Viking would have 34 percent of the new company, while Mulberry, a far bigger house, would control 66 percent. When the Times asked Aaron how his father felt about the deal, he simply replied, “Curtis Mulberry and my father have been close friends for many years. I am delighted to have formed a partnership with his son, and look forward to an equally long and fruitful relationship.”

“Hear, hear, to that,” said Harry, as a dining car waiter poured him a second cup of coffee. He glanced out of the window to see the skyscrapers of Manhattan becoming smaller and smaller as the train continued on its journey to Pittsburgh.

Harry sat back, closed his eyes and thought about his meeting with Yelena Babakova. He just hoped she would fall in with her husband’s wishes. He tried to recall Anatoly’s exact words.

* * *

Aaron Guinzburg had risen early, excited by the prospect of his first day as deputy chairman of the new company.

“Viking Mulberry,” he murmured into the shaving mirror. He liked the billing.

His first meeting that day was scheduled for twelve o’clock, when Harry would report back on his visit with Mrs. Babakova. He planned to publish Uncle Joe in April, and was delighted that Harry had agreed to go on tour. After a light breakfast—toast and Oxford Marmalade, a three-and-a-half-minute boiled egg and a cup of Earl Grey tea—Aaron read the article in the New York Times for a second time. He felt it was a fair reflection of his agreement with Rex Mulberry and was pleased to see his new partner repeating something he’d said to Aaron many times: I am proud to be joining a house with such a fine literary tradition.

As it was a clear, crisp morning, Aaron decided to walk to work and savor the thought of starting life anew. He wondered how long it would be before his father admitted he’d made the right decision if the company were to play in the major leagues. He crossed the road onto Seventh Avenue, his smile broadening with each step he took. As he walked toward the familiar building he noticed two smartly dressed doormen standing at the entrance. Not an expense his father would have approved of. One of the men stepped forward and saluted.

“Good morning, Mr. Guinzburg.” Aaron was impressed that they knew his name. “We have been instructed, sir, not to allow you to enter the building.”

Aaron was struck dumb. “There must be some mistake,” he eventually managed. “I’m deputy chairman of the company.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but those are our instructions,” said the second guard, stepping forward to block his path.

“There must be some mistake,” repeated Aaron.

“There is no mistake, sir. Our instructions were clear. If you attempt to enter the building, we are to prevent you from doing so.”

Aaron hesitated for a moment before taking a pace back. He stared up at the newly minted sign declaring VIKING MULBERRY, then attempted to enter the building once again, but neither guard budged an inch. Reluctantly, he turned away and hailed a cab, giving the driver his home address. There must be a simple explanation, he kept telling himself as the taxi headed toward 67th Street.