The Autograph Man (16 page)

Love and thanks,

Alex-Li Tandem

(Your greatest fan)

3.

Kitty Letter done, Alex presses a button and the box of tricks begins to sing. With its screech. With its
jug jug.
With its dirty-bird song. In a few seconds he will be connected to the world. The world! One day he will take advantage of this incredible resource. He will find out about ancient Babylonia and gain a working knowledge of Estonian. He will learn how to make a bomb. One day. For now, he means to head straight for his corner of the world, an imaginary auction room where each day he checks on the progress of items he has put up for sale. That’s his aim this evening—he is very serious and determined about it. This is his real business, after all, his bread and butter. And he will
in no way
be tempted by that friendly, clumsy woman, falling in and out of her bikini, beckoning to him from the corner of the screen. . . .

“Look, five minutes only,” Alex said to Grace, who humored him by nodding. She purred. He clicked. It opened. Grace brushed her paw down a list of she-males, plastic people, the elderly, the pregnant, the damaged, the tirelessly gynecological, the twisted and restrained. Poor Alex; he only really wanted to see two young people, naked, together. Near the bottom he found something that would do. He unbuttoned himself and waited. Grace gave him her superior look. She disapproved. He disapproved, too—but what were his options? He was lonely. In preparation, the muscles of his right arm flexed. Go on, he whispered, and one female leapt off his knees and crawled under the bed. The other pulled some strange potbellied man towards her and opened her legs.

Wallala leialala,
cried the woman, after a while.
Oh baby!

Ug,
said Alex, after a while.
Oh, yeah. Uuug.

In six minutes it was all over. The second after the ecstasy came the transformation. It was just one hairless animal stabbing another repeatedly through an open wound. Then it was gone, as if it had never been. Tissues in the bin, Grace reinstated, fag rolled. Back to business.

AT THE AUCTION
, Alex quickly and expertly raised the price of his own items with fake bids, and then swooped to claim a Mickey Carroll, one of the original Munchkins from the 1939 film. He meant to sell this to Rubinfine’s wife, Rebecca, who had recently taken such a strong interest in the restricted nature of some people’s growth. Rebecca’s sudden charitable urges represented a significant market for Alex. He had sold her three Helen Keller letters the month she was raising money for the deaf and dumb. When she became engrossed in the sufferings of Native Americans she relieved him of a very expensive chief. And when her father died, Alex took the opportunity to clear out his Judaica, and sold her
everything
: Israeli statesmen, Jewish humorists, postcards of synagogues, actors, inventors. All of which she made Rubinfine pay for in cash. Yes, the job had small pleasures in it, for the man who bothered to find them.

“Keep an eye on things,” muttered Alex, and left Grace in his seat as he went to the bathroom. When he returned he found Grace had successfully overseen the sale of a Dick Powell, a Carole Lombard and a Gary Cooper. A thousand pounds for the lot. This was the problem. It was too easy. Whenever he considered becoming more gainfully employed, he was forced to face that equation of money/time/work familiar to every stripper: in which other profession could I make so much money in so little time with so little effort? He had long ago confronted that very stark choice, so beloved by his generation:

1.
Be a starving but happy artist.

2.
Be an affluent but depressed professional.

Alex had chosen the less traveled third path, of ignored genius, the tenets of which are as follows: basically, the world doesn’t like genius. The world tries to stifle genius, basically. If the world wanted genius, it would allow Alex a minute (just a minute!) to turn to the file named BOOKTHISONE.doc and start work. It would allow him to do nothing but work on
Jewishness and Goyishness
and starve while he did it. But no. Instead the world wanted,
demanded,
that he answer these flashing messages, sent by the emotionally stunted. And so he did. He assured Jeff Shinestein of Hoboken, New Jersey, that his Mata Hari was in the post. He calmed the raging Jim Streve of South Bend, Indiana, explaining once more that his Gina Lollobrigida was the real McCoy. He came to a gentlemen’s agreement with Texan Jim Eggerton: Veronica Lake and Viveca Lindfors in exchange for Jean Simmons, Alain Delon and Lassie.

Firing off bad-tempered mail (if only the real post were so quick, so sensationally
satisfying
), Alex reflected on the plight of poor
Franz Kafka
. All day long stuck in that office, drawing the mutilated hands of strangers, the victims of industrial accidents. His genius ignored for so long. Suffocated by colleagues. Ridiculed by friends and family. Almost directly, Alex felt better. Yes, there was always
Kafka.
Alex found examples of ignored genius from history very soothing.

BUSINESS DONE, ALEX PRINTED
off this week’s Kitty Letter and sealed it in a pretty pink envelope. Turning back to his screen, he checked quickly through the nonbusiness material. A marvelous, technologically illiterate mail from his mother, asking if he’d got her last “telegram.” Joseph had sent some poor jokes about people who work in telemarketing. What else? Adverts, porn, spam.

Alex winced as he spotted a Mail of Doom. There is always one. This one was from Boot. Boot was a girl. She worked as an assistant in Cotterell’s Autograph Emporium in Neville Court, a cobbled alley in the center of town, the oldest part of the city. It was a posh shop, run by an elderly knight, Sir Edward Cotterell—but no one in it knew what they were doing. Once a week on a Thursday, Alex went in and got paid three hundred pounds to tell them what was real and what was fake. And then he made the short trip to Chinatown to get some medicine. But on three occasions last year, instead of going to see Dr. Huang, he had gone and had posh sex with Boot on her posh (very long) lunch break. Oh, Boot was posh (and
lovely
). But Boot had helped mess things up in his head regarding Esther. He was hiding from posh Boot. Had been, for three months.
So why mail me, Boot?

Subject:
I suppose you’re wondering why I’m mailing you.

Well, your due in the shop tommorow and Cotterell DEMANDS I be in the shop tommorow and I can’t get out of it and I cant be at all bothered with arkwardness, alright? So don’t be wierd. Or try to be a little less wierd than usual.

That is all.

Boot xx

p.s. I know your avoiding me and I must say I just could ’nt give a monkeys.

p.p.s. I have cut off all my hair with it has gone my GIRLHOOD, apparently. Please don’t go on about it when you see me.

He couldn’t help it. He had his little goyish fetishes, one of which was awe for anyone so posh she couldn’t be bothered to be embarrassed. Or to
spell
properly.

Just as he is about to shut down, Alex spots a flashing mail in the corner. The subject is AMERICA. The contents appear to be an official confirmation of two tickets he has booked to New York: a night flight, this coming Friday
.
Returning on the Tuesday. He has no recollection of booking these flights. In a panic he smokes three cigarettes back to back. He rips the room apart for his diary. Out of February floats a flyer.

Oh. Yes. No. Right. The Autographicana Fair, an annual extravaganza. Autograph Men from all over the world come to show off their wares. Real-life celebrity guest stars turn up too, signing for money. Last year, in Washington, the guest stars were Tom Ferebee and Paul Tibbets, two of the men who dropped the bomb on Hiroshima. This year it is in New York. Guest stars to be announced. He was going to surprise Esther and make some money on the side—that had been the plan. But wasn’t it
next
Saturday? And where exactly was it? And who were his contacts there? Had he arranged to have a stall? How could he cancel Esther’s ticket? Does high-grade acid really cause short-term memory loss?

Alex begins to mail people about all this, American people. He waits for them to mail him back. While waiting, he visits a medical site and diagnoses himself as having a rare blood disease and (in all probability) the early stages of lymphatic cancer. He smokes another despondent cigarette.

Americans are so efficient. Here come his replies, spelled correctly and straight to the point. Honey Richardson, a lady in New York with a substantial collection, e-mails him to say it sure is this Saturday, and that the two of them can meet to trade, privately, afterwards at the corner of something and something—one of those cinematic coordinates. Don Keely, organizer of Autographicana, says he has no record of Alex booking a stall and it’s way too late, buddy. Way too late now. On the phone, Miss Alice McIntyre of American Airlines says the tickets are strictly nonrefundable. Strictly nonrefundable, asks Alex? Strictly nonrefundable, says Alice. What about, asks Alex, if I sell the ticket to a friend, I mean, can you change the name on the ticket? Strictly nonrefundable and nonexchangeable, says Alice. And I suppose, says Alex, another date . . . ? Strictly nonrefundable, nonexchangeable and nonswitchable, says Alice. “Switchable,” repeats Alex, “now, that’s not strictly a word, Alice.” Strictly, begins Alice—

But Alex hangs up on Alice and phones Esther.

“Esther,”
he says. “Wait. Give me a minute.”

“No time, Alex. That’s the point. Not even a minute.”

Her voice is harder than he has ever heard it.

“Wait, Es, wait. Please?”

She does not speak. She does not hang up.

“How’ve you been, Es?”

“I’ve been shit. And you?”

“Yeah, not the best. How’s your finger?”

“Still broken. Rigid. I look like I’m giving everyone the finger all the time. Look—what do you want, Al?”

“Nothing. I miss you.”

She does not speak. She does not hang up.

“I wanted to explain, Es—about that night, and the thing, you know, with the autograph? I probably shouldn’t have got so over the top about—”

Alex never got to finish that sentence. Apparently, it was not the point. The point, as Esther saw it, was not singular, it was not an incident. It was massive, amorphous. It was like a poisonous gas they were breathing. The problem, according to her, was everything. Alex rolled a cigarette and listened as she spoke the careful discourse of modern relationships—time apart, reevaluation, my needs, your needs. He meant to follow, but he was easily distracted during abstract conversation. He found himself thinking of the way she could pull you into her by some interior muscle, and then, when you exited, you saw this flush of red neatly packed between two dark folds, like some crazy flower. Was that wrong?

She was saying
You don’t listen to me, you take me for granted.
She was saying,
And as for this other girl, the white girl, whoever she is
—which surprised him. He was truly knocked into silence by that. Had Adam told her about Boot? Alex felt consumed, furious about that possibility—now
he
felt the victim of an injustice. This new role was so much easier to play! He snapped at her. She snapped back. Now they were snapping. Towards the end she was crying. She was saying,
All women are, like, just symbols to you? All you ever
—

And he was deeply regretful, saying,
No, no, no, you’re wrong, I love you,
to nobody.

He rang again. She didn’t pick up. He waited five minutes, disguised his number, and rang again. Now he was crying and she was perfectly collected. She said:

“I’ve got an operation on Sunday. They’re taking the ticker out. It’s past its sell-by date, apparently. I’ve known for a while, but I’ve been putting it off and now it’s a bit of an emergency. No more time, though. Time for the next chapter. So I’m getting another.”

“Oh,
no.
Es, why didn’t you—”

“Look: this is not
Terms of Endearment,
okay? It’s not a big deal. Routine. They cut me open, they take it out. Replace with new state-of-the-art number. I just want to know whether you’re going to be there or not. It’s St. Christopher’s.”

“But—why am I hearing about this so last-minute—”

“Oh, Alex, forget it, just don’t even bother, okay—”

“No, wait—I’m just—Which day? Just tell me the day.”

“Sunday. I just said. This Sunday.”

“Ri-ight. Sunday.”

“Yes, Alex. Sunday. Why—have you got an auction on? Is Kitty for sale? Is that a bad day for you?”

“Of
course
not.”

“Fine.”

“Okay, Es? Es. Oh God. I know how this sounds. . . . Look, the only thing about this Sunday—”

With two little words, violently said, Esther terminated the conversation.

ALEX WENT TO
the lounge, pushed the film in the player and took out Adam’s little gift. He rolled. He smoked. He thought about that operation. Lifting that little box out of its home. Opening up that scar. Making another one. And black skin scars badly. What’s left behind stays pink and angry, always.

He wept freely. After a while, he wiped his nose on his wrist. He could have played that conversation differently, he saw that. But you don’t get no rewind in this life, as the black grandmothers in the movies like to say. Instead he pressed
PLAY
. And, God help him, God pass on judgment, but as the opening credits rose up, so did something inside him. He had always wondered:
Can women do this, too?
Can they switch from real people (Esther, only her, always) to fantasy people (Kitty, Anita, Boot, porn girls, shop girls, girl girls) and feel soothed by them? Will they ever tell? They don’t tell. Women don’t tell the truth about themselves. About love, about
the way they love.
Or else the truth is genuinely pure, involving no second-guessing—in which case, who could stand to hear it? Grace walked in and settled herself over his feet. Alex sank into his chair.