30 Pieces of a Novel (77 page)

Great suggestion for the hot-dog man scene, Jerry G.; I'm gonna use it if I ever rewrite this
(he'd been told not to put off any potential customer by being insulting or oversmart with his comments);
Astute interpretation of the introduction-to-death section of Little Robert, D. W. Darlene, and thanks for sticking with it; next few pages should be more peppy; You're no doubt right about the spelling of “antecedant,” Jean, but just to make sure, I'll check, first chance I get, in the new Webster's New World Dictionary the store's loaned me and sells here
, and he held up the book;
Not to worry, Dr. Ninski; the part about my appendectomy was clarified on an earlier page already removed from the window for lack of space
. People sometimes tapped on the window to tell him something through it, and he'd ignore them if he was typing away furiously or would wave if he recognized that person from someplace, usually from some other time at the window, Robert said. Mostly, though, he'd just smile and point to a sign on an easel that said
SORRY, CAN'T CONVERSE: WRITER AT WORK. MUST MEET MANUSCRIPT DEADLINE OF 6 P.M., DEC. 31ST. IF YOU HAVE COMMENTS OR CRITIQUES OF MR. BOOKBINDER'S WRITING, PLEASE RESTRICT THEM TO SHEETS POSTED ON THE WINDOW. THEY'LL ALL BE READ BY HIM AND GRATEFULLY RECEIVED
. He spotted Gould once and waved him in and quickly scribbled on the blackboard
My sort-of ghostwriting brother: he's younger but has given me half my ideas for this, so let him through, folks
. Gould went into the store and climbed into the window. “Nine more days of this agony,” Robert said, covering his mouth. “Worst idea I've ever had to make money, but I'm committed to it and don't want to let the store down: they're slave drivers but a decent bunch and they gave me a break. If I were really involved in the book and interested in completing it, it'd be different. There are already several senior and junior editors and literary agents sending in notes or calling the store to see it. They've either passed the window and noticed the crowds around it for an activity as lowly esteemed as writing or they've read the articles and seen the photos of me in a couple of newspapers, sitting here typing, and thought, By gum, this manuscript's already got a ton of publicity before it's published. But it's hackwork I'm doing, a piece of uncompromising crap, as well as a death blow to my homage to Mann. If I did get to Germany partly from the dough I earned here and knocked on his door as I'd planned and actually got a few minutes with the great man, and he asked—over tea, even—as one of his questions, for in his fiction and essays and interviews he's always questioning, how I had the means to get there, I couldn't lie to him. He's so sharp he'd see right through me. So I'd have to tell the truth and he, the quintessential artist and literary moralist, might become so repulsed by my vulgarization of the craft, and in his name too, that he'd ask someone in his house to promptly show me out, and who knows what that scene might do to his already frail condition and failing health? Anyway, I'm sick of the manuscript and the stupid attention it's received and the people out there on the street and the inane questions I always have to answer, and the only thing I'm going to do with it soon as I finish it on the last day is take my name off the title page and drop it into the nearest ash can. What I'm particularly sick of is having to apologize to twenty to thirty people every time I have to use the WC. But listen”—and he gave Gould a few bucks—“if you have a little time left on your break, could you get me a turkey and Swiss sandwich on seeded rye, Russian dressing on the side, and a Dr. Brown's celery tonic at the Stage Deli? The food the store's been sending in is for the dogs.” Robert went to lots of parties, and when they were both working in Washington or New York he often invited Gould to them. He'd call an hour or so before and say something like “I've been thinking of you, and what popped into my head is you're not doing anything tonight, am I right?” and Gould would usually say, “Nothing much. Reading, listening to music, drinking a little wine,” and Robert would say, “You stay home too much, I always tell you that; you ought to go out more. How else you going to meet women and not become the best read young solitary drunken reporter in the city? No matter how much you protest, you're coming,” and he'd give the address and time of the party and Gould would say, “Won't the host mind?” and Robert would say, “You're my brother, so I don't even have to work it out beforehand. You just show up at the door and if someone says, because tonight's is a fairly fancy place, who are you? you say, ‘Robert Bookbinder's brother, he told me it'd be okay,' and they'll let you right in.” Once Gould said, “You can't tell the host I'm coming and to leave word at the door to admit me?” and Robert said, “I will, if you insist, though I don't understand how you can still be so timid in these situations. You're a newsman now, no more Mr. Copyboy. You push yourself through doors, into stories, stick your arm out farther than any other radio newsman's and shove your mike into a legislator's face and ask aggressive meaty questions that'll get your news service scads of attention and then attribution on the wires later. He doesn't answer, or not satisfactorily, according to you, you say you're the press, sir, the goddamn press, and you want—” and he said, “Okay, okay, I get the point. But I like to relax from my work, and though I am pushy in news I don't enjoy it.” At one party Robert pointed out a woman and said, “I'd think you'd be interested in that one. Sweet smile, nifty face, looks bright, nice figure and height, doesn't smoke, dresses sedately, almost as if she owns horses, but with shoulders that say she's a swimmer, and not a touch of makeup, it seems, or she knows how to apply it so that it looks natural. Couldn't be better, the best bet for love interest at the party. I'd make a plunge for her myself but somehow I see you two as the perfect match, with your smile, bright look, and nice face and sedate clothes and no makeup. And you're not seeing anyone now while I'm already in hot water, and I'm not boasting, over two too many girlfriends, so go over to her and say hello.” “I can't just go over to a woman. I always feel so uncomfortable,” and Robert said, “It's easy, and you're a master at fabricating, so give her a good one. ‘My brother over there, the tall guy with the loud clothes and funny hat and shirttail sticking out of his fly and cigarette in each hand? He thought I should come over and introduce myself and tell you a few lies—he thinks I'm a master at them, though he called them fabrications—that'll get you interested enough in me to want to start a conversation. You see, he thinks—he said this, and I always have to do what my older brother says, as he's recently become the sole executor of our late parents' estate and has complete control to cut me out of it and he can be quite imperious, though I suppose I don't always have to repeat what he tells me—that we'd be a perfect pair together: “match,” he actually said. I corrected myself then, even if it might not have seemed important, because we're both newsmen, but he wants me to be a better one than I am so says I should start practicing to quote everything exactly,'” and Gould said, “Sure, I can really see myself saying that, and I can also imagine what her reaction would be—'See ya, Schlermy,' “—and Robert said, “C'mon, you know what I mean. And she has a very ironical and receptive look, besides the bright one, so I bet she'll appreciate it for its humor and uniqueness as an opening line. Or simply say, though don't say it simply, ‘My older brother there, the tall geek with the untied shoelaces and pants cuffs that don't reach his ankles and two unlit cigarettes in his mouth and a lit one wedged behind each ear? Well, he thinks I should try to overcome my enfeebling shyness at starting a conversation with you by just strutting over as I just did, and also not to say “just” so much, which I'll try but it seems almost impossible to do, being a third-generation New Yorker, and saying to you the first thing that enters my head and then taking it from there. He also said that if that displeases you I should of course apologize prostrately and skulk away backwards without bumping into anyone till I'm out of the room. And he's really right, in a way, so I'm doing it,'” and Gould said, “Suppose she asks what do I mean ‘right, in a way,' which puzzles me too?” and Robert said, “Tell her that was also something your brother told you to say and that it puzzles you a little too. But that your brother says many things you don't understand, sometimes because they're unclearly expressed and other times because of the deficiencies in your own comprehension, but there you are already talking to her, though that last part you don't say unless you want to be underminingly honest.” “I can't do it,” and Robert said, “Then I'll do it for you because I know this isn't something you should pass up,” and went over, took her arm, started talking, she laughed, he pointed to Gould—or he started talking, they laughed, he took her arm by the elbow and sort of swiveled her around to Gould and pointed at him—she smiled at Gould, he smiled back, Robert waved for him to come over, “I want to introduce you to someone,” Gould shook his head—or Robert said something to her and she laughed and said, “Gould, come on over, I want to introduce you to someone”—and he thought, “Wait a second, what the hell's going on here?” and went over and said to her, “Excuse me, but what do you mean? I know this guy all too well,” and she said, “I was only saying what your cousin asked me to,” and he said, “You mean my brother,” and Robert said, “I thought I'd change it around a little, we've been brothers for so long. Big deal; the truth always comes out. It doesn't but I thought I'd say that anyway. It seemed then—it doesn't now, in instant retrospect—the right moment for a universal cliché for us to quibble over, but here we are talking together and who knows what possibilities are in the making?” and he said, “My brother's always getting me in trouble—not ‘always,' but a lot,” and Robert said, “If what he just said were the opposite, it'd be closer to a lie,”
and
she said, “Are you two really brothers?” and Gould said, “Same parents but different conceptions,” and Robert said, “So I guess my last remark slipped past without anyone's regarding it,” and Gould said, “Because it wasn't worth comment,” and she said, “That's a terrible line, Gould, as old as the old ‘old as the hills' one,” and Robert said, “Uh-oh, sorry for having said something that led to your first reprimand from her. Suddenly things don't look promising,” and she said, “It wasn't a reprimand; I was only joining the infectious teasing. Anyway, going back, you two look nothing alike,” and Robert said, “And for the most part, and please don't tell me that wasn't a reprimand, miss”—feigning indignation—“it was, and you cannot treat my brother like that so soon after you met him, no one can; he's too nice a guy. And for the most part we act, think, read, comprehend, socialize, feign indignation, initiate conversations, scratch our heads and many other body parts nothing alike either. He's the brighter, et cetera, down-to-earth one. I'm what he's usually not, besides often dropping him in hot water, though never, so far, with women. But I'm getting out of here; you two speak. Gould, meet Cynthia. Cynthia—but you know his name. Here, shake,” and grabbed their hands and put them together and they shook. “Here, kiss,” and he pushed their heads together, and just as their lips were about to touch Gould ducked out from under Robert's hand and said, “This is embarrassing and rude and I almost want to say a little stupid of you, Robert, but I'll say it was a lot,” and she said, “Why, he was only kidding,” and he said, “Then you stay with him,” and walked away, Robert and Cynthia laughing. He was in another room a few minutes later when she came over to him and said, “Excuse me, but what was that all about, your anger at me and then storming away?” and he said, “I didn't storm and my brother can be a jerk sometimes when he isn't being ultra smooth. And if you want to know the truth, it's also because I thought he ruined it for me with you. Since he was right; when he and I were talking about you before he went over to you, I was interested. How's that for an unprompted unrehearsed line?” and she said, “Also terrible. He loves you and just wants to see you hooked up—the older brother looking out for the younger one; isn't that what he promised your parents he'd do?—what's so wrong with that? And he never would have let our mouths meet. I felt that big hand on my head was in complete control of the act and that he would have got us a fraction of an inch away from each other before he pulled our heads back.” They talked for a while, she gave him her phone number, and they ended up seeing each other for a few months. When Gould was seventeen he heard from a friend that Red, a hooker, wanted him to call her. “She said it was important, nothing bad, so you should feel good about calling, and she's been trying to get ahold of you through some other West Side guys too.” “A hooker wants me to call her? I don't know her, never even heard of her. Maybe it's a new way of getting business,” and the friend said, “She's not like that. I've been to her twice and she's real class, educated, everything. Call her, what do you got to lose? If it is something suddenly fishy with her, you just don't go to her, if that's what she wants.” He called and said, “Hi, this is Gould Bookbinder and I heard from Ben Morton you wanted to speak to me,” and she said, “Bookbinder? Bookbinder? Oh, sure, you're the sweet young man I've been trying to reach. I wanted to say thanks—you know—for all you've done for me. But I want to thank you personally, so do you have a half hour free tonight so we can talk?” and he said, “Thank me?” and she said, “Listen, Mr. Bookbinder, I can't talk on the phone. I got the bath running and there's also this little pest near me who might be overhearing, and he builds everything I say into mountains. So just come by, tonight at eight, okay? You remember the address? It's where I always lived,” and he said, “No, I forgot, only your phone,” and she told him and he went, and when he was inside her apartment—she was pretty, maybe a little overweight and about twenty years older than him, but with this bright white skin and long shiny red hair that looked clean and young-looking the way it flowed over her shoulders—she said, “Before we begin, would you care to have a coffee while I'm finishing my tea?” and he said, “No, thanks, I don't drink it.” “Soda, then? A beer, or shot of whiskey with ginger ale? I want to be extra hospitable and gracious because I owe you a lot. You're a very kind young man, not asking for anything, just doing me favors,” and he thought of saying he doesn't understand but didn't want to ruin it if he was getting something for nothing like it seemed, maybe even money besides sex, so he said, “You're welcome, honestly, and I'll take a beer after all,” and she said, “For that I'll have to wash my one and only stein, but I'm glad to,” and he said, “No need; I'll drink it straight from the bottle or can,” and she said, “No, sir, a glass. It's ugly when men chug it down like that, and a bottle makes them belch more,