Boys & Girls Together (67 page)

“Something like that.”

“I see through it. It’s so childish I see the whole thing.”
Whap!
“But—”
Whap! Whap!
“and this is what really irritates me—”
Whap!
“I am intrigued. I admit it. You have intrigued me, Fire.”

“You’re very good with that golf ball.”

“Years of practice. What’s your book about?”

Aaron was ready for that one. “The possibility of romance in a mechanized world.”

Whap!
“Bullshit. Tell me how great it is.”

Great, no. There was a time, when he’d just started, when Aaron considered the book pap. But no more. It had expanded somehow in the writing, taken on a polish, a blinding sheen. If it was shallow, then it was superbly shallow. It was a clean, honest piece of work and that honesty gave it its stature. “
War and Peace
it ain’t.”

“Modest of you.”

“I’ll tell you this, though, buddy: it’s pretty goddam good.”

“You got an agent, Fire?”

“Who needs an agent? I’m seeing you, aren’t I?”

Whap!
“Title?”

“Name of the heroine.
Autumn Wells
.”

“Nice.”

“I think so.”

Boardman sat down at his desk, bouncing the golf ball across the glass top. “Why did you have to pick me?”

“I checked around. You’re supposed to be moderately literate.”

Boardman laughed. “Were you born or did you spring full grown? You are a thorny little bastard.” He dropped the golf ball into his top desk drawer. “All right, all right, give me the masterpiece.”

Aaron opened his briefcase.

“Leave your number with my secretary. I’ll let you know when I’ve read it.”

Aaron closed his briefcase. “Monday,” he said.

“What Monday?”

“Today’s Wednesday. You can have over the weekend. Then on Monday
I’ll
call
you
.”

“You have a reasonable amount of self-confidence, haven’t you, Fire?”

“It’s all front. Secretly I’m trembling.”

“God, I hate writers,” Boardman said. He held out his hand for the manuscript. “O.K. Monday.”

Aaron handed it over. “You have a treat in store.”

“Goodbye, Fire.”

“David.” Aaron stood up to go.

Boardman watched him. “Fire?”

“Sir?”

“You as talented as you think you are?”

Aaron had to smile. “I better be,” he said.

“Aaron?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“What are you doing?”

“Packing.”

“Packing?”

“Yes, Mother.”

She moved into his room and sat down on the bed, watching him. It was late afternoon but the April sun was hot. “You’re going away,” Charlotte said and her hands wandered a while before finally lighting on her long white hair.

Aaron nodded.

“But why?”

“Why?” Aaron whirled. Because I don’t need you anymore. Because I loathe it here. Because ... It’s best I go.” She looked so pathetic, so old, fragile. Be nice.

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, I saw this editor today. Boardman’s his name. He’s reading my book. Monday we’ll start conferences on rewrites. I’ll have to be in New York all the time anyway, so it’s best I go live there. Easiest all around.”

She watched as he carried a handful of books, gently dusting them before laying them into an enormous cardboard box. There are several boxes in the room, most of them full. “All those books,” Charlotte said.

“I rented a room before I came home. Right after I left this Boardman. It’s not much of a room. But then I won’t be there very long.”

“It’s probably best you go.”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” Charlotte said, and the sound made Aaron turn uneasily. He gave her a quick smile. “Oh” again. “I’m really sorry.”

Aaron busied himself with his books.

Charlotte rocked on the bed. “Both my babies.”

“Now, Mother.”

“Next you’ll be getting married.”

“I sure hope so.”

“I’ll miss you, Aaron.”

“I’ll miss you too, Mother.”

“Oh,” Charlotte said again, and again Aaron’s features formed the quick smile. “Oh, it’s sad, it’s just sad.”

“Yes.” Aaron nodded. “I guess it is.”

He packed slowly, slower than he had to, finishing the following day, Thursday. Friday morning he dragged the big boxes of books down the front steps of the yellow house and into the family car. It was hard work for him and soon his legs were aching, but he kept at it until he was done. Aside from the books he had really little to take. A few clothes, odds and ends, that was all. Friday afternoon he drove into the city. He had taken a furnished room in the West 40s, close by the Times Square area, and although it was neither particularly big nor particularly clean, he liked it; it would give him something to remember. A group of small boys watched him drag his boxes into the rooming house and up the one flight of hard stairs to his cubicle, and although at first he refused their offers to assist, he eventually succumbed, moving empty-handed alongside them as they tugged mightily at the great boxes, straining their tiny bodies. Ants. Done, Aaron tipped them, locked the door to his room and drove back to Princeton with the car. Charlotte was waiting, and they had a farewell dinner, complete with (domestic) champagne. Charlotte attempted gaiety, which might have touched him, except that she had said her goodbyes so often in the preceding forty-eight hours that Aaron had had it with them. And her, too. After dinner (sweet potatoes again!) she drove him to the train, where he muttered goodbye, vaguely angry (why wasn’t she crying?) as he kissed her cheek. He boarded the train but it wouldn’t start and Charlotte stood outside waving and waving (
to A. from P
.
: alas
) and Aaron attempted ignoring her, but he did not feel cruel then, so he waved back at her until (Thank God, thank God) the train’s movement mercifully curtained the scene.

He had intended to spend the night wandering, but when he reached Penn Station his legs ached slightly and his head too, so he took the subway up one stop to Times Square and walked to his room. It was not a pleasant place and the bed was lumpy, but he slept fourteen hours. Saturday night he slept for ten; Sunday the same.

The waking hours he spent apartment hunting.

“I’ll need a terrace,” Aaron said. “And of course a view of the river.”

“View,” the renting agent said, and he wrote the word on a three-by-five card.

Aaron lit a cigarette. “I’m getting a bit desperate, if you want to know the truth. I spent the morning looking at East End, but it’s so
nouveau
.”

“My feeling exactly.”

“And Fifth. Well, Fifth is
passé
.”

The renting agent nodded. “I’m sure you’ll like Sutton Place, Mr. Fire.”

“I hope so. I was terribly disappointed in Beekman. Beekman and I, I don’t know, we just didn’t hit it off, somehow. We were not—how shall I say?—sympathetic. One has to feel sympathy with one’s surroundings.”

“I understand. May I tell you that many of our prospective tenants are moving from Beekman Place
to
us. Beekman Place is just not warm.”

I can out phony you, buddy, any day of the week. “Like a cat. Too independent.”

“Precisely, Mr. Fire.” He stood. “Now you understand this building will not be ready to receive tenants for two months yet.”

“That dovetails perfectly.”

“We have a beautiful apartment on the seventeenth floor. Of course, it is not beautiful now. Nothing has been done to it. But I assure you it will be a showplace.”

“Excellent,” Aaron said.

“Follow me, please,” and they went down the hall to the elevator. “The lobby will have a special quality all its own. Beautiful free-form sculpture. Soft music playing constantly.”

I may vomit. “Sounds very tasteful.”

“We pride ourselves on our taste, Mr. Fire. After you,” and they entered the elevator. “Twenty-four-hour doorman service. Twenty-four-hour elevator-man service. The newest in automatic elevators.”

“Sounds like a marvelous job,” Aaron said. “Running an automatic elevator.”

“That’s very funny, Mr. Fire. After you. This way. Here. See. Apartment seventeen F. F as in Fire.”

“Kismet.” Aaron waited while the door was opened.

“After you. Foyer. Large, spacious. Dining area, nine by nine.”

“I have a seven-by-seven dining table,” Aaron said.

“Kismet.”

Aaron moved out to the terrace. Below, the East River; above, the sun. Aaron closed his eyes. I want it. I want it.

“You’re all right, Mr. Fire?”

Aaron smiled. “Fine. I’ll need a few days to think, but this seems like what I’ve been looking for.”

“Let me show you the rest.”

“In time.”

“Of course, Mr. Fire.”

“The rent?”

“Just six hundred dollars a month.”

“Reasonable,” Aaron said. “Cheap at half the price.”

“You recognize value.”

“I try to. It’s my business to notice things.”

“Your business?”

“I’m Aaron Fire, the writer.”

“Ah, yes.”

“You’ve heard of me, then?”

“I pride myself on being a literate man. Who hasn’t heard of you?”

“I cannot answer that question,” Aaron said. Were those tears? Behind his eyes? “Modesty forbids.”

Were those tears?

Monday morning Aaron woke with a headache. He lay in bed awhile, pressing his fingertips against his eyes, then grabbed a towel and hurried down the corridor to the communal bathroom, where he shaved carefully and showered, letting the water pound against his neck, lessening the tension. There was tension, no question about it, and he mocked himself for allowing it to grab him, but that did not loosen its hold.

At half past nine he called Kingsway and asked for Boardman, who was not in. No one was in, and he cursed his eagerness, for he knew better. Returning to his room, he chain-smoked for an hour, counting the cigarettes, fourteen. The room was hot, the air thick with smoke, but

Aaron lay flat on the bed, staring at the ceiling, coughing, his headache less vague than before. At precisely ten-thirty he gave himself permission to place the call again, and this time he got Boardman.

“Well, am I a genius? Be candid.”

“Fire, I cannot cope with your ego in the morning. I’m a night person myself, so please go easy.”

“David, I’m filled with compassion.”

“If I tell you you’re talented will you get off my back?”

“Say it again. I’d like a little more feeling.”

“Come on up here and we’ll talk.”

“I’m hungry,” Aaron said.

“What’s that mean?”

“Buy me lunch.”

Boardman sighed. “I honestly wish I could say I was busy but I’m not.”

“I accept. I’ll meet you at twelve.”

“Any preferences?”

“Just so it’s expensive,” Aaron said.

Adela’s was expensive. Aaron arrived at a few minutes before twelve and waited across the street out of sight. Boardman arrived promptly and went in. Aaron lit a cigarette. When he had smoked it, he lit another, smiling all the while. After fifteen minutes he decided he had kept Boardman enough, so he crossed the street and mentioned Boardman’s name to the headwaiter. Adela’s was a long restaurant, very narrow, with red drapes lining the walls and elegant candles, one on each table, providing light. Boardman was seated at a corner table in the rear drinking a Bloody Mary.

“I’ll have one of those too,” Aaron said, sliding in alongside.

Boardman signaled for a waiter.

“Talk about the book,” Aaron said when the waiter had gone.

“I couldn’t possibly. It’s too early.”

“Too early?”

Boardman held up one finger for silence. “Fire, I want to talk seriously to you for just a moment. Pay attention. What I’m about to tell you is valuable advice. So heed.” He took a sip of his drink. “I’m a very successful man, Fire. Very successful. My only equals: men who are sons of publishers or men who married the daughters of publishers. I’m the top, Fire, the
crème de la crème
. And do you know why?”

“I stand a pretty good chance of finding out.”

“Yes. Now you probably think I’m where I am because of my mighty brain. But you’re wrong. I am not brilliant. I’m not even particularly smart. I’m not much of an idea man. I lack the social graces. All my writers are better read than I. And yet, in spite of all this, in spite of all this, in spite of my admitted mediocrity, if I chose to leave Kingsway every publishing house in town would court me, woo me, pursue me. Now, what is my secret? Why?”

“Tell me; tell me.”

Boardman smiled. “I lunch superbly; that’s why.”

Aaron started laughing.

Again, Boardman held up a finger for silence. “I speak the truth, Fire. You are in the presence of royalty; the king of lunchers sits beside you. Notice.” He waggled a finger.

A waiter appeared.

Boardman glanced down at his empty glass.

“Right away, Mr. Boardman,” and he vanished.

“Did you note the smoothness of that entire operation? At the groaning board, I am a genius.”

“Sire,” Aaron said.

“There are, of course, certain rules for Lunching—I speak with a capital L—rules which I discovered and refined. Choice of restaurant is crucial. For example, if I am to Lunch with a virile outdoors-steak-and-potatoes writer, I always select a dainty restaurant. Make them a trifle ill at ease, follow? With a hungry yearling like yourself, I like to come here to Adela’s. It’s ridiculously expensive, but, more than that, the clientele is handsome. Notice the people. They all look substantial. They belong to the world you haven’t made but yearn for. Of course—and this should go no further—all the people here, and I know most of them, are broke, living beyond their incomes and surviving only through the graces of God and their company’s Diners’ Club card. The next rule—”

“Can I have another drink?”

“That’s the next rule. Always get your companion loaded.” Another waggle of the finger and Aaron’s order was on its way. “Not only can you have another drink, you will have a third. And wine with the meal. Which leads to rule number three: Never discuss business until dessert. Empires have fallen for ignoring that rule, Fire. The future of our country rests on that rule. Never discuss business until dessert. I speak only the truth. Lunch is what makes the world go round. You asked me to talk about your book. If I started talking business before the appetizer, I would be a ruined man. In six months, out of a job. In a year, alcoholic; next, skid row; finally, the river. So let’s forget your masterpiece, Fire, at least till pastrytime. Tell me about yourself. Have you always been a monster or did you work at it? Relax, Fire; smile. You’re at Lunch. God protects Lunchers. Heaven is nothing but one long Lunch. So drink to it, man; honor it. Raise that glass. To Lunch.”