could hardly see. But it was no occasion to provoke the Christian fireworks, which pleased the Atticus publicity director, who wanted him to save the big stuff for Bob Smith. However, she knew him well enough by this time not to make the mistake of telling him that.

  There were mysteries about the man she couldn't fathom. For instance, how had Atticus managed to secure helicopter transport for him wherever he was scheduled to go? Even Toshio Yokinori, who held the Nobel Prize for Literature and was a top movie star into the bargain, could not command the like. Nothing daunted, the publicity director travelled with Dr Christian by car from the Atticus offices on Park Avenue down to the old heliport on the East River, nervous as a hen with one chick, picking and clucking at a piece of fluff on his old tweed jacket and bemoaning the blueness of his beard shadow. He sat, the dear man, quite unruffled and unimpressed.

  They flew him down from New York to Atlanta in a smart little helicopter that, had he know it, belonged to the President's fleet but had been repainted for this special assignment. So it could travel close to the speed of sound and was most comfortably finished inside. Never naive about the problems that beset his fellow men and women, he was naive enough personally to assume that this mode of transport was the norm for Atticus authors (the publicity director had held her tongue); certainly he had no idea that the government of the United States of America was picking up the bill for the entire exercise, from helicopter to ground vehicles to hotels.

  The speedy little mosquito of a thing made one step en route, in Washington, to pick up Dr Judith Carriol.

  He was desperately glad to see her. Mama had wanted to come, of course, and James had valiantly volunteered, but with him away on what he was staggered to learn would be a ten-week publicity tour, neither of them could be spared. Mary also offered her services, dour and darkling; she was refused on the same grounds. So he had hoped that maybe Lucy Greco would go with him to Atlanta, or failing her, Elliott MacKenzie, or the publicity director. To board the helicopter alone was a little daunting.

  He had never flown. By the time he was old enough to wish to fly, planes were virtually grounded save for a very few flights classified as imperative and always booked out by those whose jobs or needs gave them priority. The people travelled by jam-packed train or bus, town to town, state to state, border to border.

  'Oh, Judith, a miracle!' he said, squeezing the hand she held out to him as she settled into the other half of the back seat.

  'Well, I thought you might be grateful for a friendly face, I had some leave coming, and Elliott very kindly said I could serve as your official escort and unofficial friend. I hope you don't mind that it's me.'

  'I'm delighted!'

  'Bob Smith tonight, huh?'

  'Yes.'

  'Have you watched his show at all?'

  'No, never. I thought it might be a good idea to watch it last night, but Andrew advised me not to. He's been tuning in to all the shows on the list Atticus sent me, or the ones we receive, anyway. And he said it would be better for me if I just went on and did everything cold.'

  'Do you always take his advice?'

  'When Drew advises, which isn't often, it's smart to take heed.'

  'Nervous?'

  'No. Should I be?'

  'No. It's a piece of cake, Joshua.'

  'All I care about is the opp
ortunity to reach people. I hope Bob Smith has read the book.'

  'I hope he hasn't,' she said, knowing full well he hadn't. 'You tell Bob Smith about millennial neurosis! There's nothing more boring than having to listen to two people in the know trade questions and answers. They assume too much, and they take too many short cuts.'

  'You're right. I never thought of that.'

  'Okay!' She wove her fingers through his, pressed their palms together, turned to smile at him. 'Oh, Joshua, it is good to see you!'

  He didn't answer, just leaned his head back against the seat squabs behind him, closed his eyes and permitted himself to enjoy the extraordinary sensation of being shot through the air like a projectile.

  Serious talk shows were a thing of the past. So for that matter was any kind of serious dramatized television unless it was musical, classical or at least safely historic. Shakespeare and Moliere were very much in vogue. Even the much praised shows hosted by Benjamin Steinfeld and Dominic d'Este were only serious in that they purported to discuss the issues of the times; in reality they did so in ways that could cause their viewers neither grief nor rage. Everything media was geared to minimizing trauma and stifling a genuine spirit of inquiry. Television especially glittered and scintillated, fell over itself wisecracking and dancing, laughing and singing.

  'Tonight with Bob Smith' came on air at nine and lasted for two hours, and after fifteen years it still held the vast majority of the country in thrall. The moment that fresh, happy, freckledy face came on camera grinning almost from one jug ear to the other below its wild thatch of bright red hair, 'Tonight' was a headlong frolic of gags, sketches, zippy guests, song-and-dance acts, and more zippy guests.

  The format of the show dated back to long before Bob Smith had been born; spontaneously witty and attractive host with indefatigable slightly long-suffering sidekick, opening monologue, number-one guest spot, song or song-and-dance, number-two guest spot, comedy sketch, number-three guest spot, song or song-and-dance, number-four guest spot, and so on and so on.

  Usually there were between four and eight guests, this number depending solely upon how Bob Smith felt any one guest was faring with himself and the studio audience. He was a past master at the art of cutting a guest short, and right royal in a decision to can the last few of the hopefuls still waiting back in the green room because a guest was doing better than anticipated when the show was put together.

  His real name was not Bob Smith, it was Guy Pisano, and he owed his fair urchin face to some nineteenth-century Visigoth who marched over the Brenner Pass and kept on going south to Calabria. The network think tank chose his name because Bob was the most popular male first name and Smith the most common last name; it had no race or creed connotations, and it conjured up an irresistible image of Everyman. His sidekick, Manning Croft (real name Otis Green), was cute, black, hip and sassy, an exquisitely dressed and thoroughly up-to-the-minute version of Rochester or Benson. He knew his place on Bob Smith's 'Tonight' and he never never exceeded it, though inside himself he dreamed of one day hosting his own show.

  Andrew had advised Dr Christian wisely not to watch; had he seen the show, he might well have decided to cancel his entire publicity tour and gone on quietly practising in Holloman, trusting to his and Lucy Greco's written words to reach the masses he so longed to help. Or then again, depending upon who looked at the vexed question, perhaps in the light of what followed, Andrew's advice was not wise at all. As it was, he drove in a large black car in blissful ignorance of what was in store for him, Dr Judith Carriol sitting beside him, from the Atlanta helipad all the way down Peachtree Street to the NBC studios, multi-storeyed and made of pink mirrored glass in a grandiose plaza that also housed the buildings of CBS, ABC, Metromedia and PBS.

  'Tonight with Bob Smith' occupied two whole floors, its studio rising through both of them on the north side of the NBC building. Dr Christian was greeted most respectfully in the ground floor lobby by a casually dressed young lady who explained that she was one of the show's fifteen junior or assistant producers. As she conducted the Doctors Carriol and Christian up thirteen floors in an elevator and then through a warren of subfusc passages, she chattered away to the clipboard she carried, some of her words occasionally reaching the ears of her charges, dutifully following.

  Finally, a little over an hour before the show was scheduled to begin taping, Dr Christian was settled with Dr Carriol in the green room. Later on he would become a green room expert, and would in retrospect deem the 'Tonight' green room far and away the most commodious and tasteful specimen of the genus anywhere. The chairs were roomy and comfortable and came from Widdicomb, there were coffee tables littered around it carrying vases of freshly cut flowers, it had no less than six gigantic video monitors placed so that every chair had an unobscured view, and a mirrored mini-cafeteria with a uniformed nubile maiden in attendance graced one wall. Declining all but coffee, Dr Christian subsided into the first chair he came to and gazed around with the appreciation of one who took an interest in decor and interior design.

  'Why do I feel like whispering?' he asked Dr Carriol, smiling with a bubbling amusement he couldn't suppress.

  'It's an inner sanctum,' she said with an answering smile.

  'Yes, of course.' He looked around again, but differently. 'There's no one here but us.'

  'You're the first guest. They always ask that guests be here at least one hour before their time slots. So just wait, the others will come.'

  They did. To Dr Christian it was an education he really enjoyed acquiring, watching his fellow guests. No one arrived alone, some had quite an entourage, and he could tell the very famous ones because of a sudden electrical curiosity that galvanized those already present. They were essentially connoisseurs of themselves, more star-struck than any mere mortal watching at home. There was no interparty chatting; each designated guest kept his or her distance from all save his or her companions. But the eyes slid round assessing, the ears flapped to eavesdrop, the hands lifted and fluttered and drummed and scratched as if yearning for something valid to do with themselves. A kind of guilty privilege oozed out of everyone, mixed with the subtlest drop of twitching twisting fear. This venue, Dr Christian concluded at the end of his observations, was colossally important to all these people.

  Half an hour before the show began, another young female assistant producer came to take Dr Christian 'down to Makeup', as she phrased it; he followed her docilely, leaving Dr Carriol behind looking superbly at ease and making everyone else in the green room feel slightly wrong somehow.

  In Makeup he felt like a wart or a wen, sitting in a dentist's chair while a taciturn elderly man muttered about dark bases and big pores and proceeded to gild this most unpromising lily.

  'Gingerbread!' said Dr Christian suddenly.

  The hands stopped; the makeup man looked at him in the mirror as if he suddenly saw his subject as a human being for the first time.

  'Gingerbread?' echoed the makeup man.

  'I was thinking of myself as a lily, but that's patently ridiculous,' explained Dr Christian. 'A lily I shall never be, I toil too hard. But I might just qualify as gingerbread.'

  The makeup man shrugged, lost interest in the mind under the face, and finished deftly with this inappropriate guest.

  'There you go, Doc!' he announced, whipping his drape off with the flair of a magician.

  Dr Christian eyed himself ironically in the mirror, ten years younger, skin a lot smoother, eyes debagged and quite mysteriously larger. 'Thirty instead of forty! Thank you, sir,' he said, then ambled back along endless corridors with his third different assistant producer guide.

  'I haven't enjoyed myself so much in years,' he said to Dr Carriol, sinking back into his chair. 'You know, this is a revelation.'

  She studied him with approval. 'They've certainly made you look more your age! Very spiffy!'

  That was the end of any conversation. On the monitors the empty studio had acquired an audience in his absence, and since it w
as being warmed up by Manning Croft, it laughed with increasing frequency and ease.

  He didn't see Bob Smith, because just as the opening chords of fanfare announced that the tape was rolling and the show beginning, a different young female assistant producer came and collected him from the green room.

  Amid urgent whisperings they positioned him at the edge of a praline-coloured curtain so heavy with silk that it hung straight and somnolent and graceful.

  'Wait here until we cue you, then take a step out onto the stage, stop, turn and smile at the audience — a big smile, please! — then walk on over to the podium. Bob will rise to shake your hand and you will sit down in the chair on his right. The minute another guest is announced, you move out of the chair and sit on the nearest end of the long sofa, and every time a new guest comes on, you move down one more space on the sofa. Got it?'

  'Got it!' he said gaily, too loudly.

  'Sssssh!'

  'Sorry.'

  The preliminary repartee between Bob Smith and Manning Croft was over amid giggles from the audience, and Bob Smith stepped alone into the middle of the huge polished space between where Dr Christian stood behind the edge of the silk curtain and where the vacant podium waited with its stunning backdrop of a sunset Atlanta shimmering in the brilliant studio light.

  Dr Christian didn't hear the monologue, for a man edged up next to him, grasped him urgently by the arm and introduced himself as the producer of the show.

  'It's a pleasure and a privilege to have this exclusive, Dr Christian,' he murmured. 'Uh — have you ever been on television before?'

  Dr Christian said no, and was subjected to a soothing sotto voce rundown on how easy it was as long as you just remembered to concentrate on Bob and ignore the cameras.

  The monologue was winding up, the audience was ecstatic. The producer, still clutching Dr Christian's arm, tensed.