I try to keep a minimum of 20 journalists staffed at the Times. And in January 1926, I had 22 journalists. I figured that was pretty decent; it got the paper out and wasn’t too difficult. I didn’t want to go BELOW that number though. Unfortunately, things sometimes happen that we don’t have control over, and all we can do is sit back and watch things slip around, and wonder if everything is going to crash and burn or eventually work out.

In March of 1926, I lost two journalists. They moved to other parts of France, outside of Paris and away from the big city. I kept my head – I’m a very easy-going person, and it wasn’t TOO big of a deal. I could handle things with 20 journalists. But I couldn’t afford to lose another man.

So you can imagine how infuriated I was when I showed up for work one day that June, and discovered that my best journalist, Marc, had made a story up...

It was already one of those days. The kind of day you wish would end, but never seems to stop. I’d gotten caught in Paris traffic, spilled coffee on my shirt, and was running late. Editors don’t need to run late. And when I finally get into the office, everyone was running around insanely, yelling back and forth much louder and frantic then usual. Go figure, the EDITOR of the place hasn’t the first clue what’s going on. I noticed the secretary, Chantal, looked completely frazzled already, and all 3 phones on her desk were ringing. She glanced up at me, rubbing her temples.

“What’s going on?” I demanded. “Things are a little noisier then usual!”

She smiled sarcastically. “Why don’t you just go into your office and read the letter I placed on your desk this morning. I’m SURE it’ll explain EVERYTHING in full, horrible detail!”

I raised an eyebrow and walked into my office. Chantal knew everything that went on at the Times, every last detail. She was a hardworking secretary. I figured if she was aggravated, something had to be up.

Sure enough, there was a letter on my desk. I sat down and opened it. Nice handwriting, I thought. Of course it was nice – the Dowager Empress of Russia had written it personally. My face must have grown vivid as I read that letter. The Dowager was accusing the Parisian Times of fabricating and falsifying facts and stories, and she had included the article in question. Written by my best journalist, Marc LeBaye. At first, I refused to believe it. Then I read Marc’s article.

It was concerning the Grand Duchess Anastasia’s return and Coronation Ball. Marc had indeed created a few “facts” in his article, saying that the Duchess had NOT returned and it was all a hoax created BY Marie for publicity! No wonder the Dowager was enraged. I didn’t half blame her. No one knew for sure what had even happened to Russia’s youngest Princess, and now my best man was creating this story that she was dead, never made it out, Marie created the entire scheme, etc...! Everything he had said had been fabricated, and the Dowager stood correct. A sickening wave rushed over me. If something didn’t get done to smooth this over, I’d be out of a job. The Empress could do whatever she wanted – and if that meant shutting down a newspaper office, so be it. I realized that I was half to blame though. Marc was late writing that article, and I told him to get it straight to the printing office the second he finished. I hadn’t proofread it.

I hurried back out of my office, furious. Chantal glanced up at me. “So?”

“This isn’t good.”

“Yea, I noticed.” Chantal put her pencil down and sighed.

“Who’s been calling all morning?” I asked.

“Here, take a look. I’ve got a list.” She smirked and handed me a piece of paper. I snatched it from her and started reading.

“Lady Sophie Stanislovskievna Somorkov-Smirnoff, cousin of the Dowager, The Baroness Ferdanov, The Countess Volinsky, Count Blokintriva, The Duchess of Britannia, Marquis Robert DeLuige, The Duke of Chutney... DUKE OF CHUTNEY! HEY! He’s ENGLISH!”

“Yea, so he is.” Chantal muttered, drumming her fingers on the desk.

“Now I can see all these French and Russian nobles calling in complaining and raising hell, but some English Duke? He doesn’t even live here! How does he get the Parisian Times anyway?”

“Hey, don’t ask me, I just take the calls and tell ‘em something’ll be done to correct this!”

“Yea, yea...” I muttered. “One more question.” I put the paper back on her desk. “Where’s Marc?”

“He hasn’t come in yet.”

“I want him in my office the SECOND he walks in that door!” I yelled. The office quieted down and everyone stared at me. I rarely got mad. I frowned at them. “Get back to work – and DON’T make stuff up! GOT IT?” The clicking of typewriters started up again.

Some 10 minutes later, my office door opened. Marc threw his coat over a chair and loosened his tie. “What’s up boss?”

“Plenty.” I scowled. “Don’t give me that grin either, I’m NOT in a mood today Marc.”

“Hey, listen, I’m sorry, okay?”

“Sorry doesn’t cut this!” I remained sitting in my chair, coolly playing with a pen on the desk. “You made that up Marc. The entire article.”

“I didn’t get the facts in time! I was running late! How much harm can stretching a few ideas go?”

“It did a lot of harm! I’ve got the Dowager breathing down my neck, as well as half the nobles in France, and if I don’t do something to correct this aggrieves oversight, I’m going to be in trouble!”

“Fine! I’ll write a letter of apology.” Marc shrugged.

He apparently wasn’t seeing the severity of the situation. That only made me madder.

“No, I’ll write a letter of apology. YOU can collect unemployment.”

“You’re joking right?”

“I love to joke Marc. You know that no one jokes more then I do. But this time, I’m serious. Dead serious.”

“You can’t be. I’m your best journalist. You wouldn’t fire me.”

“I just did.”

“You can’t do that!” His mouth dropped in shock.

“I can do it and I did! It’s crap like this that gets you fired Marc! You don’t MAKE UP stories! ESPECIALLY when they involve ROYALTY! And influential royalty at that!” I slammed the article down on the desk.

He stood in front of me, staring in anger. “Listen, I’ll correct it!”

“It’s too late to correct it. BYE.” I picked up some typing paper and fed it into my machine.

Marc glared. “Fine, fine, fire me.”

“I already have, and I’m waiting for you to leave.”

Marc fidgeted for a minute. Then he turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him. I cringed a little. I hated to fire people. But that was the last straw. You just don’t make stuff up for a paper sometimes. Not like he’d done. I typed up my letter of sincere apology to the Dowager, and took it out to Chantal.

“Get it put in tomorrow’s paper.”

“Sure thing Cam.” She stuck it in her in-box. Then she looked back at me. “Cam?”

“Yea?” I rubbed my forehead, slightly dazed.

“You’re out a journalist.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“You’re down to 19 Cam...” Her voice trailed off. My head snapped up. 19 was a bad number. I HAD to get another journalist. I didn’t need to be below that 20 mark. That wasn’t good. It meant extra work. For me and my employees.

The next few days passed in a blur, filled with more phone calls and editorials about the article concerning the Grand Duchess Anastasia. I was about to go insane. Not only did I have to edit all the articles everyone else wrote, but I had to write articles myself to cover the vacant journalist in the office – the one I didn’t have anymore. Some 2 weeks later, I was completely beat and worn out, and ready to scream. This had to stop. I HAD to find another writer.

I stormed out of my office. “CHAN!”

“What?” She didn’t even look up from her typewriter.

I paused at her desk, then grabbed a piece of paper. “Here...” I scribbled a few lines down. “Print it in the want ads tomorrow.”

She picked it up and read it, flipping her blonde hair behind her. “Wanted, one journalist for the Parisian Times. Call for appointment.” She looked thoughtful. “Short and to the point. When do you want to start taking appointments?”

“Day after tomorrow!” I called, stalking back into my office.

~*~

Four days later, I figured that things couldn’t get ANY worse. I’d already interviewed nine people, all of which were completely NOT what I was looking for in a writer. I stumbled out of my office, fed up with everything. Chantal was flipping through her appointment book.

“How many more idiots do I have to see today?” I asked, slightly annoyed.

“One.” She put the book down. “You look bad.”

“I’m about to go insane, and if I don’t find another journalist today, I’m going to quit this job!”

Chantal laughed. “You wouldn’t quit! Don’t give me that Cam! You love it too much!”

“Yea, well, right now it’s like I’m in a nightmare, and it just won’t end.”

“Hey Cam!” I turned around. Alex walked by, grinning at me. “Hurry up and find another journalist would you! Some of us hate doing double work around here!”

“HEY! You just write that damn article about the candidates! I want both sides explored in that! Detailed, debated, and get it in by 3 this afternoon!” I snapped. Alex shrugged and walked back to his desk.

“Listen.” Chantal motioned for me to bend down. “Don’t get so mad at them. They’re worrying about you. They aren’t used to you being so mean Cam! I know this whole ordeal is about to make you blow steam, but really, hurry up and get back to the fun-loving editor we all love to work for!” She narrowed her eyes.

“I’m TRYING!” I hissed. “But it’s a little difficult when I pulling extra weight around here myself!”

“Well try harder.” she replied.

I nodded numbly, too tired to argue. “Who’s coming in this afternoon at 1:00?”

“Some guy named...” She opened the appointment book again. “Dimitri Leongard.”

“That’s a Russian name.” I paused.

“Yea, so it is.” Chantal murmured, shutting the book.

“Just what I need. A Russian working on a French newspaper in the middle of this Grand Duchess mess.”

Chantal laughed lightly. “You never know Cam, he might be the PERFECT journalist.”

~*~

Chantal opened my office door, her lips pursed in a thin line, indicating business. It was rare for her to put on a “business-like” attitude (we always joked and yelled around the news office) so I knew it was probably this next interview. I glanced up at the clock. One.

“Mr. Moulins, Mr. Leongard is here for the job interview.” she said curtly.

“Yea, yea, send him in.”

Chantal stepped away from the door and motioned the man inside.

The first thing I noticed was his attire. Nice suit, nice stance, medium height, and overall a very decent appearance. A few of my previous interviews looked like they had rolled in dirt before entering my office. Not a good way to impress someone. But this guy looked pretty normal.

“Mr. Leongard.” I smiled wryly. “Please, sit down. Can I call you Dimitri?”

He sat in the chair in front of my desk. “Yes. Fine with me.” He smiled.

“Great. I prefer first names. Call me Cam. Now, down to business. I need a journalist. Can you read?” I know, it was a pretty lame question, but hey, a few of those morons I’d seen the past few days didn’t even know how to read or write.

Dimitri looked a little confused at the question. “Yes sir. I can read.”

“What do you like to read?” I asked blandly.

“Oh, I read different things. Dickens, Chaucer, Shakespeare, a few Russia and French writers.”

I nodded. All decent, Classical books, worthy of being masterpieces. “I assume you can write?” I grinned.

Dimitri laughed slightly, but stopped. “Yes.”

“I’m looking for a man who can write both critically and analytically, able to explore all sides of an issue as well as have a decent, well thought opinion, and a person who won’t write an article and simply say something completely BLUNT and STUPID.” I sighed.

“I think I can handle that.” Dimitri smiled. “I’m up for the challenge.”

“Ever worked for a newspaper before?”

“No sir. But I’m willing to learn.”

“Good, good. You’re Russian?”

He seemed a little nervous. “Yes, I just moved here. From Russia. I’m planning on making Paris my true home.”

“So you aren’t a commy?”

Dimitri laughed. “No sir! Red isn’t my favorite color.” He grinned.

“Good, I hate red. I prefer more blues, greens... You like Impressionism?”

“Sure.” Dimitri answered.

“At least you have taste. You seem a little young.” I wasn’t really concerned with age, in fact, younger was probably better, because then I could teach someone and mold them into a fine journalist.

“20 sir.”

“Don’t say ‘sir’ again, I’m not used to it.”

“Oh, right. Of course.” he said apologetically.

“Married?”

“Yes sir.”

“20 and married? How long have you been married?” I asked, a little surprised.

“Uh...” Dimitri grinned. “Almost 3 weeks.”

“So you need a job to support a wife!” I grinned.

“Well, yes.”

I flipped aimlessly through a few papers on my scattered desk. He was dressed nice, had a sense of humor, eager to learn, and I liked him too. Well, that wasn’t a hard decision, but I’d gone through hell to reach it. Right now, I didn’t care that he was Russian either.

“Dimitri, I need a journalist, and you seem like the perfect man for the job.” I smiled. “You’re hired.”

“Hired?” Dimitri stood up. “You mean, just like that?”

I laughed. “Yes, not too difficult was it? I hate long, extended interviews. We work at a fast pace here. I’m sure you’ll be able to keep up.”

“Yea, I’m sure I can, I mean, I do things pretty fast most of the time.”

“Great!” I stood up and we shook hands. “Now, we’ve got a lot of work to do! First, everyone here is on a first name basis. We’re all friends, get along, play nice... All that sort of stuff.” I turned to walk out of my office. Dimitri followed me. I stopped in front of Chantal’s desk. She looked up at me hopefully.

“Let me introduce you to everyone. You’ll be working with us all.” I took Dimitri’s arm. “This is Chantal, our secretary. Chan, this Dimitri Leongard. He’s our new journalist. Dimitri, you can call her Chan, we all do. She knows everything about everything.”

“Hi Dimitri!” Chantal grinned. She reached over and shook his hand. “Glad to have you on the staff! We need the help!”

“And over here...” I dragged Dimitri down through cubicles that lined the large room. I stopped at the first one. “Alex.”

Alex glanced up. “Yes?”

“This is Dimitri. He’s our new journalist. Treat him nice.” I smiled.

“HI DIMITRI!” Alex grinned, reaching up to shake his hand. Dimitri smirked. “Hi.”

“Man, am I glad to have you aboard!” Alex laughed. “Does this mean I don’t have to write my second...”

“NO, you still have to write it!” I glared. “And I want that first article in by 3, remember? And explore BOTH sides, NOT just the party YOU like best Alex.”

Alex rolled his eyes and turned back to the typewriter. I pulled Dimitri to the next desk.

“Paul!”

“Hang on...” Paul was staring at the typewriter, clicking away. “Almost got this... finished... can’t lose my... train of... thought...” click click click click clickety “services will be held” clickety click click “Sacre Coeur...” click click “OK, done! Now, what’d you want Cam?”

“This is Dimitri, our new journalist.”

“Hey Dimitri, nice to meet you... Glad you’re on the staff... I’d chat but I need to finish these advertisements.” He smiled.

I pulled Dimitri down the line. “Hey, Jim!” Jim glanced up from his rough draft of an international affairs article.

“Yo.”

“This is Dimitri, new journalist. Dimitri, this is Jim. He’s an exchange journalist from New York City. He works on international news. Works for the NY Times when he’s in the States!”

“Nice to meet you.” Dimitri said warmly, shaking Jim’s hand.

“Same here.” Jim smiled. “We need all the help we can get! We’ve been short on journalists. Don’t write fiction and DON’T make stuff up though!”

I shot Jim a look.

“Oh I assure you, I won’t!” Dimitri laughed. Obviously, he’d heard about the article that set the Parisian Times into an uproar.

“And over here...” I pulled Dimitri towards an empty cubicle and desk. “This is you’re desk. Already got the typewriter and paper. You can personalize the area any way you want, I don’t care. We’re all extremely easy-going and laid back here, expect when we have deadlines to meet. Just yell and scream. You’ll learn everyone’s names soon.”

Dimitri slowly sat down behind the desk. “I wasn’t expecting it to happen quite this fast!” he laughed nervously.

I leaned against the wall. “Things happen fast in the news business. Something new is always popping up and making it’s way onto headlines. You’ll get the hang of it. But, we do need to decide what area you can write about.”

“You mean, like a daily article?” Dimitri looked interested.

“Yea. Maybe...” I thought. What could Dimitri write about? I suddenly snapped my fingers. “That’s it! You’re young, you have a wife. I bet you go to shows often! Out on the town and stuff!”

“Yea...” Dimitri thought for a moment. “We go out regularly.”

“Well, don’t you see? You can write reviews! Entertainment articles! You’ll do great at that! And if you do really, really good, I can add some other things, like business, politics, other articles.” I paused. “I want to start you out slow. We don’t need to get way ahead of ourselves.”

Dimitri nodded. “I think it’s a great idea. But you’re the editor.” He grinned.

“Great, then it’s settled. You can start tomorrow! Today though, I’ll just go ahead and give a crash course in journalism.” I pulled a chair up beside Dimitri and sat down, grabbing a pencil and paper. “Now, it’s not hard.” I proceeded to tell him everything he needed to know (and a few things he probably didn’t WANT to know) about journalism.

Two hours later, I’d finished my lecture/crash course. I stood up. “Well, that covers it.” Dimitri stood up, gathering all the papers I’d written on.

“Tomorrow morning at 9?” he asked.

“Yep.” I shook his hand. “You’re gonna be a great journalist Dimitri. I can already tell.”

“Thanks!” he smiled. “See you tomorrow!”

A few moments after the door shut behind him, all the typewriters and clicking stopped. The room grew VERY quiet. I glanced around me. Everyone had stood up and was looking over their cubicles at me, with hopefully, grinning faces.

“WHAT?” I asked. “So I hired someone! What’s the big deal?”

“He’s pretty cool Cam! He’ll do a great job!” Alex grinned. “I like him!”

“Yea, me too!” Felix added. “He’ll make a great journalist!”

“Open-minded.” Jim replied.

“And he knows what’s going on. Or if he doesn’t, he’ll catch the drift.” Roch laughed.

“I TOLD you he’d be perfect.” Chantal rolled her eyes. “But no one listens to ME!”

The room broke into laughter.

“ALRIGHT!” I tried to force back my smile. “We’ve got ourselves a new journalist! But he doesn’t start until tomorrow, which means you all need to get back to work! The paper does come out DAILY, not whenever the articles get around to being written!”

Everyone groaned.

“It’s too QUIET in here without those typewriters not going! Come on! If you don’t start typing in the next 5 seconds, I’m going to get mean again!” I smirked.

Instantly the clicking resumed, amidst a new round of laughter and yelling.

I glanced at Chantal before I went back into my office. She smiled. “I KNOW he’ll be perfect Cam.”

“That’s what you said earlier!” I laughed.

“I’m always right!” Chantal said, crossing her arms and smiling at me.

“Yea, I guess so.”

“I think he’ll be better then Marc.”

“That’s a little presumptuous Chan.” I raised an eyebrow.

“I’m always right though.”

“10 francs says you won’t be right on that. Marc was a damn good reporter before he did that article.”

“10 francs?” she smiled. “I’ll just take that bet Camille Moulins!”

“You’re on! We’ll decide in... 3 months.” I held my hand out, and Chantal shook it firmly.

“HEY!” Alex, Jim, Paul, Roch and Felix walked up at that moment. “We’ll up it! 10 francs each! We’re siding with Chan!” Alex smiled.

“Fine, I can do this. You’re all going to lose! And I can use 60 francs!” I shook their hands too. “Three months. If he can write better then Marc, I’ll pay everyone I just shook hands with 10 francs each!”

~*~

Three months later, I handed over 60 francs. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

“HERE.”

Chan tucked the money in her purse and smiled. “Merci! I could use a little spending money! That last article was really good!”

“Yea.” Alex stuffed his into his pocket. “I need a little myself! Thanks Cam! It was good wasn’t it Chan? I thought so myself. All about the politic situation in German right now? Well written Cam, you gotta admit!”

“Yea, yea...” I grumbled.

“What are you guys doing, betting?” Dimitri grinned as he handed me his latest article for the next morning.

“You could say that.” Chantal grinned.

“On what?” Dimitri asked with a smirk.

“The best journalist in town!” Chantal answered, sitting back down to her paperwork.

“The best journalist?” Dimitri laughed. “You’re kidding!” He made a face and started reciting. “And here at the Parisian Times, the news staff’s latest enjoyment is betting! That’s right ladies and gents, they’re betting on the best journalist in town! Stay tuned next week for the results!”

“Very funny.” I smirked, crossing my arms.

Dimitri turned to walk back to his desk. He stopped halfway there and turned back around. “HEY! WHO WON?” he yelled over the typewriters.

The room went silent. Dimitri looked a little intimidated without all the noise. Especially since he was standing by himself in the middle of the room. Suddenly, a few people started to laugh.

“TELL HIM CAM!”

“YEA! TELL HIM WHO THE BEST JOURNALIST IN TOWN IS!”

“TELL HIM! COME ON!”

I rolled my eyes. “If I tell, will you all GET BACK TO WORK?”

“YES!” Everyone shouted in unison.

I smiled. “You are Dimitri.”

He laughed. “Nice joke Cam. You always have a good one!” He shook his head and turned towards his desk. The room went silent again.

“No Dimitri, he’s not joking.” Chantal stood up and glanced around her. “You ARE the best journalist in town.”

Dimitri stopped and looked at everyone.

“Yea.” Alex smiled. “We made a bet when you were hired. That you’d be better then Marc DeLaye.”

“And you are!” Jim grinned. “If you weren’t, trust us, we’d let you know!”

Dimitri stood in shock. “Serious?” He looked around nervously.

“SERIOUS!” I yelled, laughing. “Now, if ALL my journalists don’t get to work in the next FIVE seconds...”

“WE KNOW!” Alex shouted. “WE GET THE CONCEPT!”

Everyone laughed and the clicking and noise started up again. I went into my office and sat down, smiling. Sometimes, things have to get worse before they get better. True, Marc was a good writer. But Dimitri was a lot better. And yes, Marc had almost gotten me fired. But Dimitri had already won a spot in the city of Paris’ heart. I was always getting phone calls and letters from readers and subscribers, telling me what a great writer he was, how they read his articles, and how they liked his style. That only strengthened the Parisian Time’s place in society. Through the entire ordeal, I’d learned something. If you stick it out, and keep your cool, it’ll all work to precision in the end. And even if it seems like it might crash and burn, it’ll always pull back up. And my newest journalist had taken it straight into the sky. I smiled to myself. Dimitri was going places. He was only 20, but he was so talented. I knew exactly where he was going. I’d once heard a saying.

“Shoot for the Moon. Even if you miss, you’ll still land among the stars.”

I figured we’d all have a place in the stars. But somehow, I knew Dimitri’s star was gonna shine a little brighter. Just a little. I scanned the article he’d handed me a few minutes earlier. “Just a little brighter.” I murmured. “The best always shine more.”

THE END

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