Cocksure

by Mordecai Richler

  “Nonsense,” Takifman said.

  “Ah, Griffin, a question please –”

  “This is not the time, Mr. Shalinsky.”

  “– It seems to me that in your appreciation of Shakespeare –”

  “May he rest in peace,” Daniels said.

  “– we have so far failed to discuss one of the bard’s major plays, The Merchant of Venice. I wonder if you could tell me why?”

  “Look here, Shalinsky, I do not intend to put up with your insolence for another minute. There are other problems besides the Jewish problem. This is not the Jewish Thought Literary Society, but my class in ‘Reading for Pleasure.’ I’ll run it however I please and damn your perverse Jewish soul.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Shalinsky said, sitting down. “Won’t we, chaverim?”

  Tssst.

  The following morning Mortimer discovered, to his consternation, that Dino Tomasso had hit it lucky again. Three days before the second title in the Our Living History series, the biography of the faded film star, was to be published, the star died from an overdose of heroin. He left a note saying he had done himself in because he had got a fifteen-year-old girl with child, his granddaughter as a matter of fact.

  Tomasso asked Mortimer to stay behind after the morning conference. “Mort, I’m not exactly sure how to put this,” he began, when the phone rang, interrupting him.

  It was Frankfurt on the line, the efficiency team. They told Tomasso, Mortimer gathered, that the next title in the Our Living History series was to be a biography of a most attractive political crusader. A junior minister in the Labour Government, who was at present campaigning for a new and possibly punitive tax on gambling casinos.

  “But he’s so young,” Tomasso protested.

  Somebody on the other end of the line began to shout in German. The book, Tomasso was told, had already been commissioned. Tomasso hung up, sweaty, agitated. “I must be getting soft,” he muttered.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Tomasso, who had quite forgotten Mortimer was still in the office, started. “Never mind,” he said, opening a file on his desk.

  Letters from Katansky, Takifman, Segal and others in Mortimer’s “Reading for Pleasure” class had arrived in the first post, complaining about him. It was also rumored that a position demanding Mortimer’s expulsion was being circulated by a noted general practitioner from Golders Green, one I. M. Sinclair. “It’s well-known that Oriole sponsors those lectures. All this could be bad for our image,” Tomasso said, “if it ever leaked out to the newspapers.”

  “The newspapers? Who in the hell would take such a story to them?”

  “Mort, are you an anti-Semite?”

  “No.”

  “Are you Jewish, then?”

  Mortimer leaped to his feet.

  “It’s a joke,” Tomasso said, “just a joke, for Christ’s sake!”

  A buzzer went, interrupting, and Tomasso was summoned to his outer office. Quickly Mortimer scooted round the desk and opened the file, usually locked in the safe, on the Our Living History series. He read two pages, then another. Oh, my God, he thought, no, it can’t be true. Biting back nausea, he shut the file.

  “Well,” Tomasso asked, returning to the office, “what are we going to do about it?”

  “About what?” Mortimer asked in a small voice.

  “These letters. The petition. Your pal Shalinsky.”

  “I’m not sure …”

  “The Star Maker abhors bad publicity.”

  “Does he?”

  “Tell you what. You sleep on it,” Tomasso said, brushing an imaginary bit of dust off the Our Living History file, “we’ll talk about it again first thing in the morning. Why, you look terrible, Mort. Anything wrong?”

  “Yes,” Mortimer said, averting his eyes from the file. “I must speak with the Star Maker.”

  “Easier said than done. The Star Maker is off to America the day after tomorrow.”

  The instant Mortimer had gone, Tomasso, enormously pleased with himself, got on the phone to the Star Maker. “Well, well,” he said, “I was right about Griffin after all.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I left the Our Living History file out –”

  “You what?”

  “On purpose, Star Maker. He couldn’t wait to bury his nose in it.”

  “You Goddamn fool.”

  “Me, I’m a fool. Weren’t you the one who said, when I first warned you about him, that he was just another intellectual? Typical sour grapes?”

  “All right. Griffin strikes me as an ambitious young man. I’m sure I can handle him.”

  “I wonder. He’s got integrity, you know.”

  “Has he? Oh, Dino, I think you ought to come over here. I’ve got some wonderful, wonderful news.”

  “For me?”

  “You said it to me first, Dino. Remember?”

  It can’t be true, Mortimer thought, it’s just too incredible.

  After the carol service with Agnes Laura Ryerson and the others at Paddington Station, Mortimer did not go directly to his lecture. He went from pub to pub, drinking heavily.

  “Ah, Griffin, there is something I would like to ask you –”

  “There is something I would like to ask you, Mr. Shalinsky,” Mortimer said, swaying a little.

  “And what is that, Griffin?”

  “Do me a favor, Shalinsky. I’ve only got four more lectures to give. Don’t come. Stay away. You and your aggressive friends.”

  “What?”

  “I’d be grateful to you for the rest of my life.”

  “But your lectures are marvelous, Griffin. A delight.”

  “Some delight.”

  “Why, some of your epigrams I have marked down in my notebook to cherish. To memorize, Mr. Griffin.”

  “I’ve got news for you, Shalinsky. They’re not mine. I stole them from my professor at Upper Canada.”

  “So what? Didn’t Shakespeare –”

  “May he rest in peace.”

  “– steal from Thomas Kyd? The oral tradition, Griffin, is –”

  “Shalinsky, I beg of you … you and your friends … quit my lectures.”

  “Absolutely no.”

  Emptied, undone, Mortimer said, “all right, then. I regret to announce that this class is now adjourned. There was to have been one more lecture before the Christmas break. I hereby cancel it.”

  Stunned faces here and there. Some angry ones too.

  “As I will not be seeing you again before the Christmas holidays, I’d like to take this opportunity of wishing you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.” Smiling sardonically, he added, “And to those among you who do not celebrate the birth of our Saviour may I, in any case, wish you a Happy New Year.”

  Turning smartly, Mortimer started out of the lecture room.

  Tsst-tsst-tsst.

  Mortimer fled, fled as far as the nearest pub, then continued to another, another and another. “Hullo.”

  “Hullo, my darling.”

  Joyce, worse luck, had not only elected to wait up for Mortimer, but she was tricked out in what he glumly recognized as her seduction robes. A blue chiffon negligée.

  “Would you be kind enough to pour me a drink?” Mortimer asked wearily.

  “Certainly.”

  Then she was in his arms, rubbing against him, kissing him with uncharacteristic passion.

  “My darling,” she said unconvincingly.

  It was astonishing – humiliating – but Mortimer was unable to manage an erection. My God. This, he grasped instinctively, was more than drunkenness. What Mortimer had secretly feared for years had come to pass at last. He was not only small, but impotent as well.

  “You’re crying. Oh, my darling, please.”

  Rocking his head in her arms, smiling inwardly, Joyce understood that she now had the ultimate proof. Mortimer was incapable because he had just come from the other woman, Rachel Coleman.

  “Sh,” she said merrily, licensed,
she thought. “Sh,” she said, stroking his head. “Sh.”

  22

  MORTIMER AND JOYCE WERE AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE when the doorbell rang.

  “Ziggy! Its Ziggy!” Mortimer embraced his old friend. “God damn it, Ziggy, but I’m glad to see you. If only you knew how glad!”

  “Um, sure,” Ziggy said, disengaging himself, glancing apprehensively at Joyce over Mortimer’s shoulder, wondering what manner of reception she would give him. “Look, man, I’ve only got French bread on me. Like there’s this taxi waiting …”

  Mortimer hurried outside to settle with the taxi driver.

  “Coffee?” Joyce asked noncommittally.

  “You’re looking very well,” Ziggy said.

  Which was when Joyce realized that she was still wearing her chiffon negligée. “Oh, dear,” she said, her cheeks reddening. “Excuse me a minute.”

  Joyce returned buttoned up to the throat in her brown velvet dressing gown, hand in hand with Doug.

  Ziggy grinned at the boy. “Remember your Uncle Ziggy, kiddo?”

  “Y-y-yes.”

  Mortimer poured Ziggy a vodka-on-the-rocks and explained, “This is terrible, Ziggy, but I must go to the office this morning. There’s something I simply must straighten out. Look, don’t go out, will you? I’ll hurry back.”

  Ziggy nodded graciously. Joyce poured him another coffee.

  “What’s bugging Mortimer? I’ve never seen him look so lousy.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Joyce said, pushing her chair back from the table and fleeing to the kitchen.

  Oi, Ziggy thought, oi, as he heard sobs coming from the bedroom. He finished his coffee and poured himself another cup. There was no household money in the coffee tin. Or the sugar canister. Suddenly Doug stood before him, beaming.

  “Daddy’s got a popsie,” Doug said.

  “Mortimer! No shit?”

  “Quite,” Doug said, getting into his coat. “I think it’s rather super, don’t you?”

  “You cutting out, kid?”

  “I thought perhaps you’d like to speak to Mother alone.”

  “I see.”

  “I won’t be back until three. I haven’t got a key so I’ll have to ring, actually.”

  “You’re a swinger, kid. Ciao”

  “Ciao.”

  Ziggy rubbed his jaw pensively. He slipped a hand under his armpit, withdrew it, and smelled. Foo! He reached for the kitchen towel, wet it, and wiped under both armpits. He found the cutlery drawer, took out a paring knife, and methodically cleaned his fingernails. Then Ziggy went into the hall, studied himself in the mirror, and ruffled his hair. He started for the bedroom, where she was still sobbing fitfully. Wait! Ziggy lowered his hand into his underwear, took a good grab, and had a whiff of his fingers. Pig! He went back for the kitchen towel.

  “May I come in?” he asked in his tippy-toe voice.

  Naturally she didn’t answer. So Ziggy turned the door handle softly and sat down beside her on the bed, where she lay face down. “Joyce?” He began to stroke her tenderly, from top to bottom. “Stop crying, Joyce.” He raked her more slowly now, lingering where it was warmest. “I hope you’re not contemplating the bitchy thing, the obvious thing …”

  “What?” Joyce turned over sharply, arching away from his hand, the five fevered fingers. “You bastard,” she said.

  Ziggy nodded, emphatically agreeing. “You’re the only one,” he said, “who has always been able to see right through me.”

  “Oh, you’re rotten,” she said, as he reached for the top button of her dressing gown. “Mortimer looks up to you. There’s nobody he admires more.”

  “Yes, yes. And who could blame you, poor kid, if you wanted to get even with him.”

  Mortimer found Dino Tomasso in a state, all but frothing with anger. “Yes? What is it, Mort?”

  “Before the Star Maker flies back to America, I must speak with him. I insist, Dino.”

  Pacing, favoring his artificial leg, Tomasso turned his unseeing eye on Mortimer. “The Star Maker isn’t flying back to America tomorrow. He’s going into the Clinic. He’s mad, certifiably insane.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What do you understand? Shmuck.”

  “Rather more than you think.”

  “But what about me? He promised me. I’ve got no sons, he said. You’re my son, Dino. He put it in writing. Now the old bastard is going into the Clinic. I tell you, I could cut my tongue out. If I had a knife …”

  “Why?”

  Dino Tomasso sank into his chair. “I never should have blown my stack. No matter what, I never should have talked back to the Star Maker.” All at once Tomasso was weeping. “Go now,” he said, banging his head against his desk. “Go now.”

  “Is the Star Maker sick?”

  “Sick? If he pulls it off, we’ll all be sick. He can’t,” Tomasso said, knocking wood. “No, no, even the Star Maker, Blessed Be His Name, can’t.”

  “Can’t what?”

  “Can’t what?” Tomasso brought a three-fingered hand fearfully to his mouth. “I didn’t say it. I never told you what. Isn’t that the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, my God, what’s come over me? Sit down, Griffin. Stop grilling me. Let me get a grip on myself.” Tomasso leaned back in his chair, his eyes shut. “Go know,” he said over and over again.

  “Dino, I must speak with the Star Maker.”

  “You’ve seen the Our Living History file?”

  Mortimer nodded.

  “Big eyes! Snooper! Spy! Mort, I’m going to do you a favor.” Mortimer waited.

  “The picture’s finished. They wound up yesterday. You know that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here,” Tomasso said, shoving a package at him: some files from Personnel and three books. “There’s a Bentley with a driver waiting outside. You are to deliver this to the Star Maker personally. At his office. No straying on the set, understand? This is a bad day.”

  “Okay,” Mortimer said, taking the package.

  “One minute.” Tomasso bit his lip; his face clouded. “Mort, I shouldn’t say this, but … don’t let the Star Maker talk you into anything.”

  “Talk me into what?”

  “Look at me.” Tomasso hiked his trouser leg up, revealing his artificial limb. He turned his unseeing eye on Mortimer. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

  “I’ll take care of myself,” Mortimer said placatingly.

  “Wait. You’ve got the hots for Polly Morgan, haven’t you?”

  “The hell I have.”

  “Well, you warn her to take care too. You warn her to take special care.”

  Still Mortimer failed to comprehend.

  “Do not repeat this, but the Star Maker no longer rigidly believes in his own immortality. He plans to double-cross us all. He wants an heir.”

  “Marriage,” Mortimer asked, aghast, “at his age?”

  “Marriage? Go know. After all these years, go know. You’d better get moving. You’re late already.”

  What, Mortimer wondered, speeding toward the studios, was Tomasso getting at? Surely the Star Maker was no longer capable of producing an heir. Unless the cunning old bastard had test tubes full of his semen stored away in a deep-freeze somewhere. He invites an unsuspecting, beautiful young girl, say Polly Morgan, to his suite, then when she’s least expecting it, whamo! Artificial insemination. Nonsense. And yet – and yet – what did he need these three books for? Feeding Your Baby and Child, by Spock and Lowenberg, Your Baby and You, by Seymour Freed, and Natural Childbirth, by Grantly Dick Reid. Mortimer turned to the files he had been given. The medical history and X-ray data on three girls from the typing pool, including the replacement for poor Miss Spaight, who had died while undergoing her hysterectomy. And Polly Morgan’s case history! Peeking, Mortimer discovered that Polly was still a virgin, of all things. How very, very odd, he thought. But what did the obscene, undying Star Maker want with these files? Was he about to select
a mistress?

  Mortimer climbed out of the Bentley opposite Sound Stage D, which was ringed with black-uniformed guards. As two guards closed in on him, Mortimer showed his pass and was instructed to take the first stairway to the right, which would lead him to the Star Maker’s suite. But once inside the studio, Mortimer was drawn to the heavy door to the sound stage. He had never been on a film set before. Pushing open the door, he slipped inside. The studio was enormous but stark, with the size and feel of a factory floor, heavily scaffolded, huge lights suspended from ropes. In the far corner, Mortimer made out a high-spirited, elegantly dressed group, drinking champagne and eating smoked salmon and caviar from a long table. Dominating the party, looking curiously sad and preoccupied amid such gaiety, stood the towering Star. This, Mortimer thought, must be the last-day party for the unit; he had read about such things. Stepping cautiously over open paint buckets, careful not to trip over tangled black cables, threading his way between flats, Mortimer, keeping to the shadows, gradually edged closer to the group, recognizing the faces of familiar actors and actresses.

  Then, from his vantage point, Mortimer noticed something decidedly odd. Black-suited motorcycle riders moved from door to door, locking all but one. Other black-suited riders, their faces expressionless, filtered through among the celebrants, ushering them out of the unlocked door. While the riders seemed intent on emptying the studio, the Star rushed from guest to guest, imploring them to stay on, this laconic hero of a thousand cinema duels looking absolutely petrified. The Star’s terror, it seemed to Mortimer, was edging on hysteria, as one by one the guests melted away. Soon there were but two performers left drinking with the Star, a well-known character actor and a gorgeous actress. An impatient black-suited rider strode up to them, whispered something, and they instantly put down their unfinished drinks.

  “No, no, stay,” the Star shrieked. “Have another one.”

  Apologetically, they retreated.

  “Please stay. Please, please.”

  As soon as they were out of the door, the bolt was driven home and the lock was secured. Then, silence. The towering Star walked up to the long table, lips curled defiantly, and poured himself a glass of champagne, just as he had done when threatened in so many films past. Only this time there was an added detail. Tears streamed down the Star’s cheeks.