American literary giant: 1974

Three days after "The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson" ended, Lynn was still half asleep when the phone rang in the early morning.

The sound of boat horns drifted from the direction of the Hudson River outside the window; the New York morning was as bustling as ever. He squinted at the clock on the bedside table—8:15.

The telephone rang urgently. He reached for the receiver and answered it. A familiar French accent came from the other end.

"Second place!" Leia announced, her calm demeanor tinged with barely concealed excitement.

Barnes & Noble updated its bestseller list this morning. 'The Silence of the Lambs' has risen to second place, just behind 'Jaws.' That damn cat photography book has fallen out of the top five."

Lynn leaned against the headboard, her gaze sweeping over the morning light streaming in through the window.

"What about sales? How much did you sell yesterday?" he asked, his voice still a little hoarse.

"Thompson told me that yesterday afternoon alone, sixty-one bookstores across the country placed additional orders," Leia said, her voice as precise and forceful as ever. "He sent me a telegram at six in the morning. I suspect he probably didn't sleep all night."

Lynn remained silent for a moment.

"5 copies," Lynn said calmly. "We have to sell at least 5 copies."

"At this rate," Leia replied, "there's absolutely no problem."

She paused, her tone softening slightly, "Lynn, listen carefully. There's an important interview coming up in the next few days. This interview is more important than anything else. So don't worry about anything else. If anyone contacts you, just tell me—your job right now is to prepare well for this interview."

"What kind of interview?"

"Fool, didn't I tell you? You're sitting in a taxi, and a bunch of reporters are filming you with cameras."

"Oh...sorry, I was still half asleep." Lynn rubbed her nose.

"It's okay, go to sleep." Leia chuckled, a hint of slyness in her voice.

Leia continued:

"Lynn, now 'The Silence of the Lambs' is second, that's right, first is 'Jaws.' Steven Spielberg is making its movie, and the whole of America is talking about that shark. We can't beat a shark... but we don't have to."

Lynn paused for a moment, "Why not use 'Jaws'?"

"That's called 'market positioning'," Leia said clearly. "If you beat 'Jaws,' those Americans definitely won't be happy. Who wants to see a book written by a yellow-skinned person climb to the top of the sales charts? This is actually a tactic to maintain Americans' goodwill towards you."

"Shark tactics," he thought, "this woman is always hard to argue with."

But she's right.

While "The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson" completely reversed Lynn's public image, New Yorkers were more interested in seeing how an old professor was dethroned by an Asian man than in literature. This was gossip, and had nothing to do with true dignity.

Therefore, he still needs to increase sales and influence, and it is definitely not enough before he sells 50,000 copies.

Lynn went to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, brushed her teeth, and prepared to start a new day.

Suddenly, the phone rang again.

He thought it was Miller or Freeman, but when he picked up the phone, he realized it was that familiar Italian accent—it was Martin Scorsese.

“Lynn! I watched the show the other night,” Martin Scorsese said. “It was amazing, absolutely amazing. You know what I liked best? It was that bartender’s line, ‘It’s not fear, it’s thinking,’ and I fucking jumped up on the couch. De Niro was there too, and he said that’s exactly the kind of thing he wanted to act out—”

"Martin—"

"What was the name of that bartender girl you mentioned?"

"Elena."

"Yes, Elena, she's so photogenic, her face tells a story. I want to use her in my next film."

"She's not an actress."

"Who cares if she's an actress or not?"

"Martin!"

Scorsese finally stopped for a second.

Lynn sat up slightly. "Thank you."

"Okay." Scorsese slowed his pace slightly. "Alright, let's get down to business. I'll be in my office this afternoon, and Paul will be coming too. We're going to talk about the script. Can you come? At three o'clock."

Lynn frowned slightly. "Paul Schrader?"

"Yes, he said he wanted to talk to you. I think you two need to meet and work together to get this right. I told him about the Vietnam War veteran role you added, and he had a slightly different opinion. He called me and talked for a full twenty minutes."

Lynn did not answer immediately, turning her gaze to the window, where the sky was a typical New York May white.

"Three o'clock," he said. "Where?"

"West 57th Street, upstairs from my post-production editing room. The doorman will take your name." Scorsese spoke with obvious more familiarity than the first time. "By the way, your sales figures this morning—"

"Second place," Lynn said before he could finish.

Scorsese repeated, a hint of emotion in his voice: "Second place."

He continued, "You know, when I finished filming 'Mean Streets,' people in the industry thought it was a small film that nobody would watch. And now? They're touting it as some kind of 'important work.' People in this city are always six months behind in their reactions."

"Then why are you still in New York?"

Scorsese laughed: "Because it's fucking profitable. Okay, that's all for now, three o'clock, don't be late."

The call ended. Lynn put the receiver back and sat in silence at the typewriter for a while.

Paul Schrader. He finally arrived—a playwright from a Calvinist family who barely watched any films in his youth, only absorbing every available visual work after the age of eighteen. The original manuscript for *Taxi Driver* was his concept: dark, claustrophobic, with a religious-like oppression, as if a person were having a dialogue with their inner self in a confined space.

Schrader's Travis is a lonely madman. Lynn wants to add a fissure, a fissure from the Vietnam War, which leaves Travis not just mentally damaged, but utterly broken beyond repair. This fissure adds depth to the story and gives it a traceable origin.

------

3 PM.

The building on West 57th Street was unassuming, without any signs, as if it were deliberately hidden from the city's hustle and bustle. The doorman was a fat man, wearing a baseball cap, with his legs crossed.

Lynn gave his name, and the fat man flipped through the register. "Fourth floor, turn right to the end." He lazily pointed in the direction of the elevator.

The elevator had an old-fashioned iron gate that made a crisp metallic clanging sound when it started. The fourth-floor corridor was narrow and old, with several film cans piled against the wall.

Lynn turned right and walked to the end of the road, then pushed open a half-closed door, from which voices could be heard.

Scorsese sat in a chair by the window, gesturing enthusiastically to something, speaking at his usual pace.

Paul Schrader stood to one side, his eyebrows furrowed, looking visibly impatient. His sharp suit and clean lines clashed with the messy old magazines and the corner piled high with ashtrays in the room.

"Paul," Scorsese waved, "this is Lynn."

Schrader, cigarette between his fingers, nodded to Lynn. "I've read your book," he said. "Hannibal Lecter."

Lynn sat down, leaning forward slightly: "How are you feeling?"

"good."

"Thanks."

Martin Scorsese chuckled and said, "Want some coffee? I'll have the girl downstairs bring it up."

"I won't drink," Schrader said.

"I'll drink it," Lynn said.

Scorsese picked up the walkie-talkie on the table and said a few words. Then he walked to the center of the room, leaned against the desk, and lit a cigarette.

"Okay," he said. "Let's talk about the script."