by Philip Roth
When they got to his house, the driver refused his ten dollars. “No, no, Mr. Z. My privilege.” Then he took a business card from his billfold and handed it out the window. “If we can ever put your mind at ease, sir,” and sped away while Zuckerman stepped under the streetlight to read the card:
RATE SCHEDULE
He read for the rest of the night—her book—and then at nine he phoned the hotel and was reminded that Miss O’Shea wasn’t taking calls until noon. He left his name, wondering what he would do with himself and his exultation until they met at two for their walk through the park—she’d said it would be happiness enough just doing that. He couldn’t look at The Crisis in the Life of an Actress again, or the two essays on drama that filled out the little volume. He’d been through them all twice already—the second time at six a.m., making notes in the journal he kept for his reading. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, but that was an improvement over trying to take in what people were thinking, saying, and writing about him—there is such a thing as self-satiation. “You would imagine,” he said to the empty bookshelves when he came in, “that after wine at dinner, champagne at Elaine’s, and intercourse with Caesara, I could put the homework off until morning and get some rest.” But at least sitting at his desk with a pen and a pad and a book, he had felt a little less goofy than lying in bed with her name on his lips like the rest of the fans. It didn’t, of course, feel anything like a good night’s work; he hadn’t felt the excitement of working straight through the night since his last weeks finishing Carnovsky. Nor could he lay claim to some lively new idea about what book to write next. All lively new ideas were packed away like the volumes in the eighty-one cartons. But at least he’d been able to focus on something other than himself being stuffed to bursting at the trough of inanities. He was bursting now with her.
He called the Pierre, couldn’t get through, and then didn’t know what to do with himself. Begin to unpack the half ton of books, that’s what! Bank Street is over! Laura is over! Uncarton all the boxed-in brains! Then uncarton your own!
But he had an even better idea. André’s tailor! Hold the books and buy a suit! For when we fly to Venice—for checking in at the Cipriani! (Caesara had allowed, as he was leaving, that the only hotel in the world where she truly enjoyed awakening in the morning was the Cipriani.)
In his wallet he found André’s tailor’s card, his shirt-maker’s card, his wine merchant’s card, and his Jaguar dealer’s card; these had been ceremoniously presented to Zuckerman over lunch at the Oak Room the day André had completed the sale to Paramount of the film rights to Carnovsky, bringing Zuckerman’s income for 1969 to just over a million, or approximately nine hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars more than he had previously earned in any year of his life. Placing André’s cards in his wallet, Zuckerman had withdrawn a card he had prepared the night before for André and handed it across to him—a large index card on which he had typed a line from the letters of Henry James. All this is far from being life as I feel it, as I see it, as I know it, as I wish to know it. But his agent was neither edified nor amused. “The world is yours, Nathan, don’t hide from it behind Henry James. It’s bad enough that that’s what he hid behind. Go see Mr. White, tell him who sent you, and get him to fit you out the way he does Governor Rockefeller. It’s time to stop looking like some kid at Harvard and assume your role in history.”
Well, at Mr. White’s that morning—waiting for Caesara to get up—he ordered six suits. If you’re in a sweat over one, why not six? But why in a sweat? He had the dough. All he needed now was the calling.
On which side did he dress? asked Mr. White. It took a moment to fathom the meaning, and then to realize that he didn’t know. If Carnovsky was any indication, he had for thirty-six years given more thought than most to the fate of his genitals, but whither they inclined while he went about the day’s uncarnal business, he had no idea.
“Neither, really,” he said.
“Thank you, sir,” said Mr. White, and made a note.
On the new fly he was to have buttons. As he remembered, it was a big day in a little boy’s life when he was old enough to be trusted not to get himself caught in a zipper and so bid farewell to the buttoned-up fly. But when Mr. White, an Englishman of impeccable grooming and manners, wondered aloud if Mr. Zuckerman might not prefer to change over to buttons, Zuckerman caught the tone and, mopping his face, replied, “Oh, absolutely.” Whatever the Governor has, he thought. And Dean Acheson. His picture also hung among the notables on Mr. White’s paneled walls.
When the taking of the measurements was over, Mr. White and an elderly assistant helped Zuckerman back into his jacket without giving any sign that they were handling rags. Even the assistant was dressed for a board meeting of A.T.&T.
Here, as though retiring to the rare-book room at the Bodleian, the three turned to where the bolts of cloth were stored. Fabrics that would serve Mr. Zuckerman for the city and his club; for the country and his weekends; for the theater, for the opera, for dining out. Each was removed from its shelf by the assistant so that Mr. Zuckerman might appreciate the cloth between his fingers. In North America, he was told, with its extremes of climate, a dozen suits would be best to cover every contingency, but Mr. Zuckerman stuck at six. He was drenched already.
Then the linings. Lavender for the gray suit. Gold for the tan suit. A daring floral pattern for the country twill … Then the styling. Two-piece or three-piece? Double-breasted or single-breasted? Two-button front or three-button front? Lapels this wide or this wide? Center vents or side vents? The inside coat pocket—one or two, and how deep? Back trouser pockets—button on the left or the right? And will you be wearing suspenders, sir?
Would he, at the Cipriani, for checking in?
They were attending to the styling of his trousers—Mr. White, most respectfully, making his case for a modest flare at the cuff of the twill—when Zuckerman saw that finally it was noon. Urgent phone call, he announced. “Of course, sir,” and he was left to himself, amid the bolts of cloth, to dial the Pierre.
But she was gone. Checked out. Any message for Mr. Zuckerman? None. Had she received his message? She had. But where had she gone? The desk had no idea—though suddenly Zuckerman did. To move in with André and Mary! She’d left the hotel to shake the unwanted suitor. She had made her choice and it was him!
He was wrong. It was the other guy.
“Nathan,” said Mary Schevitz. “I’ve been trying all morning to reach you.”
“I’m at the tailor’s, Mary, suiting up for every contingency. Where is she if she’s not with you two?”
“Nathan, you must understand—she left in tears. I’ve never seen her so distraught. It killed me. She said, ‘Nathan Zuckerman is the best thing that’s happened to me in a year.’”
“So where is she then? Why did she go?”
“She flew to Mexico City. She’s flying from there to Havana. Nathan dear, I didn’t know anything. Nobody’s known anything. It’s the best-kept secret in the world. She only told me to try to explain to me how badly she felt about you.”
“Told you what?”
“She’s been having an affair. Since March. With Fidel Castro. Nathan, you mustn’t tell anyone. She wants to end it with him, she knows there’s no future there. She’s sorry it ever began. But he’s a man who won’t take no for an answer.”
“As the world knows.”
“He had his UN Ambassador phoning her every five minutes since she arrived. And this morning the Ambassador came to the hotel and insisted on taking her to breakfast. And then she called me to say she was going, that she had to. Oh, Nathan, I do feel responsible.”
“Don’t, Mary. Kennedy couldn’t stop him, Johnson couldn’t stop him, Nixon won’t stop him. So how can you? Or I?”
“And you looked so charming together. Have you seen the Post?”
“I haven’t been out of the fitting room.”
“Well, it’s in Leonard Lyons, about the two of you at Elai
ne’s.”
Later that day his mother phoned to tell him that it had been on the air as well; in fact, she was phoning to find out if it could possibly be true that he had flown to Ireland, without even calling her to say goodbye.
“Of course I would have called,” he assured her.
“Then you’re not going.”
“No.”
“Bea Wirth phoned me just a minute ago to say that she heard it on the television. Nathan Zuckerman is off to Ireland to stay at the palatial country estate of Caesara O’Shea. It was on Virginia Graham. I didn’t even know she was a friend of yours.”
“She’s not, really.”
“I didn’t think so. She’s so much older than you.”
“She’s not, but that isn’t the point.”
“She is, darling. Daddy and I saw Caesara O’Shea years ago already, playing a nun.”
“Playing a novice. She was practically a child then.”
“It never sounded from the papers as though she was a child.”
“Well, maybe not.”
“But everything is all right? You feel well?”
“I’m fine. How’s Dad?”
“He’s a little better. I’m not saying that just to make myself feel good, either. Mr. Metz has been going every afternoon now to read him the Times. He says Daddy seems to follow perfectly. He can tell by how angry he gets whenever he hears Nixon’s name.”
“Well, that’s terrific, isn’t it?”
“But you going away without calling—I told Bea it just couldn’t be. Nathan wouldn’t dream of going that far without telling me, in case God forbid I had to get hold of him about his father.”
“That’s true.”
“But why did Virginia Graham say you did? And on TV?”
“Someone must have told her an untruth, Ma.”
“They did? But why?”
Dear Mr. Zuckerman:
For a number of years I have been planning to film a series of half-hour television shows (in color) to be called “A Day in the Life of…” The format, which is no more than a carbon of the ancient Greek Tragedy, is a recitation of the hour-by-hour activities of a well-known person, and offers an intimate personal look at someone who, in the normal course of events, the audience would not see or meet. My company, Renowned Productions, is fully financed and ready to embark upon its opening show. Briefly, it involves filming one complete day, from breakfast to bedtime, of a celebrity who will excite the interest of millions of onlookers. To achieve one day without dull spots, we will average four days of filming candid unrehearsed material.
I selected you as our first celebrity because I think your day will be as interesting as any I can envision. Also, there is broad public interest in you and your “offstage” life. Everyone, I think, would profit by watching a candid portrayal of you at work and you at play. My guess is that such a production will enhance your career—and mine too.
Please let me know your feelings, and if we agree, I will send a couple of reporters to start the initial research.
Sincerely,
Gary Wyman
President
Dear Mr. Wyman:
I think you underestimate how many days, weeks, and years of filming it would take to achieve “A Day in the Life of…” of me that would be without dull spots. A candid portrayal of my offstage life would probably put millions of viewers to sleep and, far from enhancing your career, destroy it forever. Better start with somebody else. Sorry.
Sincerely,
Nathan Zuckerman
Dear Mr. Zuckerman:
I have written a short novel of approximately 50,000 words. It is a romance with college characters and explicit sex but has humor and other interest as well, and an original plot. As in your latest book, the sexual activity is an integral part of the plot, so is essential.
I intended to send it to Playboy Press but have backed down because there could be repercussions. My wife and I are retired, living very happily in a retirement village in Tampa. If the book turned out to be successful and the people here found out that I wrote it, we would lose our friends at once and would probably have to sell our home and leave.
I hate to do nothing about the book because I believe it would be entertaining for readers who like explicit sex and also those who don’t mind it as long as there is something worthwhile accompanying it. You are an established author and can publish such a book, as you already have, without worrying about adverse opinion.
Please let me know if I may send you the manuscript, and also the address I should use. Then if you like it, you may wish to buy it outright from me as an investment and publish it under another name than your own.
Sincerely,
Harry Nicholson
The phone.
“All right then,” cried Zuckerman, “who is this? You, Nicholson?”
“Right now we are asking for only fifty thousand. That’s because we haven’t had to do the job. Kidnapping is an expensive operation. It takes planning, it takes thought, it takes highly trained personnel. If we have to go ahead and get to work, fifty thousand won’t begin to cover costs. If I am going to keep my head above water, you won’t get out of a kidnapping like this for under three hundred thousand. In a kidnapping like this, with nationwide coverage, we run a tremendous risk and everybody involved has to be compensated accordingly. Not to mention equipment. Not to mention time. But if you want us to go ahead, we will. Hang up on me again and you’ll see how fast. My people are poised.”
“Poised where, palooka?” For it was still with something like the caricatured voice of a punch-drunk pug that the caller was endeavoring to disguise his own—and threatening to kidnap Zuckerman’s mother. “Look,” said Zuckerman, “this isn’t funny.”
“I want fifty thousand bucks in cash. Otherwise we proceed with the full-scale operation and then you will be out three hundred thousand at least. Not to mention the wear and tear on your old lady. Have a heart, Zuck. Haven’t you given her enough misery with that book? Don’t make it any worse than it already is. Don’t make it so that she regrets the day you were born, sonny.”
“Look, this is call number three and has by now become a disgusting sadistic psychopathic little joke—”
“Oh, don’t you tell me about disgusting jokes! Don’t you call me names, you highbrow fuck! You fake! Not after what you do to your family, you heartless bastard—and in the name of Great Art! In my daily life I am a better man than you are a hundred times over, shitface. Everybody who knows me personally knows that. I detest violence. I detest suffering. What goes on in this country today makes me sick. We had a great leader in Robert Kennedy, and that crazy Arab bastard shot him. Robert Kennedy, who could have turned this country around! But what people know me to be as a human being is none of your business. God knows I don’t have to prove myself to a faker like you. Right now we are talking strictly money, and it is no more disgusting than when you talk on the phone to the accountant. You have got fifty thousand dollars, I want it. It’s as simple as that. I don’t know a son in your financial position who would think twice about laying out fifty thousand to spare his mother some terrible tragic experience. Suppose it was cancer, would you think that was a disgusting joke too, would you make her go through that too, rather than dig into the margin account? Christ, you have just got close to another million on the sequel. How much more do you need in one year? The way the world gets the story, you’re so pure you hold your nose when you have to handle change from the taxicab. You fraud, you hypocrite! Your talent I can’t take away from you, but as a human being exploiting other human beings you haven’t got the greatest record, you know, so don’t get high and mighty with me. Because if it was my mother, let me tell you, there wouldn’t be that much to debate about. I’d act, and fast. But then I would never have gotten her into this to begin with. I wouldn’t have the talent for it. I wouldn’t have the talent to exploit my family and make them a laughingstock the way you have. I’m not gifted enough to do that.”
“So you do this,” said Zuckerman, wondering meanwhile what he should do. What would Joseph Conrad do? Leo Tolstoy? Anton Chekhov? When first starting out as a young writer in college he was always putting things to himself that way. But that didn’t seem much help now. Probably better to ask what Al Capone would do.
“Correct,” he was told, “so I do this. But I don’t do it with violence and I don’t do it where the traffic can’t bear the freight. I do research. And given operating expenses, I am by no means exorbitant in my demands. I am not interested in causing suffering. I hate suffering. I have seen enough suffering in my personal life to last forever. All I care about is making a reasonable profit on my investment and the man-hours involved. And to do what I do with responsibility. I assure you, not everybody goes about it the responsible way that I do. Not everybody thinks these things through. They kidnap like madmen, they kidnap like school kids, and that is when the shit hits the fan. My pride won’t permit that. My compunctions won’t permit that. I try like hell to avoid just that. And I do, when I am met on the other side by a person with compunctions like my own. I’ve been in this business many years now, and nobody has been hurt yet who wasn’t asking for it by being greedy.”
“Where did you hear that I just made a million on ‘the sequel’?” If only he had a tape recorder. But the little Sony was down on Bank Street in Laura’s office. Everything was that he needed.
“I didn’t ‘hear’ it. I don’t operate that way. I’ve got it right in front of me in your file. I’m reading it right now. Variety, out Wednesday. ‘Independent Bob “Sleepy” Lagoon paid close to a million—’”
“But that is a lie. That is Independent Lagoon puffing himself up without paying a dime. There is no sequel.”
Wasn’t this the right approach, the one they recommended in the papers? To level with the kidnapper, to take him seriously, to make him your friend and equal?
