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

by William Goldman

  “Go away.”

  “If I were that easy to get rid of I wouldn’t be much of a producer, would I now, Rudy? You don’t mind my calling you that? You call me Branch and—”

  “Go ... away.”

  “I didn’t expect this to be simple—”

  “Leave! Me! Alone!”

  “All right, you don’t have to shout. After all, if that’s the way you’re going to feel I certainly don’t want to bring the walls down around our heads now, do I? Perhaps we’ll talk again, Rudy and—wait! Wait just one second! Didn’t I see you once before? Weren’t you at a party at the Dakota? Isn’t that funny? It’s the name—I heard somebody call the name ‘Rudy’ and when I just said it, well, something clicked. Why, we’ve probably got lots of friends in common.” Branch smiled. “New York’s nothing but a small town and that’s the truth.”

  No reply.

  “You believe me, don’t you?”

  No reply.

  “Do you feel all right? You look tired. Are you tired? I’ve picked the wrong time, haven’t I? I’ll tell you what. Nap. Nap and I’ll wait around and then we’ll discuss all the people we probably know in common and I’ll convince you that reading this script and playing the part is the most important single thing you’ve ever done in your entire—that damn sink, it’s enough to drive you crazy.” He pulled at his necktie, yanked it down. “Listen: you’ve got to do this.” Branch grabbed for his handkerchief, wiped his neck. “I get a terrible shaving rash on my neck if—you’d think I wouldn’t have much of a shaving problem.” He touched the top of his head. “After all, I don’t have much of a combing problem.” He smiled, walked to the window, lifted the shade. “The truth is,” he whispered suddenly, “that I saw you at the party and checked up on you because you’re perfect for my play and I would have approached you then and there except we were in the midst of final rewrites and I couldn’t.” He turned to face the room. “There. Now you know.” He wiped his neck again. “Is it getting red?” He gestured to his neck. “In the heat this shaving rash comes out and it kills me. I’m sorry I lied to you before—all that coincidence business—but I didn’t want you to think that—well, the trouble with the truth sometimes is that it sounds so damn premeditated.” Perspiration poured down his forehead and he blinked and wiped his eyes and smiled. “I’m glad it’s out in the open. I don’t like lying—do you mind if I try fixing that damn sink?” He ran to it, twisted with both hands. The dripping continued. “I could deaden the sound with my handkerchief, but what would I wipe my neck with? I’m really caught, aren’t I? If I used the handkerchief—I’ll admit I wanted to get to know you too. Sometimes you just see people and you think they’d be interesting to know. The author of this play of mine, we met in the Army and got to know each other really only because I thought he was the kind of person that would be interesting to know. It happens.” Branch laughed. “It shouldn’t be this hot this time of year, you know that? Congress should enact some kind of—my neck is so sore already I can feel it burning.” He pulled his necktie all the way off and stuck it in his coat pocket. “The truth is ... the truth is ... the truth is that ... Isn’t that crazy? I can’t seem to say anything.” He slumped into the chair and dropped the manuscript to the floor. “I tell you with this rash and that dripping sink and the way the heat digs at you ...” He pushed to his feet and grabbed at the shade, pulling it back down. “Do you want it up? I shouldn’t have just pulled it down without asking. Of course, it was down to begin with, so maybe you do—my neck is just on fire.” He put his hands over his ears. “It must be a blessing, not having to listen to that sound all the time, that dripping, it’s all I can hear and that’s the truth ... the truth ... is too frightening ... too ... frightening ... yes ... and that’s the first true thing I’ve said.” He fell into the chair again, eyes closed, head down. “No ... that about my neck ... that was true ... the heat ... the rash ... since I was ten ... nine ... eight ... all my life I have dreamed of a black prince ... and now you have come.” Branch opened his eyes and stared at Rudy.

  Rudy closed his eyes. “But I’m not like you.”

  “I would never come near you ... never ... you’re my black prince ... I would never touch you ... you’re not like the others ... I’ve waited all my life for you ... and now you’ve come ... do you know what that means?”

  Rudy turned his face to the wall.

  “Help me ... I’ve waited ... help me ... so long ... you must ... you can’t refuse ...”

  “How did you know that?” Rudy said.

  It was late afternoon and Aaron sauntered along 72nd Street, his Brooks Brothers tweed jacket tossed over his shoulder. It was really too warm to carry the tweed, but the idea of putting it away till autumn somehow saddened him, so he took it with him wherever he went, tossing it across his arm or over his shoulder, touching it every few minutes with his fingertips, the rough texture a never-failing balm. Aaron stuck a cigarette in the far corner of his mouth and lit it. Then he said, “Play it, Sam,” because he had just seen Casablanca for the eleventh time and was—the usual effect from that picture—in a state of euphoria. Aaron entered his and Branch’s building and pushed for the automatic elevator. It was on the eighth floor and it refused to budge. Aaron glared at the lighted “8” and inhaled. He and the elevator were at war and it was maddening. He pushed the button again, started to anger, stopped, said, “Not today.” Shaking his finger at the machine, he smiled, turned, started walking up the six flights to their apartment. “You must remember this,” Aaron said, “a kiss is still a kiss, a siiiigh is still a siiiigh. The fundamental things apply, as time goes by.” He paused on the third-floor landing and lit another cigarette. He tossed the tweed jacket over his left arm and continued the rest of the way in silence. When he reached their apartment he unlocked the door and walked into the living room.

  “Hi,” Branch said.

  “Ingrid, it’s you!”

  “Listen—”

  “Why did you come to Casablanca? Out of all the bars in the world—”

  “I took the script off to the mimeographers.”

  “Play it, Sam.”

  “Aaron, I’ve got news!”

  “You’re gonna take a bath? Not a second too soon, Scudder.”

  “I’ve got our Clare.”

  “Hmm?”

  “I’ve found him, Aaron. He’s going to be brilliant.”

  “You got an actor for the play?”

  “If you’d shut up and listen—”

  “Who-who-who?”

  “Rudy Miller.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “You will. Believe me, everybody will. He’s a trifle inexperienced, but, oh, Aaron, God, the talent.”

  “You work fast, Scudder, I’ll say that. Where’d you find him?”

  “Just a silly bunch of coincidences. The point is, we’ve got him; he’s ours.”

  “What’s he done? Have I ever seen him?”

  “Like I said, he’s a trifle inexperienced, but we can compensate for that. As a matter of fact, I think the best thing would be to have him move in here. Right into the thick of things, so to speak.”

  Aaron looked out the window at Riverside Park. “Jesus, Branch, isn’t that liable to make things just a little crowded?”

  Branch sat down on the couch at the opposite end of the room. “That’s a good point, Aaron.” He wiped his neck with his handkerchief. “You’re absolutely right. And I thought that maybe you wouldn’t mind moving someplace for a little. It’s all for the good of the play.”

  Aaron nodded. “If it’s all for the good of the play, how could I mind? It won’t be for long, though, will it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I tell you, Scudder, this guy better really be fantastic, evicting me like this.”

  “Take my word.”

  “Hell, I do. There’s just one thing I’d like to know, though.”

  “Ask me?”

  “What the fuck’s going on?”

 
“Now, Aaron—”

  “Who is he?”

  “I told you—Rudy—”

  “Who is he?”

  “This fantastic find—”

  “Where’d he come from?”

  “His home, you mean?”

  “You know goddam well what I mean.” He crossed the room, grabbed Branch.

  “Let go.”

  “Where?”

  “I met him at a party.”

  “What party?”

  “I forget.”

  “What par—”

  “At the Dakota.”

  “Who was he?”

  “I don’t think you met him.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Just like our Clare, Aaron, now let me—”

  “Describe him!”

  “He’s dark. And quite handsome, I think you’d have to say. And—let go of me, Aaron; I just don’t understand you sometimes—he’s perfect for, us. Aaron, he’s even deaf.”

  Aaron dragged Branch to his feet.

  “Let go!”

  “Yes, yes, I remember him—yes, he’s quite handsome, you moldy lying bastard, and you think you’re going to can me and bring him in, well, Scudder, tough, Scudder, you’re not throwing Aaron out in the hot, not for him or any other black beauty you think you can get your hands on because I like it here, it’s nice here, and if you want it less crowded you move out. I’m staying!”

  “I’ve got you a room at the Y,” Branch said.

  Aaron broke out laughing.

  “I’m not kidding, Aaron.”

  “Listen—I do not get thrown out by people like you! It does not happen that way. Not in this world.”

  “Aaron, I’m sorry about this.”

  “There is nothing to be sorry about. Nothing is going to happen. There are to be no changes.”

  “Like I said, I got you a room at the Y. Take it or leave it.”

  “Consider it left.”

  “Aaron, this is my apartment, I pay the bills, I have the right—”

  “You have no rights.”

  “Get out.”

  Aaron sat down in a chair. “Bring me a drink, Scudder. Scotch. Just a dash of soda.”

  “Get out!”

  “And some Ritz crackers if we have any.”

  “I’ll call the police. They’ll come—”

  Aaron started laughing again. “Insist on faggot coppers; they’re apt to be a bit more understanding.”

  “Aaron, get out of my house now!”

  “You made me a whore. You can’t unmake me. I’m here.”

  Branch turned and hurried from the room.

  “Where you going?”

  Branch made no reply. In a moment he reappeared, carrying two suitcases. “I think I packed all your stuff,” he said. “If I missed anything, well, you can pick it up later.” He put the suitcases down in the living-room doorway. “Come along now, Aaron.”

  Aaron lit a cigarette. “I am going to punish you severely, Scudder. You had the audacity to touch my belongings. Here’s how I’m going to punish you. Listen carefully. You put each item back, exactly where it was, and if you get it all perfect, I will suspend sentence. But, for each necktie out of place, each rumpled hankie, you will pay and pay—”

  “Don’t make me do something drastic,” Branch said.

  Aaron inhaled.

  Branch crossed to him. “This is your last chance, Aaron. Or I’ll throw you out. Yes, I will. I’ll do that.”

  Aaron held up his cigarette. “If you reach for me, Scudder, I’ll burn you.”

  Branch reached.

  Aaron burned him. He brought the cigarette down onto the back of Branch’s hand.

  Branch yelled. “Aaron!”

  “I warned you, Scudder.”

  “And ... I ... warned ... you!” Branch fell on him, knocking the cigarette away, and they wrestled, struggling in the chair until it tipped over backward, dumping them onto the floor. They were neither of them fighters, and when Branch regained his feet first he didn’t know what to do, so he waited, circling until Aaron was up, and then Branch charged and Aaron managed to sidestep and Branch careened into the sofa. Aaron fell on him there, striking down with rabbit punches at the back of Branch’s neck, but most of them hit his head and Aaron cried out loud with the pain. Branch pushed him off and they circled again and then he charged, and this time Aaron got only half out of the way and they both fell down, tripping over the coffee table in front of the sofa, and Branch yelled “Dammit!” when his head hit the floor. Aaron crawled on him and started slapping. He slapped all over Branch’s face and there was blood streaming from Branch’s nose and Aaron kept slapping and slapping until his arms were tired. Then he lunged at Branch and they rolled kicking and screaming over the floor and Branch was slapping now and pulling Aaron’s hair and shaking him, and when they were on their feet Aaron staggered back until the wall could hold him up and he gasped as Branch came at him, slapping at his face. Aaron fell, more from fatigue than the slapping, and Branch dropped on top of him and slapped him some more, but then his arms got tired and he lay on top of Aaron until Aaron managed to get loose. They both got slowly to their feet, panting, and Aaron was trying to curse but his wind was gone and Branch blinked one eye because the blood blinded him and Aaron stood still and then Branch closed his other eye and charged, catching Aaron in the stomach, carrying him along until they both collided with the wall and Aaron grunted and Branch shrieked and then everybody fell down.

  Branch moved.

  Aaron lay still.

  Branch got to his knees, fell back, pushed up again, made it to his feet. He found the wall and followed it, out of the living room and down the hall and into the bedroom and out of that and then at last to the bathroom, where he dropped to his knees by the shower bath and leaned over the edge of the tub and turned the shower spigot on cold and after a moment he used the spigot as a brace and pushed himself up to his feet under the cold water. The blood washed from his eyes. He blinked. He stuck his face up close to the shower head and when he found that uncomfortable he fell to his knees and lay down in the tub, letting the water spray him as a little strength returned. Then he muttered “Aaron” and took a towel, wet it and made his way back to the living room.

  Aaron was moaning. Branch lay the cool towel across Aaron’s bloody face, wiping it clean. Aaron whispered, “Thank you.”

  Branch helped him to the sofa. Then he sat down beside him and they both stayed like that, very still, listening to their panting subside. When he could move, Aaron got to his feet. He was still unsteady.

  “Take your time,” Branch said.

  “No. I better go,” Aaron answered. “Do you think I ought to change shirts?”

  Branch studied him. “Yes. The blood.”

  Aaron nodded.

  “Let me help you,” Branch said. He unbuttoned Aaron’s shirt and slipped it off Aaron’s bony shoulders. Aaron got another shirt from one of the suitcases. Branch held it up for Aaron to slip into. Aaron buttoned the shirt and tucked it inside his trousers “That’s a hundred percent better,” Branch said.

  Aaron looked slowly around the apartment. “This is all sort of sad, you know?”

  “I know.”

  “How long have we been together, off and on?”

  “Long time,” Branch said.

  Aaron shook his head. “They don’t have divorce laws for people like us. That would make everything easier somehow; I could worry about paying the legal bills and alimony and things like that. Take my mind off the central condition. The Y on Sixty-third?” Yes.

  “What about the play?” Aaron said.

  “The play is more important than ever now.”

  Aaron nodded, picked up his two suitcases. “I feel like Willy Loman,” he muttered. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

  “Please. You can meet Rudy then and everything. He’s going to be brilliant, Aaron.”

  “I’m sorry about burning you. And the fighting. I just went sort of crazy. Nobody likes
getting jilted, I guess.” He walked slowly to the front door, then stopped. “One thing: people like us—everybody thinks we’re flighty. I’m not and don’t you be either. I haven’t got many friends, Branch. I don’t want to lose you. Promise me we’ll stay that way.”

  “I promise,” Branch said. “I swear.”

  Aaron took a last look around. “I’ve liked it here. It’s been a home to me.” Then he shrugged and smiled. “So I’ll just have to find another, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Thank God I can lose,” Aaron said, opening the door. “You know, for a minute there I almost got sentimental. Me.” He pushed for the automatic elevator. “I’m a lousy winner, I admit that, but when I lose, goddammit, I lose beautifully.”

  Dear Mrs. Scudder:

  I hope you remember me. My name is Annie Withers and I went to Oberlin and did that dancing and stuff in that musical comedy tent, do you remember? I hope so. Anyway, pardon me for interrupting your busy life like this, but I just had to drop you a line and this is it. I am married now and living very happily with my husband who is a dear sweet boy and studying to be an electrical engineer (did I spell that wrong? isn’t it terrible, not being able to spell your husband’s occupation, but I’ve had trouble with that word ever since I was a child in grammar school).

  Aaron lit a cigarette and tried to remember if there was anything else that Branch had ever mentioned about Annie Withers. Placing the cigarette in the far corner of his mouth, he closed one eye and continued typing.

  Anyway, Mrs. Scudder, the thing is, I was just visiting in New York City the other day and who should I run into and spend a little time with but your son Branch. We talked and laughed about how we used to date and all the fun we had and—and—Mrs. Scudder I’m beating around the bush and here’s why—