Babayaga: A Novel by Toby Barlow Page B

Wake up!” he said, kicking the man’s chair.
    The man lurched awake and gave them a wild, disoriented look, then grinned and settled down again. “Oh, Oliver … yes … hello.”
    “Pull yourself together, friend, we have vital things to discuss. Come, I’ve reserved a private room for us in the back.” Oliver strode to the far corner and dramatically pulled aside a black curtain, revealing a small, dimly lit table set for five.
    Will followed as they filed in and each found a seat. “Let me introduce our new friend,” Oliver said, pulling the curtain closed and sitting down to complete the circle. “This is William, he works with the agency. And, Will, these fine people all work with me in one capacity or another. We each have unique skills, passions, motivations, but what we definitely share is a collective dream of what this city could be, and what we can do here, so I’d like—”
    “Wait, these guys work for you? I don’t understand.” Will did not mean to interrupt, but he was confused. He looked around at the cast of characters. “Didn’t you say you were a writer?”
    “Oh my. Did I? I am sorry, ha ha.” Oliver laughed amiably. “You know, I thought the agency would have provided you with a bit of background. Honestly, we must be less important than I like to think we are. Fine, then, let me back up. I am a writer of sorts, yes, from time to time, but more pertinent to this particular conversation is the fact that I am the founder and editor of The Gargoyle Press , and these good people here are, in one capacity or another, some of my esteemed colleagues.”
    “ The Gargoyle Press ? Is that some sort of a magazine? I’m afraid I haven’t heard of it.”
    Oliver forced a smile. “Ah, yes, Will, it is a literary magazine; we publish fiction, essays, good and bad poetry, interviews with whatever ambitious authors we can corner, and occasional artwork. But if they didn’t tell you about all that, then I’m not surprised that you are ignorant of our journal’s existence. At the moment, we enjoy only a modest circulation.”
    “‘A modest circulation’ is a modest exaggeration,” muttered Ned.
    “Ha ha, yes, thank you, Ned. Possibly so.” Oliver grinned. “Which is exactly what we’re here to discuss tonight.”
    “Okay, I see. I think I get it. You have some sort of a problem with your circulation?” Will said, slowly coming to life. So far, the entire gathering had been confusing him, but now he felt he was getting a grasp on the situation. Very often people approached him for advice on how to advertise their small businesses; in fact, only a few months ago the little Basque fellow who ran his neighborhood’s corner bistro had asked for his help in attracting more patrons. Will had gotten the boys in the paste-up room to design some new window signage for the Basque, bolding the font up a bit and adding drop shadows so the name would pop out at passersby, and though it was unclear that it had actually helped increase business, the Basque was happy now and always ready to pour Will a Belgian ale on the house. He had then connected Will with a florist and a haberdasher, and Will had his people redo their logos. Will hadn’t charged any of them a dime; his agency earned so much good money from their large accounts that even thinking about billing these tiny shops would be a foolish distraction. But these acts of generosity made him feel more like a part of the real Parisian community, less like a tourist who was merely passing through.
    So now he sat up and happily offered his help again. “Listen, maybe the agency could give you some advice on your ad sales, or drum up some subscriber interest? I’m sure there’s a whole bunch of action items we can put together. Have you ever thought about running some sort of a mail-in contest, or a sweepstakes…” By the time the last words had left his lips, the entire group was gazing at him with a set of stunned expressions that made him