The Novels of William Goldman: Boys and Girls Together, Marathon Man, and the Temple of Gold

by William Goldman

  Because his phone never rang.

  Oh, it worked; it was connected; he paid his monthly bill. But it never rang. Not if you didn’t count wrong numbers. In the past year he had received thirteen wrong numbers, the majority of them asking for a French restaurant on Broadway in the 70s. Thirteen wrong numbers; that was all. Not once from Charlotte; not once from his sister; not once from anybody really, except eight people who wondered if the Château de Lille was open on Mondays and five women who were looking for Kermit, Dutch, Beau-Beau, Blanche and Charlene.

  Aaron had the damn phone installed only because you couldn’t trust Cue as to when movies started, and since he hated being late he ordered the phone because that way you could call the theaters direct and find out exactly. That was all he used it for—to call movie theaters and occasionally Time when his watch stopped or Weather because outside his window it always looked like rain. One call a month, that was his average, and here, after less than a week, he was climbing the walls, begging for lung cancer, so what would he be like if Gunther took more than two weeks? Ripe for the loony bin, that much was for sure, and Aaron rolled to one side of the bed and, picking up the telephone, threw it against the wall. It fell with a satisfying crash, the receiver buzzing. He grabbed the receiver and slammed it against the wood floor a while before replacing it in its cradle. Then he stood.

  “Enough,” Aaron said. Enough of waiting, of smoking, of pacing and staring. The whole city was outside his window and he had to do something to celebrate. But what?

  His immediate instinct was to go to the movies, because Casablanca had been playing all week on 42nd, together with The African Queen, a double dose of Bogie—what could be better? And then, after old Humph, maybe he could find a Cary Grant comedy, one of the great ones with Hepburn or Russell or Dunne, and Aaron grabbed his shirt, threw on his pants, slipped into his loafers and was almost to the door when he did a sharp about-face, marching to the opposite wall. When he got there he executed another about-face and returned to the door. Tired of war games, he moved to the window and stared out through the grime. But that depressed him. Everything suddenly depressed him, so the thing to do was hit the flicks except he had been to the flicks, for three years; he had seen Casablanca and The African Queen and all the Cary Grant comedies more than once, so it wasn’t that he was being a fair-weather friend, he wasn’t saying “Bogie, goodbye,” it was just that maybe there was something else he might do, something of more benefit, more stature maybe, something that might make Gunther smile.

  What about writing? Aaron thought.

  Well, that wasn’t a bad idea. It didn’t panic him or anything. Probably he would have written something, except he didn’t have any paper or pencils or erasers or anything else. Besides, his desk chair wasn’t the right height. It was too low and it gave him a stiff neck if he sat in it for too long and what kind of moron went around looking for that kind of trouble? Just to prove that he was telling the truth, Aaron sat down in his desk chair.

  Immediately he could feel his neck muscles start to stiffen. Ten seconds and already he was massaging his neck. Hell, he wasn’t imagining anything; the desk was just too low. The only reason for imagining something like that was if you needed an excuse for not writing, if you were afraid and, hell, he wasn’t afraid, he was more talented than any of them, Wolfe or F. Scott or big Ernie or little Bill. He could write something fantastic if he wanted to. He could write something so brilliant that Graham would turn Greene and O’Hara would turn in his jock and Aaron got up from the crippling chair and lit a cigarette. He smoked it all the way down and lit another, sticking this one in the corner of his mouth while he scrambled around in the mess in one corner of his room, coming up, somewhat to his dismay, with half a dozen art gums and ten Scriptos and a ream of Eaton’s Corrasable, two reams of onionskin, a stack of carbons, plus at least a dozen pads of scratch paper, lined, unlined, yellow, white. Aaron went back and lay down on his bed and threw his cigarette onto the floor and lit another.

  If my desk chair were the right height I’d dash off something brilliant, Aaron thought, but it just isn’t smart risking a stiff neck. I proved it once, I’ll prove it again, and he ran at his desk chair and sat down and it wasn’t too low and his neck felt fine, everything was fine except that he was terrified. Because he wasn’t sure if he could write his own name anymore and it had been three years since he’d even tried. You could lose a lot in three years, pride as well as time, talent as well as pride. But what the hell, he could still dash off something if he wanted to, a novel, a major novel, long and brilliant and cruel, a critical success, a popular blockbuster, a—

  “Cut the crap,” Aaron said out loud.

  Cold, he began to write a little short story.

  It took him almost a week to get warm. By then he knew that the story was about a girl, a woman, twenty-five years old, named Teresa, and the story was about her vacation in New York and it was called “Teresa in Magic Town.” She was very plain, Teresa, with thick legs, with bright eyes, with long straight hair already gray. Teresa was from Evansville (Aaron had been there once on pass) and she worked at the J. C. Penney store selling lingerie and she lived with her mother, a harpie named Fern who was always attacking Teresa for being an old maid.

  Aaron loathed Fern and as the next days passed, as he took page after page of character notes—how the people talked, how they walked, what they wore—he realized he had to be careful not to let Fern take over the story. Because it was a slender story at best, and what there was of it belonged to poor Teresa, who, in desperation to escape her mother’s taunts, agrees to come up to New York for two weeks’ vacation, supposedly to see the sights but really (secretly, hopefully, dear God) to find a man. Aaron was not remotely sure if she would find one or not, and he spent a great deal of time trying to make up his mind because old maids ended up old maids, but he liked Teresa and he was pondering the problem when the telephone rang, jangling, interrupting his thoughts, and though he tried to concentrate he found he couldn’t, so he pushed back from his desk and stooped, grabbing the black receiver, and while he was raising it to his ear he remembered, remembered that in a moment someone was going to identify himself, Gunther or Branch, Branch or Gunther, and in that moment, as he slid weakly onto his bed, one word went through his mind a thousand times: please.

  It was Gunther.

  “What do you mean, ‘Thank God’?” Gunther said.

  “Nothing,” Aaron said. “It’s just ...” He rolled around on his bed. “Hey, how the hell are you? You lost any weight or anything? Forget that, it’s kind of a stupid question and I’m sorry, it just popped out because it’s just so damn good to hear your voice. Of course, I’m not hearing much of your voice, not with me doing all the talking like this, so you go ahead and say something, say anything you want, but first guess what I’ve been doing. Going to the movies, that’s what you were about to say, wasn’t it, but you’re wrong. I haven’t been to one movie. I’ve been writing. I swear I’m not kidding. Everyday and that’s probably why I’m a little hopped up now—I mean, with all the writing and not talking to anybody, it gets to you after a while, I guess, because I really feel hopped up now, over this writing, this little story. I call it ‘Teresa in Magic Town’ and it’s about this old—no, she’s isn’t old—anyway this woman comes to New York and that doesn’t sound like much when I say it but it’s good. I mean, I don’t know if it’s good but I think it is. I mean I hope it is. Anyway that’s what’s new with me what’s new with you?”

  “The clinic rejected your application. You’ll get a letter to that effect tomorrow or the next day. I’m calling you now to prepare you and to see what I can do to help. Aaron?”

  Aaron lay flat down on the bed and closed his eyes.

  “Aaron?”

  “Sir?”

  “I take it,” Gunther said softly, “I take it that you heard me.”

  “Yessir.”

  “I’m sorry, Aaron. It’s no fun telling you but I thought it woul
d be better than receiving—”

  “Gee,” Aaron said. “How could I have been so wrong? I thought, after our talk, I thought sure you’d recommend me. I was counting on that.”

  “I did recommend you.”

  “What happened, then?”

  “Does it matter? Isn’t the result sufficient?”

  “Gee, I’d really like to know. I mean, I’d sure like to know, Dr. Gunther. I mean, I might even go so far as to say that it’s important to me that I know, because I mean, it’s important, do you understand?”

  “Clinics have their goals, Aaron. They can’t accept everybody. They have to be selective as to whom they accept. They have their reasons.”

  “But why didn’t they take me?”

  “They don’t want any homosexuals this year.”

  “They don’t want any homosexuals this year?”

  “Yes. You see, last year they took primarily homosexuals. But they feel they have to diversify. So this year they’re looking for manic-depressives.”

  “Manic-depressives?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that funny, Doctor? I can’t tell, but I think it might be.” Lying flat, eyes shut tight, Aaron began to laugh.

  “There are a number of places in the city where you might apply for treatment. I have a list of them here, which I’ll give you, when you write for an interview I’ll write them too, recommending—”

  “No.”

  “I promise you they’re every bit as good as our clinic and—”

  “No, it’s not that, don’t you see?” Aaron opened his eyes and watched the ceiling. “I don’t need it anymore. Didn’t you hear what I’ve been doing? I’m writing again. I’m fine. I had a bad period, sure, but that’s done with. Everybody has these little slumps now and then, but they pass. Mine did. I’m fine now. I don’t need a shrinker. I’m fine. Really fine.”

  “Whatever you want, Aaron.”

  “Right. Well, so long, Dr. Gunther. Thanks.”

  “Aaron?”

  “Yes?”

  “If you need me, will you call?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think you would.”

  “You’re a nice fat man, Dr. Gunther, you know that?”

  “I know a compliment when I hear one. Goodbye, Aaron.”

  “Goodbye.” Aaron lay on his back until that bored him and then he flip-flopped to his stomach and when that bored him he crawled off the bed for his cigarettes, then crawled back and lit one, sticking it in the corner of his mouth, smoking it down to the butt before lighting another. Then he went to his desk and sat down and picked up “Teresa in Magic Town.” He glanced through it a few minutes before he decided it was shit. Corny, crappy, treacly, phony, slick, sentimental shit. He started ripping it up, every note, every line. He began calmly, ripping with exquisite precision, each page perfectly in half, but presently the precision left him and he simply clawed the paper, tearing it to bits, throwing it all around the room, and when all the tiny pieces lay around him he dropped panting to his knees, grabbing at the bits of paper spitting at him, ripping and tearing until there was nothing left to rip, nothing more to tear. Then he gathered it all together, every piece of what once had been a page, every shred of what once had been a note, and he dumped it into his waste-basket and coated it with lighter fluid and set it on fire. For a moment it flamed up beautifully, hot and red, but soon it died. The ashes glowed and Aaron watched them weaken, turning black, curling, then turning again, into gray smoke. Aaron moved into the smoke and stood there until the telephone rang and then he approached the sound, reminding himself that he must congratulate Branch on his fine sense of timing, and as he lay down on the bed he picked up the receiver and said “Yes?” into it with a voice that he did not recognize, but he was alone in the smoking room, so it must have been his.

  “Are you open on Monday?”

  “What?”

  “I want to know if you’re open on Monday. Isn’t this the Château de Lille?”

  “The Château de Lille,” Aaron said, pushing up on one elbow. “Mais oui.”

  “Well, are you open on Monday?”

  “But of course,” Aaron said. The voice sounded as if it belonged to a college girl, an intellectual, probably—she had that phony twang. Vassar most likely. Or maybe Bryn Mawr.

  “Then I’d like to make a reservation,” the girl said. “Seven o’clock. For two. The name is Wickersham.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Wickersham, but—”

  “Miss Wickersham.”

  “Excusez-moi, mademoiselle,” Aaron said. He reached for a cigarette and lit it. “But your reservation for seven o’clock. I cannot honor it. We are not open at seven o’clock.”

  “Oh,” the girl said. “Well, what time are you open?”

  “Just for two hours. From eight until ten.”

  “Oh,” the girl said again.

  “In the morning,” Aaron said.

  “What?”

  “Something is wrong, mademoiselle?”

  “You mean you’re only open in the morning?”

  “That is correct, mademoiselle.”

  “What kind of French food do you serve?”

  “French breakfast food, mademoiselle.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know. I mean, I thought you were a regular French res—I mean, well, it all sounds just fascinating.”

  Vassar, Aaron thought. Definitely Vassar. “It is a good deal more than just fascinating, mademoiselle. It is what makes us unique. We are the only French restaurant in all of Manhattan that is only open for breakfast. There is a Spanish restaurant in Queens that is only open for breakfast, but we do not consider them competition. Who can eat paella in the morning? The very thought is barbaric, don’t you agree?”

  “Absolutely, I absolutely agree. And what do you serve?”

  “Just the one dish, mademoiselle, the one that made us famous. The spécialité de la maison.”

  “What is it?”

  Aaron closed his eyes and made French sounds. “Rue de veau de oiseau sans beaudouisleaioux.”

  “My French is a little rusty. Could you please trans—”

  “Intestine with orange sauce,” Aaron said.

  “Intestine—?”

  “With orange sauce.”

  “In the morning?”

  “You drink orange juice in the morning, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, orange juice, orange sauce, it all comes from the orange.”

  “Of course it does,” the girl said. “Now I see.”

  “Then would eight-fifteen on Monday be suitable? I can give you two nice seats at the counter.”

  “Well, speaking for myself, I’d love to, but my roommate, I don’t know if she likes intestine, so—”

  “It has an exquisite flavor, mademoiselle. Very like truffle hound. Tell her that.”

  “Yes,” the girl said. “I’ll tell her. And then I’ll call you back.”

  “Au revoir, mademoiselle.” Aaron dropped the phone into its, cradle and fell back diagonally across the bed. Then he started to laugh. He had not laughed full out in several days, and he had almost forgotten how good it felt, so he lay for a while on the bed, laughing, he thought, as hard as he could because when the phone rang again it was all he could do just to pick up the receiver and say “Château de Lille,” but a moment later, after Branch had hung up with a muttered, “I’m sorry, I must have the wrong number,” Aaron really started to howl. He lay shrieking on the bed, his hands slapping the mattress, tears filling his eyes, so when the phone started ringing again he was much too weak to answer it at first, but it kept on ringing, nine times, ten times, eleven and twelve, so finally he was able to pull the receiver to his mouth and say “United States Weather Bureau forecast for New York City and vicinity—”

  “Aaron?”

  “The ten A.M. temperature is hot as a bitch, the sky is falling, and it is raining cats and dogs.” Then he hung up and collapsed again, whooping and holding h
is sides. When the phone rang again he picked it up and said, “Good morning, this is your long-distance operator.”

  “Aaron—”

  “To whom did you wish to speak?”

  “Aaron, what’s the matter with you?”

  “I’m sorry, but I cannot give out that information,” and he hung up, his hand resting on the receiver until the next call. “Good morning,” he said then, “this—”

  “All right now, Aaron, just quit it and—”

  “This is Radio City Music Hall.”

  “I’m in a phone booth, Aaron, and I’m running out of dimes.”

  “This week, by popular demand, we are having a Vera Hruba Ralston festival.”

  “Aaron—don’t hang up, Aaron—”

  “Thank you for calling, goodbye,” and he sat hunched over the silent phone, staring anxiously down at it, a mother with a strange child, and when it rang he picked it up, listening to the frantic voice on the other end, listening with a smile.

  “This is my last dime, Aaron, and it’s hot in this phone booth, so—”

  “I’m sorry,” Aaron said. “Don’t get upset. I apologize.”

  “O.K.,” Branch said. “Forget it.”

  “Where are you? What are you doing in a phone booth?”

  “I just took an apartment. The phone doesn’t get installed till tomorrow. Besides, my mother’s still here. She helped me pick the place. She’s up there now, unpacking my stuff; she’s leaving tomorrow morning and I wondered if you were free tomorrow afternoon, cocktails, maybe. We might have a drink, christen the apartment, that kind of thing.”

  “You out of change?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you better let me call you from here before we get cut off. What’s your number?”