“Would you be willing,” Shalinsky asked, “to write a review … a little appreciation … of this book for the next issue of Jewish Thought?”
Mortimer hesitated.
“We pay our contributors, of course. Not much, but –”
“That’s not the point.”
But with a shrewd eye on Joyce, he continued, “And this smashing – and need I say, very expensive – book would be yours. That goes without saying.”
“Yes, but –”
“Of course Mortimer will do it. Why, he’s honored.”
9
MORTIMER HAD JUST SETTLED IN BEHIND HIS DESK ON Monday morning, and turned to his correspondence, when Daphne Humber-Guest showed up unannounced and troubled to chat about her novel-in-progress.
Daphne was twenty-five. Big and bulging, toothy, with a formidable jaw and a long tangle of greasy brown hair tumbling to her sloped shoulders. Everything about her was askew. Even her juglike breasts, looking outwards, seemed to droop in different directions. Ill-advisedly she wore a tight sweater and a miniskirt. As she heaved her enormous bottom into a chair, taking a breath before she crossed her legs, Daphne’s knees loomed up at Mortimer like apple pies.
Among the literary lionesses who were making London a Saigon of the Sex War, Daphne’s name was writ large. She had first made her mark by keeping and then publishing a decidedly unprudish journal of the breakup of her marriage, which very quickly hit the best-seller lists. Queried by reporters about an especially outrageous passage in the journal, she said, “I cannot invent. I must know everything I write about firsthand.”
Fame did not agree with Daphne, it made her melancholy, she said, and for months on end she was photographed by all the glossy magazines looking lonely even at the most crowded parties. Then Ziggy Spicehandler, giving London another whirl at the time, burst into her life, and the newspapers began to run photographs of the young couple, obviously entranced with each other, as seen here, there, and everywhere. They were, they said, not going to marry, but instead would live together, which didn’t seem to especially interest anybody until, at a hastily called press conference, Ziggy revealed that they would be living together openly.
“Even so,” a gossip columnist said, “there isn’t much of a story in it.”
Two other columnists stood up and reached for their coats.
“Fuck. Shit. Piss. Cock,” Ziggy shouted. “Let’s see you print that, you emasculated bastards.”
Another reporter headed for the door. Which was when Daphne, clutching Ziggy to her, said, “In spite of all I feel for him, I still practice self-abuse.”
“Me too,” Ziggy hollered.
Now representatives from the pop newspapers began to drift out. But reporters from the quality newspapers perked up, sensing something that went beyond gossip. An issue.
“I excite myself,” Daphne said, “with photographs of naked men.”
“I use photos of naked chicks,” Ziggy said, “but it doesn’t work for me … unless they’re black.”
The man from the Guardian instantly took out his notebook.
“But even D. H. Lawrence,” another reporter said, “was against masturbation.”
“D. H. Lawrence,” Daphne said, “never gave a thought to others. I’m sure I don’t need to masturbate. I’ve got lovers to spare.”
“Me too,” Ziggy said.
“But what about the ugly people of this world?” Daphne asked. “The herd? The people who can’t get a table at Alvaro’s?”
“The girls who can’t afford Vidal Sassoon?”
“What about the cripples?”
“The albinos, what about them, man?”
“Would you deny those who can’t readily find sexual partners what might be their only sexual outlet?”
Before anyone could answer, Daphne added, tears welling in her eyes, “Think of the men locked up in prison.”
“And women.”
“And what about the hospitals?”
“And old people’s homes?”
“Lepers.”
“Basket cases.”
This brought an alert reporter to his feet. “Basket cases,” he said.
“Oh, all right then,” Daphne said. “Be niggly.”
“You cats haven’t got any poetry in you at all. You’re fact-bound.”
Mortimer, among others, was pleased for Daphne; Ziggy would be good for her, he thought, an education, but just a week later came the bitter split. It seems Daphne was well into her first draft of The Totally Honest Affair before she discovered that Ziggy had already sold the film rights, based on a synopsis. Outsiders, pinched, unperceptive bystanders, were critical of Ziggy’s behavior; so in fact was Mortimer. Then Ziggy took Mortimer aside to explain the convoluted but true meaning of what he had done. His purpose, he said, had been twofold. By pulling the rug out, so to speak, from under Daphne’s journal-in-progress, he was saving her from repeating herself artistically. By selling the synopsis for a large fee, but never turning in a screenplay, he demonstrated to commercial film makers that he could not be bought.
Daphne, unfortunately, did not see it that way. Swearing never to trust a man again, she tore up her manuscript. She began work on an unsentimental novel about the rise of a lovely working-class Yorkshire model girl, badly used, sexually used, by scheming sophisticated London editors, painters, writers, actors and other depraved types. In the end the gorgeous girl marries an aging duke, she acquires wealth and a title, but inside, Where She Lives, she is empty.
“You have no idea,” she said to Mortimer, “the trouble I’m having, how work on this novel is exhausting me.” She went on to explain how her mother, the most narrow-minded of County conservatives, had come to London unannounced, found her in bed with two Negroes, and instantly jumped to conclusions. “One way or another,” Daphne said, “this bloody novel is taking all my time.”
No sooner did Mortimer get rid of Daphne than he ran into Hy in the hall.
“Oh, Hy, you and Diana are coming with us to Different tomorrow night, aren’t you?”
“Wouldn’t you be embarrassed? Being seen with a Jew?”
“Look, Hy, it’s going to be the event of the festival. People are falling over themselves trying to get tickets. You know that.”
“Get stuffed.” Then, as an afterthought, Hy added with implied menace, “Major,” before he turned and ambled off, arms hanging loose, fingers flexing, as if the hall were a ring and he were retiring to his own corner after a grueling but stirring round. His round.
Busted major, he could have said. Had anybody heard? No. All the same it was the first reference Hy, who knew all about it, had made to the war in years and it was enough to unnerve Mortimer. The bloody war. As things stood, girls such as Polly Morgan and Daphne Humber-Guest were probably convinced that he was a bore, essentially prudish, but there was still, he dared to hope, an underlying respect; i.e., a friend of Ziggy Spicehandler’s couldn’t be all bad, but if …
Polly Morgan! What did he care what she thought? I don’t. Neither am I attracted to her. Why, it doesn’t even bear thinking about, Mortimer decided.
After work Mortimer took a taxi to the Prince Albert Hotel, armed with flowers and chocolates and the newspapers. Miss Ryerson looked small and pale. Not well within herself, as she might say. Mortimer drank coffee with her, he talked to her soothingly, and together they watched television. Paul McCartney joked about his M.B.E. Peter Cook recited a Betjeman-like poem celebrating the public conveniences of yesteryear. Mortimer hastily switched to the commercial channel, catching a Jesuit who was debating with a psychiatrist whether or not Jesus Christ had had carnal knowledge of Mary and, come to think of it, Martha as well. Switching back to the BBC, Mortimer was relieved to find Kenneth Tynan’s face filling the screen. Then, just as Mortimer was explaining to Miss Ryerson that not since GBS had served as a critic had London known such a dazzling reviewer, such a master of language, Tynan said it. The word.
“Holy mackerel! Did he just say,�
� Miss Ryerson asked, “did that fella just say f-dash-dash-k?”
“There’s something wrong with the set,” Mortimer said, diving for the dial.
“Shoot. Mortimer, I want you to check me out of this hotel instantly. This is not what I expected of London.”
Mortimer nodded understandingly, gloomily. “Are you going home, then?”
“My goodness, no. I want you to find me what is called a bed-sitter, I think.”
“What?” Mortimer said, forgetting himself so far as to light a cigarette.
“Mortimer Griffin, I’ve had quite enough for one week without you lighting a cigarette in my room.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m going to stay right here and teach.”
Before Mortimer could comment, she shot him a defiant look and said, “England needs me.”
England needs me. Mortimer was reminded of those wartime cartoons that showed a bulldog-like Winston Churchill rolling up his sleeves. “You know,” he said, bursting with affection, “you may have something there.”
“Then you’ll help me?”
Yes, he nodded, and he took Miss Ryerson to Rule’s for dinner. A special treat.
“I don’t believe for one minute,” Miss Ryerson said, “what that big ignorant black man said.”
“I beg your pardon,” Mortimer said, flushing.
“We are most decidedly not done for. My goodness, the last loudmouth to make that mistake was Hitler.”
“Yes, Miss Ryerson.”
The waiter brought them each a plate of smoked trout. Absently, Mortimer picked up his fork.
“Hold your horses,” Miss Ryerson said.
Immediately Mortimer understood. Embarrassed, yet somehow proud, he bowed his head.
“Dear Lord, for what we are about to receive,” Miss Ryerson began, “we now give thanks …”
10
UNLIKE OTHER FILM FESTIVAL PRESENTATIONS, DIFFERENT was being shown almost secretively in a small theater, appropriately underground. The fabled hairdresser was there; so were the anointed model girls and actors, the legendary photographer, and a restaurateur and tailor, both of whom were ex-directory. The Star Maker, recuperating from yet another operation and skin graft, was rumored to be watching in Casablanca, on a closed circuit via Telstar.
This was clearly the “in” set, Mortimer thought, looking around, pointedly unimpressed. London’s celebrated swingers. Ordinarily he and Joyce would never have been included in such a charmed circle, but Ziggy Spicehandler who had directed this, the first Film of Fact, had written to the festival committee from Ibiza, and they had been sent tickets. This was uncharacteristically thoughtful of Ziggy, Mortimer thought, even middle-class, but only fair considering that he had lent him the money to buy his first hand-held camera and had, well, starred in his first film. The usual home-movie stuff. Mortimer mowing the lawn, throwing Doug in the air, clowning at the barbecue, washing the car, clowning with Joyce, etc. etc.
Several years in the making, Different was, Mortimer had been led to believe, the most daring new-wave film yet to be made in England, but as a matter of fact it opened conventionally enough.
Fade in:
EXT. DAY. VATICAN CITY. ST. PETER’S SQUARE.
As the POPE is carried out among the faithful we see thousands upon thousands of them falling on their knees.
EXT. DAY. A FIELD
Working-class wheat bending obsequiously in the middle-class wind.
RESUME ST. PETER’S SQUARE. LONG SHOT.
In the far, far distance, a black-suited figure stands erect, the only one in thousands not on his knees.
ZOOM IN ON STANDING FIGURE.
A greasy, bearded Jew with a hooked nose looms over the faithful, chewing a sour pickle, the juice trickling down his chin.
Now faces were flashed on the screen. OSCAR WILDE. ISADORA DUNCAN. JOHN PROFUMO. HIMMLER. DYLAN. SAMMY DAVIS WEARING A SKULL CAP AND EATING GEFÜLLTE FISH. STEPHEN WARD. TROTSKY. MARILYN MONROE. RASPUTIN. DUKE OF WINDSOR. JUDAS. CATHERINE THE GREAT. LEE OSWALD. GIRODIAS. CASTRO. SENATOR JOSEPH MCCARTHY. BERTRAND RUSSELL. JAMES DEAN.
Then, inexplicably, the film cut to:
CU WALL-CAN OPENER
Hand opening an unlabeled can. As the can, ostensibly empty, is inverted over a bowl, LAUGHTER pours out. Mad, zany laughter fills the screen. SUPERIMPOSE laughter over a barefoot NEGRO BOY walking down a country road. Pursued by laughter he begins to run, run and run. But as the NEGRO BOY runs forward, the reactionary American landscape moves backward, leaving him in the same place.
As the swingers around Mortimer burst into applause, the screen went blank.
Silence. Nothing.
Finally Ziggy Spicehandler himself appeared on screen and wrote on a blackboard:
Presenting
A LIFE IN THE DAY OF JOHN JOHN JOHN
EXT. DAY.HAMPSTEAD GARDEN SUBURB. LONG TERRACE OF HOUSES.
Pan down a row of similar doors as they open and similar-looking husbands emerge, kiss similar-looking pretty wives goodbye and walk away whistling similar tunes to their similar cars …HOLD last door, last house.
EXT. DAY. HAMPSTEAD GARDEN SUBURB. LAST HOUSE. LAST GARDEN.
A DOG frolics on the grass.
ZOOM in on DOG’S EYE
Reflected in PUPIL is last door, last house, as
JOHN JOHN JOHN kisses his pretty wife.
The film then stayed with John John John as he went about his humdrum tasks in an office building that was clearly impersonal. Finally, his work done, John John John phoned to say he would be working late, and then off he drove.
SLOW DISSOLVE TO:
CU LOUIS XV CHANDELIER
MUSIC: Adam Faith sings “I Could Have Danced All Night.”
TRACKING down to reveal
we are at a Drag Ball. PANNING over liberated, merrymaking couples, finally
TRACKING IN on
CU JOHN JOHN JOHN
Dancing cheek to cheek with another MAN
FREEZE FRAME
COMMENTATOR (Voice Over)
Yes. John John John is different. He is a square peg in a round hole, an outsider, and in this square society … that’s asking for trouble.
ENORMOUS CU JOHN JOHN JOHN
Rocking his head in his hands. Terror-struck. Sweaty.
The film then flash-cut to and fro from John John John to abusive, twisted faces shouting, “Fag!”
“Pouf!”
“Homo!”
“Queer!”
“Brown-noser!”
“Ladybird!”
“Sodomist!”
Mortimer sat cringing guiltily in his seat because the abusive, twisted faces were all nice clean-cut faces. Protestant faces. Handsome faces. Faces like his own.
ZOOMING IN ON JOHN JOHN JOHN’S EYEBALLS
Bloodshot. Trapped. As abusive voices quicken, become gibberish.
COMMENTATIOR (Voice Over)
In a time of ticky-tacky conformists, there is a price to pay for being different.
EXT. DAY. DACHAU
The crematoria chimneys seen through a fog.
APPLAUDING HANDS
H-BOMB EXPLOSION
MORE APPLAUDING HANDS
NAPALM BOMBS FALLING ON VIET CONG
STILL MORE APPLAUDING HANDS
TWO MEN FRENCH-KISSING
CU POLICE WHISTLE
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. DAY. BLACKBOARD
A moving hand (ZIGGY SPICEHANDLER’s) writes:
“MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR.”
After Make Love, Not War had been flashed at the audience in fourteen different languages, Different continued with still more episodes from homosexual life, alarming statistics, and examples of heterosexual atrocities. Then, suddenly, the scene shifted to Canada, Mortimer’s native land, at the end of a National League hockey game at the Forum. A famous ALL-STAR DEFENSEMAN, one who was never without his helmet, was named first star of the game and skated round the rink to resounding cheers.
INT. FORUM. GANGWAY
&nbs
p; As the PLAYERS make their way to the dressing room, rabid fans are still shouting the DEFENSEMAN’S name. FATHERS hold up their SONS to see him, GIRLS blow kisses.
INT. TEAM DRESSING ROOM
The ALL-STAR DEFENSEMAN slumps exhausted on the bench before his locker, drinking beer out of a can. As other players enter they slap him on the back or give him the thumbs-up sign.
ANOTHER ANGLE
ALL-STAR DEFENSEMAN kicks his locker open, revealing Playboy magazine pin-ups and a mirror on inside of door.
TRACK IN ON MOTTLED MIRROR
Broken, not of a piece, as is the case in the lives of some human beings.
MIRROR (POV ALL-STAR DEFENSEMAN)
His boisterous teammates light cigars, indulge in horseplay, spit, guzzle beer, pick their toes, scratch their groins … as they undress, removing pad after protective pad, strap after strap … gradually dispersing to showers.
ANOTHER ANGLE
ALL-STAR DEFENSEMAN now sits alone in dimly lit dressing room. Slowly, wearily, he rises and begins to get out of his pads and straps. As he sits down again, we are bound to notice that one set of straps remains.
ZOOM IN ON ALL-STAR DEFENSEMAN
They would appear to be brassiere straps!
ANOTHER ANGLE
As ALL-STAR DEFENSEMAN stands up and removes his helmet, we see a lovely sweep of golden hair, now inadequately concealed. This is the head of a YOUNG WOMAN in her prime.
PANNING down.
Her BODY, that of a fabulously vital animal, is one of those which clothes cover without hiding. The ALL-STAR DEFENSEMAN sighs … sighs again … her lovely body seemingly flooded with sudden longing …
Still smiling, blinking his eyes
Over the pure white ice steps the driven figure of the Still smiling, blinking his eyes her sensuality seemingly bound in a conformist’s gray flannel suit and Presbyterian fedora. But is it?
Still smiling, blinking his eyes Soft strains of “Swan Lake.”
And here (suddenly, miraculously), where only an hour ago the Still smiling, blinking his eyes handed out murderous bodychecks, giving as good as she got … Still smiling, blinking his eyes now glides with balletic grace over the pure disinterested white ice, when:
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