“That explains it.”
“What?”
“Why you’re so nervous.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Mortimer placed the long brown envelope on the table. “Shalinsky, you are to guard this with your life. You are not to publish it until you hear from me.”
The old man nodded.
“But, of course,” Mortimer added, trying to appear casual, “if anything happens to me, you can publish immediately.”
“What should happen to you?”
“A street accident. Anything. Who knows? But I must have this absolutely clear. If anything happens you publish immediately.”
“Understood.”
“Is that a promise, then?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good,” Mortimer said.
“You see, chaver. You can always rely on your own.”
“I hope so. I certainly hope so. Good night, Shalinsky.”
“Au plaisir.”
Artists, Shalinsky thought fondly, they’re all the same. Children. Immediately, the front door had shut, he ripped open the long brown envelope. Naturally, it was about publishing, his world. Well, he had read better stories. Another Sholom Aleichem he certainly wasn’t. For a fantasy, the language was too dry, even legalistic, and then of course the names would have to be changed. Shalinsky was willing to publish the story, he was loyal, but a libel suit, he thought, I can do without.
37
MORTIMER RETURNED TO POLLY’S FLAT TO WAIT. Nothing happened that night. Or the next day. Even more encouraging, there was no sign of the Vauxhall or the Rover. Is it possible, Mortimer thought, that I’ve scared him off? For the umpteenth time, he took out his Air Canada tickets and studied them. The suitcases were packed. Everything was ready. Finally, Polly came home late and weary from Oriole House. “Thank God you’re here. Safe,” he said.
Polly wrinkled her nose at him.
“I’ll pour you a bath,” he said.
“Lovely.”
Mortimer turned on both taps, waited three minutes, and then joined her in the living room, where she had cut to, adorably pink and refreshed, in her dressing gown. What would I do without her, he thought adoringly.
“I feel like a new person,” Polly said.
“I’ll bet,” he said warmly. “What kept you?”
“Oh, one of Dino Tomasso’s emergency conferences. The Our Living History series is to be expanded.”
“Is it, now?”
“It’s to be vastly expanded to include, well, case histories, England Now, and all that jazz. Oh, darling, I’m so proud. I’m so happy for you.”
“Why?”
“Because,” she said. “Now hold on to your hat. Because, my darling, the first projected title in the England Now series is to be the biography of a professional man in his early forties –”
“Mortimer Griffin’s Story,” he said, shuddering.
“How ever did you guess?”
“Polly, do you trust me?”
“What a question! Why, I’d march over clifftops for you.”
“Good. Because there’s no time for explanations. In a nutshell, my dear, the Star Maker intends to have me murdered.”
“Wow! So that’s why you’ve been avoiding the office and drinking so much.”
“Yes.”
“I’m so relieved. I thought perhaps you were sorry … well, about us.”
“Polly, will you come to Canada with me?”
“I’d go anywhere with you. Anywhere in the whole, wide world.”
“We’re leaving first thing in the morning. I’ve already made the reservations. He’ll never find us in Canada, the obscene son-of-a-bitch.”
A tear welled in Polly’s eye.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded.
“Of course I’ll come with you …”
“But,” he said wearily.
“Are you prepared to spend the rest of your life on the run, looking over your shoulder, waiting, knowing one night he’ll be there?”
“What?”
“If the Star Maker is out to get you … well, shouldn’t you stay here and make a fight of it?”
Mortimer went to pour himself a drink. An enormous drink.
“You won’t find courage in there, darling.”
“Our Father who art in heaven,” he began, “hallowed be thy name …”
“I’m only saying this because I love you. I want you to be able to walk tall, Mortimer. Always.”
Mortimer went to the window to peer through the curtains. The Vauxhall was there. So was the Rover. Herr Dr. Manheim got out, followed by his two assistants. They conferred with Dr. Laughton and Gail on the other side of the street.
“Christ,” Mortimer said, grabbing for the phone. Nine nine nine; that would do the trick. “Polly,” he said, his voice quivering, “the line’s dead!”
“This is it, then,” she said, enthralled.
Mortimer seized her. “Polly, listen to me. This is no movie. This is real. Understand?”
“Roger.”
“Oh, my God.”
“There isn’t much time, is there? The sands are running out.”
“Yes, yes. Now listen, I want you to slip out the back way and run – run, understand?”
“My place is here with you.”
Mortimer beat himself on the forehead. He pulled his hair. “Listen to me, Polly,” he said, shaking her. “We have one chance.”
“Naturally,” she said with appetite.
“I want you to run to the nearest phone booth and call the police. Nine nine nine. As soon as you’ve gone, I will open the curtains. Then I will set the table for two and pour myself a drink. I will talk. I will pretend you are in the kitchen. Now hurry, for Christ’s sake. Hurry.”
“It’s a piece of cake,” Polly said and, blowing him a kiss, she was gone.
Mortimer counted to ten and pulled the curtains. In full view of the parked cars, he poured two drinks and carried the glass of sherry into the kitchen, emerging again to set the table.
Polly ran. She ran and ran. The first telephone booth she came to was empty, which wouldn’t have done at all. She continued, breathless, to the next booth where, fortunately, a long-haired teen-ager was chattering endlessly, unaware that a man’s life was at stake. Rat-tat-tat, Polly went, banging her sixpence against the glass. Rat-tat-tat. The teen-ager was done, just in time, Polly sensed, and she entered the booth. Polly deposited her sixpence and dialed nine nine nine.
“Metropolitan Police here. Yes?”
Polly smiled warmly.
“Hello! Hello? Is there anyone there?” the officer asked.
Gratefully, Polly hung up, hung up without speaking, and on the wide screen that was her mind’s eye, sirens sounded, police cars heaving into Beaufort Street in the nick of time. Crowds formed. They embraced. Somewhere in the night a bird was singing. Tomorrow the sun would come up. Tomorrow and tomorrow. Old Sol, she thought.
Mordecai Richler was born in Montreal in 1931. The author of ten successful novels, numerous screenplays, and several books of non-fiction, his most recent novel, Barney’s Version, was an acclaimed bestseller and the winner of The Giller Prize, the Stephen Leacock Award for Humour, the QSPELL Award, and the Commonwealth Writers Prize for Best Novel in the Caribbean and Canada region. Richler also won two Governor General’s Awards and was shortlisted twice for the Booker Prize.
Mordecai Richler died in Montreal in July 2001.
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