The Paper Dragon (45 page)

Sally Kirsch, attorney at law, had moved out of her mother's apartment the week after she passed the bar exams. Her mother Gertrude, a stout blond lady of dubious German-Austrian-Serbian extraction, when informed that Sally's new apartment was in the Village, immediately asked, "What will you do now? Start sleeping with all those beatniks down there?" Sally informed her that she had not yet slept with anyone (a lie), beatnik or otherwise, although the opportunity had certainly presented itself on many an occasion even while living here in the sanctified atmosphere of this fine home on Third Avenue and 85th Street. She did not expect to begin now, she said (another lie necessitated by the first lie), unless she choose to, which is exactly what she would have done no matter where she lived. "A fine girl," Gertie said. "You wouldn't be so smart if your father was alive."

Unfortunately, her father was not alive, had in fact been dead since Sally was six, at which time he was struck down by a bus on Second Avenue while crossing the street from his dry goods store. Sally had always suspected he was drunk at the time. Her sharpest memory of her father was of a tall, thin man with her identical green eyes and sandy hair, stooping to kiss her on the cheek, his breath smelling of something she only later could identify as wine. She was
sure
he'd been drunk. A man didn't get hit by something as big as a bus unless he was too drunk to see the damn thing. Her mother (significantly, she felt) never drank. She sometimes wondered if her mother had ever made love, evidence of conception and birth to the contrary.

In some of her more lurid fantasies, Sally reconstructed an image of her own first bed partner, an N.Y.U. undergraduate, now married and teaching English somewhere in Schenectady, unable to forget that hot sophomore maniac who had almost eaten him alive. In soberer moments, she thought of herself as essentially healthy, but hardly very passionate, a girl who understood the biological needs of her body and periodically set out to gratify them. Her three affairs had been of short duration, the most recent having been with an internal revenue agent, of all things, and having ended in April when he asked her (after a particularly passionate session) whether she had remembered to file her W-2. He also happened to be married, which may have partially accounted for her sudden decision, although she did not normally consider this an excluding factor. She did not, in fact, know what specific rules governed her morality or lack of it, except a basic rule of survival which advised her never to get pregnant.

Getting pregnant, according to Gertie, was one of the most horrible misfortunes that could ever befall a woman. "You were such a cranky baby, Sally darling, kept me up half the night, my milk wouldn't flow, my breasts were always hurting, and besides your father wanted a boy" — which translated from the dubious German-Austrian-Serbian meant "I,
Gertie
, wanted a boy." In any case, the advice had struck. It was bad to get pregnant under the best of circumstances, but tragic to get pregnant if you did not happen to have a husband. Since Sally did not happen to have a husband, nor particularly want one, she had immediately after her encounter with the budding Schenectady English teacher, and without any fuss or bother, rushed off to buy herself a diaphragm. (In later years, upon reading Mary McCarthy's precious "peccary" anecdote, she had said aloud, "Oh, how cutesy-cute!") Seven months ago, when she first took up with the internal revenue agent recently dispossessed, she abandoned the diaphragm in favor of birth control tablets, which she still religiously swallowed each morning. In one of her customary fishing expeditions, Gertie had asked what she thought of these new birth control pills, and Sally had replied, lying with a gracious blush, that she possessed no knowledge whatever of them. Her mother stuffed a dried apricot into her mouth, nodded her head sagely, and said, "They grow beards on women," and Sally almost brought her hand unconsciously to her chin.

She suddenly remembered, there was a time, she remembered, she could see, there was, it was the basement of a department store somewhere in Manhattan, a twelve-year-old girl trying on coats while her mother sat and watched, Gertrude Kirsch with her hands folded over her pocketbook, Sally trying on garment after garment for her approval. There was a time, it overlapped this silent shabby Fourteenth Street office, the pink coat suddenly and magically appearing on the rack, how had she missed it before? She touched the cloth, she lifted the coat from its hanger and held it tentatively for just a moment before putting it on. Gertrude Kirsch sat in silent expectation, her hands folded on her pocketbook. Sally came toward her hesitantly and executed a brief model's turn, elbows against her sides, arms up, fingers spread in delicate supplication. Quietly, she asked, "How do I look, Mama? Make believe I'm a person."

Hadad lighted the fresh cigarette from the butt of the old one, and then looked for an ash tray. Sally pushed one across the desk.

"Why?" Hadad asked.

"Why what?" she said, but of course she knew what he meant and had wondered the same thing the moment he came into the office and began telling his tale.

"Why does he pick on me, your boy friend?"

"He's not my boy friend," Sally said, and then wondered about that, too.

"He is a big man."

"Yes."

"A big lawyer."

"Yes."

"Why me, a bricklayer? Was someone killed in this
big
accident,
no
," he said, and again waved the skywriting cigarette. "Was someone serious injured,
no
. Is there enormous damage to the vehicles,
no
. Anyhow, I have insurance, the insurance will pay."

"Yes, Mr. Hadad, but…"

"Why does he make a stink?"

"I have no idea."

"Your own boy friend, you have no idea?"

"I only know Mr. Willow casually," Sally said, and felt immediately foolish. "I really don't know why he's… he's bringing this pressure to bear."

"Persecution," Hadad said. "Is he a Jew?"

"No," Sally answered.

Hadad shrugged. "You will help me?"

"How?"

"You will talk to him?"

"About what?"

"About he will leave me alone," Hadad said. "I do not wish to go to prison. I do not wish to pay five hundred dollars. I do not wish trouble of any kind. It was a dark night, it was anyone could have an accident, why does he pick on me? I am small beans. What does he want? My license, my living, my life? What does he
want
from me, this man?"

"I don't know," Sally said.

"Is there even a case?" Hadad asked. "Can there be criminal business here? Is it possible I can go to prison?"

"I don't know that, either. I'd have to read the law."

"I will pay you."

"For what?"

"For help, for advice, for salvation."

"I don't want your money, Mr. Hadad," Sally said.

"I am not a rich man, but I have some aside. I can pay."

"There's nothing to pay me for."

"You will talk to him?"

"I'll try."

"Ask him to stop," Hadad said, and then curiously added, "This is America."

They came back into the courtroom, both sides, plaintiff and defendants, considerably refreshed by their brief recess. They had exchanged words of reassurance, each to each, the plaintiff certain that Jonah Willow had extended himself beyond reasonable limits, introducing a plethora of documents that had only confused and bored the judge; the defendants convinced that Sidney Brackman had objected far too often and far too strenuously, irritating McIntyre and jeopardizing the case for the plaintiff. Brackman had told his client that he could read with fair accuracy the reactions of any judge, and he was certain McIntyre was beginning to lean more and more in their favor. Willow, on the other hand, assured his witness that he was coming over with dignity and calm, impressing the judge with his quiet integrity and his innate honesty.

So they all came back ready to engage each other in combat once again, seemingly forgetting that the real battle had been fought a long time ago, fought when Constantine committed his play to paper, fought when Driscoll later wrote his book. There was the scent of victory in the air, and both sides sniffed of it, and confidently surmised it was intended for their nostrils alone. Driscoll, after Jonah's peptalk in the corridor outside, felt certain that the trial was going their way, and that if no one involved in the defense brought up the matter of the 105th Division, why then no one on the plaintiff's side would mention it either. There was a curious holiday air in that courtroom when the trial resumed at 11:25 a.m. It belied the lowering clouds outside the long windows, it belied the fact that for every victor there is a loser, it belied the possibility that perhaps for every loser there is yet another loser or even a score of losers.

"Mr. Driscoll," Willow said, "before our recess, I was about to go into certain specific alleged similarities as listed on Plaintiff's Exhibit 6, which is titled Character Similarities. For the time being, I am going to bypass the character of Lieutenant Alex Cooper, who you have already testified is based on yourself. Instead, I am going to ask you about Private Colman, the troublemaker, who is certainly the second most important character in the novel, would you agree?"

"I would."

"Is Private Colman a homosexual?"

"He has had homosexual experiences."

"With whom?"

"With the major who had been commanding officer of the platoon."

"The plaintiff alleges, Mr. Driscoll, that your Private Colman is based on
two
characters in the play
Catchpole
. One of these characters is Corporal Janus, who is depicted as a troublemaker, and the other is Colonel Peterson, who is said to be a homosexual. Have you read Mr. Constantine's play?"

"I have."

"When did you read it?"

"Last month, when you gave it to me."

"Where was this, Mr. Driscoll?"

"You gave me the manuscript at your office in New York, and I took it home with me* and read it there. In Vermont."

"Did you read it carefully?"

"I spent an entire weekend with it."

"Are you familiar with these two characters in the play? Corporal Janus and Colonel Peterson?"

"I am."

"Well now, wouldn't you consider it a remarkable coincidence that there are a troublemaker and a homosexual in Mr. Constantine's play, and there is a homosexual troublemaker in your book?"

"No, sir."

"Why not?"

"Because whereas Corporal Janus
is
a troublemaker, I could find no indication in the play that Colonel Peterson is a homosexual."

"He is
not
, in your estimation, a homosexual?"

"I do not think he could be considered homosexual in
anybody's
estimation."

"Has he not had homosexual experiences?"

"He has not."

"Does he not make homosexual references and allusions?"

"He does not."

"Does he not use endearing terms when talking to other men?"

"He does not."

"Did you find
any
character in the play who could be considered homosexual?"

"I did not."

"Your Honor," Brackman said, rising, "I am fully aware of Mr. Driscoll's reputation as a novelist, but I was
not
aware that he holds a degree in psychology. May I point out that what
he
considers homosexual or heterosexual may
not
, in the opinion of experts, actually be the case."

"If your Honor please," Willow said, "I believe Mr. Driscoll's testimony can be considered as competent as was Mr. Constantine's."

"Not when we are dealing with psychological matters, your Honor," Brackman insisted.

"Your Honor, we have allowed Mr. Constantine to testify that his colonel
was
a homosexual. I do not see the difference…"

"He
created
the character," Brackman said. "He ought to know whether or not he intended a homosexual."

"We have already agreed, Mr. Brackman, that
intent
is not on trial here," Willow said.

"I will allow the testimony," McIntyre said. "Mr. Driscoll is not offering a psychological analysis, nor does the Court consider it such. He is discussing a literary matter in literary terms. I believe even a layman can discern the difference between a homosexual and a heterosexual in a work of fiction, and I must certainly accept Mr. Driscoll as being someone considerably more advised than a layman. I will admit the testimony. Please go on."

"In other words, Mr. Driscoll, your character Colman could not have been based in part upon a homosexual colonel in
Catchpole
because no such homosexual colonel exists."

"That is correct."

"And the charge that Mr. Knowles later reverted to the original…"

"There was no original to which he could have reverted."

"While we are on Private Colman, we have had a great deal of testimony here about his wearing eyeglasses in the motion picture whereas he does not wear eyeglasses in your book. Colonel Janus in the play
does
wear glasses, of course, as I'm sure you noticed in your reading of
Catchpole
."

"Yes."

"How do you explain this appearance and disappearance of eyeglasses?"

"There's nothing to explain. Private Colman
does
wear glasses in my book."

"He does?" Willow asked, and turned to look at Brackman in mock surprise. "Where do you find any evidence of this, Mr. Driscoll?"

"There's a scene in which Lieutenant Cooper pulls up in a jeep, and just before he steps out, Colman takes a pair of glasses from the pocket of his blouse and puts them on to get a better look at him."

"What page does this occur on, Mr. Driscoll?"

"Page 37."

"May I add, your Honor, that there are eleven people in this courtroom at the moment, and five of us are wearing eyeglasses — almost half of the people present. In fact, Mr. Brackman's partner is one of those people."

"I wear glasses myself when I'm reading," McIntyre said, "so we can raise the number to six."

"Out of eleven, your Honor."

"I assume this is privileged, is it, Mr. Willow?" Brackman asked, and smiled.

"Merely an observation, Mr. Brackman, merely an observation."

"I do not see its relevancy."

"All right, all right, let's continue," McIntyre said.

"We have heard testimony here, Mr. Driscoll, to the effect that you named your private Peter Colman after Colonel Peterson in
Catchpole
. Is this in fact so?"

"It is not."

"How did you in fact come upon the name Peter Colman?"

"Peter is a phallic reference."

"Why would you use a phallic reference for a character who is clearly homosexual?"

"As a personal joke."

"And Colman? What is the significance of this surname?"

"It's a literary pun."

"In what way?"

"It refers to
The Iceman Cometh.
"

"How?"

"The iceman in Mr. O'Neill's play means death. The character Colman in my book also means death — for the lieutenant."

"I still do not see either the connection or the pun."

"When I was a child, my mother used to tell me stories about buying ice for the icebox. She would take a wagon each morning and walk over to 96th Street, where there was a coal station. She used to buy the cake of ice there and then wheel it home. In my mind, 'iceman' and 'coal man' are identical and interchangeable. The name Colman is simply an elision of 'coal man,' which is in turn a pun on 'iceman.' "

"That's a rather complicated reference, isn't it?"

"All fictional references are complicated."

"Did you intend to—"

"Objection," Brackman said immediately.

"Sustained."

"Was this written for the reader to grasp?"

"No, sir. It was entirely personal. I did it for my own amusement."

"It was not, then, a reversal of Colonel Petersons' name."

"I had never heard of Colonel Peterson until last month when I read the play."

"You were present in this courtroom yesterday, were you not, when Chester Danton testified concerning several editorial reports made at Mitchell-Campbell?"

"I was."

"Do you recall the report made by Miss Anita Lang, the one containing suggestions about Private Colman's civilian life?"

"I do."

"And the flashbacks about his civilian life?"

"I do."

"She suggested, did she not, that there was too much emphasis on his civilian background?"

"Yes, she did."

"Did you change Colman's character in accordance with Miss Lang's suggestions?"

"I only met Miss Lang once before the book was published. I didn't know at the time that the suggestions were hers. I thought they came from Chester Danton, who was my editor at Mitchell-Campbell."

"But you did make the changes?"

"Yes, I deleted the flashbacks. There were two scenes showing his civilian life. I can recall them both very clearly, if you want me to take the Court's time to describe them."

"Very briefly, if you will."

"One of the scenes finally discarded from the novel described Colman's experience in a television studio during a rehearsal — all the hectic background, the setting of lights and cameras, the cueing-in of music, makeup men, costume people — Colman had been an actor in civilian life, you see, and this was supposed to be a rehearsal for a live drama series."

"Was this scene based on an actual experience of your own?"

"A friend of mine from Music and Art later became a set designer for television, and I once attended such a rehearsal with him, yes."

"And the other scene?"

"The second scene was between Colman and his mother, and tried to show the beginnings of his homosexuality. He's appearing in a high school play, and his mother is attending the performance, and after the play there is a short and very bitter… well… anti-mother scene, I guess you'd call it, while Colman is taking off his makeup in the dressing room. It was a good scene, and I'm sorry they asked me to cut it."