God Calls: Remembering Anatole Broyard and a Book Review for the New York Times: The New Yorker I had written reviews before. I knew how it worked: I was a writer, I had opinions about books. I knew I could do it. But the other reviews had been written for another newspaper, not for the New York Times. I found this assignment daunting. Actually, terrifying. My editor at the other paper had moved to the Times. There she assigned me a short review, over which I labored as though it would become the Rosetta Stone. I felt as though I had snuck into the Times by the back door, but they asked me to do others. Finally, I was assigned the full-length review of an established novelist. This was my chance, the front door. If I proved worthy, I'd be allowed to walk through it. At that time, I had not yet published a book. It would mean a lot if I could describe myself as "a book reviewer for the Times," instead of "an unknown fiction writer who works in the attic, sitting at her husband's childhood desk." The book was a story collection by an English author whom I had reviewed at the other newspaper. He was more famous than I, and I thought hopefully that our names had become linked. Maybe I had become the American expert on his work. When I received the bound galleys - now called an ARC - I sat down to write the review. I still worked at an electric typewriter. I wrote and rewrote, crossing out words and scribbling corrections in the margins. I flipped through the book for quotes and typed them carefully. I yanked sheets of paper out of the roller and cranked in new ones. The author was a member of a particular English school - intelligent, graceful, precise. He was a bit like William Trevor, or Elizabeth Taylor, or Elizabeth Bowen, all of whom I worshipped. I admired this writer, but I did not worship him, and I knew that, as a critic, I had to offer something more than praise. Wasn't that what I was being paid for? Critical acumen? I described several of the stories, quoted from good passages, and then offered my obligatory negative comment. I noted the repetition of a vivid phrase, which was used in two stories. This wasn't a crime, I said solemnly, but it was sloppy writing. And that was about it: praise, paraphrase, and a judicial pinch of critical acumen, to show the Times I had a brain. When I had finished, when each word had been written and rewritten many times, and when I had used most of a ream of paper, I faxed it off. It was exactly the requested length, it was in the requested format, and it was turned in on the day it was due. I aimed at being perfectly professional: I didn't want the faintest shadow to fall across this assignment. I wanted the Times to have no reason not to send me another assignment, and then another one. Quite a while went by. I began writing something else, and my desk became littered by pages of my own fiction, which was adorned with more crossings out, more marginal notes. One morning the phone rang. There was no phone on the third floor, so I racketed down the narrow stairs and through the hall to our bedroom, trying to answer by the third ring. "Hello," a man said, "is this Roxana Robinson?" "Yes," I said. This is Anatole Broyard, from the New York Times. He did not have to tell me where Anatole Broyard was from. I knew where he was from. Anatole Broyard was God. He lived on Parnassus, and he sent down his golden words for mortals to read. I was baffled by two things: one, that God would be calling me, and two, that he would speak with a Brooklyn accent. I knew, both from his name and from his exquisite language, that Anatole Broyard was French. I knew how he would sound. Why would God be calling me, and why was he speaking in the wrong accent? Hello. "I'm calling about your review," he said. "Oh, yes," I said. I prepared to be fired. "It's good," he said. We just have a few questions. My heart was already pounding from rushing down from the third floor, but now it was hammering. "Yes, okay," I said. "We wondered if we could open with a sentence that includes the title," he said. "Yes," I said at once. The final draft was upstairs, but there was no point in going to get it, because I would say yes to whatever he asked. "You don't mind?" he asked. "No," I said. He had a question about the ending, too. "Fine," I said, "that's fine." "One more thing," he said. You didn't include the page numbers, for the quotes. I froze. I was sitting on the edge of the bed and looking out the window onto the lawn. I thought, This is the end of my career. "The page numbers," I said. Of course I knew about the page numbers. Next to every quote you had to include a page number, so it could be checked by the editors for accuracy, against the text. I'd forgotten to put them in. If you can just look them up and send them to me, we'll be all set. I couldn't go and look them up. I had thrown out the galleys. After I sent off the review, I cleaned up my desk. I threw out the whole mess, all the early drafts and the galleys. They had gone into my scrapbasket, which had been emptied into the big garbage cans out by the garage. On Thursdays, a big stinky truck backed up the driveway and opened its maw and the trashman in his heavy gloves picked up our cans and threw everything into the truck, and then the truck went off to Indiana. The galley was gone. He waited. "The thing is," I said, "I'm not sure I can find the galleys." "That's all right," he said. As soon as you do, just look up the page numbers and send them over. It's not urgent. I swallowed. I mean, I'm pretty sure I can't find them. How can you be pretty sure you can't find them? You'll find them. He sounded cheerful. "No," I said miserably. I actually know I won't be able to find them. A pause. I threw them out. They've gone in the trash. "Oh," he said. "I'm really sorry," I said. Now the axe would fall. I forgot about them. I can't believe I did this. I'm really sorry. "No, no," he said. These things happen. Don't worry, we'll work it out. "I can tell you where they are on the page," I said. The first one is on the upper part of the left-hand page. Oh, do you have that kind of memory, too? That's how I remember things," he said. Okay, good, I'll just flip through that story until I find it. I told him where the other quotes were, and then I apologized again. "I'm really, really sorry about this," I said. "No," he said, "why?" "It's so unprofessional," I said, in despair. There it was, spoken, the reason I should never be hired again. "No, it's not unprofessional," he declared, his voice deep and commanding. This is an act of God. And that was how I knew it really was Anatole Broyard on the phone. Illustration by Tony Millionaire.