The Paper Dragon (28 page)

Andy and I both won scholarships to the Art Students League in January of 1957, after we got out of Music and Art. We had submitted samples of our work in a city-wide competition, and I think only Andy and me, and a girl from Evander Childs and another girl from a school in Brooklyn were chosen, though I still can't figure why. We really weren't that good. The first day we went to the school, they showed us around the various classes so that we could decide which courses we wanted to take — we were allowed to take two courses — and at the front of one of the classrooms there was what we thought was a white plaster statue of a naked woman until she moved. We both signed up for that course, which was Life Drawing, and we also signed up for Oil Painting. I was lousy with oils. The thing I hated most about them was cleaning up afterwards. The girl from Brooklyn had red hair, and we called her Flatbush. She was always speculating about why a girl would take off her clothes and pose naked. Both Andy and I got the impression that Flatbush would have very much enjoyed taking off her clothes and posing naked. The scholarship ended in June, by Which time Andy and I were both jaded by the sight of all those naked women draped on the posing stand, and by which time I had taken the entrance exam for Pratt Institute. I was notified in July that I had been accepted. And in that same month, when Andy insisted that I pay him the dime I'd bet him on the Yankee-White Sox game, I said, "Come on, don't be so niggardly," and he got upset and refused to believe there was such a word and that it meant stingy or cheap or miserly or parsimonious. He said to me, "I knew it would come sooner or later, Jimmy, and you're a son of a bitch." Andy said that to me. Maybe I did mean niggardly, maybe I
really
meant niggardly. Or maybe, accustomed to playing word games almost every night of the week, twisting meanings and spellings and generally slaughtering the language, maybe I was making another pun, and maybe Andy was right to get sore, I don't know.

He went to Cooper Union in September, to study art there, and I never saw him again.

"I think I smell wood burning," Jonah said.

"Yes, indeed," Norman said. "He is thinking very hard, Jonah."

"My brother always used to say he smelled wood burning," Jonah said.

"Can you remember where the 105th came from?" Norman asked.

"No," Driscoll said.

"You've
got
to remember," Jonah said.

"Why? I'm not even being sued. I think I ought to remind you gentlemen of that fact."

"Not serving you was a little gambit Mr. Brackman will come to regret," Jonah said.

"Why wasn't I served?"

"I asked that very same question in a Georgia restaurant once," Norman said, and laughed.

"What did they say?" Driscoll asked.

"They said the cook had gone home."

"
Had
he gone home?"

"Certainly not. The cook was my cousin," Norman said, and laughed again.

"My wife is a Southerner, you know," Driscoll said.

"Yes, I know."

"I don't think she's consciously prejudiced, however," he said, and finished his drink. "Would anyone care for another martini?"

"Only unconsciously?" Norman asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Prejudiced?"

"No, I don't think so. She's a very nice girl, Ebie. Yes. Do you know how she got to be named Ebie?"

"No, how?"

"Edna Belle," Driscoll said.

"Huh?"

"Edna."

"Yes?"

"Belle."

"Yes."

"E and B."

"I don't get it."

"E. B. Ebie."

"That's very clever," Norman said. "Let's have another drink."

"I think we ought to work out this 105th Division," Jonah said.

"The hell with the 105th Division," Driscoll said. "Let Brackman work it out. Why
didn't
he serve me?"

"He was hoping you'd wash your hands of the whole thing."

"I almost did."

"What made you change your mind?"

"I knew Mitchell-Campbell would have brought me in, anyway."

"It's best you joined the action voluntarily," Jonah said.

"Best for whom?"

"For all of us."

"If we win this case, you know. " Driscoll started, and then shook his head.

"Yes."

"No, never mind."

"What were you about to say?"

"Nothing. Let's have another drink."

"That's a good idea," Norman said.

"Don't you have to get home?" Jonah asked.

"What's the hurry? You think the rats'll get lonely?"

"Have you got rats?" Driscoll asked.

"Very
large
rats."

"What are their names?" Driscoll asked, and Norman burst out laughing.

"Have you really got rats?" Jonah asked.

"Absolutely."

"You ought to get out of Harlem."

"I can't."

"Why not? You make enough money."

"My mother likes it there."

"
My
mother likes it on West End Avenue," Driscoll said.

"West End Avenue ain't Lenox Avenue," Norman said.

"That's for sure. Hey, waiter, we want another round."

"Listen, we've got to get back to this," Jonah said. "The 105th Division appears in
The Catchpole
, and it also…"

"
Catchpole
," Norman corrected. "There is no article. You have been told that several times already, Mr. Willow, and I'll thank you to refer to the play by its proper name."

"Yes, but nonetheless," Jonah said, laughing, "if we can discover how you hit upon that number when you were contemplating your novel, we could—"

"When I was contemplating my
navel
, you mean," Driscoll said.

"That's very clever," Norman said, laughing. "Have you ever tried writing?"

"Too serious a business," Driscoll said.

"Law is a very serious business, too," Norman said. "Let's open a whore house."

"I wish you gentlemen would try to be properly serious," Jonah said. "There's a great deal of stakes here.
At
stakes.
Stake
."

"Jonah is drunk," Norman said.

"I will concede that, your Honor," Jonah said.

"Thank you," Driscoll said to the waiter, and then lifted his glass. "Gentlemen, I give you the play named
Maypole
and the novel named
The Paper Asshole
, and I defy you — I defy you, gentlemen — to find any real difference between these two
oeuvres
, which is French for eggs. In the play we have a degenerate leper who writes to Dr. Schweitzer, asking 'how he can cure his vile leching after twelve-year-olds. This same pervert is present in the novel, only this time he writes to Graham Greene for advice, and Greene being an expert only on leprosy advises him to write to Vladimir Nabokov, who is an expert on lechery. The similarity stands. In the novel, on page seventy-four, the girl enters, and she has two breasts —
two
breasts, gentlemen — exactly as in the play. I submit that a girl with two breasts is a unique invention, and I defy you to explain this remarkable coincidence, these footprints left in the sand by the thief. Now, I am not an expert on such matters, but I am willing to bet that the possibility of finding
two
young girls in the same room, both of whom have
two
breasts — gentlemen, this staggers the imagination. That is the plaintiff's case, your Honor, and I drink to it."

"All right, what about this 105th Precinct?" Jonah asked briskly.

"Division."

"Yes, what about it?"

"It's there," Driscoll said.

"Where?"

"In my book."

"It's also in the play," Jonah said. "So how about it?"

"How about it?
It's
there, and
we're
here, so the hell with it."

"I wish you could explain it," Jonah said. "I seriously wish you could explain it."

"I won't."

"What?"

"I said I can't."

"You said you won't."

"I meant I can't."

"Jimmy," Norman said, "do you
know
why you labeled your division the 105th?"

Driscoll looked across the table and said, "No, I do not. And that's the God's honest truth."

As the big jet orbited Kennedy in a holding pattern, Ralph Knowles wondered if the field were still open, and once again conjured an image of the giant airliner skidding around on the runway as it braked to a stop. The forecasters early that afternoon had reported heavy snowstorms all along the Eastern seaboard, and he had called Kessler collect from the Coast to ask whether it was still imperative that he come east today.

"Can't it wait till tomorrow?" he had asked. "I don't want to die in a goddamn airplane skidding around in the snow."

"That's not funny," Kessler had said, even though Knowles hadn't been trying to make a joke. "You will probably be called to testify tomorrow afternoon, so you get on that plane and come east like a good boy, and stop worrying about a little snow."

"It's a
lot
of snow, from what I hear," Ralph said.

"They always exaggerate out there," Kessler answered. "It's to make you appreciate California."

"But is it still snowing?"

"Just a little."

"Well then maybe…"

"Ralph, this trial is important," Kessler said. "Now you just get on that plane — what plane are you getting on?"

"The four-thirty flight."

"You just get on it, and let me worry about the snow."

"I knew you could move mountains," Ralph said, "but I didn't know you could also stop snow."

"That's not funny, either," Kessler had said. "Do me a favor, and don't ever direct a comedy for us."

He could see lights below. It was never like Los Angeles, where the approach to the city was beautiful, truly beautiful, reds and greens and whites spilled across the landscape, he sometimes felt like weeping as the plane banked in over the airport, not the same here at all. He had never liked New York City, too damn big and dirty, noisy people rushing around all the time, business deals over breakfast and lunch and cocktails and dinner, no nice backyard barbecues, never any sunshine, rotten place New York, he hated it.

He shouldn't be coming here now, either, should be going in the opposite direction to meet Matt Jackson in Japan where they'd be shooting the new picture, not coming east to testify at a stupid trial, as if the trial meant anything anyway. Specious case according to what he'd heard at the studio, absolutely groundless, should have kicked it out of court, bring a man all the way east for something as dumb as this, waste of time. Only reason he was bothering was because Kessler seemed to be making an important thing of it, couldn't antagonize Kessler, not now, not when the Samurai picture was going to cost so much. Had to hold hands with the old man, six million dollars wasn't cornflakes.

The stewardess was walking up the aisle checking seat-belts, nice knockers on her, Ralph thought, how would you like me to film those beauties, honey, in wide-screen Technicolor, she doesn't even know who I am. It disturbed him that nobody ever knew who the hell he was. He always got the choice seat on a plane only because API's transportation department made sure of it, but every time he boarded the plane he could see the disappointed look on the face of the stewardess. Since API had reserved the seat, the airlines people always expected a movie star or a director they could recognize, like Hitchcock or Huston or Preminger. He knew he was a better director than any of them, but who ever recognized his face, nobody. Or, for that matter, did anyone outside the industry even recognize his
name
, seventeen movies to his credit, all of them hits, well, most of them. Anyway, ten of them. Ten resounding box-office successes, shattering spectacle
Variety
had called one of them, and this Samurai thing would undoubtedly be another big blockbuster, provided Kessler didn't balk at the six million price tag, well why should he? He wanted a hit, didn't he? Everybody in America, everybody in the world wanted a hit. I know how to deliver hits, Ralph thought, ten of them in a row, twelve if you count the critical but not box-office bonanzas, you have to spend money to make money, Kessler knows that, he'll be very sweet about the whole thing, he's a sweet old Jew bastard. God, this trial is a pain in the ass, should be heading for Tokyo, wonder if Matt has set everything up, those Japanese do good work, even Kurosawa has his face in the magazines more than I do. Open any magazine, there's
Huston
grinning up at you, it makes me want to puke. Hitchcock? don't even mention him. Supposed to begin shooting next week, can't be wasting all this time in New York, still I'll talk to Kessler about the money, getting the money is important.

"Why aren't we landing?" he asked the stewardess. "Is there snow on the field?"

"No, sir."

"There's snow on the field, isn't there?" he whispered. "You can tell me."

"No, sir, there are just several airplanes ahead of us, that's all."

"That's all, huh?"

"Yes, sir."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-two, sir."

"That's a good age."

"For what?"

"For anything."

"Are you going to put me in pictures?" she asked, and then smiled and went up the aisle to talk to the other stewardess.

Bet she knows who I am, Ralph thought. What the hell, I'm not
that
anonymous. Maybe she saw the article they did on me in the
Saturday Evening Post
, the one that had that good shot of me when we were on location down there near Juarez, man it gets hot as hell down there in Mexico, those mules, what a stink. Must have seen that piece on me, the shot wearing the white ducks, bare-chested, all brown, the gray hair, that was a good picture of me. Have to ask her what her name is, look her up maybe, show her a good time. Must know who I am, otherwise why the crack about putting her in pictures, I'll put you someplace all right, baby.

They were coming down.

Ralph caught his breath, certain the field would be covered with snow, no matter what anybody said. The descent seemed very rapid, they never did it this way in Los Angeles. The stewardess was hurrying down the aisle again, he wondered what her name was, too fast, this damn plane was coming down too fast.

"Miss?" he said.

"I'm sorry, sir, I have to take a seat now," the stewardess answered.

"Aren't we coming down too fast?"

"No, sir."

"What's your name?"

"I have to take a seat now."

"I'll talk to you when we land."

"All right."

"You've got great knockers," he whispered.

"I know," she whispered back, and then walked forward to take a seat in the lounge.

This was the worst part of any flight, it scared him senseless. Closer and closer to the ground, he could see buildings capped with thick snow now, were they sure none of it was on the field, everything blurring as the plane leveled, the bump of the wheels, and then the noise of the jets as the engines were reversed, the sudden lurch of the plane slowing, "We have landed at Kennedy International Airport," the stewardess said, "please remain seated until we have taxied to the terminal building and all engines are stopped. The temperature in New York is thirty-seven degrees, and the local time is twelve-seventeen a.m. Thank you for flying with us. We hope to serve you again in the future."

I hope to serve
you
in the
very
near future, Ralph thought, and kept watching her as the plane taxied. Before he left the aircraft, he asked her what her name was and where she stayed in New York. She told him her name was Sylvia Mott, and she was engaged to a boy in Pasadena, and she never dated anyone else, but it had been a pleasure flying with him, nonetheless, and she really hoped she
could
serve him again in the future.

"Thanks a lot," Ralph said, and went down the steps and walked to the baggage pickup area.

Sam Genitori was waiting there for him, small consolation.

By one o'clock that morning, the snow had stopped completely, and Hester Miers took off her shoes and went walking barefoot in the plaza outside the Seagram Building, parading past the pools and the small lighted Christmas trees. Arthur was not terribly surprised.

He was not surprised because she had been exhibiting all through supper this same phony
joie de vivre
, the single identifying characteristic of any actress he had ever met. The quality was deceptive at first. He had recognized it only belatedly in Eileen Curtis, the young lady who had played Lieutenant Diane Foster in
Catchpole
. There had been a curiosity about Eileen, a vitality, an intense concern that was contagious and inspiring. He could never be in her presence without feeling a pang of envy — God, if only
he
could be as concerned with life and living, if only
he
could bring such minute scrutiny to matters large and small, finding everyone interesting and alive, glowing with excitement at each suggested idea or phrase or isolated word, taking up the banner for any worthy cause, burning with energy, searching and working and learning and living, secure in the knowledge that this was the chosen profession, humbly grateful for the opportunity to be allowed to carry on this illuminating, sacrificing, enriching, and dedicated work.

He learned later on the Coast — where he was surrounded day and night by an intolerable army of actors and actresses — that Eileen Curtis's seeming love affair with life had merely been a love affair with herself. The same enormous ego and delicately executed phoniness were evident in Hester Miers, who squealed in delight over the crispness of the seeded rolls and smacked her lips over the "summer sweetness" of the butter, and then secretly asked him to observe the magnificent topaz brooch on the old lady at the next table, and then flirted with the waitress (the
waitress
!), using her humble and ingratiating Famous Actress smile, and then cooed over the marvelous glowing green of the Heineken bottle, and then asked Arthur if he believed in astrology, and then put five lumps of sugar in her coffee ("I
adore
it sweet, but I never stir it") and then asked the doorman outside whether it was still snowing, and to his respectful, "It stopped a half-hour ago, miss," replied in mystic meaningfulness, "Good, because it's only fair, you know," and then of course took off her shoes and hiked up her skirts and went running barefoot in the snow, "Oh, Arthur, it's deliciously cold."

This is the girl, he thought, who is supposed to play Carol, the simple daughter of an honest Bronx mailman. This is the girl.

He would have said good night to her then and there — oh, perhaps he would have helped her dry her feet, he was after all a gentleman — were it not for the fact that the presence of Hester Miers in his play would insure the capitalization. Had not Oscar Stern himself, cigar compressed between his lips, shivering in the alley of the Helen Hayes, replied only yesterday in answer to a foolish question, "Because if we can get Hester Miers to take this part, we'll raise all the money for the play immediately," had not the unquestionable Oscar said those very words only yesterday?