Publishers
One Never Knows…
Visit Three:
(Please be patient. We will get to visits one and two in a minute.)
“Tony,” Traudi said, “what happens if you die?”
“If I die? Well, actually, I never thought much about it but I assume that I would stop breathing and everything begins to decompose and, after a while, I would begin to smell bad so someone will come and bury me. Why do you ask?”
Background:
Before I tell you why she asked, perhaps a little background information would be helpful: I had known Traudi and Thomas for about twenty years. We were never close friends but they were an interesting, occasional contact. Both were very talented graphic artists. Traudi, in her free time, wrote excellent short stories and articles. Thomas embraced computer graphics with fanaticism (as he did all undertakings) and was quite competent on the Macintosh. Everything seemed quite normal — whatever the hell “normal” is —and both of them seemed of at least average intelligence.
Well… most of the time. Every now and then, I had problems following their strange thinking processes and Thomas had the tendency to be a know-it-all. But I had accepted these. Everyone thinks a bit differently from everyone else and their strange conclusions often added spice to our conversations. If they had one outstanding peculiarity, it was that both of them hated their occupation and were constantly inventing ways to get out of the graphic arts business. They had considered raising chinchillas, starting a travel agency for gays, selling wines and cheese by mail, breeding Persian cats, offering English language lessons for pre-school children, starting a marriage agency, and perhaps a dozen additional possibilities. But, after twenty years of brain wracking and scheming, they were still locked into their old routines. I often wondered why they could not make such a simple transformation. Germany, in those days, was a very prosperous country and opportunities abounded everywhere. But somehow, they could not!
Now, let us back up to…
Visit One:
Traudi and Thomas lived with two cats in a beautiful, small, country home overlooking a village of only eighteen homes. One refreshing spring morning, Traudi and I sat on their tree-shaded veranda and talked — mostly about literature — over several cups of delicious, freshly brewed coffee. We were just disagreeing about a book called “Eine Frau in Berlin” (A Woman in Berlin) when their cat arrived from the fields carrying a forlorn, little, gray mouse in her mouth. Proud of her accomplishment, the cat laid the mouse at Traudi’s feet and began playing (actually torturing) the terrified rodent. After about five minutes, she positioned the mouse just right and bit its head off with a ghastly crunching sound. Then she ate the mouse, entrails and all! She left the head and tail for Traudi and myself to enjoy and ran off looking, I supposed, for additional victims. Traudi, evidently used to torture and murder, was not affected but I was horrified and disgusted and kept looking down at the poor little head lying between Traudi’s feet. This little drama intensified my already existing dislike for cats.
Traudi called me back to more mundane things: “Tony, I have come up with a new business idea. I would like to publish a catalog of catalogs. You know, different mail order catalogs listed attractively in one volume. For people who live in the country, this would be a Godsend.” (Back then, the idea was still unknown and the Internet did not yet exist.) I told her that I thought the idea quite intelligent — more so because I had had the same idea several years earlier. Actually, I had even had a positive start in this new business. Why pray, did I not continue with this ingenious idea, she wanted to know. “Quite simple.” I said. “Since Germany at that time was not yet ready for mail order sales, it would have been necessary for me to live in the United States to manage the business. But I am not a masochist, so I simply let the idea lie dormant as one of those “someday” projects.” But I now agreed with Traudi, the idea’s time had come; the Germans were now ready for mail order sales. Traudi seemed skeptical, perhaps suspicious that I was trying to steal her new idea, so I told her I would bring my files and a few copies of my Catalog of Catalogs on my next visit.
Visit Two
Traudi was disappointed that her new idea was not really new after all but she was impressed with my layouts, the advertisements I had placed in the New York Times and the positive comments of several newspaper columnists. She made me an interesting offer: We could work together to bring the idea to fruition in Germany. With my experience and contacts in the mail-order business combined with her graphic and German language writing skills, we would be an unbeatable team. I agreed on one condition, that we have a clear cut separation of responsibilities: I would have authority for all marketing and advertising decisions and she would be responsible for graphic design and administration, the everyday running of the business. We shook hands on it. Now we are back to…
Visit Three (again):
“No, no,” she said, “I mean, what happens to our business if you should die.”
“Business? What business?”
She ignored my question and went on: “You have two daughters and, should you die, they would inherit your share. I would have to deal with them. Actually, I would be in business with two people that I don’t even know. I couldn’t sleep a wink last night for worrying about all this.”
“Traudi,” I said, “I am not planning to die this week. Would it not be better to get the business started, then talk about complications? After all, we don’t even have the cover layout yet.”
“No,” she said, stirring her coffee with that ancient, feminine conviction that broaches no contradictions. “One never knows.” she said, “You could die tomorrow.”
Now, this one phrase, “One never knows,” has plagued humanity for centuries. It is impossible to argue with — but proves nothing, does nothing, helps nothing. It is simply crippling! I have learned not to go up against this argument so I said, “A good nights sleep is important, Traudi, and I want you to remain healthy. Just write up a letter of agreement giving you the business if I die and I will sign it.”
“No, your daughters could contest it in court and possibly win. We need a formal contract, signed in the presence of a notary. I couldn’t sleep a wink last night for worrying about all this.”
Visit Four
Traudi looked worried and tired as she poured my coffee. I waited curiously for her opening sentence. She did not disappoint me. “Tony,” she said, “what happens if I die?”
“If you die? Well, actually, I never thought much about it but I assume that you would stop breathing and everything begins to decompose and, after a while, you would begin to smell bad so someone will come and bury you. Why do you ask?”
“Please be serious. I couldn’t sleep a wink last night for worrying about all this. What will actually happen to the business if I die? One never knows,” she said. (I agreed: One never knows.)
I explained to her a bit about German law in such cases and tried to assure her that her share of our multi-million dollar business would automatically go to Thomas. This, of course, did not satisfy her: How would the court look at the ownership of the business: 1/3 Tony, 1/3 Thomas and 1/3 Traudi, or possibly, 1/2 Traudi and Thomas together and 1/2 Tony (?).
“You are absolutely right, Traudi. These are ponderous questions that must be resolved before we can go further. Perhaps we should consult an auditing firm. After all, ‘one never knows’….”
We then joined Thomas in his studio to discuss our first step — the cover layout for our first edition. It was a boisterous session because Thomas was not satisfied with only the graphics; he wanted to have some authority in all other aspects of the business. He insisted upon the most inept, actually stupid, marketing strategies and was convinced of his superiority in this area. After all, he personally had not agreed that marketing questions were my sole responsibility. Confused, I then asked with whom I was partner. “Me,” said Traudi. “Us,” said Thomas.
I could still hear them arguing bitterly as I walked out to my car. On the 40-minute drive back to town, I mused over developments. I now understood why, in twenty years of scheming, they were never able to start a new business. The Catalog of Catalogs project was already dead, of course, but I wanted to see what happened next.
Visit Five
Before Traudi could ask the first question, I cut loose the first salvo: what would happen to the business if both she and Thomas died, I asked. (“One never knows…”) I expected her to stumble over this one, but I had underestimated her. With rock-solid certainty, she immediately replied, “Our share of the business would go to our two cats.”
“Cats?”
“Yes, cats!”
“Traudi, this means that if you both die, I am in partnership with two animals that I hardly know and really don’t like. Traudi stirred her coffee in that particular way: This was evidently my problem and further discussion was unthinkable.
Visit Six
I arrived prepared: The previous week, I had purchased a book entitled, Die Gesellschaft bürgerlichen Rechts, fourth edition. (Roughly translated, "The Citizen's Legal Business Formations.") This do-it-yourself booklet contained several variations of a German law that made it possible for any citizen to found a business without the help of an attorney or notary. I had scanned all 137 pages into my Mac and then ran them through an OCR (optical character recognition) program so that changes could be made. Then I printed out three versions:
Version one: I owned 50% of the company, Traudi owned 50% and Thomas owned 0%.
Version two: I owned 50% of the company, Thomas owned 25% and Traudi owned 25%.
Version three: I owned 50% of the company while Traudi and Thomas owned 50% jointly.
I told Traudi that I would not continue with our efforts until a suitable business form was decided upon and all these questions were answered. (“I couldn’t sleep a wink last night for worrying about all this, I told her.”) I included version two, I told her confidentially, to cover a situation where she and Thomas might divorce. “Why should we, after 25 years of happy marriage, divorce?” she wanted to know (?). “One never knows,” I replied. (Revenge is sweet!)
I left all the papers with Traudi and asked her to call me when she had made a decision, feeling certain that our business relationship had, with this diabolical ploy, now come to an end. But no, a few weeks later she called and asked me to stop by.
Visit Seven
Traudi looked ghastly! From the grey, ugly bags under her eyes, it was clear to see that the poor girl had not had a good night’s sleep in weeks. And she had lost weight. She did not even offer me the customary coffee, but came immediately to the debate of the day: “Tony,” she said, “because of you and your business form, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks.” (I apologized, of course.) Traudi had read and analyzed every word of the documents and had made notes on the points that were unclear to her - or terms that she could not accept. The results resembled the manuscript for Tolstoy’s War and Peace.
But it wasn’t just the business form that had disturbed her mental tranquility. There were more serious things involved. She had spent weeks and put hundreds of kilometers on the car looking for a good home for the cats – in case she and Thomas both died – responsible people that would not simply take the money and neglect the poor animals. It was difficult to know just whom one can trust in such matters, she informed me.
“Even worse,” I added, “They could kill the cats, take the money, run off to Florida and live happily ever after.” (“One never knows…”)
Traudi turned positively white and was, for the first time in our 20-year friendship, speechless. I suggested she consider a good reliable trustee — an attorney, perhaps, or a bank that would look after the cat's welfare. “I have heard that the Chase Manhattan Bank in Frankfurt has a good trust department.” Traudi scribbled feverishly in her notes.
As I walked out to my auto, I paused for a minute and looked over at the terrace where Traudi and I sat and first discussed the project. I wondered if, in some vague, indefinable way, my conduct had to do with the little, gray mouse. Revenge was indeed sweet but I was now ashamed of my own cruelty. It was time, I decided, to stop this insanity. I would call Traudi as soon as I arrived home and tell her our business agreement was off. Perhaps she and Thomas could carry on without my help but I was simply too old for a project involving such weighty decisions.
On the long drive back home I considered our current business report for the past several months:
Business report:
Total hours invested: hundreds
Total Kilometers driven: thousands
Total coffee consumed: gallons
Total catalogs printed = zero
Total catalogs sold = zero
Total volume retail = zero
Total profit = zero
As I walked into my apartment, the telephone rang: “Tony"(pleading!). "Tony" (panic!). "What happens to my cats if ALL THREE of us die?”
(One never knows!)
