During the Fair itself, she closed small but for me exciting deals with Danish, Spanish and French publishers. She was particularly pleased with the French offer; not that it was high (it wasn't), but because the French were picky and very rarely bought British or American books; they're literary snobs. There's a saying in publishing, she said: if every other country wants a book, the French don't; and if the French want it, nobody else does. The latter proved to be half-true in my case: that was it with foreign contracts, and even a Swedish nibble turned into a no-thanks. But I was more than pleased.
I'd been warned that now a long period of silence would set in, and that's what happened. The only thing to break that silence was the arrival of my cover. It had a mysterious background of a garden scene in orange light, with a big blue butterfly above it, butterflies being the symbol for the story. I loved it, and so did everyone else.
Another little stir of excitement: a reader associated with Bernardo Bertolucci had written to say she loved OMA and had passed it on. My agent warned me: it could easily come to nothing, but even getting this far was a huge step. Just don't build any castles in the sky.
Meanwhile, I was well into my second novel, and that helped pass the time and cool my nerves till the Big Day.
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