The Autograph Man

by Zadie Smith

  “Keep an eye on things,” muttered Alex, and left Grace in his seat as he went to the bathroom. When he returned he found Grace had successfully overseen the sale of a Dick Powell, a Carole Lombard and a Gary Cooper. A thousand pounds for the lot. This was the problem. It was too easy. Whenever he considered becoming more gainfully employed, he was forced to face that equation of money/time/work familiar to every stripper: in which other profession could I make so much money in so little time with so little effort? He had long ago confronted that very stark choice, so beloved by his generation:

  1. Be a starving but happy artist.

  2. Be an affluent but depressed professional.

  Alex had chosen the less traveled third path, of ignored genius, the tenets of which are as follows: basically, the world doesn’t like genius. The world tries to stifle genius, basically. If the world wanted genius, it would allow Alex a minute (just a minute!) to turn to the file named BOOKTHISONE.doc and start work. It would allow him to do nothing but work on Jewishness and Goyishness and starve while he did it. But no. Instead the world wanted, demanded, that he answer these flashing messages, sent by the emotionally stunted. And so he did. He assured Jeff Shinestein of Hoboken, New Jersey, that his Mata Hari was in the post. He calmed the raging Jim Streve of South Bend, Indiana, explaining once more that his Gina Lollobrigida was the real McCoy. He came to a gentlemen’s agreement with Texan Jim Eggerton: Veronica Lake and Viveca Lindfors in exchange for Jean Simmons, Alain Delon and Lassie.

  Firing off bad-tempered mail (if only the real post were so quick, so sensationally satisfying), Alex reflected on the plight of poor Franz Kafka. All day long stuck in that office, drawing the mutilated hands of strangers, the victims of industrial accidents. His genius ignored for so long. Suffocated by colleagues. Ridiculed by friends and family. Almost directly, Alex felt better. Yes, there was always Kafka. Alex found examples of ignored genius from history very soothing.

  BUSINESS DONE, ALEX PRINTED off this week’s Kitty Letter and sealed it in a pretty pink envelope. Turning back to his screen, he checked quickly through the nonbusiness material. A marvelous, technologically illiterate mail from his mother, asking if he’d got her last “telegram.” Joseph had sent some poor jokes about people who work in telemarketing. What else? Adverts, porn, spam.

  Alex winced as he spotted a Mail of Doom. There is always one. This one was from Boot. Boot was a girl. She worked as an assistant in Cotterell’s Autograph Emporium in Neville Court, a cobbled alley in the center of town, the oldest part of the city. It was a posh shop, run by an elderly knight, Sir Edward Cotterell—but no one in it knew what they were doing. Once a week on a Thursday, Alex went in and got paid three hundred pounds to tell them what was real and what was fake. And then he made the short trip to Chinatown to get some medicine. But on three occasions last year, instead of going to see Dr. Huang, he had gone and had posh sex with Boot on her posh (very long) lunch break. Oh, Boot was posh (and lovely). But Boot had helped mess things up in his head regarding Esther. He was hiding from posh Boot. Had been, for three months. So why mail me, Boot?

  Subject: I suppose you’re wondering why I’m mailing you.

  Well, your due in the shop tommorow and Cotterell DEMANDS I be in the shop tommorow and I can’t get out of it and I cant be at all bothered with arkwardness, alright? So don’t be wierd. Or try to be a little less wierd than usual.

  That is all.

  Boot xx

  p.s. I know your avoiding me and I must say I just could ’nt give a monkeys.

  p.p.s. I have cut off all my hair with it has gone my GIRLHOOD, apparently. Please don’t go on about it when you see me.

  He couldn’t help it. He had his little goyish fetishes, one of which was awe for anyone so posh she couldn’t be bothered to be embarrassed. Or to spell properly.

  Just as he is about to shut down, Alex spots a flashing mail in the corner. The subject is AMERICA. The contents appear to be an official confirmation of two tickets he has booked to New York: a night flight, this coming Friday. Returning on the Tuesday. He has no recollection of booking these flights. In a panic he smokes three cigarettes back to back. He rips the room apart for his diary. Out of February floats a flyer.

  Oh. Yes. No. Right. The Autographicana Fair, an annual extravaganza. Autograph Men from all over the world come to show off their wares. Real-life celebrity guest stars turn up too, signing for money. Last year, in Washington, the guest stars were Tom Ferebee and Paul Tibbets, two of the men who dropped the bomb on Hiroshima. This year it is in New York. Guest stars to be announced. He was going to surprise Esther and make some money on the side—that had been the plan. But wasn’t it next Saturday? And where exactly was it? And who were his contacts there? Had he arranged to have a stall? How could he cancel Esther’s ticket? Does high-grade acid really cause short-term memory loss?

  Alex begins to mail people about all this, American people. He waits for them to mail him back. While waiting, he visits a medical site and diagnoses himself as having a rare blood disease and (in all probability) the early stages of lymphatic cancer. He smokes another despondent cigarette.

  Americans are so efficient. Here come his replies, spelled correctly and straight to the point. Honey Richardson, a lady in New York with a substantial collection, e-mails him to say it sure is this Saturday, and that the two of them can meet to trade, privately, afterwards at the corner of something and something—one of those cinematic coordinates. Don Keely, organizer of Autographicana, says he has no record of Alex booking a stall and it’s way too late, buddy. Way too late now. On the phone, Miss Alice McIntyre of American Airlines says the tickets are strictly nonrefundable. Strictly nonrefundable, asks Alex? Strictly nonrefundable, says Alice. What about, asks Alex, if I sell the ticket to a friend, I mean, can you change the name on the ticket? Strictly nonrefundable and nonexchangeable, says Alice. And I suppose, says Alex, another date . . . ? Strictly nonrefundable, nonexchangeable and nonswitchable, says Alice. “Switchable,” repeats Alex, “now, that’s not strictly a word, Alice.” Strictly, begins Alice—

  But Alex hangs up on Alice and phones Esther.

  “Esther,” he says. “Wait. Give me a minute.”

  “No time, Alex. That’s the point. Not even a minute.”

  Her voice is harder than he has ever heard it.

  “Wait, Es, wait. Please?”

  She does not speak. She does not hang up.

  “How’ve you been, Es?”

  “I’ve been shit. And you?”

  “Yeah, not the best. How’s your finger?”

  “Still broken. Rigid. I look like I’m giving everyone the finger all the time. Look—what do you want, Al?”

  “Nothing. I miss you.”

  She does not speak. She does not hang up.

  “I wanted to explain, Es—about that night, and the thing, you know, with the autograph? I probably shouldn’t have got so over the top about—”

  Alex never got to finish that sentence. Apparently, it was not the point. The point, as Esther saw it, was not singular, it was not an incident. It was massive, amorphous. It was like a poisonous gas they were breathing. The problem, according to her, was everything. Alex rolled a cigarette and listened as she spoke the careful discourse of modern relationships—time apart, reevaluation, my needs, your needs. He meant to follow, but he was easily distracted during abstract conversation. He found himself thinking of the way she could pull you into her by some interior muscle, and then, when you exited, you saw this flush of red neatly packed between two dark folds, like some crazy flower. Was that wrong?

  She was saying You don’t listen to me, you take me for granted. She was saying, And as for this other girl, the white girl, whoever she is—which surprised him. He was truly knocked into silence by that. Had Adam told her about Boot? Alex felt consumed, furious about that possibility—now he felt the victim of an injustice. This new role was so much easier to play! He snapped at her. She snapped back. Now they were snapping. Towards
the end she was crying. She was saying, All women are, like, just symbols to you? All you ever—

  And he was deeply regretful, saying, No, no, no, you’re wrong, I love you, to nobody.

  He rang again. She didn’t pick up. He waited five minutes, disguised his number, and rang again. Now he was crying and she was perfectly collected. She said:

  “I’ve got an operation on Sunday. They’re taking the ticker out. It’s past its sell-by date, apparently. I’ve known for a while, but I’ve been putting it off and now it’s a bit of an emergency. No more time, though. Time for the next chapter. So I’m getting another.”

  “Oh, no. Es, why didn’t you—”

  “Look: this is not Terms of Endearment, okay? It’s not a big deal. Routine. They cut me open, they take it out. Replace with new state-of-the-art number. I just want to know whether you’re going to be there or not. It’s St. Christopher’s.”

  “But—why am I hearing about this so last-minute—”

  “Oh, Alex, forget it, just don’t even bother, okay—”

  “No, wait—I’m just—Which day? Just tell me the day.”

  “Sunday. I just said. This Sunday.”

  “Ri-ight. Sunday.”

  “Yes, Alex. Sunday. Why—have you got an auction on? Is Kitty for sale? Is that a bad day for you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Fine.”

  “Okay, Es? Es. Oh God. I know how this sounds. . . . Look, the only thing about this Sunday—”

  With two little words, violently said, Esther terminated the conversation.

  ALEX WENT TO the lounge, pushed the film in the player and took out Adam’s little gift. He rolled. He smoked. He thought about that operation. Lifting that little box out of its home. Opening up that scar. Making another one. And black skin scars badly. What’s left behind stays pink and angry, always.

  He wept freely. After a while, he wiped his nose on his wrist. He could have played that conversation differently, he saw that. But you don’t get no rewind in this life, as the black grandmothers in the movies like to say. Instead he pressed PLAY. And, God help him, God pass on judgment, but as the opening credits rose up, so did something inside him. He had always wondered: Can women do this, too? Can they switch from real people (Esther, only her, always) to fantasy people (Kitty, Anita, Boot, porn girls, shop girls, girl girls) and feel soothed by them? Will they ever tell? They don’t tell. Women don’t tell the truth about themselves. About love, about the way they love. Or else the truth is genuinely pure, involving no second-guessing—in which case, who could stand to hear it? Grace walked in and settled herself over his feet. Alex sank into his chair.

  In the film, Kitty’s eyes are taped down as ever, and she is lost in New York, again, a Peking girl with no friends. In less than an hour she will be the toast of Broadway and then Hollywood, but of course she doesn’t know that yet. Soon everybody will know her name. She will be famous. Soon. For now, she can only walk the streets, a nobody, fearing every shadow. Lonely. Alex’s heart cleaves to her as he watches her slender form slipping into cinemas, sitting in the dark. You see, it is only at the movies that May-Ling Han finds comfort. From his elevated booth, Jules Munshin, who plays Joey Kay the projectionist, looks down. He is in love with her, of course. He thinks he has no hope. He is dumb-looking, poor. But he’ll get her. Things are moving faster than he knows. In one hour twenty minutes it will all be over. In between, there will be some tears. And then the laughter. He will become her manager, her husband, her everything. It is called a happy ending. The miracle of cinema is how rarely the convention of the happy ending is broken. The bigger miracle is that the convention of the ending is never broken at all. Alex watches Joey watching Kitty watching the huge flickering faces of people she presumes to be gods.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Hochmah

  WISDOM • Three rabbis • Something is like a coin • Where the dead live • The wisdom of Lauren Bacall • Walking to the center • Description of a struggle/The defense • Virginia Woolf was Jewish • Suicide do’s and don’ts • Real prosperity

  1.

  “So,” said Rubinfine. “What are we going to do about this?”

  Alex checked his watch. It was Thursday. It was nine in the morning. Rabbis Darvick and Green looked exhausted. Darvick had specks of white gloop in the corners of his eyes. Green had both hands against the Mountjoy memorial, knees bent, puffing like he’d run a marathon. Rubinfine looked just fine. Parked in front of them all was a small Italian car. Next to that, a huge dining room table fashioned from walnut.

  “What are you doing out here?” asked Alex. “Again. It’s nine in the morning.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Look, I live round here. And now I’m going to work.”

  Darvick’s fat face started to shake. He laughed with his shoulders forward and his mouth wide open. He grabbed Alex by the wrist to steady himself.

  “I thought you didn’t have a job. I thought you were just this schloompy guy with no job.”

  “Well, Rabbi, you’ve been misinformed. I have a job. I’m heading for Pemberton Hill. I have work. That needs to be done.”

  “Of course you do,” said Green soothingly. “Everybody has things they need to do.”

  “Aaa-lex?” asked Rubinfine, softly, studying the sky. “What’s the law concerning sun roofs? By which I mean: if we put the table in through the boot, but let its forelegs, as it were, protrude from the roof . . . would I be violating any road regulations you’re aware of?”

  “Rubinfine,” said Alex with his eyes closed, “that table is not going in that car.”

  “On the contrary,” said Rubinfine.

  “It must,” said Darvick.

  “Fine. That’s fine,” said Alex, and turned to go, walking straight into a wall of flesh, shaped like Green.

  “You see, Rebecca,” said Rubinfine, crouching down beside the table, “needs it. At the barn dance, on Sunday. For the . . . small people. It’s for the refreshments. She wants a buffet rather than a sit-down meal. She thinks it will be more . . . suitable. You know how she thinks of everything. Also, this table is particularly low and, as you know, their growth is . . .”

  Rubinfine sighed.

  Green leant forward. “Restricted,” he said.

  “You’ll come to the barn dance?” asked Rubinfine.

  “Uh-uh,” replied Alex firmly. “I’ll go to America. Sorry. I’ve got business.”

  “Rebecca will be very disappointed,” said Rubinfine, his hands fussing with the air. “She hoped to see you. Didn’t she, Rabbi Darvick? She won’t be happy.”

  Despite himself, Alex felt for him. “Tell her,” he said, kindly, “that I have an autograph for her. A Munchkin. Mickey Carroll. He was one of the Lollipop Guild, I think. That’ll pacify her.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” said Darvick. He was staying in the Rubinfines’ overdecorated spare room. Rebecca liked to charge in unannounced to force-feed her guests. Alex had been there once when his own flat flooded. It was like living inside a violent tea cozy.

  “I shall come this evening, pick it up,” said Rubinfine. “I shall bring Joseph.”

  “Shall you indeed,” said Alex.

  “I shall. I know that Joseph wants to talk to you, seriously.”

  “Still?”

  “So!” said Rubinfine. “You don’t think the table will go?”

  “I know it won’t go.”

  “Faith, Alex,” rumbled Rubinfine, becoming purple. “My colleagues will know this story by heart, but if they don’t mind I will retell it. It is a story told by Bahya ben Joseph ibn Paquda.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Green, hugging himself.

  “Yes,” said Darvick.

  “HOPING,” said Rubinfine loudly, “to create a path across a stream, a traveler threw all his silver coins in the water. All the coins sank except one. Catching this one in time, the traveler used it to pay the ferryman, who rowed him across. Faith, says Bahya, is like that last coin. Whe
n all of life’s treasures are gone—”

  “—it alone will help a man across the waters of life!” said Green, with a radiant smile.

  “Yes,” said Rubinfine irritably. “It alone, you see? Well?”

  “Right,” said Alex. “Well, I have to go.”

  Throughout this, Darvick had been massaging his chin. Now he said, “You know, I don’t think that one’s about faith. As I remember it, the coin is good judgment. I’m almost certain of it.”

  “Well, either way—”

  “Also,” said Darvick, shaking his head in concern, “Bahya was one of the Sephardim, the mystics—that’s right, isn’t it? And, you know, Kabbalah . . .”

  Darvick laid his hand flat in midair and turned it from side to side. Green nodded.

  “Yes, well I meant it as a . . . warning, more than a literal . . .” said Rubinfine, struggling. “If you recall what Rabbi Zeeman said in conference only yesterday . . .”

  Resolutely, Alex shook hands with the three rabbis.

  “Off, are we?” asked Rubinfine, holding him fast. “Taking that Kitty to market, hmm? Joseph seems to think you’ll get a very nice price.”

  “Joseph shouldn’t be discussing my business. As it happens, I’m going to get it verified this morning, that’s all. Not everything in life is for sale. Good-bye, Rabbi Rubinfine. Rabbi Darvick. Rabbi Green.”

  “Of course,” said Rubinfine, as Alex released himself, “we saw Esther.”