In this edition we have book news, a poem from Courtenay Schembri Gray, a review of the latest book from Heloise Press and a short Story from Mark. A. Henry. Mark also reports that the Jamestown Treasure is yet to be found. His book, Lacking Evidence to The Contrary is available here Operation Dodecahedron and you can also buy t-shirts.
As always, contributions are always welcome and please email to Beyondthezeropod@gmail.com You can also send me a voice mail for the show at Anchor.fm/beyondzero
BOOK NEWS
There is a huge amount of book releases coming up in September - here are some highlights - You Will Like it Here By Ashton Politanoff, The Secret Crypt -by Salvador Elizondo, Cancion - by Eduardo Halfon (Bellevue) one of my picks for the year so far. The Pachinko Parlor - by Elisa Shua Dusapin (Open Letter) The Autodidacts - Thomas Kendall (Whiskey Tit Press) T by Alan Fyfe (Transit Lounge) Evelio Rosero - Toño the Infallible (New Directions) The Logos by Mark De Silva (Clash Books) Also check out Seth’s latest video with Mark here W.A.S.T.E MAILING LIST
REVIEW
The latest release from Heloise Press is The Memory of Air by Caroline Lamarche, translated from the French by Katherine Gregor. It was originally published in France in 2014 and the book itself is a slim 75 pages. In this edition there is a fascinating introduction from Dr Dominique Carlini-Versini from the university of Durham about the representation of rape in contemporary French literature. Once into the text of the novella itself our first person narrator, describes finding a woman’s body at the bottom of a ravine, a motif that returns throughout the story. The core narrative is her remembrance of relationship with a man named Manfore and through this story we find out what has happed to their relationship, the narrator’s history and who the body is at the bottom of the ravine. This book does deal with some serious topics such as domestic violence and rape but it is done with a brilliant subtlety and lightness of touch. There are frequent digressions and asides and there is sense of irony in the tone of the writing. This book has already received a PEN English award and this is another great title from Heloise Press.
If you have not checked out Heloise Press they are publishing some fantastic books from women in translation. The Memory of the Air is out on the 26th of September.
Poem
PLAYTHING
The spiders in my brain are slowly dying,
ravaging the banana leaves of ideas and dreams. My lungs fill with pulp and sinew,
repeatedly burning threads of incense and Socratic prayer.
Woman turns herself into Van Gogh,
deaf to the whimpering of glass.
Woman knows,
a translucent plaything.
Short Story
LOS TRAFICANTES DE CAFÉ
By Mark A Henry
The executive washroom at Walter-Brandt Advertising was, by today’s standards, a bit much. The floors were of darkest green tile, cut from a single slab of Brazilian marble shot through with black veins, and laid in such a way that it’s metamorphic tendrils formed mirror images. The black and white vertically striped wallpaper accentuated the high ceiling. Gold (plated) fixtures popped against the wine-colored sink and commode. It was a great place to do cocaine.
Daryl Sasco sharply inhaled the drug and stood up. He stretched his arms out as wide as he could, slowly tried to touch his elbows together behind his back, then brought his fingertips together in front of him like a Buddhist monk (with a moderate cocaine habit). He stared hard into the mirror, did a quick 1-2-3 wipedown (1. Nose. 2. Suit. 3. Hair) and turned to exit. Emerging into the hallway, the bustling noise of Walter-Brandt filled his ears. 1983 was a good time to be a young ad man in the big city. But 1984 was even better.
As he made his way down the hallway, Sasco passed posters displaying logos of the agency’s biggest clients: Gossler Brewing, Saiatsu Automotive, Ebony Essence Hair Products, Harvest Foods. They all had felt Walter-Brandt’s Midas touch, each growing to dominate their respective markets over the past several years after signing with the agency. Advertising Magazine probably said it best on its March ’82 cover: “Walter-Brandt: The Zeitgeist Machine.”
How did Walter-Brandt do it? The answer was in plain sight, engraved on a golden plaque affixed above the doorway that led to the agency’s client reception area and the conference rooms beyond. As he passed beneath, Sasco reached up to slap it like a football player running out of the locker room onto the field. The plaque read:
“Hear them tell you exactly what they want.
Tell them exactly what they want to hear.”
-James Walter
Walter-Brandt occupied the entire 28th floor of the Manheim Building at 549 Madison Avenue in Manhattan. The reception area was at the hub of the layout, with four wings extending out in each direction. The north and east wings housed the executive offices, art department, accounting and media buying. The west and south wings terminated in conference rooms with corner views of Central Park and Midtown Manhattan. Walter-Brandt employees knew these rooms as the West Room and South Room, but both of them were labeled as “Conference Room One” for the benefit of visiting clients. James Walter reasoned that no client would want to be relegated to an agency’s second best conference room, but thinking that there IS a second conference room would give clients the impression that Walter-Brandt is busy and prosperous while simultaneously assuring them that they are the agency’s top priority.
Sasco entered the West Room to find his boss Alexander Brandt standing at the far window gazing out over the Park. Brandt considered it a power move to be never caught sitting down when someone entered a room, be it an employee or a client. Brandt was about two shades too tan, wore large, round tortoise shell glasses, a khaki summer weight suit, powder blue shirt with matching pocket square and pink paisley tie. His gold Submariner flashed as he unclasped his hands and turned to greet Sasco.
“Daryl. How are you?” Sasco gave his standard answer,
“Happy, healthy and terrific. Never felt better a day in my life.”
“That’s good. To business. Daryl, we are about to meet Bernardo Rojas. Mr. Rojas, through his attorney in Bogota, Colombia, contacted the agency two days ago to request a meeting.”
Sasco was puzzled. Normally Walter-Brandt would prepare a pitch meeting weeks in advance with full knowledge of the client’s product and place in the market. To meet someone who basically is walking in off the street was unusual to the point of being unheard of.
“And?” asked Sasco. “What is Mr. Rojas’ business? What’s the product? Are we pitching newbusiness? What’s the deal here?” Brandt shrugged. “I don’t know. What I do know is that Mr. Rojas is a man of some significant means and he apparently wants our help. The meeting request came via fax, so we know he is forward-looking, up on the latest technology…” Sasco nodded in agreement. That fax machine outside Brandt’s office never ceased to amaze him. Words, pictures, through the phones line! The future truly was now. “… and also, a courier delivered a package from his attorney’s office this morning containing $20,000 in cash and a note thanking us in advance for our time.” Sasco’s eyes popped wide and he grinned. “Twenty grand? I’m sure that got your attention, Alex.”
“Indeed it did, indeed it did. And now, we must return the favor and capture the attention of our new friend Bernardo Rojas. That’s why I called you for this meeting Daryl. You’re the best pitchman we have and I don’t want this guy to get away without signing a contract with us today, whatever it may be for.”
The compliment (and the coke) swelled Sasco’s chest just a bit. “But we don’t know anything about him at all?”
“I’m afraid not. If there was some way we could search for his name to see where it may have appeared in public, we could have some clue. Our newspaper clip service doesn’t serve Colombia, and even if it did, two days would not be enough time to search for hits and fax them up here. We’re going to have to wing this one, basically.” At that moment, the elevator doors opened in Walter-Brandt’s lobby and two men stepped out. One was tall and thin, the other short and fat. Standing next to each other, they looked like this: Io. The taller carried a black briefcase and wore a gray double-breasted suit, a white shirt with black pinstripes, a navy tie and black wingtips. His hair was jet-black and so thick it appeared to be one piece. The shorter wore a black leather jacket over a yellow Izod tennis shirt (collar un-popped), light gray linen pants, brown loafers, no socks and a mustache that would make Thomas Magnum jealous. As they approached the reception desk, Margot St. Pierre (Wellesley ’83), greeted them.
“Welcome to Walter-Brant Advertising,” she said, looking up from a copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude that Brandt had given her yesterday with strict orders to keep it on her desk, in sight at all times. The taller man spoke with a Spanish accent. “We are here to see Alexander Brandt,” he said. A nod toward his companion. “This is Bernardo Rojas.”
“Mr. Brandt is waiting for you in Conference Room One,” said Margot. She pushed an intercom button on her desk phone and said, “Mr. Brandt? Mr. Rojas and his associate have arrived.” Sherose from her seat and said to the visitors, “Please follow me gentlemen.” As they began walking, Margot turned to the taller man. “I beg your pardon sir, I didn’t ask your name. My apologies.” The man smiled slightly. “My name is Eduardo Padilla. And it is quite all right, young lady. One minute of reconciliation is worth more than a whole life of friendship.” Margot nodded uncertainly. She had not gotten to that part yet. As the threesome made its way down the hall, Brandt once again took up his position at the West Room window.
The West Room itself was laid out in two sections. At the far end of the room was a sitting area, consisting of two leather couches facing each other across a glass-top coffee table. All three pieces of furniture sat on a red Persian rug, which in turn, was laid on the polished maple floor. Behind the sofa on the right was a wet bar and behind the left sofa, a table with a fax machine. Nearer the door was a rectangular, ten seat conference table inlaid with the Walter-Brandt logo (To those sitting at the head of the table, it looked like an interlocking W and B. To those sitting at the opposite end, it sort of looked a penis between two breasts. Either way it worked.)
Margot appeared in the doorway, announcing, “Mr. Brandt? This is Mr. Rojas and his associate Mr. Padilla.” Brandt turned and said, “Thank you, Margot.” Striding forward to greet his guests, but unsure of which man was Rojas, he extended his hand a bit early and aimed it directly between the two of them. “Mr. Rojas! Welcome to Walter-Brandt. I’m Alex Brandt.” The shorter visitor didn’t flinch, but the taller extended his hand and said, “Mr. Brandt. My name is Eduardo Padilla. Mr. Rojas’s attorney. I trust you received my fax as well as the package of… good faith.” Brandt pumped Padilla’s hand. “Please call me Alex. It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Padilla, and yes, everything was received in perfect order.” Padilla said, “Excellent.” He turned to his companion. “Allow me to introduce my client, Bernardo Rojas.”
Brandt said, “Mr. Rojas, I’ve very much been looking forward to meeting you. Alex Brandt.”Rojas offered a limp handshake and a “Mucho gusto.” Padilla said, “Mr. Rojas’ English is not as strong as he would like. He understands the language well enough, but he is not comfortable speaking it. I will be acting as his interpreter as well as his counsel today. Unless you happen to speak Spanish?” Brandt smiled, humbly dipping his head to confirm his linguistical limitation. “I’ve lived in New York my whole life. I’m afraid I’ve never had the opportunity to learn.”
Rojas nodded. “¿Quién carajo es este tipo?” he said, tipping his chin up toward Daryl. Brandt got the gist. “Forgive me. This is my associate, and Walter-Brandt’s best account executive, Daryl Sasco.” Rojas turned to Padilla. He flicked a finger back and forth between the ad men. “¿Cuál de estos dos folla al otro en el culo?” As Sasco stepped forward, Padilla said, “Mr. Rojas… would like to know where you buy your suits.” Personal introductions were once again made, and after a minute or two of menswear-based small talk, Brandt gestured into the room, saying, “Have a seat gentlemen. Make yourselves Comfortable. May I offer anyone a drink?” (It was 11:04 am, but remember -11:04 am, 1984.) Stationing himself before the bar as the Colombians settled on one of the sofas, Brandt continued, “Scotch? Aguardiente? Rum?” This is why Brandt made the big bucks. After receiving Padilla’s fax two days ago, he looked up Colombian restaurants in the Yellow Pages, went to one for lunch. There, after thorough research, he learned that the country’s most popular drink was known as aguardiente. After lunch he purchased the most expensive bottle he could find in Manhattan. After work that evening, he encouraged all his employees to have a shot of the licorice-y liquor (he was impressed to see Margot go in for seconds) in order to put a respectable dent in the bottle, then added it to the West Room’s wet bar.
“Aguardiente.” Padilla and Rojas said simultaneously.
“Same, please,” said Sasco. Drinks were fixed and more small talk was made as the visitors settled themselves on one of the sofas in the sitting area. Sasco took a seat across from them and Brandt delivered the drinks.
“To good fortune!” he said, raising his glass.
“Salud,” replied Padilla. Rojas tipped his glass, but said nothing.
“Mr. Rojas,” Brandt said, and set his drink down. “How can we help you?”
Once again, it was Padilla who spoke. “Mr. Rojas has diverse business interests across Central and South America ranging from agriculture to trucking to real estate. He is the third largestprivate landowner in Colombia. He owns a very successful football team in Bogota. However, due to some anticipated… regulatory changes in our country’s justice department and the subsequent short and long-term economic effects these changes may provoke, Mr. Rojas is interested in consolidating his many operations into a more streamlined and sustainable—" Rojas drained his glass and suddenly spoke. “¿Plátanos o café?” In response to the quizzical looks from Brandt and Sasco, Padilla took a deep breath and said,
“Bananas or coffee.”
Brandt said, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Allow me to explain,” Padilla said. “The soil in Colombia is renowned worldwide for it’s fertility and the climate is as if the entire country exists in a greenhouse. Any seed that meets a Colombian field springs to life, but there are two crops in particular that grow in abundance and quality unmatched anywhere on earth.”
“Tres, en realidad,” Rojas interjected. Padilla left that untranslated, and continued. “Two crops. Bananas and coffee. Mr. Rojas is prepared to convert virtually all of his resources into the production of one or the other. You are the experts in creating American market share. Mr. Rojas comes to you to advise him as to which one has the greater potential for profit in your country.” Brandt leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands in front of him. “May I ask why just one or the other? Why not both?” Before Rojas or Padilla could respond, the tiny cocaine-fueled man that lived in Sasco’s brain stood up from a tiny chair, approached a tiny podium, straightened his tiny tie and began to speak into a tiny microphone. The words exited Sasco’s mouth as it moved in unison with that of the tiny man.
“I’ll tell you why not, Alex. If Mr. Rojas split his land into two separate farming operations, one for bananas and one for coffee, neither one of them would likely be the biggest of its kind. Both large? Yes. Both successful? No doubt. But by combining all his holdings into one massive enterprise, producing one single commodity, he will come to dominate an entire market and reap the rewards reserved only for those who dare greatly.” Rojas nodded slowly, and for the first time, his eyes met Sasco’s. The tiny cocaine-fueled man was on a roll now. He removed the tiny microphone from its tiny stand and began roaming freely about Sasco’s brain. Sasco’s mouth continued moving. “Mr. Rojas, if I may ask, how did you come to own such large pieces of land?”
“Primero, maté a algunos hijos de puta y tomé sus granjas para cultivar cocaína. Luego usé el dinero de la droga para comprar aún más tierra.” With a slight chuckle, Padilla said, “As a young man, Mr. Rojas… was fortunate enough to… win some land holdings… in a radio contest. You see, in our country it is quite common for acreage to be given away in this manner.”
“I see,” Sasco said. “And in this case, fortune favored the prepared. Through your wits and hard work you were able to turn this stroke of luck into a vast empire. An empire we shall expand even further.” He rose from his seat, topped off his glass at the bar and walked to the window, still carrying the bottle. He beckoned Rojas to join him. Brandt watched carefully. He somehow knew that if Rojas rose from his seat, this deal was in the bag. Rojas collected his glass from the coffee table and got to his feet. Brandt wasn’t gay, but his only thought at that moment was “I love you, Daryl Sasco!” and he got a little hard. After pouring a drink for Rojas, Sasco turned to the window and swept his arm out across the cityscape that lay before them.“Bernardo, what do you see out there?”
“Nueva York.”
“That’s right. New York City. And beyond, all of America. Look at all those people down on the sidewalk, each trying to make their way in this world. Do you know what they want? I do. They want what all of us want. What you have, in fact. They want success. They want achievement. And they want people to KNOW they want success and achievement. We are going to sell people success and achievement one cup at a time and get them to carry it with them wherever they go, selling it in turn to whoever they meet. The answer, my friend, the answer to the question you traveled so far to ask, is coffee.” The tiny man dropped his tiny microphone and returned to his tiny chair. His work was done. Rojas placed his hand of Sasco’s shoulder. “Bueno. Venderemos mucho café juntos. Y si no,tendré que matarte.”
These days, ad agencies will do comprehensive market research, extensive focus group testingand so forth before bringing a new product or campaign to market. It’s not that they don’t havetiny beings living inside their brains to guide their decisions - we all do of course, but it’s just that very few of us encourage the tiny man to speak up and when we do, we often don’t trust him, or we decide to ignore him altogether. Daryl Sasco, though only dimly conscious of his tiny man’s existence, had nevertheless cultivated a deep and long-standing faith in him and the tiny man had never failed Sasco in any significant way and would not, in fact until 1990. In truth, had Sasco taken a different route to work that morning, or if the sun was slightly higher in the sky, or if he did just a little more or just a little less cocaine, his tiny man might have decided that bananas were Rojas’ future and delivered a whole rap about how they bring happiness or something. Regardless, the tiny man had spoken. Coffee. “Plus, I believe the caffeine is mildly addictive.” Brandt added.
“Very well,” said Padilla. “Mr. Rojas is satisfied with your decision. We trust in your abilities.” He lifted his briefcase onto the table and popped it open, revealing twelve thick bundles of hundred dollar bills. “As I also trust that cash will be a suitable form of payment for your services as well as your discretion? Mr. Rojas values his privacy.”
“Of course, of course,” said Brandt. “Give us some time to work up a detailed strategy, and wewill present you with something soon. Is there anything else we can do for you?” Padilla turned to Rojas, who seemed to hesitate for a moment, then said, “Padilla, pregúnteles sobre El Tigre de Bigote.”
“Ah, yes,” said Padilla. “Mr. Rojas, like many Colombians, is a passionate sports fan. In his study of your country as a potential market, he has become very interested in your American football, one team and one player in particular. Would it be possible to negotiate a personal meeting with, and perhaps a business arrangement for the endorsement of Ken Anderson of the Cincinnati Bengals? Brandt, not a big football fan himself, was nonplussed, but Sasco’s tiny man blurted out,
“Consider it done!”