"Good. Very good."
After reading for quite a while, Christopher Ritt slapped his thigh and let out an excited laugh.
Bruce was not surprised.
Pirates of the Caribbean would go on to become one of the great blockbuster franchises, bigger than Transformers and right up there with Fast and Furious. Even the fifth film, which had a weaker reputation than the earlier ones, still pulled in around eight hundred million dollars worldwide.
Bruce had watched the films over and over in his previous life. Most of the key scenes were burned into his memory. And when a story that explosive was reworked into novel form, the result was naturally hard to ignore.
At this point, Christopher Ritt was completely absorbed.
The rogue charm of Captain Jack Sparrow. The brave and upright Will Turner. The beautiful, determined Elizabeth Swann. The vicious and half-mad Barbossa. Every character felt vivid and distinct.
And above all, the curse on the crew of the Black Pearl, turning them into skeletons under moonlight, struck Christopher as a brilliant touch.
Bruce let him read for another half hour. But once it became obvious that Christopher had sunk completely into the story and had no intention of resurfacing anytime soon, Bruce decided he had waited long enough.
"Mr. Ritt," he said, bringing him back to reality, "I'll leave the manuscripts with you for now. We can continue the discussion tomorrow after you've had more time with them."
He was not worried about Christopher trying anything clever. The copyrights were already registered.
Christopher set the pages down at once.
"So you want me to represent all three?"
"That's right."
The answer lit something up in Christopher's face.
"Please wait here."
He jumped to his feet, hurried to his desk, pulled several documents from a drawer, and returned almost immediately.
"This is the agency agreement," he said, handing them over. "The terms are set at the level we usually reserve for established writers. If you don't see any issues, we can sign today."
Christopher Ritt was, above all else, a businessman. When an opportunity like this showed up, he had no intention of letting it drift away. Even if the risk of losing Bruce was not especially high, he preferred certainty.
Bruce took the contract, glanced through it, and smiled.
"I can sign this. But I have a few conditions."
"Let's hear them."
"First, I want the books on sale no later than two weeks from now. That means May twenty-second at the latest. With your connections, I'm sure that can be done."
With Harry Potter already under his belt, Christopher Ritt was exactly the kind of agent the major publishing houses loved doing business with. If anyone could move that fast, it was him.
Still, he could not help asking, "Why the rush?"
"I have my reasons," Bruce said. "I'm just not in a position to explain them yet."
Christopher studied him for a moment, then nodded.
"Second, I'm willing to waive any upfront advance if necessary, but I want a performance-based royalty structure with the publisher. If each title sells more than one hundred thousand copies, I get five percent of gross sales. For every additional one hundred thousand copies sold, my royalty increases by one percent. Once a title passes one million copies, the royalty rate becomes fifteen percent."
Bruce knew perfectly well that as a brand-new author, the advance on a standard print deal would probably be modest at best. He needed money, yes, but not that kind of money.
The real prize was royalties.
Christopher answered almost immediately.
"That's not a problem. I can push for that."
After reading Pirates, he was already highly optimistic about the commercial potential of all three books. In his mind, Bruce was the sort of writer who could absolutely produce million-copy bestsellers. A fifteen percent royalty was not outrageous. Not for work like this. It was simply being asked for earlier than usual.
Then he added, "That said, I still think we should pursue a proper advance where possible. Publishing has its share of fools, but there are also editors and executives with real taste. If they see the value of your work, they'll offer terms worth taking."
Bruce considered it, then nodded.
"You're the publishing expert. If you think an advance makes sense, I'll leave that in your hands. But the fifteen percent royalty floor is non-negotiable."
"Fair enough."
"Third," Bruce said, "if the books perform well after release, I want the publisher to advance me twenty million dollars against future royalties."
That one made Christopher pause.
"That may be difficult."
"If the books sell the way I expect them to," Bruce said calmly, "then it won't be."
Christopher looked at him for a few seconds, then nodded.
"I'll do my best. But twenty million dollars is a very large number."
"I know."
Bruce watched the seriousness in his expression, then turned back to the contract and read it line by line. Once he was satisfied there were no traps hidden in the wording, he signed his name at the bottom.
Christopher finally relaxed.
Now that the deal was in place, he felt confident enough to ask the question that had been bothering him since Bruce walked through the door.
"Bruce, there are plenty of literary agents in the United States with strong reputations. Your books are good enough that they would've taken you seriously. So why come all the way to England to see me?"
Bruce smiled.
"Because I like Rowling's Harry Potter. And you happen to be her agent."
Then he added, almost casually, "By the way, do you think you could introduce me to her? I have a lot of questions I'd love to ask about Fantastic Beasts."
"Of course," Christopher said at once. "Rowling likes talking shop with other writers. Especially talented ones."
"That's good to hear. For now, I'm staying at the Waldorf. My mobile number is on the first page of Fantastic Beasts. If anything comes up, call me anytime."
"Of course."
Bruce stood.
"I think that covers everything for today."
Christopher rose as well.
"I'll walk you out."
"Thanks."
Christopher personally escorted him downstairs and out of the building.
Once Bruce got into a cab and watched Zijinghua Tower recede into the distance, a sharp glint passed through his eyes.
He had not come all the way from America to England just because he liked Harry Potter.
Getting Christopher Ritt on board was only step one.
"Where to, sir?" the cab driver asked.
"The British Museum."
It was still early, and Bruce had no desire to return to the hotel yet.
In his previous life, he had always wanted to visit the British Museum, but never had the chance. This trip to England was not really about tourism, not even secondarily, but since he was here, he was not going to skip London's most famous landmarks.
The ride took a little over half an hour.
By the time he got out, it was close to noon.
He grabbed lunch at a restaurant on New Oxford Street, walked across Russell Square, and then entered one of the four great museums of the world.
The British Museum was one of the oldest and grandest comprehensive museums on earth, holding treasures from every corner of the globe, along with manuscripts from some of history's greatest scientists and writers. Its collection was so vast and varied that very few museums anywhere could compare.
Because of space limitations, only a fraction of its more than eight million artifacts were actually on display.
Even so, what was exhibited was enough to keep a person wandering for days.
Fortunately, it was Friday. The museum would stay open until eight-thirty that evening, which left Bruce with more than enough time.
The Rosetta Stone. The marbles from the Parthenon. The head of Amenhotep III. The bust of Ramesses II. Renaissance paintings. Manuscripts by famous writers and scientists.
Bruce took them in mostly as a visitor, with the detached appreciation of someone standing before history.
But when he reached the East Asian galleries and saw the Dunhuang murals, Gu Kaizhi's Admonitions Scroll in Tang copy form, the Kang Hou Gui from the Western Zhou, Tang sancai funerary pieces, Song dynasty glazed luohan figures, and so many other cultural treasures from his own heritage, his mood changed completely.
Whatever passport he carried now, the deepest part of him had still been shaped elsewhere.
He had spent thirty-five years of his first life growing up there, and that kind of attachment did not vanish.
So standing in a foreign museum, looking at priceless artifacts from home displayed under someone else's roof, he could not help feeling complicated about it.