The Paper Dragon (39 page)

"That's very comical," Peter said dryly.

The room went silent.

"Well," Ebie said.

"Well, here we are alone at last," Driscoll said, and grinned, and felt a new surge of confidence when Ebie laughed again.

"Listen, I sure as hell hope I'm not interrupting anything," Peter said, scowling.

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact you are," Driscoll said. "I came to bring her some notes."

"Notes? What do you mean?"

"For one of her courses."

"What course?" Peter asked.

"Sculpture," Ebie said.

"Really?" Peter said.

"Mmm."

"Well, in that case…"

"Maybe you can drop by later," Ebie said.

"Yes, well, it won't be till after dinner, Ebie. I've got to see my agent."

"That's all right," Ebie said. To Driscoll, she said, "He's an actor."

"Yes, I know. You told me."

"He's a very good actor."

"I'll bet you play a lot of heavies," Driscoll said.

"How'd you know?"

Driscoll shrugged. "Intuition."

"Well," Peter said, "I'll see you later, Ebie." He glanced at Driscoll. "Nice meeting you."

"Pleasure," Driscoll said.

"So long now, Ebie."

"Bye, Peter."

"Yeah," he said, and scowled again at Driscoll, and then turned abruptly and went stamping through the apartment. The front door slammed shut behind him.

"He makes a lot of noise," Driscoll said.

"But he's very nice," Ebie said. "He really does bring me chicken soup."

"Mmm." He cleared his throat.

"Yes?"

"Nothing."

"I feel as if…"

"Yes?"

"Nothing."

"Listen, I…"

"Yes?"

"I think I'd better be going."

"You just got here."

"Well, still. He'll be back, and…"

"Not until after dinner."

"Still…"

"Well, if you have to go…"

"Yes, I think I'd better."

"All right."

"Fine," he said. He started for the door, turned, and said, "Well, I hope you get better."

"I feel better already," she said.

"Well, I'll see you around," he said.

"Listen…" she said.

"Yes?"

"Wouldn't you like to…"

"Yes?"

"Kiss me goodbye or something?"

"Well, yes, I would," he said.

"I would," she answered. "I would too."

"But what about…"

"Well, why don't you?" she said.

"What about Peter?"

"I mean, don't you want to?"

"Yes, but you've got mononucleosis, and…"

"Oh, boy," she said.

"It's just… who'll take care of you? If I get sick too."

"Peter can bring us
both
soup. Come on over here and kiss me."

"You really think I should?" he said, grinning.

"I really think so. As you yourself pointed out, I'm much older than you…"

"Hey, I'm sorry I said that. I didn't mean to…"

"… and it's my mature opinion that you should come here and kiss me because you can't just go saying sweet things like I love you and then not even kiss a girl goodbye."

"I do love you, Ebie," he whispered.

"Then kiss me."

"I love you."

"Kiss me."

"I love you."

"Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me."

Her mouth then in that small bedroom on Myrtle Avenue, the elevated train rushing past outside as he took her face in his hands and covered her lips with his own, the softness of her mouth. Her mouth now in the hotel room as he lay full length on the bed and looked across the room to where she sat before the dresser putting on lipstick, the same mouth, deeper lines radiating now from the flaps of her nose to the edges of her lips, but the same mouth, nothing could change her mouth, she could live to be a hundred and that perfectly formed mouth would sit upon her withered face like a rose blooming in the desert. The smell of roses wafting across the room from the dresser top, and her lips parting to accept his kiss while the train rushed past in a roaring clamor that rattled the windows of her bedroom. His hands touched her naked breasts beneath the blue nylon gown, he could feel her blossoming nipples and the warmth of her body, the low fever burning inside her. Everything seemed in that moment to take on a truer scent and color, a deeper intensity — the roses, the lowering dusk, the aroma of soap in her hair, the blue ribbon loosening and the golden strands falling free and whisper-light upon his cradling hands — as though her mouth demanded a fuller response, a keener awareness. He held her against him and felt rather than heard her murmur deeply, the sound moving into her lips to hum secretly against his own, trembling with vibration that deepened as she moaned against him, mouth locked to mouth. The sound of the elevated express engulfed the room, and suddenly there was only a whirling vortex the center of which was her mouth. He thought he would lose consciousness, struggled to catch his breath, felt certain he would come against the bedclothes covering her, her mouth persisted, there was nothing in the world but Ebie Dearborn's mouth.

They came up over the brow of the hill from beyond the river that cold November day, he could remember hearing only the bugles at first, could remember wiping his hand across his mouth, and thinking immediately of Ebie, and thinking he might never kiss her again, might never be able to kiss her again, and then he saw them in the distance. Stumbling out of the hole, he reached for his rifle and saw them silhouetted against the misty November sky, the bugles bleating, the terrifying shrill whistles, the shouts in Chinese. They were wearing strange fur hats that gave their faces a foxlike look, pointed, with sharp erect ears. The bugles kept sounding over and over again, like angry screams on the early morning air. There was rifle fire now as his men sleepily stumbled into the mist and tried to halt the charge. The letter, he thought, and touched the pocket of his combat jacket, and then began shooting angrily and randomly into the' horde of advancing Chinese, shouting obscenities at them, firing with a wild glee.

"Dris?"

"Yes."

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"I'm fine, Ebie."

"Shouldn't you get ready for dinner? We ought to go down soon."

"I'll shave in a minute," he said.

"What were you thinking about?" she asked.

"I was thinking about November," he answered.

Hester Miers came into Sardi's accompanied by fat Mitzi Starke who, despite her mink coat, looked as though the bitter cold outside had penetrated to her marrow and frozen her solid. Her face was red and her eyes were tearing, and she took off her gloves immediately and began kneading her hands as she scanned the tables just inside the entrance, her glasses fogging. Oscar Stern rose from the table where he was sitting alongside Arthur, and waved at the door, mouthing Mitzi's name. Mitzi did not see him because of the fogging glasses, but Hester took her elbow and began leading her toward where the three men were sitting. Mitzi took off her glasses as they walked, wiping the lenses on a tiny lace-edged handkerchief which she took from the pocket of the mink. She had replaced them on the bridge of her nose by the time they reached the table, and she smiled amiably in recognition, shaking hands all around, kissing Stuart Selig — whom she had known for many years — and telling Arthur she had heard a lot about him and thought he had written a wonderful play. Arthur thanked her, and then held out a chair for Hester, who sat directly alongside him, so that he was between Oscar and Hester, with Mitzi and Stuart on the other side of the table. Stuart asked if the ladies would care for a drink, We've had a head start already, and Mitzi said, Yes, she certainly would like a drink, it was too cold out there even for the brass monkeys. Hester pretended not to know which brass monkeys her agent was referring to. She pressed her knee against Arthur's under the table and said she would like a very dry martini.

"How did the opening in Philly go?" Oscar asked.

"Very well," Mitzi said. "Well, Boris is a marvelous actor, marvelous. He could read the telephone book and make it exciting, you know that."

"Certainly," Stuart said, and glanced at Arthur.

"But the play is a very good one, and that helps," Mitzi said, and smiled graciously at everyone, and then glanced over her shoulder to see what was keeping the drinks. When they came, she downed hers almost at once, and asked the waiter to bring another, a double this time. Hester sipped demurely at her martini, her knee pressed against Arthur's. The table was silent for several moments, and then Oscar said, "I can only remember once when it was this cold. That was four years ago, I'll never forget that winter."

"Yes, it's very cold," Mitzi said.

"I'm sure Arthur wants to hear about his play," Hester said.

"Well, that's why we're here," Stuart said, and smiled at her. "Mitzi tells me you'd like to do it, is that right?"

"Well, she has certain reservations," Mitzi said, and then said "Ahhhh" as the waiter brought her second drink. "Here's to your fine play, Mr. Constantine," she said, and Arthur nodded acknowledgment and raised his own glass.

"It
is
a lovely play, Arthur," Hester said.

"Thank you."

"Though, of course, it
does
need a few minor things done to it," Mitzi said.

"Well, any play needs changes," Stuart said. "A play isn't
written
, it's
rewritten
."

"That's right."

"But nothing serious," Hester said. "Nothing basic to the structure."

"
Or
the theme, for that matter," Mitzi said.

"No, we wouldn't want to touch any of that. You can ruin a play by tampering too much with it," Stuart said.

"Oh, don't I know it," Mitzi said. "The changes we have in mind are really minor and transitional. If they were anything more than that, I assure you Hester wouldn't be interested in the part at all."

"Of course not," Stuart said.

"That's right," Oscar said.

"But Hester very definitely
is
interested in doing the play, and I'm fairly certain we can spring her from Lincoln Center. At least I'm hoping we can, I haven't discussed it with them yet. I wanted to get Mr. Constantine's reaction to the changes we had in mind before I contacted anyone."

"Arthur's been very reasonable about any suggestions thus far," Stuart said, "so I can't imagine…"

"That's right," Oscar said.

"… him refusing to make a few minor changes now, when we're so close to getting the play on at last."

'That's right."

"We're dealing with a professional writer here," Stuart said, and smiled at Arthur.

"Well, thank you," Arthur said. He started to put his hand on Hester's knee, and then changed his mind. She looked very lovely, with her blond hair still arranged in its careless coiffure, and wearing a blue sheath scooped low in the front, a string of pearls around her throat. She smiled at Arthur assuringly, and he lifted his glass and sipped at it and began to feel a warmth spreading through him, a genuine feeling of fondness for all the people at the table, including fat Mitzi, who had put down her drink and was blowing her nose into a tiny handkerchief. She had still not removed the mink coat, and she still seemed to be suffering from exposure.

"Well now," she said, giving her nose a final wipe and putting the handkerchief back into her pocket, "I think we should start with the age of the girl, don't you think so, Hester?"

"Yes," Hester said, "I think that's important."

"Important, but minor. Hester's twenty-five, you know, and whereas she comes off a bit younger onstage, we think we'd be asking for trouble if she tried to pass for nineteen."

"Well. " Arthur said.

"That's right, we don't want the critics to start picking on stupid little things," Oscar said. "They'll find enough anyway, without any help from us."

"So we thought the girl's age might be raised to twenty-two or twenty-three," Mitzi said. "That would be more reasonable, in terms of Hester playing the part."

"Well, there's a lot of stuff in the play about her nineteenth birthday coming up," Arthur said. "I'd have to…"

"So it'll be her twenty-third birthday coming up," Oscar said. "That's no problem."

"No, but she's supposed to be leaving for college in the fall."

"Yes, we—"

"In fact, the conflict, you know, is between this girl who wants to go to college and…"

"Yes, that's a problem, admittedly."

"… her uneducated father, a Bronx mailman who, you know, wants her to marry this guy and settle down. That's the conflict."

"Yes, we know."

"So she'd have to be a college girl, you see."

"Well, she can be a college girl at twenty-two," Stuart said.

"That's right."

"She can just be
graduating
college maybe," Stuart said, "and she wants to go to graduate school or something, and her father objects. That could be exactly the same."

"Well. " Arthur said.

"Of course, Hester played a college girl in the last thing she did at the Rep," Mitzi said.

"Mmm," Stuart said.

"If she keeps playing college girls. " Mitzi said, and shrugged.

"Well, Carol
is
a college girl," Arthur said. "That's the part. I mean, that's the part."

"The way it is now, yes," Mitzi said.

"But we'd have to make her older," Hester said. "Don't you think so, Arthur?"

"I don't know. I think you could pass for nineteen," he said, and decided to squeeze her knee after all, which he did.

"That's very sweet of you, Arthur," she said, and smiled, "but I think the girl
has
to be older."

"She's supposed to be a virgin," Arthur said. "Do you know any twenty-two-year-old virgins?"

"I don't even know any seven-year-old virgins," Oscar said, and laughed.

Mitzi laughed too, and then said, "Actually, she doesn't
have
to be a virgin, does she? That really doesn't add anything to the play."

"Well, there's an entire scene where…"

"Yes, with the boy…"

"Yes, the one her father wants her to marry…"

"That's right."

"And he tries to, well, to lay her, you know, and this is another thing that adds to the conflict of this girl trying to lead her own life without interference from her father or from the people her father has chosen for her."

"The boy, you mean?"

"Yes. So the scene has meaning only if she's a virgin, you know, and is, well, saving herself for… for the person
she
chooses."

"Well, do you think girls actually
save
themselves anymore, Arthur?" Mitzi asked, and smiled.

"I don't know, but Carol is supposed to be…"

"I mean, you said yourself not three minutes ago that you didn't know any twenty-two-year-old virgins."

"Carol's only eighteen, going on nineteen. I think…"

"There's a difference, certainly," Stuart said. "But, Arthur, is it really
that
important that she be a virgin?"

"Or even a college girl?" Hester asked.

"What?"

"Is it important that she plans to leave for college in the fall?"

"Sure it is."

"Why?"

"Because that's the conflict."

"Yes, but the conflict can be
any
conflict, isn't that true? So long as it's between the girl and her father."

"I think we all need another drink," Oscar said, and signaled to the waiter. "Mitzi? Hester?"

"Yes, I'm still cold," Mitzi said.

"I'd love another," Hester said, and smiled at Arthur.

"The same all around," Oscar said to the waiter.

"Double for the lady?"

"Yes, a double," Mitzi said.

"We ought to think about ordering," Stuart said.

"Oh, we've got plenty of time. Let's thrash this out, shall we?" Mitzi said. "I know Mr. Constantine is anxious to hear our views, and we're certainly anxious to know his reactions to them. I can't make a move with the Rep, you know, until…"

"Certainly," Stuart said. "What do you think, Arthur?"

"Well… about changing Carol's age, do you mean?"

"About having her a little more experienced," Stuart said.

"A nice girl," Mitzi said, "but a little more experienced."

"So she's been to bed with one or two guys already," Oscar said. "That doesn't make her a slut."

"A
dozen
guys wouldn't make her a slut," Stuart said.

"A dozen?" Arthur asked.

"Well, I don't think that's exactly the image we want for Hester," Mitzi said. "Arthur's right in that respect. We want Carol to be a sweet and confused young girl. If we have her sleeping around with half the men in the city…"

"I was only trying to indicate…"

"I think she may have had one affair," Hester said. "She
is
twenty-two, you know, going on twenty-three. It would seem implausible otherwise."

"One affair sounds reasonable," Stuart said. "What do you think, Arthur?"

"I'm trying to think of the whole," Arthur said. "We've got to think of what any revisions would do to the whole of the play. I really feel it's important that she be a virgin."

"Here're the drinks," Stuart said.

The waiter put their glasses on the table, and they all drank silently for a moment. Mitzi blew her nose again, and then said, "It's just that a girl like Carol who has, after all, been around a little…"

"But she hasn't," Arthur said. "Her father's kept her cooped up in—"

"Well, a social worker would get to meet a great many people," Mitzi said. "Isn't that so?"

"A great many people," Hester said.

"What do you mean?"

"A social worker."

"I still don't get you."

"If Carol were a social worker," Mitzi said.

"Instead of a college girl," Hester said. "Working for a state agency, you see. Or even a private agency."

"And her father objects to her wanting a life of her own, and insists that she marry this boy he has chosen for her. And the boy tries to lay her, just the way you've got it now, which only strengthens her resolve to lead her own life, choose her own friends, her own lovers, and this leads to the showdown in the third act, just the way you've got it now, between her and her father."

"A social worker," Arthur said blankly.

"Yes, instead of a college girl," Hester said.

"She played a college girl in that last thing at the Rep, you know," Mitzi said to Stuart.

"Yes, she was very good," Stuart said.

"Did you see it?" Hester asked.

"Yes, you were marvelous."

"But, of course, she's done the college girl bit," Mitzi said, "and there has to be a challenge, otherwise what's the sense?"

"That's right," Oscar said. "There has to be a challenge."

"I don't know anything about social work," Arthur said.

"What do you know about mailmen, for that matter?" Oscar said.

"My father was a mailman."

"Well…"

"Do you think the father in the play
ought
to be a mailman?" Mitzi asked.

"If his daughter is a social worker?" Hester said.

"Do you know anything about social work?" Arthur asked her.

"No, but we can find out anything we need to know. For any scenes showing the girl in her office."

"What office?"

"Where she works."

"Where she does her social work," Mitzi said.

"She could have a colored family she's working with," Hester said, "and maybe her father objects to that, too. Maybe he's a bigot."

"But he
isn't
," Arthur said. "He's just narrow and… and oriented to… to… to the way things were in the old country. And in the old country, a girl didn't go running off to school, she… she got married and had children and…"

"Do you think that's a universal problem these days, Mr. Constantine?" Mitzi asked.

"What do you mean?"

"An immigrant father and a daughter who rebels…"

"I think the conflict between a father and a daughter
is
universal, yes. We're dealing with Electra here, what difference does it make whether the father is an immigrant or—"

"That's just my point. If we're dealing with something as universal as the Electra bit, why does the father have to be an immigrant mailman who can hardly speak English?"

"He speaks English fine," Arthur said.

"Well, you know what I mean."

"No, I don't. He's been in this country for thirty-five years. He's a man who's fifty-eight years of age, he speaks English fine. But he still clings to the old traditions, he's got a background of traditions…"