The Thieves of Manhattan - By Adam Langer Page 0,2

magazines and journals that were still sending me form-letter rejections; agents, all of whom had sent my story manuscripts back to me in the self-addressed stamped envelopes I had provided; editors and publishers, all looking for the new Zadie Smith or Nick Hornby, all completely uninterested in Ian Minot. I couldn’t blame them; at that point, I was pretty bored with myself too.

After my dad finally died of the cancer that had been slowly gnawing away at him, and I moved from Indiana to New York with my pitifully small inheritance, I went to Lit-Stim every Monday night. Now, a little over five years later, with my bank balance sinking into the mid four figures, I never did. The only reason I was here instead of back in my West Harlem garret, staring at a blank computer monitor or lying on my lumpy proust, watching TV, was that it was Anya’s turn to appear at Miri’s podium. Three other writers were on the bill, and Anya was the only one without a book contract; I figured that would change before the week was out. When Anya had treated me to dinner at Londell’s to celebrate our six-month anniversary and told me that Miri had chosen her for Lit-Stim, I could already feel her slipping away from me, could feel myself becoming the “old boyfriend” she’d soon discuss with her rich, talented new beau—yes, but I vas yunk and fooleesh den, end eeven though he hedd no tellent, he vass allvays switt, she would tell Malcolm Gladwell or Gary Shteyngart or whichever writer would next succumb to her charms.

“You are lett again as always, but I forgeef you, Ee-yen,” Anya said as she patted the barstool she had saved for me—even now, I still love the way she used to say my name.

I took the stool beside her, guiltily eyeing the Manhattan that she had already ordered for me. I could barely afford to buy the next round, but I knew that Anya would never expect me to buy her anything, not even a beer. Strangely, money never seemed to be an issue for this twenty-six-year-old woman who had left Romania with barely a leu to her name; Anya usually had cash and a nice, furnished place to stay—someone was always loaning her the keys to his or her apartment or summerhouse, hiring her for odd secretarial jobs with flexible hours, inviting her to this or that swanky party. When we first met, I obsessed about what she might be doing to win so many favors, but after a while I stopped worrying—Anya was the kind of woman you wanted to help without even considering what you might get in return.

At the bar, I sipped my Manhattan, hoping to make it last, while I pointed out to Anya all the agents in the crowd—Eric Simonoff and Bill Clegg of the William Morris Agency sipping club sodas; Faye Bender and Christy Fletcher talking shop; Joe Regal of Regal Literary handing out a business card; Geoff Olden from the Olden Literary Agency nursing a cocktail. I recognized all of them from writing seminars I’d attended or from when I had served them drinks at private parties in Sonny Mehta’s or Nan Talese’s apartments, back in my naïve days when I thought that getting close to publishers would bring me closer to getting my stories published.

Sitting beside Anya, I caught only snatches of their conversations, but every phrase filled me with envy—exclusive contract with Vanity Fair; boxed review in PW; a “significant” six-figure deal; optioned by Scott Rudin; adapted by Ron Bass; profiled by Chip McGrath; interviewed by Terry Gross; selected by Pam Layne; short-listed for the Booker; headlining at the 92nd Street Y; bidding war for the paperback rights; got a free box lunch at Yaddo. I kept suggesting to Anya that she get up and introduce herself to somebody, but she said she thought everyone there was a fekk. She didn’t want to meet anyone, just to sit with me and make fun of them—I was the only person with whom she could ever really be herself.

“Good evening everybody, and welcome to another stimulating event,” Miri Lippman said from the podium, her monotone reverberating like a tuning fork held too close to my ear as she introduced the evening’s writers.

Anya would be last to read. The second round of Manhattans, which I bought for Anya and myself with the night’s tips from Morningside Coffee, helped get me through the first three readers,