The Sonnet Lover by Carol Goodman Page A
Authors: Carol Goodman
eavesdrop, but I kept hearing the words ‘script’ and ‘film deal,’ and since I’ve written a screenplay myself…”
“Yes, of course,” I say encouragingly to Francesco, wondering whether there’s a waiter in this city who doesn’t have a screenplay or a head shot tucked under his apron, “your interest was piqued. What did you hear?”
“Well the bald man kept saying that he needed something concrete in order to get financial backing, and the Italian boy said he wasn’t interested in making a deal, he just wanted what rightfully belonged to him, so the producer said, ‘Well, we can kill two birds with one stone,’ which the Italian boy didn’t seem to get because he said, all serious, ‘I do not think it will be necessary to kill anyone.’ ” Francesco lifts both eyebrows and approximates an Italian accent straight out of The Sopranos. “So the producer laughed—loudly—and said it was just a figure of speech.”
“And what did Orlando say to that?”
“He said something like…let me think…that he took words very seriously and that Robin had broken a promise. But I couldn’t quite make out what he meant. His English became worse the more emotional he got.”
I’m about to ask another question when Camille calls Francesco’s name. Several customers are waiting in front of the bar for their coffee orders. Francesco rolls his eyes and resumes his place behind the bar. I stare out the window at the rain-soaked courtyard, trying to make sense out of the conversation Francesco overheard and the bits of what Orlando said to me yesterday. What exactly had Robin promised Orlando? A credit in the script he sent to Leo Balthasar? Why wouldn’t Robin just give it to him, then? What had Robin said about promises yesterday? I think of it the way I think of most lovers’ promises. That he speaks “an infinite deal of nothing.”
An infinite deal of nothing. I can’t help but think that’s what it all adds up to. All the speculations as to why a young man of Robin’s promise would end his own life. Would he really have killed himself because of an accusation of plagiarism? But then I remember how upset Robin had gotten when I asked whether he wrote the poem at the end of the film himself. Was he trying to pass off a poem he wrote as a poem written by Shakespeare’s Dark Lady? Or had someone else written the poem—Orlando, perhaps?—and Robin stole it for his film? I’d love to have another look at the poem. If only I had a copy of it.
Then I realize that I probably do. When I asked Robin for a copy, he’d said “Here” and pressed that envelope into my hands, which I assumed contained only my forgotten watch. But now I’d wager that he’d put the poem in there as well. And it’s still unopened in my evening purse.
I get up from the table, leaving a generous tip for Francesco, and pull on my raincoat. It’s already a quarter to ten, but if I hurry I can still make it back to my apartment, retrieve Robin’s envelope, and not be too late for the meeting. What I’m hoping is that in addition to the poem there might be a note from Robin explaining where the poem came from—whether he wrote it himself or “borrowed” it from Orlando. That had to be what he wanted to talk to me about yesterday—it made sense after what happened freshman year. He’d made a promise to me then that he would never claim another writer’s words as his own. I’d like to think that he held his promise to me a little dearer than the lovers’ promises he’d dismissed in class.
Outside of Cafe Lucrezia, I pause to put up my umbrella before heading south to my apartment. Before I can turn, though, a hand grips my elbow hard and pulls me in the opposite direction.
“Good, I was hoping I’d run into you here. We can go into the meeting together. There’s power in numbers.”
I look down at the diminutive figure at my side, but all I see is the top of her head bent forward against the
“Yes, of course,” I say encouragingly to Francesco, wondering whether there’s a waiter in this city who doesn’t have a screenplay or a head shot tucked under his apron, “your interest was piqued. What did you hear?”
“Well the bald man kept saying that he needed something concrete in order to get financial backing, and the Italian boy said he wasn’t interested in making a deal, he just wanted what rightfully belonged to him, so the producer said, ‘Well, we can kill two birds with one stone,’ which the Italian boy didn’t seem to get because he said, all serious, ‘I do not think it will be necessary to kill anyone.’ ” Francesco lifts both eyebrows and approximates an Italian accent straight out of The Sopranos. “So the producer laughed—loudly—and said it was just a figure of speech.”
“And what did Orlando say to that?”
“He said something like…let me think…that he took words very seriously and that Robin had broken a promise. But I couldn’t quite make out what he meant. His English became worse the more emotional he got.”
I’m about to ask another question when Camille calls Francesco’s name. Several customers are waiting in front of the bar for their coffee orders. Francesco rolls his eyes and resumes his place behind the bar. I stare out the window at the rain-soaked courtyard, trying to make sense out of the conversation Francesco overheard and the bits of what Orlando said to me yesterday. What exactly had Robin promised Orlando? A credit in the script he sent to Leo Balthasar? Why wouldn’t Robin just give it to him, then? What had Robin said about promises yesterday? I think of it the way I think of most lovers’ promises. That he speaks “an infinite deal of nothing.”
An infinite deal of nothing. I can’t help but think that’s what it all adds up to. All the speculations as to why a young man of Robin’s promise would end his own life. Would he really have killed himself because of an accusation of plagiarism? But then I remember how upset Robin had gotten when I asked whether he wrote the poem at the end of the film himself. Was he trying to pass off a poem he wrote as a poem written by Shakespeare’s Dark Lady? Or had someone else written the poem—Orlando, perhaps?—and Robin stole it for his film? I’d love to have another look at the poem. If only I had a copy of it.
Then I realize that I probably do. When I asked Robin for a copy, he’d said “Here” and pressed that envelope into my hands, which I assumed contained only my forgotten watch. But now I’d wager that he’d put the poem in there as well. And it’s still unopened in my evening purse.
I get up from the table, leaving a generous tip for Francesco, and pull on my raincoat. It’s already a quarter to ten, but if I hurry I can still make it back to my apartment, retrieve Robin’s envelope, and not be too late for the meeting. What I’m hoping is that in addition to the poem there might be a note from Robin explaining where the poem came from—whether he wrote it himself or “borrowed” it from Orlando. That had to be what he wanted to talk to me about yesterday—it made sense after what happened freshman year. He’d made a promise to me then that he would never claim another writer’s words as his own. I’d like to think that he held his promise to me a little dearer than the lovers’ promises he’d dismissed in class.
Outside of Cafe Lucrezia, I pause to put up my umbrella before heading south to my apartment. Before I can turn, though, a hand grips my elbow hard and pulls me in the opposite direction.
“Good, I was hoping I’d run into you here. We can go into the meeting together. There’s power in numbers.”
I look down at the diminutive figure at my side, but all I see is the top of her head bent forward against the