The Paper Dragon (42 page)

"They're the only kind to have, Sidney," she said.

"What time is it?"

"It's a little past twelve. Come to bed, Sidney."

He rose and went into the bedroom. She had put on one of his robes, and was standing by the mirror brushing out her long red hair. "Have you ever been in a Cadillac?" he asked.

"Of course."

"Recently?"

"Sidney," she said, without turning from the mirror, "what is this?"

"What is what?"

"What is all this business about Cadillacs? Are you thinking of buying one, is that it?"

"Well, if I w-w-win this case…"

"Yes, you'll be very wealthy."

"I c-c-could…"

"You could buy three or four Cadillacs, Sidney, all in different colors."

"You don't believe me, d-do you?" Sidney said.

"Believe you about what, dear? That you're going to win your case?"

"I
am
going to win," he said.

"Well, don't get so fierce about it, Sidney. I believe you."

"I
am
," he said.

"Mmmm-huh."

"If you were to m-m-marry me…"

"Sidney, let's not go into that right now."

"I'm only saying."

"Yes, but not now." She put the brush down on the dresser top, and then turned and leaned against the dresser and folded her arms across her breasts and smiled thinly and said, "Would you like to do Eddie Cantor?"

"No," he said.

"I thought you might like to."

"No."

"The way you did at Harvard."

"No."

"What was it called, the group? Hasty Pudding?"

"No, it was just the Dramatic Club."

"Anyway, I thought you might like to."

"No."

"Well," she said, and shrugged. "I can't force you, I guess." She shrugged again and then took off the robe. Naked, she walked to the bed, pulled back the blanket, and propped herself against the pillows.

"Chickie," he said, "there's something we've got to talk about."

"It's a shame, though," she said, "because you know how much I love it."

"I get the feeling that something's going on and I don't know what."

"The way you roll your eyes, and wave your hands around, I just love that, Sidney."

"What's going on, Chickie?"

"What's going on where, baby?"

"With… with you and Ruth."

Chickie looked down at her breast, took it in one hand and idly examined the skin around the nipple. Without looking at him, she said, "Did you see us get into the Cadillac tonight, Sidney? Is that it?"

"Well… yes."

"Were you following us, Sidney?"

"Yes."

"What, Sidney?"

"Yes. I was."

"Following us?"

"Yes."

"To see where we were going, Sidney?"

"Yes."

"Because something's bothering you?"

"Yes."

"If I were to marry you, Sidney, would you still follow me around?"

"I… I don't know. I get the feeling…"

"Would you, Sidney?"

"… that you're lying to me all the time, that something. " He shook his head. "I don't know wh-what, I j-j-just don't know."

"Don't stammer, Sidney," she said, and looked up at him.

"I j-j-just…"

"The man in the Cadillac was a man named Jerome Courtlandt…"

"I didn't ask you."

"Shut up, Sidney, and listen. He's the man we're arranging the European trip for, and he was heading for the office when he happened to spot us, and he asked Ruth if he could drop us off someplace, because it was so bitter cold, and she said, Yes certainly, and he drove us to the restaurant. Now that's what happened with Mr. Jerome Courtlandt."

"I didn't ask."

"No, you just sneaked around and followed me from work."

"Because…"

"Because you don't trust me."

"I t-trust you, Chickie. It's just…"

"Oh my," Chickie said, "how could I possibly marry a man who doesn't trust me?"

"I trust you, I do."

"Who doesn't care about me at all…"

"I care about you."

"Who follows me around…"

"I'm sorry, Chickie."

"Do Eddie Cantor," she said.

"No, I…"

"Do it."

"It's… undignified," he mumbled.

"Do it."

"… and silly."

"Do it."

He hesitated. "If…" he started, and then stopped.

"That's it," she said.

"If you knew…"

"Go on, honey."

"If you knew Susie. M

"Go on, baby, go on."

"I can't. I fell…"

"Do it, Sidney."

"If you knew Susie," he sang, "like I know Susie… oh, oh, oh, what a girl…"

"Roll your eyes. You're not rolling your eyes."

"There's none so classy," he sang, and then raised his hands, the elbows bent, and began hopping from one foot to the other in a sliding sideward motion, rolling his eyes, his voice suddenly going higher in imitation of Cantor, "as this fair lassie," rolling his eyes and hopping back and forth, mouth pouting, eyes rolling, "oh, oh, holy Moses, what a chassis…"

"That's it, baby," Chickie said, and began giggling.

"If you knew Susie," he sang, his voice stronger now, "like I…"

"Yes, yes," she said, giggling louder.

"… know Susie…"

"You're marvelous," she said, "wonderful!"

"… oh, oh, oh, what a girl!" he sang, and then abruptly turned toward the bed, and dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around her waist and fiercely pressed his face to her naked belly.

"Yes," Chickie whispered. "Yes, baby, that's it."

Every Thursday, Driscoll's mother would fuss and fret in the bedroom before coming out to breakfast. When she finally appeared, shawl draped over her shoulders even on the hottest summer days, she would complain bitterly about the simple fact of Thursday, letting everyone in the house know that she felt it was a mistake to get out of bed on Thursday, that the safest place to be on that hoodoo jinx of a day was under the covers with the blinds drawn and the windows closed and the doors locked. He wondered if she still complained about Thursdays to her new husband the Danish furniture man Mr. Gerald Furst. He could remember his mother making a joke only once in his life. His father had been playing the piano, and his mother was listening with her head cocked to one side, a slightly pained expression on her face. "In the old days," she said at last, "when your father played piano, the ladies used to stay home in droves." Uncle Benny immediately topped her by looking up from his drink and saying, "Even worse, Irene, the ladies often drove home in stays." He never learned why his mother so detested Thursdays. His father died on a Wednesday.

Now, as he stepped into the courtroom, he knew something of his mother's superstitious fear, and wished he were being called to testify on any day but this. He had hoped for sunshine, had listened to the forecast the night before with rising anticipation: warmer temperatures, they had said, the possibility of clear skies. The temperature had indeed climbed into the low forties during the night, and the thermometer reading had been forty-eight when he and Ebie left the Astor that morning. But the sky was heavily overcast, and he was afraid now that it would begin raining sometime during the day, turning the snow underfoot to slush, casting a pall over the city — Thursday, a hoodoo jinx of a day.

The courtroom was hardly less cheerless than the street outside. The same dull light streamed through the windows, giving the room a curiously one-dimensional appearance, negating perspective, dulling all reflecting surfaces. He led Ebie to the empty jury box, and then went to sit beside Willow at the defense table, shaking hands with him, and listening to his own words of encouragement while his eyes roamed the courtroom. Brackman was in whispered consultation with his partner at the plaintiffs table. Constantine sat at the far end of the table, reading the paperback edition of
Lord of the Flies
. The court clerk was waiting near the door to the judge's chambers, watching the big wall clock over the bench. The spectators' benches were empty. Even the Columbia student had abandoned the proceedings.

At ten o'clock sharp, the clerk called "All rise!" and the judge entered and went directly to the bench and then gave a peremptory nod, the signal for everyone in the courtroom to sit again. Driscoll heard Willow call his name, and then rose with the dread of Thursday looming huge within him, and walked slowly and self-consciously toward the witness stand. He felt suddenly that he had dressed wrongly, that his dark blue suit looked too much like a confirmation garment, that his simple blue tie was not bright enough, that he gave an impression of someone drab and hardly inventive, barely intelligent, certainly uncreative, "truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?" the clerk said.

"I do," he answered, and sat.

Willow rose from the defense table in sections, unfolding his length, walking loosely and easily toward the witness chair, and then smiling up briefly at Driscoll, and very quietly and calmly asking, "Are you the author of
The Paper Dragon
?" as if that were not the prime issue before this court.

"I am," Driscoll answered.

"Did you write it independently and of your own creation, without reference to any other work of fiction?"

"I did."

"What is the date of your birth?"

"March 12, 1929."

"How old were you in October of 1947, when the play
Catchpole
was produced?"

"Eighteen."

"Were you a theatergoer at that time?"

"Yes, sir. I began going regularly to the theater when I was twelve years old."

"Did you attend any performances of the play
Catchpole
?"

"No, sir."

"Had you, before this action began, ever read the play
Catchpole
?"

"Never."

"Or heard of the plaintiff, Arthur Constantine?"

"No."

"What high school did you attend?"

"The High School of Music and Art."

"Which is where?"

"It's on 135th Street and Convent Avenue."

"Where were you living at that time?"

"In Manhattan. On West End Avenue."

"Did you go to Music and Art for the full four years?"

"No, sir. I began as a sophomore, coming directly from a junior high school, and I remained until graduation. Three years."

"When was this?"

"From 1944 to 1947."

"Were you graduated from Music and Art in 1947?"

"Yes, sir. January of 1947."

"Did you then continue your schooling elsewhere?"

"I won an art scholarship to the Art Students League, and I went there for approximately six months, I forget the exact length of time, the duration of the scholarship."

"To study art?"

"Yes, sir. I was studying drawing and painting — oil painting."

"Were you an art major in high school?"

"Yes, sir."

"What happened after you left the Art Students League?"

"I began studying art at Pratt Institute in the fall of that year, 1947."

"For how long?"

"Until June of 1950."

"What happened then?"

"I graduated and was drafted into the Army."

"Until you were drafted into the Army, would it be correct to say that you were training to become an artist?"

"A painter, yes, sir."

"In 1947, did you receive complimentary tickets to a preview performance of the play
Catchpole
?"

"I did not."

"Do you remember a distribution of free tickets?"

"I do not."

"Were you advised of such a distribution?"

"I was not."

"Did you see the play in any preview performance?"

"I never saw the play in
any
performance."

"You were graduated from Pratt in June of 1950?"

"That's right."

"And went directly into the Army?"

"Yes, sir, almost immediately after graduation."

"Which would be?"

"I went into the Army on June 21, 1950."

"And when were you discharged?"

"August 11, 1953."

"Honorably?"

"What?"

"Were you honorably discharged?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did you do after your discharge?"

"In September of 1953 I began attending New York University."

"To study art?"

"No, sir. I was an English major."

"Why did you choose this major?"

"While I was in the Army, I decided that I would like to try writing."

"Did you receive a degree from N.Y.U.?"

"Yes, sir, I did. A Bachelor of Arts in June of 1957."

"And after you were graduated, did you begin writing?"

"No, sir."

"What
did
you do?"

"I held a series of jobs."

"Like what? Would you list them, please?"

"I worked for the telephone company, and I worked for an import-export firm, and an advertising agency for a little while. Things like that."

"Did any of these jobs entail writing?"

"No, sir."

"Art work?"

"No, sir. For the most part, they were stopgap jobs."

"When did you begin writing
The Paper Dragon
?"

"In 1961."

"Do you remember exactly when in 1961?"

"October."

"In other words, you began writing
The Paper Dragon
eleven years after the actual events it portrays."

"Yes, sir."

"The Chinese offensive across the Ch'ongch'on River was in November of 1950, isn't that correct?"

"That's correct."

"Why did you wait eleven years?"

"I wasn't sure I would write it at all."

"Why did you write it?"

"I had to."

"Why?"

"For my own peace of mind."

"You felt you had to put the events on paper for your own peace of mind?"

"Yes."

"Your Honor," Brackman said, "I do not see where these questions…"

"Yes, Mr. Willow, where are you heading?"

"Your Honor, I am attempting to trace the creative process."

"Very well, go ahead."

"Mr. Driscoll, how tall are you?"

"I'm six feet tall."

"What color are your eyes?"

"Blue."

"Would you say that your hair is light or dark?"

"Dark."

"How old were you in 1950 when you were drafted into the Army?"

"I was just twenty-one."

"And you went into the Army directly from Pratt Institute?"

"I did."

"Did you go into basic training?"

"Yes, sir, at Fort Dix."

"Did you then go to Officer Candidate School?"

"I did. At Fort Benning."

"And were you then sent to Korea?"

"I was."

"Would you consider this a fair description of Lieutenant Cooper in your novel: he is twenty-one years old, six feet tall, with blue eyes and dark hair. He is drafted into the Army from Pratt Institute, is sent to O.C.S. and then shipped to Korea?"

"I would consider that a fair description."

"Did you once live on West End Avenue?"

"I did."

"Did your fictitious character Lieutenant Cooper live on West End Avenue?"

"Yes."

"Did he attend Music and Art High School, as you did?"

"Yes, sir."

"Was he an art major, as you were?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did he later receive a scholarship to the Art Students League, as you did?"

"Yes, sir."

"And then went on to Pratt Institute, as you did?"

"Yes, sir."

"I probably need not even ask this question, Mr. Driscoll, but would you please tell the Court upon whom you based the character Lieutenant Alex Cooper?"

"On myself, sir."

"Was he based on Lieutenant Roger Mason in
Catchpole
?"

"I had never heard of Lieutenant Roger Mason until last month when you showed me the play."

"Then your character was
not
based on him?"

"Definitely not."

"Mr. Driscoll, I show you these pages and ask you what they are."

Driscoll took the pages and studied them briefly. "They're a preliminary outline for the first several chapters of
The Paper Dragon
."

"I offer the outline in evidence," Willow said, and handed the pages to Brackman.

"Any objection?" the clerk asked.

"None," Brackman said.

"Mr. Genitori?"

"No."

"Defendants' Exhibit J received in evidence," the clerk said.

"Please," Willow said to the clerk, "I'd like to refer to it." He took the extended outline, glanced at it, and then turned to Driscoll again. "Is this a detailed outline, Mr. Driscoll?"

"It is."

"Does that mean you followed it precisely when you were writing the first hundred pages of your book?"

"The first ninety-eight pages," Driscoll said. "But no, I didn't follow it precisely."

"You made changes as you worked?"

"Yes."

"As you went along?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Well, I didn't want to feel too tightly restricted by the outline. I wanted to leave some surprises for myself."

"Did you expand upon his outline at any time?"

"Yes. This covers only the first portion of the book. When I sent the completed portion to Mitchell-Campbell, it was accompanied by a longer outline, a less detailed outline, but one covering the remainder of the book, the full book as I hoped to complete it."

"And you sent your completed portion together with an expanded outline to Mitchell-Campbell?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you know anyone working at Mitchell-Campbell?"

"No, sir."

"Why did you send the book to them, rather than to another publisher?"

"They seemed like good publishers."

"Upon what did you base this judgment?"

"They seemed to do a lot of advertising for the books on their list," Driscoll said, and McIntyre burst out laughing.

"I believe this is the standard writer's gauge, your Honor," Willow said, laughing with him. "Did you address the book to anyone's attention, Mr. Driscoll?"

"No, I simply sent it to the Editorial Department."

"With a return envelope?"

"Well, no, I sent the book in a box. But I accompanied it with a money order for the return postage. If it was rejected."

"Did you expect a rejection?"

"It was my first novel, I don't know what I expected."

"What happened next?"

"I received a letter from Mr. Danton, asking if I would come in to discuss the book."

"When was this?"

"I don't remember exactly. Either July or August."

"Of 1962?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you in fact meet with Mr. Danton?"

"Yes, I went up to his office."

"Can you tell us what happened at this first meeting?"

"Chester wanted to know what my plans were for finishing the book, and I expanded verbally upon the outline I'd submitted. He then told me that the feelings of himself and another editor at Mitchell-Campbell were that the squad, and particularly Colman, should be given a stronger motivation for their hatred of Lieutenant Cooper. He suggested that I use the idea of a previous commanding officer being killed in action and my hero replacing him."

"Did he suggest how this officer might have been killed?"

"Yes, he suggested that a sniper kill him from ambush."

"Did he make any other suggestions?"

"Yes, I believe he was concerned about the book's profanity even then, and he suggested that it be toned down during the writing of the remainder. He also thought we should begin thinking about another title."

"Was that the substance of your conversation at this first meeting?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did you do then?"