“There have been letters of complaint. And a petition from your lecture class. The Star Maker is dead-set against bad publicity.”
Mortimer sucked in a deep breath. “The Star Maker is a murderer, Lord Woodcock. He and Tomasso.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
Mortimer told him about the Our Living History series. About Herr Dr. Manheim and the Frankfurt efficiency team.
“How can you be anti-Semitic, on one hand, and prejudiced against Germans, on the other? I’m trying to understand you, but –”
“You are not taking me seriously.”
“Are you a misanthrope, then?”
“They’re murderers. Don’t you understand?”
“The Our Living History is quite the most successful line we’ve had in years. Nobody has reproached you for not thinking of it first. It is most unbecoming, then, for you –”
“You think this is all sour grapes on my part.”
“The competitive spirit, perhaps.”
Mortimer repeated his story once more. He told Lord Woodcock what he had read in the file.
“How very interesting,” Lord Woodcock said, surreptitiously removing the letter opener from his desk.
“You don’t believe me, you old fool.”
“Now, now, we mustn’t excite ourselves, must we?”
“You think I’m crazy?”
“Nobody is crazy. I’m not a boor, you know. Some people are better-adjusted than others, that’s all. Possibly, you’ve been drinking too much.”
“Yes,” Mortimer said, realizing there was no point, “that’s the truth.”
“Personal troubles?”
“A few.”
“Pity.”
Unaccountably, Mortimer began to laugh.
“Perhaps,” Lord Woodcock said, “you should rest a little longer. Stay away from Oriole for a few more days. No need to rush things.”
“Thank you.”
“The Star Maker, you know, thinks the world of you –”
“I’ve got a marvy lymph system. And Polly Morgan is the same blood type.”
“If you say so, I’m sure it’s true. He thinks the world of you, Mortimer, and I’d hate to disabuse him.”
“Good.”
“Now about your lectures. Your Mr. Shalinsky was here to see me only yesterday –”
“After an ad for Jewish Thought?”
“Among other things. A most dedicated and erudite little man, I thought.”
“He’s a snake.”
“Now, now. I thought it, um, interesting that he firmly believes that you are yourself, ah, of Hebraic origin.”
“I’m a Presbyterian, Lord Woodcock. Like my father.”
“I’m utterly opposed to prejudice. We must love one another or die has always been my credo, but if there is one thing I abominate, Mortimer,” he said, rising, “it is a Jewish anti-Semite.”
Mortimer, to his amazement, gave Lord Woodcock a shove.
“Anger,” Lord Woodcock said, his breath coming short, “sometimes betrays our deepest –”
Mortimer kicked the gold-tipped cane out from under him.
“You’re sick –”
Which provoked a punch to Lord Woodcock’s spilling belly.
“– mentally …”
Lord Woodcock gasped, sinking to the floor.
Next Mortimer took a taxi directly to The Eight Bells, where he consumed one brandy after another. Suddenly Polly Morgan stood before him. “Having a rough time?” she asked.
“Somewhat.”
“If ever you want me,” she said with a smile, “just whistle.”
29
IMMEDIATELY MORTIMER ENTERED POLLY MORGAN’S flat on Beaufort Street, already well fortified with Scotch, he was confronted by an outsize poster of Humphrey Bogart. “Play It Again, Sam.” The dimly lit entry hall was lined with bookshelves, bookshelves sagging with volumes on the cinema, but when Polly took Mortimer’s coat, disappearing briefly, and he stooped to pull out one of the books, he scraped his fingers. They were not books at all, but photographs of books pasted to the wall.
A framed black and white photograph of a Matisse hung over a mock fireplace, wherein plastic logs flickered red and orange, lit by a revolving light inside. Crackle, crackle, went the tape that was turned on automatically with the fire. There were other framed stills of paintings on the wall, all of them in black and white, but there was only one original. A first-edition color poster for Gone with the Wind, Gable scooping Vivien Leigh into his arms, Atlanta flaring red behind.
“V. Fleming,” Polly said. “Selznick, M-G-M. 1939. 41,200,000. Variety’s all-time grosser until Sound of Music.”
“What’s that?”
“Sound of Music. R. Wise. 20th. 1965. 42,500,000. What about a drink?”
“I’d love one.”
“You look sad,” she said, handing him a martini.
“Do I?”
“Don’t tell me.… Way back, a million light years ago maybe, you started out on a big white charger, waving a flag.”
Mortimer watched, agog, as Polly brushed the hint of a tear from her suddenly watery blue eyes.
“Now your arms are tired,” she continued, “the charger is in the glue factory and you’re sitting on a bomb, a ticking bomb …”
Mortimer emptied his glass. “Would it be possible to have another?”
“Let me.”
The candle-lit table was set for two. One red rose stood in a narrow vase and there was a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket. Polly put on a record, some Chopin from A Song to Remember. She looked fetching, maddeningly desirable, in her white mini-sheath, but Mortimer, even though he fed his imagination on pictures of lechery, felt no upspringing whatsoever. “You look absolutely gorgeous,” he said, tottering toward her.
“Don’t touch me,” she pleaded. “I shan’t be able to think, if you touch me.”
All the same, he kissed her, indelicately driving her body against him, trying to arouse himself.
“Oooo,” she moaned.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Sorry? No, no. I guess I’ve been wanting you to do just that for a long time.”
“Really?” he said, pleased, then, remembering his condition, was alarmed.
“I wish … oh, I wish,” she whispered.
“What?”
“I wish we had met ten years ago.”
A month ago would have done nicely, he thought bitterly.
“No,” she corrected herself. “Ten years ago, well, we were two different people, we wouldn’t have –” She stopped short. “Wrong again. I’d have loved you in any time, any place.”
“Loved me,” he exclaimed.
All the tenderness went out of Polly’s face. She seemed immensely irritated with herself. “Did I do that badly?” she asked. “Was I standing in the wrong place?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s just that this side of my face – yikes! My dinner!” she said, possibly to cover her embarrassment.
Mortimer followed her into the tiny planned kitchen. Testing his reactions, he kissed her hopefully on the nape of the neck.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” she squealed pleasurably. “You just control yourself until after dinner.”
Until after dinner.
Taking him by the hand, Polly led him back into the living room, kissed him, and pushed him back on the sofa. “I won’t be long,” she said.
Mortimer’s hands began to tremble. Until after dinner. Oh God, he thought, to be offered Polly on a plate and – and – there’s no justice. Mortimer caught a glimpse of her through the kitchen porthole, poring over her Larousse, tapping her teeth with her finger. But who would have known, he thought, arguing with himself. After all, everybody’s had a go at her and nobody … I’m reading things into the situation. Why, she’s a virgin. There’s nothing to worry about, absolutely nothing. But, rising to pour himself another martini, he happened to peek into the bedroom and what he saw
made his heart leap. On the bedside table there stood a bottle of wine and two glasses. Mortimer sank back on the sofa, closed his eyes, and prayed.
He had, it seemed to him, only rested for a minute, two at the most, when the next thing he knew … they were lying on pillows in front of the fire, she in his arms, a tray with coffee and brandy on the floor beside them.
“I’m sorry about the sauce,” she said. “It just didn’t work.”
“No, no, it was delicious.”
Craning his neck, Mortimer stared at the table. The candle had burned down to a flickering stump. The bottle of champagne floated overturned in the silver bucket. There was hardly any roast left on the meat board. And yet – and yet – Mortimer could have sworn he hadn’t eaten. Drunkenness made him forgetful, but not that forgetful. Besides, he was still hungry. He was bloody famished, in fact.
“What are we going to do,” Polly asked, running a long cool finger over his lips, “about us?”
“What do you mean?”
“I wouldn’t want to hurt … Joyce.”
He and Joyce, he explained, somewhat irritated, were no longer living together.
“You needn’t explain,” she said, running a hand down his side. “Um, one minute. Perhaps there’s something I should explain. About me.”
“But there’s no need. I know, I know.”
He had thought only Doug knew, and Ziggy, but obviously –
“You’ve been living in the same house, you and Joyce, strangers under the same roof. You’ve been sharing a bed, but there’s no love in your lovemaking.… Once you could talk to each other, but not any more.… Listen!”
Outside, somewhere in the night, a bird called to its mate. Then she was in his arms again, passionately this time, and Mortimer, his anguish total, began falteringly, “Wait, there’s something I must tell you … I’m sort of not well recently … unfit. I –” He feigned dizziness. “If I could only shut my eyes and rest, just for a minute, please.”
But when he opened his eyes she was gone.
“Polly?”
He found her luxuriating on the bed, nude, sleepy-eyed, satiated. She scooped up the sheet, covering herself, holding it coyly to her bosom. “It was super,” she said. “Absolutely super. Was it super for you too, darling?”
“Well, yes.”
“Was it never like this for you before?”
“No!”
“You’re such a bad liar. I love you for that.”
“But I’m telling the truth, God damn it.”
“Yes, you are. That’s exactly what I mean. If you were lying, I could tell from your face.”
He sat down on the bed beside her and reached for the bottle of wine. To his amazement, it was empty. The ashtray on the bedside table was full. He scrutinized the butts. Yes, they were his brand.
“Was life ever this good?”
But I’ve still got my clothes on, he thought, his head aching. “No,” he said.
“Am I your whole life to you, Mortimer?” He didn’t answer.
“No, my sweet,” she answered for him, “and I wouldn’t want to be.”
“Why the hell not?” he asked, irritation, bewilderment, ripening into anger.
“If I were your whole life,” she said, “that would mean you would die without me.” “Would I?”
“I couldn’t bear that responsibility.”
“Oh, my head, my poor head.”
“Let’s live for love, Mortimer, you and I,” she said, hugging him. “Let’s not die for it.” Then she fell away from him and was asleep almost immediately.
Mortimer tottered into the living room and stared once more at the table where they appeared to have eaten together. The champagne bottle, he saw, was truly empty but, in the kitchen, he was unable to find any used pots or pans or soiled dishes. In fact all he found in the kitchen was stacks and stacks of film scripts, shooting scripts complete with camera directions. Mortimer found his coat and let himself out of Polly’s flat. Outside, he noticed two black-suited men seated in a parked Rover. He stopped a taxi and clambered inside wearily. The Rover started up and followed, but at a distance.
Migod.
30
“HELLO, HELLO, MAY I SPEAK WITH THE STAR MAKER, please.”
“Who is it calling?”
“Mortimer Griffin.”
“One moment, please,” Miss Mott said.
There was a pause.
“Well, hello there.”
“Star Maker?”
“At your service.”
“I’ve thought it over. I’ll take the job.”
“Are you sure, Mortimer?”
“Absolutely. It’s definite.”
“Good boy.”
“Oh, incidentally, Star Maker, I’ve kept your secrets. All your secrets, I haven’t spoken to anyone. Just like I promised.”
“Your word is your bond.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that all, then?”
“Oh, well, I suppose I should tell you I had something of a tiff with Lord Woodcock.”
“What happened?”
“What happened?”
“Yes.”
“He hasn’t mentioned it, then?”
“No.”
“It’s very funny.”
“How come?”
“Well, I was drunk, see, my mind’s a complete blank, but I think I hit him.”
“Not to worry.”
“The embarrassing thing is I can’t remember a thing I said to him. But he’s not to be trusted.”
“Is that so?”
“Lord Woodcock has his virtues, God knows, but he’s a compulsive liar. I can’t tell you how anxious I am to get started at Oriole.”
“Good boy. When can we meet and talk again?”
“Any day now, Star Maker. I’ll call you the day after tomorrow.”
“Splendid.”
“Meanwhile, don’t you worry about me. My lips are sealed.”
“You have my complete trust, Mortimer.”
“You too, Star Maker. Goodbye now.”
“Toodle-loo.”
Mortimer stepped out of the telephone booth and walked slowly toward The Eight Bells, the Rover following after. Once inside, he scooted downstairs to the Gents, and out the back door.
The first travel agency he came to was on Oxford Street.
“One way,” the clerk said. “Economy or first class?”
“Economy.”
“Two tickets to Toronto would come to two hundred and five pounds.”
“Thank you.”
We’ll need a stake, Mortimer thought, continuing down Oxford Street. A nice hunk of cash. In a hurry.
31
“TONIGHT, FANS,” DIG BEGAN GLEEFULLY, “WE HAVE A rare and distinct pleasure in store. We have with us in the studio a holder of … the Victoria Cross.”
This brought forth jeers and hoots. “Here’s a hot one coming up,” somebody said.
“The Victoria Cross, fans, is awarded for valor. ‘For conspicuous bravery or devotion to duty in the presence of the enemy.’ ”
Superimposed on the screen was the face of Peter Sellers, his eyes crossed under a battle helmet as he peered down the wrong end of a rifle. Laughter exploded in the studio.
“Its inscription reads ‘For the Brave.’ ”
On screen, David Warner as Morgan ran backwards, the action speeded up.
“During World War II,” Dig continued, “in the six years of violence that was to make” – here he cupped a hand over his mouth, swallowing a giggle – “a brave new world for us cats …”
The atomic bomb exploded on screen.
“… just fourteen Canadians in all won the Victoria Cross, and five of them paid for it with their lives.”
The opening bars of “God Save the Queen” was played off key by the Berliner Ensemble Band.
“One of the survivors … Captain, once Major, Mortimer Griffin, is with us here tonight.”
Tssst-tssst-tssst.
�
�But, first of all, let me fill you in on some of the other Victoria Cross winners. One of them, formerly a captain, has said, quote, I enjoyed the war.”
Dig’s voice ran over a superimposed panning shot of a military graveyard, an endless vista of crosses.
“It was like a game of cowboys and Indians. The only difference is we were using live ammunition, unquote.”
In the ensuing laughter Mortimer noted that Dig had neglected to add that the captain in question had lost both his legs in the action for which he was decorated.
“Another,” Dig said, “writes me that his favorite reading is … James Bond!”
Finally, Dig got to Mortimer. An old photograph of Mortimer in his army uniform was flashed on the screen. A decidedly comic, hollow military drumbeat in the background.
“On August 8, 1944, Major Mortimer Griffin of the 2nd Canadian Infantry was in command of a battalion in the Falaise pocket. Heavily outnumbered, his armored support battered, he was attacking an enemy position of vital importance. If he took it he would cut off the retreat of not one, but two” – Dig raised two fingers – “Nazi-rat regiments.…”
Action frames from American wartime comic books were superimposed on screen.
“POW! KAZAAM! BOOM!”
Laughter rocked the studio.
“His superiors ordered Griffin to pull back, but the clean-cut young major replied, according to press reports, ‘Retreat, heck.’ ”
Dig swung his chair round to smile encouragingly at Mortimer.
“Was it actually ‘retreat, heck,’ you said … or was it something less, um, wholesome?”
“Something less wholesome.”
“Major Griffin, according to the press report I have here, told his men, ‘There are enemy in front of us, enemy behind us, and enemy on our flanks. There’s only one place to go, fellas. Onward.’ In the ensuing action, the Canadians lost 132 men, but the … Nazi-rat retreat was cut off and as a result 2,000 prisoners were taken. Major Griffin, in a conspicuous act of … um … bravery … crawled to a knoll exposed to enemy machine-gun fire – Rat-tat-tat … rat-tat-tat – and rescued a wounded corporal. His corporal. Wounded twice in the legs, he refused to be evacuated until his men had been seen to and reinforcements had arrived.”
Laughter began to rise in the studio. “Wait,” Dig said, choking it off with a wave of his arm, “it gets better.… Major Griffin’s commanding officer, one of the first on the scene, said – we are assured in Canadian Press dispatches – with a grin from ear to ear, ‘For disobeying orders, Griffin, I’m stripping you to the rank of captain, effective immediately. But for amazing Canuck bravery in the face of a superior enemy force I’m recommending you for – for’ – Drums, please,” Dig asked.
Cocksure Page 17
