Garlic and Sapphires Read Online Free Page A

poured in through walls of windows, bathing the attractive modern furniture in California sunshine. The great New York Times, on the other hand, was a dreary landscape of worn metal desks heaped with stacks of papers, broken chairs abandoned in corners, and windows that had not been washed in years. Around every corner you found some pallid individual engaged in a tug of war with an overstuffed metal filing cabinet, valiantly struggling to get it shut; there just didn’t seem to be enough room. The faces we passed were all ashen, as if a wicked witch had cast a spell preventing anyone from leaving the building. I suspected that mice were scampering behind the walls. The natural light was meager and smiles were in very short supply.
    They dragged me through the newsroom and then over to the Culture Department, introducing me to so many editors that my hand grew sore from being shaken. Then I was turned over to a short, tidy woman with clipped gray hair. She was wearing a chic dark pantsuit that looked very expensive and her feet were clad in handsome oxfords.
    â€œWe’ve spoken,” she said, holding out her hand. “Carol Shaw. I’m here to escort you to the Living section.”
    Her tone was so dry that I couldn’t help asking, “Is it that bad?”
    â€œOh,” she said pressing the elevator button, “pure paradise. You’ll see.”
    Going from the newsroom to the Style Department was like going to visit a stepchild who has been exiled to the attic. The room was even dingier than those I had already seen, and very subdued, as if someone had turned down the lights and lowered the volume.
    â€œI’m going to introduce you to a lot of people, but if I were you I wouldn’t bother trying to remember names,” said Carol. “It’ll be much easier that way.”
    There was an edge to her voice, a New York wariness that was a clear warning to keep your distance.
    â€œI see Carol has you in tow,” said a shaggy man, coming toward us, his hand outstretched. His voice had an odd but appealing cracked quality, as if he couldn’t quite control it. With his rumpled clothes, scraggly hair, and pocked face, he seemed more like someone I might have known in Berkeley than an editor at the New York Times. “I’m Eric Asimov, the editor of the Living section. Carol may be my secretary, but she’s the important person to get to know around here. She’ll insist that you march for all her causes, but she knows where the bodies are buried, and she’s got the nicest house in the department. She lives in a perfect Chelsea townhouse while I camp out in a miserable apartment on upper Broadway.”
    â€œThere’s a reason for that,” said Carol, swatting his arm. I assumed the reason had something to do with his reputation as a ladykiller, but he certainly didn’t look the part. He looked more like an R. Crumb character than a suave lover, and I found myself thinking that maybe this Times wouldn’t be that different from the one out west.
    â€œHome section,” said Carol, walking me briskly down the line of desks. “Fashion. Sports is over there.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s time for your editorial meetings. You’ll be happy to know that they are back downstairs, where the grownups sit.”
    â€œThanks for the tour,” I said.
    â€œAnytime,” she replied. “Are you planning on coming back?”
    â€œThat’s not up to me,” I said.
    â€œThat’s not what I hear,” she replied, turning to walk away.
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    T he editors met in a modest conference room around a table far less imposing than the richly polished wooden rectangle at the L.A. Times office. But the air bristled with energy as they laid out the paper, discussing the news with great passion and ferocious intelligence. From the squawk box in the center of the table a caustic and disembodied voice