When he awoke the next morning Autumn was gone, and though he waited the entire day, Willis waited in vain. So that night, promise or no promise, his heart pounding with love (Aaron had to laugh), Willis crept through the dark woods toward the great house. It was dark, bleak, somehow evil, and Willis circled it once, skirting from shadow to shadow, before finally planting himself by the wooden front door. It was open and Willis shouted “Hello ... ? Hello ... ?” but there was no reply. He pushed the door open full and stepped into the gigantic entrance hall. Beyond lay a dark sprawling room, lighted only by the flames from the fireplace. “Hello ... ?” Willis said again, and though there was still no reply, he knew, as he stood in the center of the room, that he was not alone. And suddenly there—there!—framed now in the red light of the fire stood Autumn’s father, a giant of a man with thick brutal arms and the face of a gorilla. From the waist up he wore nothing; from the waist down he was clad totally in leather (a little something for the perverts), black leather boots and tight black leather riding pants. From somewhere above them came a scream, and Willis turned, trying to place it, and when he turned back, the half-naked giant had not moved. Except that now there was a gun in his hand, and soon the lovers were thrown together in a room deep in the bowels of the castle where terrible things had once taken place. Willis examined the strange machines set up in various corners, and when he came across a machine with blood still dripping from it he realized the father was a madman, that they had to get out, somehow, he and his beloved Autumn, that or die.
Aaron had a ball with the rest of the book. He threw in a little torture, Autumn naked and writhing, her glorious body glistening, her face pale with pain (they’ll thumb the hell out of this page at Brentano’s), and following the torture came an escape-chase-capture scene, then another escape, then a revelation from Autumn’s bruised red lips that the giant was her husband (It’s really good, Aaron knew. It is. It is!), then a long love scene, graphic: “Willis moaned as he ran his fingers across her body, such was his pleasure, the presence of death serving only to increase his passion ... but sensitively done: no four-letter words, lots of metaphors, and the climax ending with three dots ... and then, finally, the confrontation, high on the roof of the house, with Willis battling the giant, almost losing but somehow summoning the strength of the desperate lover, vanquishing the enemy, grabbing the prize while the villain groaned, and fleeing into the beauty of the woods. As they ran, Willis and Autumn, they turned one last time, and Autumn screamed to see the great bleak house on fire, flames dancing across the roof where, totally mad now, her husband stood, shaking a fist at the heavens until the fire had him and then he ran, a screaming torch, to the edge of the roof and off, falling in flames to his death. Willis held his trembling Autumn, held her with all his might, all his love, and when the sun came they walked off hand in hand into the dawn ...
“Aaron Fire. To see Mr. Boardman.”
The secretary gave him a smile. “Certainly. You have an appointment, Mr. Fire?”
“For ten-thirty,” Aaron said. He showed her his watch. “I’m nothing if not prompt.”
She smiled again. “Please be seated just a moment,” and she started fiddling with the intercom. Aaron stayed by her desk, looking around. He had always envisioned a publishing house as being a small brownstone in an old part of town, with frayed rugs on the floors and walls stuffed with books, with frayed secretaries and pipe-smoking, tweed-clad editors padding softly around chatting softly about Sartre. Kingsway Press, where he stood, looked like a Hollywood version of an advertising agency. Located on the nineteenth and twentieth floors of a new glass-and-white-brick (what else?) building on Madison Avenue in the 40s, it was sterile enough to double as a hospital. The receptionist’s desk was Danish modern, the lighting indirect, the rug one of those bloodless pale colors adored only by designers, the twin waiting sofas clean, new, armless, almost legless, practically backless, defiantly uncomfortable—hostile modern.
And not a book in sight.
“Mr. Fire?”
“Yes.” She was smiling again. What was so funny?
“There seems to have been a mix-up. Mr. Boardman hasn’t—”
“Look. I’m from Time. We’re doing a piece and—”
“Hasn’t got you listed for an appointment.”
“I’m going to kill my secretary.”
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Fire.”
“She called yesterday at twelve-thirty and somebody over here verified the appointment for today.”
“Perhaps Mr. Boardman’s secretary was on her lunch hour and somebody else took the call.”
“Possibly,” Aaron allowed.
“You said you’re from Time?”
“Unless they’ve just fired me.”
“Excuse me one moment.”
Aaron watched as she disappeared down the carpeted corridor. Calmly he lit a cigarette, setting it carefully in a corner of his mouth, inhaling deeply. He had never met Dave Boardman, but he knew he was about to. Boardman liked being interviewed; Aaron had read the quotes. Whenever anything newsworthy happened in the publishing business (rarely) Bennett Cerf was the first one called. If Cerf was out of town, then it was Boardman.
“Mr. Boardman can see you,” the receptionist said, coming back down the hall.
“Goody,” Aaron said, and he followed her along the carpet, a turn to the right, one to the left, through a door, another door, and then there he was, alone with Boardman.
At the age of forty-two, Dave Boardman had been chief editor of Kingsway Press for more than a decade and, in a field where competency was equated to brilliance, had the reputation of being a genius, which meant he was probably somewhat better than fair. He was editor for three novelists who had won Pulitzer Prizes, one of whom had a decent shot at eventually taking a Nobel when America’s turn came, plus half a dozen others, three of them ladies who wrote nothing but best-sellers. And if Kingsway resembled an ad agency, Dave Boardman continued the image. His suit was dark and conservative, his tie striped and narrow, his shirt white with a button-down collar. I’ll bet you’re wearing loafers, Aaron thought, studying the face until he could place it. He had seen it thousands of times. It was the face of the white-jacketed television pitchman recommending a laxative. “Doctor’s reports prove that Limpo will positively loosen your stool in twenty-four hours or ...” The Trustworthy Face.
“Where’s your pipe?” Aaron said.
“Pardon?”
“All editors smoke pipes, didn’t you know that? Union regulations.”
Boardman laughed. It was a good laugh. Rich. Sincere. “I thought I knew most of the boys from Time. You must be new over there.”
Aaron smiled.
“You are from Time.”
Aaron laughed.
“The receptionist said—”
“I lied.”
“Oh my God, don’t tell me. You’re a writer.”
Aaron bowed.
“For crissake, why the subterfuge?”
“If I’d called for an appointment, would you have seen me?”
“No.”
“Next question,” Aaron said.
Boardman smiled and sat straight, examining Aaron. “How’d you know it’d work?”
“Vanity. I researched you. You like getting your name in the papers. You’re vain.”
“So I am. So I am. Your name is ... ?”
“Aaron Fire.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Fire.”
“Goodbye.” Aaron stood, grabbed his briefcase, started for the door. “One thing, though.” He stopped. “How do you know my book isn’t good?”
“That’s a risk I’m taking.”
Aaron nodded. “You,” he said, “are a stupid son of a bitch,” and he was out the door.
“Fire!”
Aaron let him yell it again—“Fire”—before he re-entered the office. “You called?”
Boardman was up, mad, but you couldn’t tell it from his face. The body was angry but the face was serene
, trustworthy. “You rude little bastard, who the hell do you think you are?” Boardman paced back and forth, back and forth.
Aaron moved back to the chair and sat down.
“How old are you, Fire?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Twenty-two” Boardman grunted, continuing to pace. From somewhere a golf ball appeared and he tossed it from hand to hand as he moved. “That’s about how long I’ve been in this business. Twenty-two years of writers.” Whap! He threw the golf ball against the wall, caught it without breaking stride. “I don’t like writers, Fire. I hate writers. Not because I’m jealous. Not because of their egos. Plumbers have egos.” Whap! “I hate them because they are so childish.” Whap! “I understand you, Fire. You fake your way in here and then when you’re about to get tossed out on your ass you try a little shock treatment. Hoping to intrigue me.”
“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.”
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