Cocksure

by Mordecai Richler

  Migod, Mortimer thought. Sweet, silver-haired Agnes Laura Ryerson was his fourth-grade teacher from Caribou, Ontario, and he had tried his utmost to discourage her from making this sentimental journey. Miss Ryerson’s long-cherished fantasy picture of the mother country, more potent than any pot dream, was constructed almost entirely on literary foundations. Shakespeare, naturally, Jane Austen, The Illustrated London News, Kipling, Dickens, Beverly Baxter’s London Letters in Maclean’s.

  Together Miss Ryerson and Mortimer scanned the theater listings. As she made appreciative noises over her scones, he persuaded her that the Royal Shakespeare Company’s latest venture into the theater of cruelty was not quite her cuppa. “It’s vastly overrated,” he insisted nervously.

  Shoot. Miss Ryerson pursed her lips, displeased, inadvertently evoking for Mortimer the day she had given him five of the best on each hand for being caught with a copy of Nana in his desk. She simply had to go to the theater every night, she explained, for she had undertaken to write a weekly “Letter from London” for the Presbyterian Church-Monitor of Southern Ontario. “What do you know,” she asked, “about this one?”

  This one was a tender domestic comedy about a homosexual couple.

  “Um, well, it’s a bit naughty, I’m told.”

  They settled on a farce for Tuesday night. Monday, one of Mortimer’s lecture nights, was out, unfortunately.

  Oriole Press, where Mortimer was an editor, was still one of London’s most distinguished publishing houses; that is to say, it had yet to be taken over and transmogrified by the Star Maker. Mortimer enjoyed his work and had reason to hope that he was being considered as the next editor-in-chief, the penultimate step toward a seat on the board of directors, his initials carved into the two-hundred-year-old round table. Oriole’s celebrated oak. The saintly proprietor of Oriole Press, Lord Woodcock, had hinted at the appointment during a meeting with Mortimer at his Albany flat two years back. “Hodges,” Lord Woodcock had said, referring to the then editor-in-chief, “is nearing the retirement age. It would be indelicate of me to say more, but I will tell you this much, Griffin; when the time comes I’ll be damned if I’m going outside our family for a replacement.” Which left Mortimer with one rival. Hy Rosen, his best friend.

  Following in the footsteps of Lord Woodcock, a Fabian with the purest Christian motives, the younger editorial staff at Oriole Press was encouraged to make use of their leisure time by serving the larger community in one socially responsible form or another. Two nights weekly little Hy Rosen worked as a boxing instructor at a Stepney youth club. Mortimer chose to deliver a series of lectures on “Reading for Pleasure” at an evening college in Paddington, sponsored by one of England’s more forward-looking trade unions. Mortimer’s third lecture, on Monday night, dealt with Franz Kafka and naturally he made several allusions to the distinctively Jewish roots of his work. Afterwards, as he was gathering his notes together, a lachrymose little man approached him for the first time.

  “I want to tell you, Professor Griffin, how much intellectual nourishment I got out of your lecture tonight.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Mortimer said, in a hurry to leave because he was supposed to meet Joyce at Hy and Diana Rosen’s and it looked as if he was going to be late. But the lachrymose little man still stood resolutely before his desk.

  His wisps of gray curly hair uncut and uncombed, he was a puny round-shouldered man with horn-rimmed spectacles, baleful black eyes, and a hanging lower lip. His shiny pin-striped gray suit was salted with dandruff around the shoulders. A hand-rolled cigarette drooped from his mouth, his eyes half shut against the smoke and ashes spilling unregarded to his jacket. “Why did you change your name?” he asked.

  “I beg your pardon? Did you ask me why I changed my name?”

  The man nodded.

  “But I haven’t. My name is Griffin. It always has been.”

  The man considered Mortimer with a sardonic, pitying smile. “You’re a Jew,” he said softly.

  “You’re mistaken.”

  The man chuckled.

  “Really,” Mortimer said. “What made you think –”

  “All right. I’m mistaken. I made a mistake. Not to worry.”

  “Look here, if I were a Jew I wouldn’t try to conceal it for a moment.”

  Still smiling, blinking his eyes, the man said, “There’s no need to lose your temper, Professor Griffin. I made a mistake. If that’s the way you want it.”

  “And I’m not a professor either. Mr. Griffin will do nicely.”

  “A man of your insights will be famous one day … like … like I. M. Sinclair. A scholar renowned wherever the intelligentsia meet. Thanks once more, merci mille fois,for tonight’s intellectual feast. Good night, Mr. Griffin.”

  Good night.

  Driving out to the Rosens’ flat in Swiss Cottage, Mortimer smiled indulgently. Me Jewish, he thought, laughing out loud.

  Joyce had eaten with the Rosens, and Diana, remembering how much Mortimer fancied chopped liver, had saved him an enormous helping. Seated in the living room, amid Hy’s framed photographs of Abe (the Little Hebrew) Attell, Phil (Ring Gorilla) Bloom, Chrysanthemum Joe Choynski, Ruby (the Jewel of the Ghetto) Goldstein, Yussel the Mussel Jacobs, Benny Leonard, Barney Ross, and others, Mortimer told him about the lachrymose little man, concluding with “… and where in the hell he ever got the idea I was Jewish I’ll never know.”

  Mortimer had anticipated laughter, a witty remark from Hy, perhaps. Instead there was silence. Nervy silence.

  “Look, I don’t mean I’d be ashamed –”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “– or that I was insulted that someone would think I was –”

  “Ah ha.”

  “Christ, you know what I mean, Hy.”

  “You’re goddamned right I do,” Hy said, springing to his feet and removing his glasses.

  Mortimer and Joyce left for home earlier than usual.

  “Boy,” Joyce said, “you certainly have a gift. Once you have put your foot into it you certainly know how to make matters worse.”

  “I thought they’d laugh. God, Hy’s my best friend. He –”

  “Was,” Joyce said.

  While Joyce was undressing in the bathroom, Mortimer slipped surreptitiously out of the bedroom, down the hall, and into Doug’s room. Doug was just eight years old and having a peek at him as he slept gave Mortimer a wonderfully warm feeling inside. He had to watch it, though, because Joyce felt this was very Saturday Evening Post of him. Specially the kissing bit. She’s right, too, Mortimer thought, as he gave Doug a hasty peck on the forehead and fled.

  Joyce, Mortimer gathered, was still upset. “Come off it,” he said. “You don’t seriously think Hy thinks I’m an anti-Semite?”

  Joyce raised one eyebrow slightly.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Tomorrow the whole thing will be forgotten. Hy will make a joke of it.”

  Then they settled into bed with books. Back to back. Joyce, on her side, with The Story of O; Mortimer, on his side, with The Best of Leacock.

  “They have an excellent sense of humor,” Joyce said, “haven’t they? There’s Mort Sahl and Art Buchwald and –”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!”

  “If I were you I’d phone him and apologize.”

  “There’s no need. Damn it, I adore Hy. I’ve known him for years.”

  3

  “HE’S AT LEAST SEVEN INCHES TALLER THAN I AM,” Hy said. “I’d be giving him a good forty pounds and still he was too chicken-shit to put up his fists.”

  Hy bounced to his feet and pulled his shirt up high as his chin, revealing his narrow pigeon chest, his heart hammering, the ribs thrusting through.

  “Punch me, luv. Let me have it.”

  “Oh, Hy, please,” Diana said.

  “No, no. Go ahead. All your might, now.”

  “But, Hy –”

  “I said punch me.”

  Diana pulled back obligingly, grimaced, and
simulated a mighty blow to Hy’s tense, flat stomach.

  “Didn’t feel a thing,” Hy said, letting his shirt drop.

  “But Mortimer didn’t mean to offend you,” Diana protested.

  “One day in Holland, at a time when we were bloody short on ammo, the major called for a volunteer to lead a recon into the forest. I stepped forward immediately and you know what one of my brother officers said just loud enough for me to catch? ‘They’re all the same,’ he said. ‘Pushy.’ But if I hadn’t been the first to step forward he would have put me down for a coward. They’re all the same, goys, what do I need ’em for?”

  “What about me?” Diana asked, nuzzling him.

  All at once Hy gathered Diana’s long blond hair in his fist and yanked.

  “Oh, Hy! Hy! Please let me go!”

  “Come on,” Hy said, pulling her. “Into the bedroom. Let’s put that big goysy ass of yours to work.”

  Diana, who towered over Hy, contrived to be dragged, protesting, into the bedroom.

  “Oh, I know you in this state,” she said. “You’re going to be too big for me. You’re going to hurt me.”

  Hy’s laugh was gargantuan, charged with menace.

  “You filthy Jew,” Diana hollered, turning round and stooping for Hy to unzip her. “You always have only one thing in mind.”

  “British twat,” Hy said, butting her in the belly and diving onto the bed after her.

  “Ikey hooky-nose!”

  “Rodean snob!”

  In the ensuing struggle, Diana forgot herself and rolled over onto Hy, knocking the breath out of him. “Oh, I am sorry, darling,” Diana said tenderly.

  “What?” Hy snarled, inflamed, whacking her in the ribs, beating her on the belly. “What?”

  In the morning Hy, his mood masterful but lenient, thoughtfully provided a pillow for Diana. “For your butt,” he said. Hy was eating his Fruitifort when the phone rang. He answered it, his voice thick: “Hullo.”

  “Hullo, Hy.”

  “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Yeah. Did I wake you up? I can call back later.”

  “I’m up now. I could never fall asleep again. So just tell me what you want.”

  “I called to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “For last night.”

  “What did you do last night?”

  “I’m sorry if anything I said gave you the impression – the erroneous impression – that, if it were the case, I would not be proud to be Jewish.”

  “What made you think that offended me?”

  “Joyce. I told her she was imagining things.”

  “She certainly was. I can’t think of anything you’d say that could offend me.”

  “Oh.”

  “And what ever gave you the screwy idea that I was touchy about being Jewish?”

  “Oh, you know Joyce. She’s hypersensitive.”

  “Okay, let’s say I’m familiar with your sexually frustrated wife, but –”

  “My what wife?”

  “But what about you? I think you’re being very condescending. I don’t go for the idea of this phone call.”

  “Look, let’s just forget anything happened last night. Now would you mind repeating what you said about my –”

  “Nothing did happen last night. Except in the perversely racial-conscious mind of your wife.”

  “Hy, wait a minute. This is dreadful. I didn’t call you up to quarrel. Tell you what. Why don’t you and Diana come up for drinks tomorrow night? They’re doing an old Gary Cooper Western on BBC-2.”

  “Some of us have better things to do at night than watch TV.”

  “Now what in the hell do you mean by that?”

  “Skip it. Forget it.”

  “Gladly. Can we expect you tomorrow night, then?”

  “Diana’s coming down with the flu.”

  “Oh, I see. I see, old pal. Well, I do hope she feels better soon.”

  “Now what kind of a crack is that?”

  “All I said was –”

  “I heard you the first time, chickenshit. Thanks. I’ll give her your heartfelt message.”

  “Well, that’s very good of you. Now would you mind repeating what you said about my wi –”

  “Goodbye,” Hy said, and he hung up.

  Mortimer shot an apprehensive glance at Joyce, smoking languorously at the breakfast table, her dressing gown falling open over her long coltish legs. Joyce was tall, with naturally curly brown hair, her breasts small. Okay, she’s good-looking, radiating health in a windblown Canadian way, but she’s not beautiful. She –

  “How come,” Joyce asked, “you have no Negroes on the editorial staff at Oriole Press?”

  “What?”

  Joyce lit a cigarette, inhaling with immense satisfaction.

  “Because we’ve never had a Negro apply for an editorial job. Should I search Camden Town for one?”

  “That would hardly be necessary. I could introduce you to one or two candidates.”

  Joyce worked for the Anti-Apartheid League. And Oxfam.

  “Could you?”

  “We never have any for dinner. It might make for a change, you know.”

  “Yes. Quite. Um, men or women? I mean that you could introduce me to.”

  “Oh, are you ever prejudiced! You’re just a cesspool of received WASP ideas.”

  Doug, hearing their voices raised, suddenly stood at the kitchen door, beaming.

  4

  NOTHING FLUSHED DOUG OUT OF HIS ROOM LIKE A quarrel; he even tried to provoke them, for the truth was he had a gripe. Nearly all of Doug’s fabulously rich classmates at Beatrice Webb House came from broken homes, which gave him reason to envy them. Take Neil Ferguson, for instance. He had been a nervy kid, a bed-wetter, until his parents were divorced two years ago, remarried almost immediately, and began to compete for Neil’s affections. So that now, come the Easter hols, Neil could create traumas in two households while he vacillated between Bermuda with his mother and stepfather or Paris with his father and stepmother.

  Doug was being misled, Mortimer knew, he was clearly better off in a happy – well, reasonably happy – home, but all the same Doug and two or three other Beatrice Webb boys felt deprived because they only had two parents each.

  Damn that school, Mortimer thought.

  No sooner had Mortimer driven Doug to school and turned into Regent’s Park than he developed a puncture and had to change the tire himself. In the rain.

  At Lloyd’s bank, on Oxford Street, a day begun badly took an anguishing turn. Ahead of Mortimer in the queue there was an attractive, elegantly dressed girl. Colored. Now, Mortimer was certainly not prejudiced, but even so he had to admit that the first thing he noticed about the attractive, elegantly dressed girl was that she was colored. When Mortimer had first entered the bank, there she was standing in the queue with nobody behind her. There were shorter queues leading to other tellers, there was even one teller with nobody to serve, but Mortimer, remembering Sharpsville, remembering Selma, Alabama, immediately fell in behind the attractive colored girl.

  Well, she certainly was a jumpy one, obviously unsettled by his waiting behind her, possibly because there were now two other tellers with nobody to serve or maybe because he had edged too close behind her. Not that he could retreat a step now – that would be insulting. Finally the girl endorsed all her checks, eight of them, each made out for twenty-five pounds, handed them over (somewhat nervously, it seemed to Mortimer) and turned to go, which was when it happened. The attractive, elegantly dressed colored girl dropped one of her white gloves, and for an instant the two of them were suspended in time, like the frozen frame in a movie. Mortimer’s first instinct was to retrieve her glove, but he checked it. She was, after all, colored, and he did not want her to think him condescending on the one hand, or sexually presumptuous on the other. And then her smile, a mere trace of a smile, was ambiguous. Was she waiting for him to retrieve the glove or was she amused by his dilemma? His ofay dilemma. Or perha
ps she wasn’t a militant and she thought it prejudiced of Mortimer not to retrieve the glove as he would have done instantly had she been white. Yes, he thought, that’s it, but by this time she had scooped up the glove herself, cursing him in parting. “Mother-fucker,” the elegantly dressed colored girl said; Mortimer was prepared to swear she called him mother-fucker.

  But I’m not prejudiced, he thought, outraged. Scrutinizing his own attitudes as honestly as possible, Mortimer felt (Joyce be damned) that he could objectively say of himself, coming out of Lloyd’s bank on Oxford Street on a windy morning in October 1965, that, considering his small-town Ontario origins, his middle-class background, he was refreshingly free of prejudice. Even Ziggy Spicehandler would have to agree. Ziggy, he thought, how I miss him.

  Joyce phoned him at the office. Before she could get a word out, he said, “If you ask me, almost all of Doug’s problems can be traced to that bloody school.”

  “Would you rather that he was educated as you were?”

  Mortimer had been to Upper Canada College. “I don’t see why not.”

  “Full of repressions and establishment lies.”

  Establishment. Camp. WASP. She had all the bloody modish words.

  “Well, I –”

  “We’ll discuss it later. Just please please don’t be late for the rehearsal.”

  Mortimer had only been invited to the rehearsal for the Christmas play because he was in publishing and Dr. Booker, the founder, wanted Oriole to do a book about Beatrice Webb House. Drama was taught at the school by a Miss Lilian Tanner, who had formerly been with Joan Littlewood’s bouncy group. A tall, willowy young lady, Miss Tanner wore her long black hair loose, a CND button riding her scrappy bosom. She assured Mortimer he was a most welcome visitor to her modest little workshop. Mortimer curled into a seat in the rear of the auditorium, trying to appear as unobtrusive as possible. He was only half attentive to begin with, reconciled to an afternoon of tedium larded with cuteness.