Boys & Girls Together

by William Goldman

  “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.”

  “Lunch!”

  It was a splendid meal. Aaron chose artichoke vinaigrette for an appetizer, dissecting it with care, leaf by tiny leaf, and when they were gone he deftly separated the heart and swallowed it quickly with the remainder of the sauce. Adela’s was full now and three tables away he saw a young film actor with a squat gray woman, his agent probably, and across the narrow room sat another familiar face, a financier or an ex-general, something like that; Aaron couldn’t quite place it, but the face had once beamed out at him from the cover of Time. Aaron smiled to himself. I belong here. Here and all the other places like it. Home is where the heart is. My heart, is here.

  Boardman suggested the wine and Aaron went along with the choice—a strong red burgundy. For his main course Aaron took the cold roast beef; a great rare slab of it, and a delicate green salad. The wine warmed his throat; the salad cooled his tongue. Probably it was silly taking an apartment on Sutton, tying up all that money when what he wanted really was to travel, Italy, Spain, the civilized sections of the Orient. Aaron rolled the red wine around his tongue. Yes. Perhaps even South America,
the less humid parts anyhow. Or was that a waste, traveling through South America? The people were notoriously backward and what if you drank the water? What disease? Malaria? No, that came from mosquitoes. To hell with South America. Just to hell with it, he decided.

  For dessert Aaron chose profiterole. He had always been partial to chocolate, gorging on it even when he ran the gauntlet of adolescence, and the sauce on the profiterole was perfect, spectacularly rich. Aaron toyed with it, dipping the edge of his spoon into it, making it last as long as he could while Boardman thumbed through the manuscript of Autumn Wells. Boardman was smiling, talking softly, and it was hard to listen to him over the noise of the other diners. Aaron closed one eye and sighted down the long row of tables. The candles danced for him. Boardman was turning the pages rapidly now, and Aaron glanced admiringly at the neatly typed paper. He was a wonderful typist, and this was his original copy of the book, clean and new. But it was silly of Boardman to bring it along, to bring it here. You couldn’t discuss rewrites in the rear of a restaurant, not after you’ve had drinks and good wine and a full meal. It was silly. You couldn’t think under those conditions. Never. He should have left it in his office. You could talk there. Have coffee sent in and really talk. That was the way to do it. That was the way—

  Aaron felt light.

  “So here we are at the torture scene. Now Jesus, Fire, it’s the twentieth century. A torture scene in the basement of a castle with a naked maiden? And does the villain have to drool? You call it ‘flecks of spittle’ and that’s pretty, I suppose, but drool’s drool, Fire, come on.”

  “You’re giving it back to me?”

  “What? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear?”

  “You’re giving it back to me? The book?”

  Boardman looked at him.

  “You’re not going to publish it?”

  “That’s right. Haven’t you been listening? I’m just trying to explain why. Now I don’t want to pick on this poor torture scene, but it’s indicative of what’s wrong with the book. It lacks credulity. You’re writing down all the way through it. The writing’s good enough, it’s fine, but did you mean this stuff? Now here—”

  “You’ve got to. Publish the book.”

  Boardman shook his head.

  “See, you’ve got to publish it. I wrote it. I wrote it and you’ve got to publish it, don’t you see?”

  “You all right, Fire?”

  “Sure, sure, I’m fine, it’s just that I’m trying to explain to you why you’ve got to publish it because I wrote it, you understand.”

  “Fire—”

  “I’ll change it. Any way you like. I’ll change it all around. I’m a good writer. I’m talented like you said, so I’ll just change it.”

  “I wouldn’t be blowing you to lunch if I didn’t think you had something, Fire, but—”

  “You just tell me what you want me to change. I’ll do ten pages a day. I’ll do the whole book over. Now you tell me.” He pulled at Boardman’s coat sleeve. “I’m listening now, so you tell me. I’ll remember everything you say.” Boardman was trying to get his sleeve free and Aaron wanted to hold it but he was still too light. Boardman moved away and Aaron slid after him.

  “For chrissakes, Fire, cut it out.”

  “Please.”

  “Fire—”

  “Please.” Aaron had his sleeve again and now there was strength in his fingers. Not full, not yet, but it was coming. “Please.”

  “I don’t want to call a waiter, so—”

  “Please. Please.”

  “Let go before—”

  “Please.”

  “For the last time—”

  “Please. Please! PLEASE! YOU SON OF A BITCH, I SAID PLEASE! DIDN’T YOU HEAR ME? DIDN’T YOU HEAR ME? I said PLEASE!” And then he was up, Aaron on the move, running down the long, long room, running by the candles that had danced for him, by the movie actor and the agent and the financier-general, away from all the people, all the pretty people, the pretty sweet people, running, running until at last he was free and clear and out on the street and alone.

  Without his manuscript.

  Aaron stopped on the sidewalk. His precious manuscript. Beautiful Autumn. In there. With Boardman. Who’d tear it up. Flush it away some place. No. Steal it. That’s what he’d do. Steal it and claim it was his own. Autumn Wells, a novel by David Boardman.

  Aaron spun, backtracked to Adela’s door, threw it open. The head-waiter hurried quickly to meet him, but Aaron brushed by, took a step, only the headwaiter moved around him, confronting him again.

  “Something?” the headwaiter said.

  Aaron stood at one end of the restaurant, staring down the candle rows to Boardman, who sat where he was, drinking coffee. Aaron took a long step toward him, the headwaiter still at his side, but even as he moved Aaron realized his error.

  They were looking at him.

  All of them, all the pretty people, they were staring, tittering behind their fine linen napkins, pointing at him with their fine silver forks. Whispers in the room. The long aisle was a cage in a zoo. He was in the cage, he, Aaron Fire, was in a cage and they were all watching the funny animal as it limped along.

  Aaron could feel his face flame. He blinked, tried to smile. “Just a joke,” he muttered as best he could. “Just a little joke between Dave and me.” But they wouldn’t stop looking at him. They wouldn’t stop whispering. Pointing at the funny limping animal. No pity. None. But plenty of soft laughter. The sound drummed. Aaron took another step, the head-waiter escorting him still, joined now by another flunky, a short man, but broad, with a face that was not kind. Aaron tried to ignore them, fumbling in his shirt pocket for his cigarettes, but his wet hands could not grasp securely and as the pack slipped a wave of laughter grew, building as the pack hit the floor, spilling cigarettes across the red rug. Never had he heard such laughter, never before. Never again will you laugh at me, never again will you be afforded the chance of laughing at me. I promise you. I promise you all. At the end of the room Boardman waited, half smiling, half not. Boardman gestured and suddenly Aaron’s escorts paused, allowing him to travel the final steps alone, closer to Boardman, ten feet, eight feet, five.

  Aaron smiled at the editor and Boardman smiled back, but Aaron saw the panic in his eyes. And you’re right, friend David. Because if I never do another thing in my great life, I am going to repay you. For every slight, every indignity, you will writhe and scream and pray for my forgiveness.

  “I forgot the manuscript.”

  “Oh, so you did. Here.”

  “Thanks.” Please, Aaron, dear God, Aaron, no more, Aaron, on my broken knees I beg, no more, Aaron, great Aaron, mighty Aaron, Aaron Almighty Aar—

  Aaron tripped.

  As he was turning away from the table, the manuscript tight in his hands, he tripped, falling sharply, the pages spilling away from him. Boardman hurried down to help, but Aaron pushed him away—“I’ll get you for this, you wait, you see”—and he scrambled solo after the pretty pages while the laughter enveloped him again but now he had nothing left, no reservoir of revenge, so he could only grab and pluck the pages from the red rug to his pale hands and then push himself up again, the beautiful book a ball of paper now, beautiful no more. Aaron lurched to his feet and, clutching the ball tight against his stomach, staggered between the candles, trying not to hear what was going on around him.

  Aaron screamed.

  The laughter died.

  But somebody started hiccuping. It accompanied his final plunge down the long room, the hiccuping, and he finally groped for freedom, as he shoved his shoulder against the final door, as the sunlight hit him, it was the last thing he heard, the ultimate unerasable sound.

  A hiccup.

  Part IV

  XVII

  EARLY ONE EVENING, A month after the start of their confusion, Jenny sat in her apartment waiting for the buzzer to sound. She was nervous and excited and she finished combing her hair, looked at herself, shook her head, mussed her ha
ir with both hands, then started to comb it all over again. She had never, not once in all her life, really liked her hair. Jenny sighed, glancing across the bed to the alarm clock. It was five after six, which meant that Charley was five minutes later than usual, which in turn meant that he probably suspected someone was following him. Whenever they finished work at Kingsway, Jenny always came straight to her apartment, but Charley always walked, for half an hour, window shopping until he was sure no one was following him, until he felt it was reasonable to taxi to her place. “Reasonable” was Charley’s word; he was terribly suspicious, except that he claimed he wasn’t, so sometimes she would imitate how she imagined he must look on his postwork walk: a desperately innocent figure slinking along Madison Avenue with his hat. pulled over his eyes. Charley would laugh then and kiss her for her mimicry, but he still insisted on walking for thirty minutes, rain or shine. He loved for her to imitate him, and she enjoyed acting him; it was one of their best jokes, except that Jenny didn’t think it was all that funny. She begrudged him his half-hour walk. Because he usually left her by nine, always by ten, and she could never quite learn to enjoy those moments after his departure when she was alone. Suddenly. Again.

  The buzzer sounded.

  Jenny dashed across the room, buzzed back. She straightened her skirt, said “to hell with you” to her hair, grabbed the package and opened the front door as far as the chain lock would permit. She stood pressed against the door till she heard footsteps. Then she said, “Is that you, X-9?”

  “O.K., O.K.,” Charley whispered. “Open up.”

  “What’s the password?”

  “You really think you’re funny, don’t you?”

  “I think I’m adorable.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “That’s the password,” Jenny said, and she unlocked the door and held out the package and said, “Surprise.”

  Charley looked at the package. It was small and rectangular and wrapped in white paper with a red bow. He took it in his hand and closed the door and kissed her. “Thank you.” He hung his coat over a chair and loosened his tie.