The Paper Dragon

8

It was a cast-iron day, bitter and brooding, with fierce winds lashing the streets, and dark clouds menacing the city. Sometime during the night the temperature had plummeted to six above zero, and the freshly fallen snow had hardened to form a thick, impenetrable crust. By morning, the situation had scarcely improved, the temperature hovering in the teens, the wind keening over ice-covered streets, solemn clouds above threatening further snow.

The courtroom was sunless and dim. Gusts of wind shuddered along the length of each long high window, rattling the panes. A cold hard light streamed through the windows, draining the wood-paneled walls of their luster, tinting the room and its occupants a solemn gray. Even Chester Danton, pink-faced and pink-pated, seemed to lose some of his high flushed color as his name was called and he walked from the jury box to the witness chair. Jonah watched him as he moved into the aura of harsh light spilling through the windows. He was a rotund little man with fierce black eyebrows and a hooked nose. He wore a brown suit, and he walked with a rolling gait, pausing and then pulling up his trouser leg to preserve the crease as he climbed onto the stand and turned to face the clerk. Jonah's wrist was hurting him. Tiny darts of pain radiated from the bones into his arm, triggering memories of the accident, and then of Sally, and then of the little Egyptian and his flaring anger against the man, his murderous anger. In the jury box, James Driscoll sat with his wife, both of them intently watching Danton as he raised his hand preparatory to taking the oath.

"… whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

"I do," Danton said.

Jonah massaged his right wrist, and then rose from behind the defense table to walk toward Danton, who sat expectantly, his bushy brows lowered, his dark eyes glowering beneath them.

"What do you do for a living, Mr. Danton?" he asked.

"I work for Mitchell-Campbell Books."

"What do you do there?"

"I'm an editor."

"And your title?"

"Executive vice-president."

"Did you work for Mitchell-Campbell in July of 1962?"

"I did."

"In the same capacity?"

"Yes, sir."

"Had you ever heard of James Driscoll before July of 1962?"

"No, sir."

"Or seen any of his work?"

"No, sir."

"When was the first time you saw anything written by James Driscoll?"

"In July of 1962."

"What was this writing?"

"A hundred pages of a novel in progress, together with an outline of the remainder of the novel."

"And the title?"

"The Enemy."

Jonah nodded and walked back to the defense table. Norman handed him a sheet of paper which he carried back to the witness chair with him. "Mr. Danton, would you look at this, please?" he said, and offered the sheet to Danton, who glanced at it summarily, and then looked up at Jonah again.

"Would you please tell the Court what this is," Jonah said.

"It's an editorial report form used by Mitchell-Campbell Books."

"Was it in use in 1962?"

"Yes, and still is."

"In this identical style and shape?"

"Yes, identical."

"What is its purpose?"

"There are a great many people at Mitchell-Campbell who read manuscripts. Each person so doing is required to record his or her reaction to the manuscript on a form such as this one."

"Does this particular form refer to a specific manuscript?"

"Yes, it refers to James Driscoll's partial novel The Enemy, and it is dated July 12, 1962. The novel came in over the transom and was sent directly to me, and this is my first report on it."

"By 'over the transom' you mean…"

"I mean it was simply mailed to Mitchell-Campbell Books, without being addressed to any specific person in the company."

"Is it usual for a manuscript to come immediately to the attention of an executive vice-president?"

"No, the first readings are usually made by others in the company. But I had edited several war novels for the firm, and it was assumed I would have special interest in a novel of this sort. I imagine that's why it was directed to me."

"You said a hundred pages…"

"I see the number of pages is listed in the report. It was ninety-eight pages."

"Of a novel titled The Enemy."

"Yes."

"Did this later become The Paper Dragon?"

"Yes, sir."

"I would like to offer this in evidence," Jonah said, and handed a copy of the report to Brackman.

Brackman glanced at it, and then said, "I do not see its relevance, your Honor."

"If your Honor please—"

"We already know that it's a report on Mr. Driscoll's novel. I don't see—"

"The plaintiff has claimed, your Honor, that The Paper Dragon was pirated from the play Catchpole. By tracing the development of the book, I intend to show that there was independent creation."

"Is this offer being made. " McIntyre began.

"This offer, your Honor, is being made to show that there were no special or mysterious circumstances surrounding the submission, the editing, or the subsequent development of the novel written by James Driscoll. We have already heard that the book came in 'over the transom,' addressed to no specific person in the company, and that it was treated as any other submission might have been, in accordance with the normal business procedure at Mitchell-Campbell Books."

"Mr. Brackman may wish you to explore this 'normal business procedure,' " McIntyre said.

"No, that won't be necessary," Brackman said. "I am ready to concede that editorial reports are the normal business of a publishing firm."

"Very well," McIntyre said.

"I am not objecting to whether or not this was normal procedure."

"What is your objection, Mr. Brackman?"

"Only that it is irrelevant, your Honor."

"Well, I will admit the report," McIntyre said. "Is it dated, Mr. Willow?"

"It is, your Honor. The date on it is July 12, 1962, but the content of the report states that the manuscript was received on July ninth."

"Mark it 'Defendants' Exhibit C,' " the clerk said.

"You have stated that you wrote this report," Jonah said.

"Yes," Danton replied.

"What did you do with the manuscript after you wrote this report?"

"I sent it to Miss Anita Lang."

"Who is Miss Lang?"

"She's an editor at Mitchell-Campbell Books."

"You sent it to her for her opinion?"

"Yes, and for subsequent transmittal to Mr. Campbell for a final decision."

"What was your opinion?"

"I felt we should publish the book."

"Did Miss Lang make a report on the book?"

"She did."

"I ask you to look at this, Mr. Danton, and tell me what it is."

Danton took the extended sheet of paper, glanced at it, and said, "This is Miss Lang's report on the book, and I see that Mr. Campbell has indicated on it that he is to see the manuscript at once. The report is dated July 16th."

"You are familiar with Mr. Campbell's handwriting?"

"I am. That's his handwriting."

"And is this paper the actual editorial report made by Miss Lang?"

"It is."

"A report which, similar to yours, was part of the normal business procedure at Mitchell-Campbell Books."

"Yes, sir. We regularly get several opinions on any book thought to be a publishing possibility."

"I offer it in evidence," Jonah said.

"I object as before," Brackman said.

"Overruled," McIntyre answered.

"Mark it 'Defendants' Exhibit D in evidence' " the clerk said.

"Was the manuscript eventually sent on to Mr. Campbell, together with the reports by yourself and Miss Lang?"

"That's right."

"Did Mr. Campbell subsequently comment on the novel?"

"He did."

"Incidentally, is this 'Mr. Campbell' the president of Mitchell-Campbell Books — Leonard Campbell?"

"Yes."

"I ask you to look at this, Mr. Danton, and tell me what it is."

"It's the memorandum Mr. Campbell sent to me after he read the Driscoll novel."

"I offer it in evidence."

"Objection."

"Overruled."

"Mark it 'Defendants' Exhibit E in evidence.' "

"Now, Mr. Danton, I would like you to refer to Miss Lang's report on the novel. There's a paragraph in it that's marked with a pencil and then with the words 'Good suggestion.' Do you see that paragraph?"

"Just a moment," Danton said. He reached into his jacket pocket, took out a pair of eyeglasses, and settled them on the bridge of his nose. Then he studied the report and said, "Yes, I have it now."

"Can you identify the handwriting in the margin?"

"I can. It's my handwriting."

"Would you read that paragraph to the court, and explain what you meant by your penciled comment?"

Danton cleared his throat and then began reading. " 'However, one thing that does not seem well-motivated (in this initial segment, at least) is Colman's instantaneous dislike of the hero, which triggers the squad's subsequent resistance to his attempts at reaching them. Since the novel gathers its impetus from the Colman-Cooper conflict, I found it implausible that these men would be so immediately antagonistic to each other. Can't there be a stronger motivation for their hatred? It seems to me this certainly requires deeper thought from Driscoll.' " Danton looked up. "That's the second paragraph of her report," he said. "And in the margin, as you pointed out, I scribbled the words 'Good suggestion,' and of course initialed it 'CD' for Chester Danton."

"You agreed with Miss Lang that there was not sufficient motivation for hating the lieutenant?"

"Yes, I agreed with her, as I indicated in my marginal note."

"The novel did not contain this motivation?"

"Not when we first received it."

"Does it now?"

"Yes, it does."

"Was it Miss Lang's suggestion that this motivation be added?"

"Yes."

"And was it added?"

"Yes."

"In what way?"

"I suggested to Mr. Driscoll that perhaps the squad's attachment to their previous commanding officer made them unable to accept his replacement."

"When did you make this suggestion?"

"I don't remember the exact date. It was certainly during our first meeting about the book."

"Whose first meeting?"

"The first editorial meeting I had with Mr. Driscoll."

"Did you enlarge upon the suggestion in any way?"

"Yes. I proposed the idea that the former commanding officer be a major who'd been killed by a sniper."

"This was your suggestion?"

"Yes."

"Did this major exist in the novel when it was first delivered to you?"

"No, sir, he was not in the novel."

"He was added after you met Mr. Driscoll?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you aware that the plaintiff claims as a specific similarity the fact that a man is killed by a sniper in his play, and a man is killed by a sniper in Mr. Driscoll's novel?"

"Yes, I am aware of that."

"But you have just testified that the man being killed by a sniper was your idea and not Mr. Driscoll's."

"That is correct."

"Did you ever see the play Catchpole when it was produced in New York?"

"I did not."

"It was produced in October of 1947, opening on the 14th, and closing on the 25th. Can you tell us where you were at that time?"

"Yes, sir. I was in England."

"Doing what?"

"I was handling subsidiary rights for Mitchell-Campbell at that time, and part of my duties involved arranging for the foreign publication of titles on our list. I went to England at the beginning of October that year, and I did not return until November 28th."

"You were out of the United States from October 1st to November 28th, is that correct?"

"October 3rd, I believe it was."

"And did not see the production of Mr. Constantine's play?"

"I did not see Mr. Constantine's play."

"Prior to the beginning of this action, had you ever read Catchpole?"

"No, sir."

"Had you ever met or heard of the plaintiff, Arthur Constantine?"

"No, sir."

"Did anyone other than yourself have anything to do with the editing of James Driscoll's book?"

"Outside of these several memorandums from Miss Lang and Mr. Campbell, the editor-author relationship was solely between Mr. Driscoll and me."

"And so it was you alone who suggested that the major be killed by a sniper, and that the squad's attachment to him form the basis of their subsequent hatred of Lieutenant Alex Cooper."

"Yes, sir, the suggestion was mine alone."

"Did you have any other editorial suggestions to make?"

"Well, the remarkable thing about the book was that it was so good and so fully realized that there were very few suggestions an editor could make."

"Your Honor," Brackman said, "the answer is unresponsive."

"Mr. Danton…"

"I made very few editorial comments, except for suggesting a new title."

"What was the title on the manuscript as it was submitted?"

"The Enemy."

"Were any other titles subsequently considered?"

"Yes. One suggestion was The Other Enemy, but this was discarded."

"Who suggested that the title be changed to The Paper Dragon?"

"I did."

"You made this suggestion directly to Mr. Driscoll?"

"I did."

"When was that?"

"I don't recall the exact date. We'd been trying for a new title all along, and I believe the idea for this one came to me while Jimmy was still working on the book. I called him, and we discussed it on the telephone."

"What was the nature of the discussion?"

"The discussion concerned the theme of the book. It has since been universally accepted as an indictment of the United States Army, a bitter treatise against war. It seemed to me, however, that this was not Mr. Driscoll's intention. I thought he was attempting to show that—"

"Your Honor, Mr. Willow earlier objected to the relevancy of what a writer was attempting to show as opposed to what he actually did show. I make the same objection now."

"Mr. Danton is repeating a discussion he had with Mr. Driscoll. I believe the title of the book pertains to the theme, your Honor, and as such is relevant."

"Overruled. Proceed, Mr. Willow."

"You were saying, Mr. Danton?"

"That Jimmy… Mr. Driscoll did not perhaps realize what the real theme of his book was. This very often happens with writers. It seemed to me, though, that this was a book about, well, I deplore cliches, but it was certainly a book about man's inhumanity to man. When I suggested this to Jimmy, he seemed surprised. But it was then that I suggested The Other Enemy, meaning not the enemy enemy, but the enemy that is in all men, do you see?"

"How did the idea for the present title come to you?"

"The Paper Dragon?"

"Yes."

"The term 'paper dragon' is familiar to host writers and editors. It's used to denote a story problem that is really nonexistent."

"Would you explain further?"

"Well, let's assume a man comes home reeking of perfume. His wife immediately suspects that he has been seeing another woman, and this creates the conflict, which in turn provokes a series of plot complications, and at last a resolution. The explanation, of course, is that the man had been buying perfume for his wife, and the salesgirl sprayed a little on him — in short, a paper dragon, a nonexistent problem. If the wife had come right out and asked her husband about it, and if he had explained, there would be no conflict, and of course no story."

"A paper dragon is, then, a nonexistent problem or conflict."

"Yes. But this doesn't prevent a lot of people from becoming energetically involved in the series of events it triggers. It's a specious literary device."

"Why did you suggest this title for Mr. Driscoll's novel?"

"I suggested it on various levels. To begin with, his novel deals with that period of time when the Chinese were coming into Korea in force, and I thought the title would indicate that the book was, after all, about war with the Chinese. Secondly, using it in an allusive sense, I thought it would indicate that the Chinese army was only a paper dragon, whereas the real enemy, the real dragon was man's innate cruelty. And lastly, I thought it would clearly label Colman's fake and private war against our hero, the conflict he constructs out of whole cloth, the way he turns the other men against Cooper, the whole chain of events based on a problem that need not have existed in the first place, a paper dragon."

"And what happened when you suggested this title to Mr. Driscoll?"

"He liked it"

"And it was decided that this title would be used on the published novel?"

"Yes."

"To get back for a moment, after your first talk with Mr. Driscoll — you said it was in July of 1962 — did you then offer him a contract for the publication of his novel?"

"Yes."

"Is this the contract you sent to him?"

"It is."

"I offer the contract in evidence, your Honor."

"For what purpose, Mr. Willow?"

"To show that the book was only partially completed when submitted to Mitchell-Campbell. The contract clearly states that the company is in receipt of only ninety-eight pages and an outline, and if further specifies that the completed novel is to be delivered by January 1, 1963, and will consist of some eighty-thousand words."

"Mr. Brackman?"

"No objection."

"Received."

"Defendants' Exhibit F received in evidence," the clerk said.

"Mr. Danton, did you in November of 1962 send Mr. Driscoll a company questionnaire?"

"I did."

"Did he return the questionnaire to you, and is this the questionnaire?"

"Yes, this is what he filled out in November of '62."

"Is it signed by him?"

"No, we don't require a signature on these questionnaires. They're used only to get information which we'll need later for promotion and publicity. Most books, as you know, carry biographical information about the author, either on the jacket flap or on the last page of the book, or both. These questionnaires are helpful to the person preparing the copy. And, too, we need information for newspaper publicity, anecdotes about the writer, his educational background, honors he may have received, and so forth."

"Are these questionnaires sent to every author on Mitchell-Campbell's list?"

"They are."

"As a part of the normal business procedure?"

"As a part of the normal business procedure."

"I offer it in evidence, your Honor."

"No objection."

"Mark it 'Defendants' Exhibit G in evidence.' "

"Mr. Danton, I ask you to recall now any further editorial suggestions you may have made concerning Mr. Driscoll's novel. Did you, for example, make any suggestion about the use of profanity?"

"Yes, I did. There was a scene in which Lieutenant Cooper met his fellow officers, and it seemed to me the profanity in that scene was excessive."

"I show you a second editorial memorandum with the initials 'CD' and I ask you now to describe it to the Court."

"Well, this is my comment… the report I wrote after the completed novel was delivered to me. It's dated February 4, 1963, and it mentions the fact that my earlier editorial suggestions had been successfully incorporated into the novel."

"Does it make any comments about further changes?"

"Yes, it does."

"Would you tell us what those comments are?"

"I'll simply read the last two paragraphs of the report, which are the only parts pertaining to your question. 'If anything, Driscoll has delivered a better novel than the portion and outline promised. His enlargement upon the slain major, for example, with the subsequent homosexual development of Private Colman is inventive and fresh, and completely satisfies our request for stronger motivation. I am, to be truthful, overwhelmed by the depth and scope of this novel, and it's only because the book is so good, in fact, that I bring up what might seem a carping point. I refer to the profanity. This is a realistic war novel, of course, and the combat setting and soldier-characters make the inevitable Anglo-Saxonisms essential to the tone and the very structure. But it seems to me they can be softened somewhat in the scenes where they are used arbitrarily — as in the officers' mess scene — if only to mollify some of the more militant scenes. Elsewhere, I'm afraid we can't do very much about the language because excising the four-letter words would damage the authentic sound of the entire work. One excellent scene, for example, where the men are ostensibly involved in the field-stripping of a rifle, would lose all of its sexual connotations if the language were even slightly changed.' And here, penciled in the margin alongside that paragraph, is a note dated February fifteenth, and stating that these points had been taken care of. Do you want me to go on with the next paragraph of the report?"

"Please."

"Again, I'm quoting: 'In my opinion, the last chapter is anticlimactic especially when placed in juxtaposition to the enormously effective penultimate chapter. The book needs a coda more than it does anything else, perhaps a short scene between Colman and the nurse. I have no doubt that Driscoll can come up with something to fill the bill. He has up to now delivered beyond our highest expectations. We have a fine novel here, and it's by a writer who is only thirty-three years old and who will, I am certain, go on writing many more excellent books. I feel we've made a true discovery.' That's the end of the report."

"Was the final chapter changed after you wrote your report?"

"Yes."

"And were there also subsequent changes?"

"I would guess so. Every book we publish goes through a subtle process of evolution during the copy editing and styling. Small changes are inevitable."

"I offer this report in evidence, your Honor."

"Is it dated?"

"It is dated February 4, 1963, and a note at the bottom of the report states, 'All revisions completed March 6, 1963.' "

"My objection as before, your Honor," Brackman said.

"Overruled."

"Mark it 'Defendants' Exhibit H in evidence,' " the clerk said.

"Now Mr. Danton, you had by March 6, 1963, a completed manuscript of James Driscoll's book, had you not?"

"Yes, I had a finished manuscript by that date."

"Did you show it to anyone else working for Mitchell-Campbell?"

"I passed it on to Anita Lang."

"Did she subsequently make a report on it?"

"Yes."

"Is this the report?"

Danton took the extended sheet of paper, glanced at it, and said, "This is Anita's report."

"I offer in evidence Miss Lang's second report."

"Objection as before."

"Overruled."

"Mark it 'Defendants' Exhibit I in evidence."

"Would you please look at the next to last paragraph of the report where Miss Lang writes, 'It seems to me that the two flashbacks revealing segments of Private Colman's civilian life are extraneous. They advance neither theme nor plot and seem particularly obvious since we do not have similar civilian flashbacks for any of the other soldiers.' When The Paper Dragon was published, were these two flashbacks still in the book?"

"No, sir, they were not."

"They were deleted after Miss Lang made her report?"

"Yes, sir, they were."

"Who transmitted the request to Mr. Driscoll?"

"I did."

"In the last paragraph of her report, Miss Lang writes, 'Don't you feel we need another scene between Coop and the nurse to show how the squad's pressure on him is beginning to affect his behavior elsewhere?' In the margin, we have the penciled words, 'Fine, will do,' and the initials 'CD.' Did you write that in the margin?"

"I did."

"Was another scene between Coop and the nurse added to the book?"

"I don't remember, but I would imagine so. If Miss Lang made the suggestion, and I indicated it would be taken care of, then I'm sure I passed the request on to Jimmy. He was very receptive to most editorial suggestions, so I would say it was likely he added this scene as well."

"Before the book was finally published — what was its publication date, by the way, Mr. Danton?"

"October of 1963."

"When would you estimate you had a manuscript ready to go to the printers?"

"I would imagine some six months before then. That would be…"

"That would be…"

"In May, I would…"

"April, wouldn't it?"

"April or May, yes. We like at least six months' time for our salesmen to get on the road with a book."

"When did API see the book, would you know that?"

"Well, Mr. Driscoll took on an agent shortly after we contracted for the book, and I think his agent began showing it to the motion picture companies when it was still in galleys."

"Did API buy it from the galley proofs?"

"Yes."

"Would you know how much they paid for the motion picture rights?"

"Thirty-five thousand dollars."

"How much of that went to Mr. Driscoll's agent?"

"Ten per cent. Thirty-five hundred dollars."

"And how much went to Mitchell-Campbell Books?"

"Our contract called for twenty-five per cent of all subsidiary rights."

"You received twenty-five per cent of what was left after Mr. Driscoll's agent took his commission?"

"No. Our twenty-five per cent came off the top."

"In other words, you received a quarter of thirty-five thousand dollars?"

"That's right."

"You received eight thousand, seven hundred and fifty dollars?"

"That's correct."

"And Mr. Driscoll's agent received thirty-five hundred dollars, which means that Mr. Driscoll was left with twenty-two thousand, seven hundred and fifty dollars."

"If your addition is correct."

"I think it is."

"I'll accept it."

"That was his share of the sale of motion picture rights to his novel."

"Yes."

"The novel that later earned millions of dollars for API."

"Objection, your Honor. I do not see…"

"Sustained. Where are you going, Mr. Willow?"

"I am merely trying to show, your Honor, that Mr. Driscoll's alleged 'theft' hardly seemed to be worth all the trouble. The only ones who made any real money out of this supposed plagiarism were the people who made the movie."

"Your Honor," Brackman said, "I think a sum in excess of twenty-two thousand dollars can be considered 'real money.' Men have robbed banks for less."

"I quite agree, Mr. Brackman," McIntyre said. "I think we've had enough of this, Mr. Willow, and I see no point in pursuing it further."

"Getting back then," Jonah said with a sigh, "before publication, did you talk to Mr. Driscoll about anything in the book that might later prove troublesome?"

"Yes, we always do, as a matter of routine."

"Can you explain what you mean?"

"We're always concerned about the possibility of lawsuits. Invasion of privacy, usually. Or libel. In any work of fiction, there's the danger that someone will identify with a fictitous character and bring suit. We try to make sure that the names of the characters, for example, are not the names of any real people."

"What about telephone numbers?"

"We check those out to make sure they do not correspond to any real numbers in service."

"Did you take such care with Mr. Driscoll's book?"

"Well, there were no telephone numbers involved since the book is set in Korea, as you know. But we did ask Jimmy whether any of the names he used were the actual names of men he may have known during his Army service. He assured us they were not."

"Were any other precautions taken?"

"Yes. At one point in the book, Jimmy mentioned the lieutenant's serial number. The actual numeral appeared in the book, you see."

"Yes?"

"So we wrote to the Army and had them give us a nonexistent serial number we could use."

"I seem to recall a case involving another publisher in which a telephone number in a novel — the number for a house of prostitution — turned out to be a real number for a respectable woman living in New York."

"Yes, that's a well-known story in the trade. We try to be careful of such occurrences."

"So the serial number finally used was nonexistent?"

"Yes. A dummy number supplied by the Army."

"Did you have any similar qualms regarding the use of the digits one-oh-five to label Mr. Driscoll's division?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"We had no reason to believe the 105th was anything but an actual Army division."

"You thought the 105th was a real division?"

"We did."

"Didn't this trouble you?"

"It did not. An Army division consists roughly of eighteen thousand men. Worrying about the designation of such a large unit would be similar to worrying about" the designation of a city the size of Scarsdale."

"Then you never brought up the division number in any of your discussions with Mr. Driscoll?"

"Never. We thought it was one of the real divisions involved in the Ch'ongch'on River fighting, and it never occurred to us that we should try to change history."

"Did Mr. Driscoll ever say it was a real division?"

"He never mentioned it at all."

"Not at any time during any of your discussions?"

"Never."

"Thank you. Mr. Danton, how long have you been an editor?"

"I've been with Mitchell-Campbell Books since my discharge from the Navy in 1946. I was hired to handle subsidiary rights for the firm, but I began editorial work in, oh, it must have been '48 or '49. I've been an editor since that time."

"As part of your job, are you called upon to pass literary judgment on manuscripts submitted to the company?"

"I am."

"Mr. Danton, have you in this past week read the play Catchpole?"

"I have read it, yes."

"Mr. Willow," Brackman said, "I haven't objected until now to these leading questions — but I can't remain silent when you first supply your witness with a date, and only afterwards ask him if he read the play."

"Forgive me," Jonah said. "Have you read the play Catchpole, Mr. Danton?"

"I have."

"When did you first read it?"

"I read it last week. Last Tuesday night."

"Where did you obtain a copy of the play?"

"You gave it to me."

"Did I ask you to read it?"

"You did."

"Do you have any editorial opinion on it?"

"Objection. Mr. Danton's opinion of the play is immaterial."

"Your Honor," Jonah said, "the testimony of an expert on such matters, a man who has been an editor for more than twenty years, would certainly seem relevant to me. As with my earlier offer, I am merely attempting to ascertain whether or not anyone would want to steal this play."

"Your Honor…"

"Please," McIntyre said. "What earlier offer do you mean, Mr. Willow? The newspaper reviews of Catchpole?"

"If your Honor please."

"Mr. Brackman?"

"The quality of this play does not go to the question of plagiarism, your Honor. On Monday, Mr. Willow remarked that many well-known works have been plagiarized in the past, and he cited Abie's Irish Rose as a prime example. I'm sure his reversal of the facts was inadvertent, but nevertheless the plagiarism was charged against Abie's Irish Rose, which was purported to have been stolen from an unknown property. Point of fact, I think we all must realize that no one in his right mind would try to steal from a famous book or play — unless he was intent on being exposed and brought to justice. Moreover, with all due respect to Mr. Danton's abilities, I hardly think he is the man to pass judgment on Mr. Constantine's play."

"If he has a qualified editorial opinion…"

"I do not see where his opinion, qualified or otherwise—"

"I will exclude it, Mr. Willow," McIntyre said.

"In that case, your Honor, I have no further questions."

"Very well."

Brackman rose from behind his table, consulted a list of notes he had made, put the notes on the table again, and walked slowly toward the witness chair.

"We know each other, don't we, Mr. Danton?" he asked conversationally.

"We met at the pretrial examination, yes."

"How are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

Brackman nodded, and smiled. "Mr. Danton," he said, "I'd like to go over these editorial changes you just told us about. Would that be all right with you?"

"Yes, certainly."

"To begin with, you suggested the title The Paper Dragon, is that right?"

"Not to begin with. That came much later."

"I didn't mean chronologically, Mr. Danton."

"What did you mean?"

"Was it or was it not one of your editorial suggestions?"

"It was."

"And another of your suggestions was that the squad be provided with a stronger motivation for its dislike of Lieutenant Cooper?"

"I suggested that a major—"

"Please answer the question."

"Yes, that was another of my suggestions."

"And yet another concerned the use of profanity in the officer's mess scene?"

"Correct."

"And the deletion of flashbacks showing the civilian background of Private Colman?"

"Yes."

"You also suggested that a final chapter be written…"

"Yes."

"… between Lieutenant Cooper and the nurse Jan Reardon."

"No. Not between—"

"I quote from your own Exhibit I, where Miss Lang said, 'Don't you feel we need another scene between Coop and the nurse. ' "

"Yes, but—"

" '… to show how the squad's pressure on him is beginning—' "

"Yes, but that was not a suggestion for the final chapter. That was earlier on in the book, a scene set in the hospital."

"But you agreed with her comment?"

"Yes, I did."

"And suggested the change to Mr. Driscoll?"

"Yes. As well as suggesting a better last chapter."

"These were two separate changes, is that it?"

"Yes, I thought I'd made that clear."

"It's clear now, thank you. Do you consider these changes important?"

"Which changes?"

"All of them."

"They were important to the full realization of Mr. Driscoll's book, yes."

"What do you mean by that?"

"The book was potentially excellent. I believe the changes helped Mr. Driscoll to realize that potential. Yes, the changes were important."

"During your pretrial examination, Mr. Danton, you mentioned only two editorial suggestions which you considered important: the change of title and the profanity. You weren't trying to mislead me, were you?"

"I certainly was not!"

"You just didn't remember these three or four other suggestions, is that it?"

"Yes, of course that's…"

"Which you now consider as important as the others? Important to the full realization of Mr. Driscoll's book?"

"I've had a chance to reread The Paper Dragon since then, and to remember…"

"Yes, but at the pretrial, you did not recall these other suggestions when we asked you about them, did you?"

"No, not at the time."

"Your Honor," Jonah said, rising, "I do not see…"

"He is examining the witness as to credibility, Mr. Willow, and I will allow it," McIntyre said.

"I call your attention now to the following question in your pretrial examination: 'Mr. Danton, would you say that the editing—' "

"Excuse me, Mr. Brackman," Jonah said.

"This is page 21," Brackman said over his shoulder.

"Thank you."

"And the question was, 'Mr. Danton, would you say that the editing of a book is a process of offering the suggestions and opinions of others to an author for possible assimilation into the work?' and your answer was, 'Basically, yes.' And further down on that same page, Mr. Danton, you were asked, 'Did suggestions concerning The Paper Dragon originate entirely with you?' and your answer was, 'No, some of the suggestions originated elsewhere in the company.' I ask you now, Mr. Danton, where else in the company these suggestions originated?"

"They came from Miss Anita Lang, as I testified earlier."

"You also testified earlier, Mr. Danton, that — and I quote — 'the editor-author relationship was solely between Mr. Driscoll and me.' Do you recall that?"

"I said it was between Jimmy and me except for the memorandums…"

"Solely between Mr. Driscoll and yourself."

"I also mentioned the memorandums," Danton said.

"Your Honor," Jonah said, rising, "I believe Mr. Brackman is attempting to fuse two separate answers…"

"I repeat his answer," Brackman said. " 'The editor-author relationship was solely between—' "

"Yes, the personal relationship," Jonah said.

"Was it or was it not an exclusive relationship?"

"Should I answer that?" Danton asked.

"Please," McIntyre said.

"It was the only personal relationship."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that I was the only editor at Mitchell-Campbell who transmitted suggestions for change to Mr. Driscoll."

"Including suggestions for change that might have originated elsewhere?"

"Yes."

"Do you know for a fact, Mr. Danton, that no one at Mitchell-Campbell Books saw or read the play Catchpole before the publication of The Paper Dragon?"

Danton hesitated.

"Mr. Danton?"

"No, I do not know that for a fact."

"Do you know for a fact that Miss Anita Lang did not see or read the play?"

"No, I do not know that for a fact, either. But Miss Lang is only—"

"You have answered the question."

"I would like to explain…"

"Your Honor…"

"I will hear the witness," McIntyre said.

"I would like to explain that Anita Lang is a very young woman. In fact, she couldn't have been more than twenty-two or three when The Paper Dragon first came to us. She must have been seven or eight years old when Catchpole was produced in New York, so I hardly think she could have seen the play, unless her mother took her to it in a baby carriage."

"Do you know for a fact that she did not read the play?"

"No, I don't."

"Mr. Danton, I call your attention to a report of your own, Defendants' Exhibit H, in which you said, and I quote: 'We have a fine novel here, and it's by a writer who is only thirty-three years old and who will, I am certain, go on writing many more excellent books. I feel we've made a true discovery.' This was dated February 4th, and the notation that all the points were cleared up is dated March 6, 1963. I ask you now, Mr. Danton, whether James Driscoll has delivered any other manuscript to you since that time?"

"He has not."

"To your knowledge, Mr. Danton, is he presently at work on another book?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"To your knowledge, Mr. Danton, had he ever written anything prior to the novel called The Paper Dragon?"

"I believe it was his first novel."

"Was it in fact his first published work of fiction?"

"I don't know."

"I call your attention to Defendants' Exhibit G, the questionnaire sent by Mitchell-Campbell Books to James Driscoll, and I refer you to the section asking the author to list his previous works. Would you please read Mr. Driscoll's answer to the Court?"

"He says, 'I have never had anything published before.' "

"Do you accept the statement in this questionnaire?"

"I do."

"He would have had no reason to falsify an answer to that question?"

"Mr. Driscoll is not a man who falsifies anything."

"Then Mitchell-Campbell Books accepted his statement that The Paper Dragon was the first work of fiction he had ever published."

"Yes, Mitchell-Campbell Books accepted the statement."

"In other words, Mr. Danton, The Paper Dragon in addition to being the first thing Mr. Driscoll ever had published, is also the only thing he has ever published."

"That's correct."

"Thank you, Mr. Danton."

"Is that all?"

"That's all, thank you."

"Are you through, Mr. Brackman?"

"Yes, your Honor."

"Mr. Genitori? Any further questions?"

"No, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Danton. I'd like to recess for lunch now."

"This Court will reconvene at two p.m.," the clerk said.

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"This is Arthur."

"Oh, hello, son where are you?"

"Downtown, in the courthouse. I'm in the hall here. In a phone booth."

"What is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did you lose?"

"It's not over yet, Mom."

"When will it be over?"

"Tomorrow, I guess. Or Friday."

"So soon?"

"Yes. Well, you know, it's a pretty simple case."

"Did you tell them?"

"Oh, sure."

"That he stole from you?"

"Sure."

"What did they say?"

"Well, they don't say anything, Mom. I mean, there's only the judge and the people who're involved, you know. So we present our side, and then they present theirs, and that's it."

"Did they ask you questions?"

"Oh, sure."

"And it was all right?"

"Yes, it was fine."

"How's the play?"

"Well, we're still casting it."

"When will it be?"

"When will it go on, do you mean?"

"Yes."

"I don't know."

"Because I want to tell my sister."

"Oh, sure. I'll let you know in plenty of time."

"Good."

"How's Papa?"

"He's in the sun porch, working on his clocks. Shall I call him?"

"No, that's okay."

"You don't want to talk to him?"

"Well, I want to get some lunch, Mom…"

"Anyway, he's busy. You know how he gets when he's taking one of those things apart."

"Sure. Well, give him my love, anyway."

"I will."

"Have you heard from Julie, Mom?"

"Last week. I told you. I got a letter last week."

"I meant since."

"No."

"I'll have to write to her. I owe her a letter."

"Do you know who died?"

"Who?"

"Do you remember Mr. Danucci, he was a housepainter? He always used to chase you kids off the stoop?"

"Sure, I remember him."

"He died Monday."

"What of?"

"In his bed."

"Oh."

"Well, he was an old man. You remember him, don't you?"

"Sure, I remember him."

"Well, he died."

"That's too bad. Well, listen, Mom, I'd better go get some lunch."

"Yes, call me when the trial is over."

"I will."

"Good."

"Give my love to Papa."

"Yes. Goodbye, son."

"Goodbye, Mom."

"Goodbye."

"Hello, Amy?"

"Daddy? Is that you?"

"Yes, sweetheart, how are you?"

"Fine. Why didn't you call Monday night?"

"I got in too late."

"The reason I didn't say to call Tuesday was because we were going on a trip to Philadelphia, to see all that independence craparoo, and I didn't know what time we'd be getting back. So I figured Wednesday would be safe around noon when we have our lunch period."

"Why'd you call, Amy?"

"Did you see the paper?"

"No. Which paper? What do you mean?"

"About Mother."

"No."

"It said she caused another disturbance in a night club."

"Oh?"

"Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"It didn't come right out and say she was drunk, but it made it pretty clear."

"Where'd you get a New York paper?"

"A girl in tenth showed it to me. A friend of mine."

"Some friend."

"She didn't mean any harm."

"Well."

"Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"Will you call her?"

"Why should I?"

"If she's going around getting drunk…"

"No, Amy."

"Please? For me?"

"I'm sorry."

"Daddy, I'll be home Friday, the Christmas vacation starts Friday, that's the sixteenth, and I don't even know if she's picking me up. She hasn't written in weeks. Could you call and ask her?"

"Ask her what?"

"If she'll be at the station. She /s my mother, you know."

"I know that, Amy."

"And I'm worried."

"About what? She's perfectly capable—"

"About her falling down drunk in some damn night club, if you want to know. Can't you call her, Daddy?"

"I'm sorry, Amy."

"I tried to reach her three times last week, but I couldn't get an answer. Nobody even answers. Daddy, please call, won't you?"

"Amy…"

"Please."

"Amy?"

"What?"

"Amy… don't cry."

"I'm not crying."

"Please, honey."

"I'm… not, Daddy."

"I'll call her. Only please don't…"

"Daddy, you don't have to. I know you really…"

"Now stop crying, Amy. Please."

"I'm sorry, Daddy."

"Amy?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine."

"I'll call her."

"Thank you."

"How's… how's everything there at the school?"

"Fine."

"Everything okay?"

"Yes. I got an eight on a Latin test — that's eighty, you know. And we…"

"Yes, I know."

"… won a soccer game against St. Agnes."

"Honey, what time will you be coming in? On Friday, I mean."

"Well, we usually get to Penn Station at about six."

"Would you like me to meet you?"

"Oh, could you, Daddy? I'd love it. Hey, I bought something very nice for you in New Hope."

"I'll be there. Six o'clock Friday, Penn Station."

"Daddy, if the train's late…"

"I'll wait, don't worry. I miss you, Amy."

"Yes."

"Well…"

"You'll call Mother, too, won't you?"

"Sure, honey."

"Thank you."

"I'd better say goodbye now. I've got some people waiting."

"Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"Who's this?"

"Sidney."

"Who?"

"Sidney. Your son."

"Oh, Sidney, Sidney! I thought you said Shirley."

"No, I said Sidney."

"I was wondering how a Shirley could have such a deep voice."

"Yes, well, it's me, Pop."

"What's the matter? You're not coming?"

"No, I'll be there."

"Good. I found some nice things for you, Sidney."

"Oh. Fine."

"I'll show you tomorrow, when I see you."

"Okay. Fine."

"You're coming, aren't you?"

"Yes, certainly. I said I was. Have I ever missed a Thursday."

"Well, I know you have a trial."

"No. I'll be there, don't worry."

"Six o'clock?"

"Six o'clock."

"Some nice things, Sidney."

"What is it? I have a headache."

"I just talked to Amy, and—"

"What does she want this time?"

"Apparently she saw an item about you in—"

"That's true, I was drunk."

"Christie.

"Anything else?"

"Nothing except she was concerned enough to call you three times last week…"

"I haven't been home."

"… and then finally call me in desperation. Now look, Christie, your life is your life…"

"Here it comes."

"… and I don't give a damn what you do with it…"

"But our daughter is our daughter."

"Yes."

"I am fully aware of my responsibility to Amy."

"Then why haven't you written to her?"

"I wrote to her last Tuesday."

"She said she hasn't heard from you in weeks."

"She's lying."

"Amy doesn't lie."

"That's true, I forgot that Amy is a paragon who doesn't lie, cheat, steal, swear, smoke, screw, or—"

"Christie…"

"Christie…"

"Christie, you've…"

"Christie, you've…"

"Christie, you've got a twelve-year-old…"

"… twelve-year-old…"

"… daughter two hundred miles away from home…"

"… away from…"

"Damn you, Christie, cut it out!"

"Jonah?"

"What?"

"Go to hell, Jonah."

"Did you know she'll be coming home Friday?"

"Yes, I knew."

"I told here I'd pick her up at the station. Is that all right?"

"That's fine."

"In the meantime, you might call to let her know you're alive."

"All right, I will. Is that all?"

"That's all."

"Goodbye."

Dris is right, Ebie thought. Nothing in that courtroom is real, it can't be. All of them have their own ideas, the truth is only what they want to believe. Even the judge, even he doesn't know what's real, and he's the one who's supposed to decide. How can he? Does he know what the book is about? None of them do. So how can any of it be real, the courtroom, the conversation here at this table, how can any of it be the slightest bit real?

"I don't think I get you," Jonah said.

"There's no reality in that courtroom," Driscoll answered. "There can't be."

"It seems real enough to me each day," Jonah said. "What do you think, Mrs. Driscoll?"

"I think it's real enough," Ebie answered.

"Anyway, the reality is that you didn't steal his play," Jonah said. "And the further reality is that it's a bad play, and no one would have wanted to steal it."

"Who says it's bad?"

"Jimmy, there's no question about it."

"You mean the critics said it was bad, and the movie companies, and the editorial expert, Chester Danton, right?"

"That's right."

"So that makes it a bad play."

"I would say so."

"Constantine doesn't think so."

"Constantine is mistaken."

"Yes, and the man who produced it was mistaken, too, because he obviously thought it was a good play. And the actors who agreed to play it, they were mistaken as well because they thought it was good. Everyone involved in it was apparently mistaken because the critics came to see it and said it was bad. Tell me something, Jonah. If the Honorable Frank H. McIntyre decides I stole Constantine's play, will that suddenly make it good?"

"You didn't steal it."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Constantine is a bad writer who wrote a bad play. Whatever McIntyre decides, it will still be a bad play. There's your reality, Jimmy."

Reality, she thought.

My first year in New York was real, the school and the small apartment I took on Myrtle Avenue, the elevated trains roaring past the window. And after that, and before I knew James Driscoll existed, reality was a boy named Donald Forbes, who limped. I'm a cripple, he said, okay? You're not a cripple, I insisted. No? Then what? I drag my leg, I limp, I'm a cripple, don't lie to me, Ebie, I'm a goddamn cripple. Holding him in my arms while he wept. He was not a good-looking boy, he reminded me of Phillip Armstrong whose nose had been too long ("I used to have this little turned-up button nose, but I had an operation done to make it long and ugly") and who was always coming down with a cold or something. Donald was that way, thin and looking like one of the hundred neediest, with large pleading Keane eyes. He took to carrying a cane in January because there was such a heavy snow that year, he said. That was just before I began sleeping with him.

"… real or otherwise, that's my point."

"You may be giving him more credit than he's due. I'm still not sure he really thinks you stole it."

"Then why did he bring suit?"

"There's a lot of money involved here, Jimmy."

"There's more than just money involved here. Constantine thinks I stole something that is very valuable to him, no matter what anyone else says about it. He wants credit for his work."

"No. He wants credit for your work."

"What makes my work any better than his?"

"Jimmy, this is a foolish argument. You know The Paper Dragon is far superior to Catchpole. Now why…?"

"We're not in that courtroom to judge the value of the two works, are we?" Driscoll said. "That's why I don't approve of what you were trying to do."

"What was I trying to do?"

"Make him ashamed."

"No," Jonah said.

She had never been ashamed of what she'd done, though of course she lied in her letters home, even in her letters to Miss Benson. And yet she always felt a pang of regret at not having told her the truth, because she was certain Miss Benson would have been the only one to understand. Wasn't this what she and Miss Benson had really discussed on that waning afternoon, wasn't this what Miss Benson had meant by a capacity for giving? In February, when Donald stopped using the cane, she thought she must have known how that Negro lawyer in Atlanta felt when he began sleeping with Miss Benson. If a nigger in the South (and she stopped calling them niggers the moment she realized Donald disapproved of the expression) if a Negro in the South could just once in his life stand up and be counted as a man, be accepted as a man by a woman like Miss Benson, why then maybe he could think of himself as a man from that day forward. And maybe, if they had let him alone, if they had allowed him to give this woman love and to accept it from her in return, if they had not been so desperately threatened by the notion, then maybe he'd have walked proud the rest of his life, without dragging his leg, without limping. But of course they couldn't allow that to happen. No, you see, we can't allow that to happen, Missie, standing in the driveway and talking in low voices to the schoolgirl in her cotton pajamas and robe, we cannot allow it, Missie, you had better get the hell out of Atlanta. Maybe that's what Donald was all about, because she knew without question that she did not love him, and yet she gave him love. And in February he threw away the cane, said the streets weren't as slippery, but she knew. She would watch him combing his hair in the morning, whistling as he studied his own face in the mirror over the sink, and she knew. And she would nod silently, a small smile on her mouth, and think of Miss Benson, and think she should write to her and tell her, thank her, say something to her. But she never did. It would have been too difficult to explain, the way it was impossible to explain later on. Oh not Donald, you could always explain the lovers of your past, especially if they were not really lovers. Though even then, there'd been a scene, my young James Driscoll laying down the law, you will not do this, you will not do that, yes my darling, yes my darling, yes, I love you.

"… that the work is unworthy of piracy, that's all."

"How do you know it is?"

"What are you talking about, Jimmy?"

"Let's suppose for the moment that I did steal his play, okay?"

"I would rather not suppose that."

"It's entirely possible."

"It is not possible," Jonah said firmly.

"I could have seen it in 1947 when they gave out those free tickets to Pratt."

"I don't believe they gave any free tickets to Pratt."

"Constantine testified to it under oath."

"Better men than Constantine have lied under oath."

He's lying now, Ebie thought. He doesn't believe a word of this, he's teasing you, Jonah, playing a game and enjoying every minute of it, the way he enjoyed that first afternoon in Bertie's on DeKalb Avenue, teasing the little Southern girl who had just cut her hair, the way he teased the world with his book, I know what that book is about, James Driscoll.

"Even if I didn't see it at any of those preview performances, why couldn't I have caught it on Broadway? I was eighteen years old in '47, why couldn't I have seen the play? I started going to the theater when I was twelve, you know, used to go every Saturday with my father. Isn't it plausible that a play about the Army might have appealed to me?"

"Not a flop play."

"Maybe I've got a mind of my own, Jonah."

"I'm sure you have."

"Maybe I wanted to form my own opinion, despite what the critics had to say."

"That isn't the Way it works, and you know it."

"Or maybe I read the reviews and decided there was the kernel of something good there. Maybe I went to the theater with a notebook, intent on stealing whatever—"

"And then waited fifteen years to write your book, is that it? You're really an arch-criminal who entered Pratt Institute under the guise of studying art, though really wanting to be a writer all along. You searched the daily reviews to see what you could steal, and your imagination was captured by what you read about Catchpole. So you went there to copy it, realizing you would have to wait fifteen years before you could use the material. Is that it?"

"It's a possibility."

"Dris," Ebie said, "I wish you wouldn't talk this way. Even in jest."

"Ebie thinks I did steal it, you see," Driscoll said, and grinned.

"I think nothing of the sort."

"It's what she thinks, Jonah."

"Not at all."

"Tell the truth, Ebie. You think I stole that play, don't you?"

"You know I don't."

"Come on, Edna Belle, 'fess up."

"Stop it, Dris."

My name is Jimmy Driscoll, he had said. The tables in Bertie's were long and scarred, and she could remember looking away from him, down at the table top, initials in hearts, a group of engineering students singing at the other end of the room, November light filtering through the stained glass behind the tables, the room smelling of beer and steam heat, wet garments hanging on wooden pegs, his eyes were blue, she dared to look up into them. He teased her about her short hair and about her age. He imitated her Southern drawl, and then bought her a second glass of beer, the last of the big spenders, he said, and asked her out for Saturday night. She promptly refused.

You'll be sorry, he said. I'm going to be a famous artist.

Yes, I'm sure.

Come out with me.

No.

"There are good things in that play," Driscoll said. "It's not a good play — but there are things worth stealing in it."

"I wouldn't advise you to say that on the witness stand," Jonah said.

"Why not? I'll be swearing to tell the truth, won't I?"

"Yes, but…"

"You wouldn't want me to lie under oath, would you? Even though better men than Constantine have lied under oath?"

"I'm not enjoying this, Jimmy," Jonah said.

"That's too bad," Driscoll answered. "What am I supposed to do, pretend Constantine is an ogre? Well, I can't. I feel closer to him than I do to you or anyone else in that courtroom. He made something with his hands, he pulled it out of his head and his heart, that play of his, that terrible play, oh yes, unanimously panned and reviled — well, that play is Arthur Constantine, and not just words for lawyers to argue over and judges to decide about. He thinks he was wronged, Jonah, first by all the critics who sat in exalted superiority the way McIntyre is sitting, completely on the outside, the external critics who could find nothing good to say about his ugly'little child. And next by me, who took his miserable bastard and combed its hair and shined its shoes and made a million dollars on it. That's what he thinks and believes, Jonah, and I can understand him better than I can this cold contest between professional assassins, or this almighty judge who may murder him yet another time. I weep for him, Jonah. Don't try to shame him again."

"Do you want to lose this case?" Jonah asked flatly.

"It might matter more to Constantine than to me," Driscoll said.

"Why?"

"Because I'll never write another book as long as I live."

"That's nonsense, Dris," Ebie said.

"And don't repeat it on the witness stand," Jonah warned.

"Why not?"

"Because this case can go either way, and I don't need any more headaches — not if we're to win."

"Is that so important to you? Winning?"

"Yes," Jonah answered.

It's important to Dris, too, Ebie thought, don't think it isn't. He may say it's unimportant, Mr. Willow, he may say he'll never write another book as long as he lives, but I know him better than that, I know him better than any human being on earth. He knows he'll lose, you see. He knows that, and he's hoping against hope that he'll come out of it with honor somehow, without having to speak; that somehow a miracle will come to pass, he'll win without having to say what he tried to say in his novel and only failed to say. He'd give his life to be free of that Vermont rock garden where he pretends to grow his meager crops, living on royalties that still come in from the foreign editions and the paperback, constantly dwindling. He'd give his soul to be able to come back to New York, which is his home, his only home, come back and look this city in the eye again, be able to feel like a man in this city that's his, maybe not even to write again, though I know that's what he wants, I know, I know. I know this man so well, I know this fierce proud stupid stubborn man, I love this man so much.

He could do it. He could do it all, he could be free at last, if only… we could win this case so easily, we could do it so simply, if only he would…

"We'll lose, Ebie thought.

He'll never tell them.

9

Gray hair rising in waves from a high forehead, combed straight back without a part so that it seemed to extend the flowing line of his profile, gray eyes intelligently alert beneath black beetling brows, Ralph Knowles took the oath, and then sat, crossed his long legs, and waited for Genitori to begin.

The lawyers had decided between them that Genitori, as chief counsel for API, would conduct the direct examination. Their decision puzzled Ralph, who had never found Genitori impressive either in looks or in bearing, and who wondered now what empathy this dumpy little man could possibly evoke from the judge. He watched critically as Genitori walked slowly and ponderously toward the witness stand, and his feelings were somewhat like those of a star in the hands of a bad director. Genitori cleared his throat, sniffed, looked once at the gray sky beyond the courtroom windows, nodded to the judge, smiled, and then turned again to Ralph.

"Mr. Knowles," he said, "what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a motion picture writer and director," Ralph said.

"Have you always been a motion picture writer and director?"

"No, sir."

"What did you do before you began working in motion pictures?"

"I was a freelance writer of magazine pieces, and after that I did a great deal of dramatic work for radio. This was before the war, during the late thirties and early forties. Before television."

"What radio programs did you write for?"

"Lux Radio Theater, Suspense, Mister District Attorney, The Green Hornet, The Shadow… most of the shows that were around, I would say. One of my radio plays for Suspense was later made into a movie called Armitus. That was when I first became involved with motion pictures. I went to the Coast for story conferences on it, you see, and while I was there someone asked me if I would like to do a screenplay for him — not on my own property — and I said yes. I began doing screenplays after that, and a while later I began directing."

"How many motion pictures have you written, Mr. Knowles?"

"Since 1954, I've written seventeen screenplays, and directed nine of them myself."

"Did you write and direct The Paper Dragon?"

"Yes, sir."

"Alone?"

"Sir?"

"Were you the only writer of the screenplay for the motion picture titled The Paper Dragon?"

"I was."

"In what year was that screenplay written?"

"1963, I think it was. Yes, it must have been the latter part of '63."

"Until that time, had you ever heard of the plaintiff, Arthur Constantine?"

"No, sir."

"Or the play Catchpole?"

"No."

"Had you ever seen a synopsis of Catchpole?"

"I had not. I try to avoid synopses whenever possible. It seems unnatural, to me, for anyone to condense a five-hundred-page novel into a fifty-page report on it. If you did that with Hamlet, you'd end up with what sounded like a ghost story. I can remember the synopsis I read on my own radio play, the one they were filming, and I was appalled by what they'd done, eliminating all the nuances, all the depth, all the range of character, leaving only the bare bones — terrible. I made up my mind right then and there that I'd have nothing to do with synopses ever again. I've pretty much hewed to that line since."

"You did not, then read a synopsis of Catchpole?"

"No, sir."

"Did you ever see it performed?"

"Performed?"

"Yes. At the Fulton Theatre in New York?"

"No."

"Or anyplace else?"

"No, sir."

"Have you ever served with the United States armed forces?"

"I have."

"When?"

"May I ask where this is going, your Honor?" Brackman said.

"You'll see in a minute, Mr. Brackman," Genitori replied. "When were you in the armed forces, Mr. Knowles?"

"From July of 1943 to January of 1948."

"In what branch did you serve?"

"I was a fighter pilot in the Army Air Corps."

"Did you ever serve overseas?"

"Yes, sir. I left the United States in January of 1945, and was assigned to the Pacific Theater of Operations, where I remained until the time of my discharge."

"Where were you stationed in October of 1947, when Mr. Constantine's play was showing in New York?"

"I was stationed in Tokyo. Japan."

"When did you begin working for API?"

"In August of 1954."

"As what?"

"A writer at first. And later on, a director."

"During your initial period of employment there, was material ever submitted to you for consideration?"

"Material?"

"Plays, novels, television scripts?"

"Do you mean as possibilities for motion pictures?"

"Yes."

"Well, no. No one ever asked my opinion on whether or not a story should be purchased, if that's what you mean. In the beginning, I was simply handed a novel or a play, or whatever, and told it was my next assignment."

"To write a screenplay on it?"

"Yes. And when I first began directing, it worked much the same way. I would be assigned to direct a film, and I would direct it. Later on, of course, I was asked to direct, a producer would come to me with the material and ask if I would like to direct it or not."

"Material that had already been purchased?"

"Yes. And now, of course, I can ask the studio to buy a property that I think is interesting, and if they agree it'll make a good movie, they'll usually go along with me and buy the property for me to make."

"Did you see synopses of any material you did not later translate to the screen?"

"No, sir. I told you, I avoid synopses like the plague."

"Now, you said earlier that you wrote the screenplay for The Paper Dragon…"

"Yes, sir, and directed it as well."

"How did you go about writing this screenplay?"

"I don't think I understand you."

"What did you use as source material?"

"Oh. Well, the book, of course. It had been submitted to the studio in galleys, and a producer there liked it — Jules Fairchild — and asked me to take a look at it, and I thought it was something I'd like to do. I think I saw the magazine serialization, too, which was pretty close to the book, McCall's published it, I think, or Redbook, I'm not sure which, a two-part serial."

"The book was your basic source, would you say?"

"Yes. Although I did do additional research on my own. A book, you understand — even a fine book like The Paper Dragon, for which I have only the greatest respect — it's still only a book, you see, and there's a great deal involved in turning it into a motion picture… well, I don't know if I should go into all of this."

"Please do," McIntyre said.

"I was introduced to Mr. Driscoll for the first time this morning," Ralph said, "but I suppose he must have been a little puzzled by the changes made in bringing his book to the screen — so perhaps this will be instructive to him as well." Ralph turned and smiled at Driscoll, who was watching and listening attentively from the jury box. "There are some people who feel that the novel and the motion picture are similar in technique and in scope, but I disagree with them. They argue that a novelist can immediately turn from a minute examination of a woman's mouth, let us say, to a battlefield with hundreds of men in an infantry charge, that sort of thing — in other words, from a closeup to a full shot, and all without any transition, in much the same way that a camera would handle it. But we must remember that the novelist is dealing with the written word, and he must describe that woman's mouth in words, he must describe that infantry charge in words, which means that those words must first be registered on the reader's eye, and then carried to the reader's brain where, depending on how good or bad the writer is, there will be an intellectual response that will hopefully trigger an emotional response.

"Well, we have a situation completely diametrical to this in the motion picture, because we go directly for the emotional response; there is no need for a middleman, there is no need for a brain that will translate words into images that may or may not stimulate the tears or laughter we are going for. We start with the images, you see. That is our job, putting images on the screen in sequence, arranging and editing and putting in order these images that are designed to evoke a direct emotional response. I can tell you that if I come at that screen with a blood-stained knife, you are going to rear back in fright and I don't need any words to accompany it, that knife is its own motivation and its own explanation. Or if I fill that screen with a beautiful woman's face, and I show her eyes lidded and her lips parting, I don't have to accompany it with any interior monologues, I don't need poetry to describe her, we know she wants to be kissed, and we want to kiss her because the appeal is direct and emotional, the response is immediate.

"So, in beginning my work on a screenplay, I look upon the novel or the stage play or whatever it is I'm translating only as an outline of something that will become larger and grander than the printed word allowed. Even an excellent book like The Paper Dragon, for which I have nothing but the deepest veneration, becomes a detailed study for what will be my film. I sift through it and sort through it, trying to cut through the maze of words, trying to get through to the emotion hidden there, distilling what the author meant, translating his words directly into images so that the audience reaction will be immediate and overwhelming. In short, I eliminate the intellectual response in favor of the emotional. Then, if we're lucky, when these images have registered, when they have evoked the proper emotional response, why then the audience, if we are lucky, will experience an intellectual response as well. That's the difference between a novel and a motion picture, and it is this very difference that makes the film a much more difficult form in which to work and, in my estimation, a much higher art form."

"I see," Genitori said.

"Yes," Ralph said, and glanced toward the jury box to smile at Driscoll.

"You said you did some additional research…"

"Yes."

"… before you began work on your screenplay?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell us what this research was?"

"Yes, certainly. As I indicated earlier, I spent a great deal of time in the Pacific during and after World War II, and I think it was the setting of Mr. Driscoll's fine novel that first attracted me to it — the possibility of shooting in Korea, a beautiful country, we got some really excellent footage of the countryside, you know. But in addition to that, I was interested in the book as a study of war, as an extension really of my own attempts to understand war in my early radio plays and also in one or two other films I had made before The Paper Dragon. War and its impact on man, what it does to men, what it causes them to become, this was what interested me. I discovered that a lot of material had been written on the subject, not only fiction, and not only the elongated minute-by-minute battle breakdowns, but serious studies that appeared in a great many of the magazines — Life, Look, the Saturday Evening Post, The New York Times Magazine — learned and informative articles about the behavior of our soldiers during the Korean conflict, the Korean war, I should say.

"These articles, and books as well, were written by military analysts, and psychiatrists, and historians, all of whom were probing the behavior of our men during that small war — I thought at one point of changing the title of the picture to The Small War, by the way, which I thought would be more emotionally effective than The Paper Dragon, but the studio objected because they didn't like the use of the word 'small' in any title. Where was I?"

"Books and magazine articles…"

"Yes, about the behavior of our men in Korea, the betrayal of comrades, the informing, the brainwashing, all of it. I studied these books and articles very carefully, using Mr. Driscoll's novel, of course, as my primary source because it was an excellent book and, let's face it, the only one we owned the rights to. We didn't own any of these other books or articles I studied for background material, you see, and besides Mr. Driscoll's novel was very exciting in itself and a firm basis upon which to build a movie. But before I began translating it into images, I also went to several Army bases to get a feeling of what the situation was like today as opposed to what I experienced during World War II. I visited Fort Bragg in North Carolina, and Fort Dix in New Jersey, and also the infantry school at Fort Benning. That was the extent of the research I did before I began writing my screenplay."

"Would it then be fair to say that a screenwriter must perforce make certain changes in translating a novel into a film?"

"Absolutely."

"I ask this because I would like to explore some of the specific changes you made, Mr. Knowles, and perhaps find an explanation for them. For example, in Mr. Driscoll's novel, the character named Private Colman does not wear eyeglasses. Yet when you brought this character to the screen, you chose to show him wearing eyeglasses. Now why did you do that?"

"For the actor," Ralph said.

"What do you mean?"

"Not entirely, but at least that was a major consideration. The actor who portrayed Private Colman was a man named Olin Quincy, and he wears eyeglasses. I mean, off the screen, as a part of his normal life. There was a part of the screenplay that called for him to read from a map, and he asked me if it would be all right for him to wear his glasses throughout, so that he could actually do the reading as called for. I said it would be all right. So that was one consideration. But also, if you remember, there's another soldier in the book who wears eyeglasses — Ken-worthy, the fellow who swears a lot — and in one scene there's a mortar attack and his glasses are lifted from his face by the concussion. It seemed to me that if he were the only one in the movie wearing eyeglasses, it would look like a put-up job, as if we had him wearing glasses only so they could be later knocked off, do you understand? So to take the curse off this, I decided to put glasses on another soldier as well, and the logical choice was Private Colman."

"Why was he the logical choice?"

"I like to avoid the obvious in my films. It would have been obvious to present Colman as a sneering sort of person, the way he is in the book — though you can get away with that in a book because there are also interior monologues and thought passages revealing various aspects of a character; however, you can't do that in a film. And rather than present Colman as a stereotyped villain, I thought it would add to his menace if he seemed to have a scholarly look about him, a rather meek look. In other words, if he wore eyeglasses. Which is not unusual, anyway. Many men in the Army, even in combat, wear eyeglasses."

"Now do you remember a scene in your film where you have a group of soldiers drinking coffee together?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"This scene is not in the novel, is it?"

"No, sir, I don't believe it is."

"Why did you put it in your film?"

"For a very good reason. It is in this scene that I have Private Colman suggest they murder the lieutenant. Now, if you'll remember this same sequence in the novel — and this is what I was trying to illustrate earlier about intellectual as opposed to emotional response — Colman's decision to murder the lieutenant takes place entirely in his mind. Mr. Driscoll handled this static scene very well, to be sure, but the appeal was intellectual, and I was searching for an emotional approach to put across this very important plot point. All right, I decided to have these men doing something very commonplace, something almost homey, very cozy, you know. All of them sipping steaming coffee — the way we shot it, you could see the vapor rising from the cups — a break in the battle and these grizzled combat veterans have their hands wrapped around these steaming coffee cups, not even discussing the lieutenant, just enjoying the coffee, and bam! out of the blue, Private Colman says, 'Let's kill him.' Now that's an emotional shock, for the audience to hear those words, and the shock is heightened by the very mundane act in which the men are engaged, the drinking of coffee. That's why I put that scene in my film. I took something that was introspective and static, with all due respect to the excellent writing in that particular passage, and created instead an image that would shock and startle."

"You also put a bayonet charge in your movie, and this was not in the novel either."

"Correct."

"Can you explain why you did this?"

"Yes. To foreshadow the death of Lieutenant Cooper."

"But he isn't killed by bayonet, is he?" -

"Correct."

"He is not?"

"No, sir, he is not. The lieutenant is killed by Chinese guns. I chose to foreshadow this by showing a vicious, almost bestial bayonet charge by our own soldiers, Americans. Also, I use the bayonet charge as a visual symbol. These men have been knifing the lieutenant in the back all through the movie, and now we see a visual representation of how cruel men can be to each other, bayonets being plunged, men dying just as the lieutenant later dies when he sacrifices himself to save Morley."

"Now, there's also in the movie you made a scene depicting an enemy soldier shot at and falling out of a tree. Can you tell us the origin of this?"

"I don't know the origin."

"It was not in the book, was it?"

"Not to my recollection."

"Do you remember how you came to put it into your screenplay?"

"It was a vignette, part of a montage of scenes showing the horrors of war. Certainly a man being shot at and falling from a high place is almost a cinema cliché. I have seen it before in many movies, both war pictures and Westerns, too. I don't claim to have originated that particular image, though I must say we used an extraordinary camera angle on it, pointing directly up at the tree, and when the soldier is shot, he falls directly toward the camera, getting bigger and bigger until he fills the entire screen. That was a really fine piece of camera work, and I credit my cameraman Andy Burstadter for it."

"In this same montage of scenes, you show an American soldier bursting into tears when his buddy is killed. This, too, is not in the novel, and I wonder if you can tell me where it originated."

"Your Honor," Brackman said, "in a case without a jury, I would as a matter of course refrain from objecting to a question containing a description, such as the one Mr. Genitori just put to the witness. But I think you will agree that the witness was being led, and that this was a blatant violation of the rules of evidence."

"Sustained. Please rephrase it, Mr. Genitori."

"Is there a scene in your film where an American soldier bursts into tears?"

"There is."

"What was the basis of this scene? Where did it originate, can you tell us?"

"Yes, I can. It originated, the idea for it came from a book of photographs called The Family of Man. Since motion pictures are really a series of still photographs arranged in sequence, I will very often leaf through books of photographs, and this happened to be an extremely fine collection. I believe the actual photos had hung in exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art here in New York, and this was an artful presentation of most, if not all, of them. The idea for that particular scene came to me in one of the photographs. I don't remember who the photographer was, a war photographer for Life, I believe, and it showed two soldiers, and one of them is comforting his buddy who is crying. That's the origin of that particular vignette."

"What about the nurse putting on her lipstick?"

"What do you mean?"

"You have a scene, not part of this montage, but an actual scene in the film, where the nurse is putting on lipstick and she uses the back of a mess kit as a mirror. This was not in the novel, but there is a similar scene, or at least a stage direction to that effect, in Mr. Constantine's play. Now where did you get the idea for this scene?"

"It happened during the shooting."

"Of the film?"

"Yes. The screenplay called for the girl to put on her lipstick, and when she began to do so — with the camera rolling — she discovered that the prop man hadn't put a mirror in her bag. So she picked up a mess kit that was on the table, and she turned it over and discovered it was shiny, and she used that. She was a very inventive actress, Miss Shirley Tucker, and she sensed the scene was going very well, this was the first take, and rather than risking another take where we might not get the same dramatic qualities, she ad-libbed with the mess kit, and we left it in."

"You left it in the completed film?"

"Yes, sir."

"But it was not in the screenplay?"

"No, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Knowles."

"Is that it?" Brackman asked, surprised.

"I'm finished, Mr. Brackman," Genitori answered.

Brackman nodded, consulted his notes, and then walked toward the witness chair. Ralph watched him as he approached. If anything, he was even less impressive than Genitori, a short, unattractive man whose clothes looked rumpled, whose hair stood up ridiculously at the back of his head, whose tie was the wrong color for his suit.

"Mr. Knowles," Brackman said suddenly, "would you say that a screenplay is similar to a stage play?"

"No, sir."

"They both deal with the spoken word, do they not?"

"Yes, sir."

"And with a visual arrangement of scenes?"

"Yes, sir."

"With actors portraying parts created for them?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you would agree that there is at least some similarity between a screenplay and a stage play? At least the similarities we have just enumerated?"

"Yes, but they are really very different. I've adapted several Broadway plays to the screen, and it's an enormously difficult job. If they were as similar as you seem to think they are, the job wouldn't have been nearly so difficult."

"You have adapted plays to the screen?"

"Yes."

"Stage plays?"

"Yes."

"In addition to adapting novels?"

"Yes. I've also adapted short stories and television plays. If the material is good, it doesn't matter what form it's originally written in. It must all be translated to the screen, anyway."

"So I understand. But before you begin these screen translations, do you always engage in additional research?"

"I do."

"As you did with The Paper Dragon?"

"As I do with every project."

"We're concerned here with The Paper Dragon."

"My career did not suddenly begin with The Paper Dragon, you know. I had written and directed a great many successful movies before that one."

"And for each of these you engaged in thorough research?"

"Correct."

"Such as visiting Army bases?"

"For The Paper Dragon, yes."

"You said you went to Fort Bragg, and Fort Benning, and Fort Dix."

"Yes."

"Did you visit any Army bases in Korea?"

"No, sir."

"Even though the novel was set in Korea?"

"Correct."

"Why did you go to these bases in the United States?"

"To catch up on the language of the men, the slang, their conversation, little things they might be doing, little things that caught my eye and remained in my memory during the shooting of the film."

"At any of these Army bases, Mr. Knowles, did you witness a man being shot out of a tree?"

"No, sir."

"Did you witness an American soldier crying because his buddy had been killed?"

"No, sir."

"Did you see a nurse using a mess kit as a mirror?"

"No, sir."

"You certainly didn't see a bayonet charge?"

"No, sir."

"Or a man killed by a bayonet?"

"No, sir."

"Mr. Knowles, you said you were a fighter pilot during World War II."

"Yes, sir."

"What kind of plane did you fly?"

"I flew most of the aircraft in use during World War II, sir. Fighter planes, that is."

"Like what?"

"I flew the P-51 Mustang, and the P-38 Lightning and P-39 Airacobra. On one occasion, I even flew a Navy fighter plane, the Hellcat, sir, the F6F."

"You had very little opportunity then, while you were flying, I mean, to witness ground troops in action."

"I witnessed them from the air."

"But never on the ground. You were never on the ground during combat?"

"I flew forty-three cambat missions, sir."

"On any of these combat missions, did you ever witness a man being shot out of a tree?"

"No, sir."

"Did you ever witness a bayonet charge?"

"No, sir."

"Then these 'little things that caught your eye and remained in your memory' — I think I'm quoting accurately — were things you saw neither during your time in the Air Corps nor during your subsequent visits to Army bases in the United States. They must have come from somewhere else, isn't that so, Mr. Knowles?"

"I've already told the Court where they came from."

"What does a story editor do, Mr. Knowles?"

"At a motion picture studio, do you mean?"

"Yes."

"I'm not sure I know."

"Well, there must be story editors at API."

"Yes."

"Do you know what they do?"

"I think they look over material that's published or produced and then make recommendations to the front office."

"What sort of recommendations?"

"As to whether the material should be considered for purchase."

"Do you think The Paper Dragon was seen by story editors?"

"The novel? I would guess so."

"Story editors employed by API, I mean."

"I'm not too sure of their function, so I can't say whether this would be a routine thing or not. I simply can't answer that question."

"Do you know a man named Joseph Edelson?"

"He's dead."

"Did you know him when he was alive?"

"Yes, I did. He was the head of API's story department."

"Did he work in any capacity on The Paper Dragon?"

"No, he did not. I wrote the screenplay without any assistance, and I directed—"

"I want to know if he worked in any capacity on the film."

"Not to my knowledge."

"Do you know Miss Iris Blake?"

"Not personally."

"Have you ever heard of her?"

"Yes. She's in API's story department too."

"Did she work in any capacity on The Paper Dragon?"

"No, sir."

"You said you began working at API in — what was it?"

"In August of 1954."

"Were Joseph Edelson and Iris Blake working there at the time?"

"Joe was because that's when I met him. I don't know Miss Blake, so I couldn't tell you about her."

"Had you ever been to the studio before August of 1954?"

"Yes, I had been there for consultations on a property of mine — the radio play — which they were turning into a movie."

"Were you ever at the studio before April of 1954?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"Did you ever meet Mr. Constantine on any of your visits to the studio?"

"Never."

"He was working for API until April of 1954. Is it conceivable that you may have met him and perhaps forgotten…"

"I remember everyone I've ever met in my life," Ralph said flatly.

"But you did know two of the people to whom Mr. Constantine showed his play in the time he was working for the studio."

"Which two people would they be?" Ralph asked.

"Mr. Edelson and Miss Blake."

"I knew Mr. Edelson. I have never met Miss Blake, though I understand she is a charming and a beautiful woman."

"And you insist they had nothing to do with the filming of The Paper Dragon?"

"That's correct."

"Do you know Mr. Andrew B. Langford?"

"I do not."

"He is the secretary of Artists-Producers-International."

"I can't be expected to know every secretary at—"

"You misunderstand me, Mr. Knowles. He is the secretary of API."

"Whatever he is, I don't know him."

"You've never met?"

"Never."

"We asked Mr. Langford, on May 16th, to supply us with a list of anyone who had worked on The Paper Dragon either before or during its production. As Script Writer and Director he listed 'Ralph Knowles, under employment to the studio.' You are that same Ralph Knowles, are you not?"

"I am."

"As Story Editors he listed 'Joseph Edelson and Iris Blake, under employment to the studio.' Mr. Langford swore to the truth of his responses, so we have good reason to believe they were accurate. Yet you seem to disagree with him."

"In what way?"

"You have told this Court that neither Mr. Edelson nor Miss Blake had anything to do with your production of The Paper Dragon."

"Correct."

"Yet Mr. Langford swears they were employed by the studio…"

"That may be so, but—"

"… as story editors on The Paper Dragon."

"I'm telling you they had nothing to do with my film."

"Were they or were they not story editors?"

"I don't know what they were. This is the first time I'm hearing of this credit. Was it in the titles?"

"What?"

"Of the film. Did this credit show in the titles? I never heard of it before today."

"Mr. Langford swears…"

"Well, he ought to know who was hired or who was not hired by the studio. But even if they were story editors, would you mind telling me what that has to do with my movie?"

"That's what I'd like you to tell me, Mr. Knowles."

"I've already told you. Neither of them had anything to do with The Paper Dragon."

"Yet you knew Mr. Edelson personally?"

"Yes, I did."

"If I told you that Mr. Constantine knew both Mr. Edelson and Miss Blake, would you take my word for it?"

"Why not?"

"But you yourself never heard of Mr. Constantine before this action began?"

"The only Constantine I'd ever heard of was the Roman emperor," Ralph said, and smiled.

"But not Arthur Constantine?"

"No. Not Arthur Constantine."

"Are you familiar with a film called Area Seven?"

"I am."

"In what way?"

"I saw the film, and I know the man who wrote the screenplay."

"Which man are you referring to?"

"Matthew Jackson."

"Was it a good film?"

"It was nominated for an Academy Award. Whether that makes it a good film or not is open to debate."

"Has Mr. Jackson ever mentioned Arthur Constantine to you?"

"Never."

"Were you aware of the fact that Arthur Constantine worked on the film?"

"I was not."

"Yes. He adapted it."

"I didn't know that."

"Will you take my word for it?"

"Certainly."

"Do you know a man named Rudy Herdt?"

"No, sir."

"A woman named Betty Alweiss?"

"No, sir."

"They are both presently employed by API, and have been working there since 1949. Are you sure you do not know them?"

"I am positive."

"You don't seem to know too many people at the studio, do you, Mr. Knowles?"

"I'm not gregarious," Ralph answered.

"How about Mr. Silverberg?"

"Who?"

"Mr. A. Silverberg. Or it may be Miss A. Silverberg, I can't tell from this. Mr. Genitori, would you know…?"

"It's Mr. Silverberg," Genitori said. "Abraham Silverberg."

"I don't know him," Ralph said.

"Have you ever read any synopses prepared by Mr. Silverberg?"

"I do not read synopses."

"And therefore you have not read the synopsis Mr. Silverberg prepared on Catchpole?"

"No, I have not."

"Have you ever read any synopsis of the play Catchpole?"

"Never."

"But you have read the play itself."

"No, I have not."

"No one at API gave you a copy of the play to read?"

"That's correct."

"I am referring now to the period of time since this action began."

"I have never read Catchpole, nor do I intend ever to read it."

"Didn't your attorneys suggest that you read it before coming here to testify?"

"They did."

"But you chose not to read it?",

"I am too busy to read anything that does not personally interest me."

"And I take it that Catchpole does not personally interest you?"

"Correct."

"How can you tell this without reading it?"

"I've read transcripts, or depositions, or whatever they were, and I knew from those that the play would not interest me."

"Do you mean transcripts of the pretrial examinations?"

"Correct."

"And I take it you were not overly impressed with Mr. Constantine's work?"

"I was not."

"Are you ever impressed with anyone's work other than your own?"

"Objection, your Honor."

"Sustained. Let's leave off with this, shall we, Mr. Brackman?"

"Mr. Knowles, did Matthew Jackson work with you on the filming of the motion picture The Paper Dragon?"

"He did."

"In what capacity?"

"As assistant director."

"What does an assistant director do, can you tell us?"

"Certainly. It's his job to see that everything is functioning properly, actors have their scripts and know their lines, props are ready, extras are in place, quiet and order are maintained on the set. An A.D. is an invaluable person on a film, and Matthew Jackson is a good one."

"Does an assistant director ever direct?"

"Sometimes."

"Did Matthew Jackson direct any of the scenes in The Paper Dragon?"

"He may have."

"Which scenes?"

"Second-unit stuff, I would imagine."

"Was the bayonet charge second-unit stuff?"

"It may have been."

"Who directed the bayonet charge?"

"I'm sure I directed the sequences involving the principals."

"And the other sequences?"

"Matt might have. Mr. Jackson."

"Was the montage second-unit stuff?"

"Which montage?"

"The one containing vignettes of the soldier being shot out of a tree, and the soldier crying…"

"I directed all of that."

"Mr. Jackson did not help with it?"

"Only as A.D. on the sound stage, that's all, his normal function."

"Let's talk about Private Colman for a moment, shall we?"

"Certainly."

"You portrayed him as wearing eyeglasses…"

"Yes."

"… and you testified that you did this because the actor playing the part, Mr. Olin Quincy, wore glasses in real life?"

"Correct."

"And would not be able to see unless—"

"No, I didn't say that. He's as blind as a bat, that's true, but I wouldn't have given him glasses if the part didn't call for him to read something. There was a very complicated scene in the film where the positions on a map are being traced, just preparatory to heading into enemy territory, the same as in the book, and Olin thought it would be a good idea if he could see all these Oriental place names and actually read them from the map, rather than trying to memorize them."

"Do you remember the character of Colman well?"

"Yes, sir."

"As presented in the book?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Was he wearing eyeglasses in the book?"

"No, sir."

"Was there a character named Corporal Finlay in the book?"

"No, sir."

"Was there a Corporal Finlay in the movie?"

"Yes, sir."

"Would you say that he possessed some of Private Colman's characteristics?"

"What do you mean?"

"Column's characteristics from the book."

"Yes, sir, I would say so."

"Would you say that Private Colman and Corporal Finlay in the movie were both derived from the single character of Private Colman in the book?"

"I would say so, yes."

"You would say that both these characters were derived from the single character of Colman?"

"Well," Ralph said, and hesitated. "Finlay was a composite."

"Of whom?"

"Of Colman and several other characters in the book."

"Which other characters?"

"Characters who were dropped from the film."

"Which?"

"Well, I would have to think for a moment."

"Yes, please do."

"There were a lot of soldiers in the platoon. % m

"Yes…"

"… and we obviously couldn't use all of them in the film, or we'd have had a picture that ran for six hours."

"Yes, I understand that."

"But many of these were minor characters, and I sort of bunched them together to create the single character called Corporal Finlay."

"Yes, but from which characters besides Colman was this character derived?"

"I don't recall their names offhand."

"Can you remember their characteristics?"

"Not offhand."

"Would you say that Corporal Finlay was derived primarily from Colman as he appeared in the novel?"

"Yes, primarily, I suppose."

"In that Colman in the novel became two characters in the film: Colman and Finlay."

"Correct."

"Are you familiar with the character named Colonel Peterson in Catchpole?"

"No, sir."

"The character description of him states that he is a tall, slender, frail-looking man. Would you say that the man who played Corporal Finlay in your film — what was his name?"

"John Rafferty played the part."

"Would you say that he is a tall, slender, frail-looking man?"

"I don't know what you might consider tall," Ralph said.

"Well, I'm a short man, Mr. Knowles, and you're a tall man. Is John Rafferty more your size or more mine?"

"He's about as tall as I am, six feet give or take an inch."

"Is he slender?"

"I would say so."

"And he does, does he not, give an impression of frailty?"

"Well, I don't know about that."

"We have all seen the film, Mr. Knowles, and I think you will have to agree that John Rafferty gives an impression of frailty on the screen."

"All right, all right."

"In Catchpole, Peterson is a psychopath. Would you say that Corporal Finlay is a psychopath?"

"No, sir."

"Would you say he is a neurotic?"

"I don't know the distinction."

"Would you describe Finlay as being disturbed?"

"He is disturbed, yes. But you're forgetting that the character in the book was disturbed, too."

"Which character? Private Colman, do you mean?"

"Yes."

"Yes, and you've testified that Private Colman was divided to form two separate characters in the film."

"Correct."

"One who was still called Private Colman, and the other who became Corporal Finlay. I'm a little puzzled by this, Mr. Knowles, because it was my impression that in writing a screenplay the idea was to eliminate extraneous characters, tighten the action, generally bring a novel — which can be loose and sprawling — into sharper focus. Why then did you choose to make two characters out of what was a single character in Mr. Driscoll's novel?"

"I must have had reasons, though I'm not sure what they were right now. This may have been a suggestion from Olin, who played the part of the troublemaker, I'm not sure. Actors do have a say, you know."

"Yes, of course. Can you remember what it was he might have objected to in the character Colman as presented in the novel?"

"No."

"But whatever it was, it caused you to invent another character, the one you called Finlay."

"I would suppose so."

"Mr. Knowles, do you remember a scene in which you have Lieutenant Cooper requesting Corporal Finlay to assist him with some paperwork, and Finlay replies, 'I can't sir. Paperwork is for sissies,' and the other soldiers burst out laughing, do you remember that scene?"

"Yes, I do."

"If you'll look at this…"

"What is that?"

"… in reel 3, page 4…"

"Oh, yes. What page was that?"

"Page 4."

"Thank you. I have it."

"Would you look at the dialogue there, please?"

"Yes?"

"Where, right after the speech I just quoted to you, Private Colman says, 'Why don't you give him a hand, sweetie?' And then Kenworthy says, 'You could work in his tent, honey,' and Colman shouts, 'You'll enjoy it!' Do you see those speeches?"

"I do."

"What do they mean?"

"They mean, Oh boy, here comes the lieutenant with some more paperwork, everything according to the book. These men are joking, they're trying to make a fool of the lieutenant."

"How about the words 'You could work in his tent, honey'? What do those words mean? These are men talking, you understand."

"Of course. That simply means they consider paperwork to be sissy work."

"Is Corporal Finlay a sissy?"

"No, but he feels the way the others do, that paperwork is sissy work. And the men pick this up and make a big thing out of it, the way they do with everything throughout the film, badgering the lieutenant and trying to make him feel ridiculous, the idea that paperwork could be even remotely enjoyable to this soldier…"

"Enjoyable?"

"Yes."

"In what way?"

"Just the suggestion that it could be enjoyable, the suggestion Colman makes, you'll enjoy it."

"Enjoy it?"

"All right, I see where you're going, why don't we put it right on the table?"

"Sir?"

"Homosexuality."

"Yes, what about it?"

"That's what you're driving at, isn't it? You're trying to say there was a homosexual implication in this scene."

"Was there?"

"Certainly not."

"The words 'sweetie' and 'honey' used between men do not suggest homosexuality to you?"

"No, sir, they do not. Lieutenant Cooper is not supposed to be a fairy."

"Is Corporal Finlay supposed to be a fairy?"

"No, sir."

"And yet, he is based on Private Colman in the book, isn't that what you said?"

"That's what I said."

"Isn't Private Colman a homosexual?"

"No, sir."

"Not in your movie, I realize that. But how about the book?"

"I don't know what he is in the book."

"Surely you read the book?"

"Yes, of course I read the book."

"Then surely you are aware of the stream of consciousness passage — it is seven pages long, Mr. Knowles — wherein Private Colman clearly remembers and alludes to a homosexual episode with the dead major. Surely you remember reading that?"

"If I read it, I automatically discarded it as possible movie material. There is no homosexuality in any of my films, or even suggestions of homosexuality."

"But we do have a disturbed corporal whom the men rib about doing sissy work."

"Yes."

"Calling him names like 'honey' and 'sweetie'…"

"Yes."

"And suggesting that going into the lieutenant's tent might prove enjoyable."

"I didn't say that. Nobody says that. They only say he might enjoy the paperwork."

"Is that what they actually mean? Paperwork?"

"Yes. They're kidding the lieutenant about the paperwork, about how he thinks it's enjoyable, they're belittling his idea of enjoyment."

"I see. And you intended no homosexual reference, either concerning the lieutenant or the corporal."

"Absolutely not."

"Let's get to the girl in your movie, shall we, Mr. Knowles?"

"Fine."

"You said that she invented the business with the mess kit while you were shooting the film, that it did not appear in your screenplay. Miss Tucker ad-libbed it on the set because your property man had neglected to include a mirror in her handbag."

"That's right."

"When you noticed the missing mirror, why didn't you stop the shooting?"

"Because the scene was going very well."

"Yes, but it was only a first take, wasn't it?"

"Of a very difficult shot."

"Well, surely you could have stopped the camera, and then given Miss Tucker a mirror, and continued shooting. Movies are a matter of splicing together scenes, anyway, aren't they?"

"That would have been impossible with this particular shot. If I had stopped the action, we would have had to go again from the top. Besides, as I told you, I didn't want to stop the action. The scene was going very well, and when I saw what Shirley was up to, I just let her go right ahead."

"Why would it have been impossible to stop this particular scene without starting again from the beginning of it?"

"The camera was on a boom and a dolly both. There was continuous action, the dolly moving in…"

"The dolly?"

"It's a… well, I guess you can call it a cart or a wagon on tracks, and the camera is mounted on it. As the scene progressed, the dolly was coming in closer and closer to Miss Tucker, and then as she picked up the lipstick we began to move up on the boom…"

"I'm afraid you'll have to tell me what a boom is also."

"It's a mechanical — well… a lift, I guess would describe it — that moves the camera up and down, vertically. When we were in close on her, we went for the boom shot, all without breaking the action. In other words, I wanted this scene to have a complete flow, without any cutting, and it was necessary to shoot it from top to bottom without stopping. That's why I let her use the mess kit. As it turned out, we got the scene in one take and were delighted with it. It's one of the best scenes in the movie, in fact."

"An ad-libbed scene?"

"Well, the part with the mess kit was ad-libbed."

"It was not in your screenplay?"

"No, sir."

"Would you turn to reel 5, page 2 of this, Mr. Knowles?"

"What?"

"Please. Reel 5, page 2."

"Yes?"

"Do you see the numeral 176, right after the lieutenant says, 'Colman's the one who's responsible for their anger and their hatred.' Read on after that, would you, from DS — which I assume means 'downstage.' "

"No, it means 'dolly shot.' It says, 'DS — JAN — AND INTO BOOM SHOT: She takes lipstick from her purse and then, finding no mirror, picks up a mess kit from the table, discovers that its back is shiny, and uses it as she applies her lipstick.' "

"Now you testified that this scene was ad-libbed. Yet right here in your screenplay…"

"This is not my screenplay," Ralph said.

"It has your name on it."

"It's the cutting continuity of the film."

"Isn't that the same as.?"

"No, sir. This is the cutting continuity, reel by reel. It's a record of all the action and dialogue in the film as it was shot. The cutter put this together."

"From the shooting script?"

"No, sir, from the completed film."

"Exactly as it was shot?"

"Exactly. But this is not a screenplay. This was not in existence until the film was finally completed."

"It is nonetheless a script, no matter what you choose to call—"

"No, sir, it is the continuity of the actual film. It is not a script in any sense of the word."

"But it nonetheless shows exactly what happened on the screen?"

"Yes."

"And what happened on the screen was that the girl used a mess kit for a mirror."

"Yes."

"That's all, thank you."

"Have you concluded your cross, Mr. Brackman?"

"I have, your Honor."

"Any further questions?"

"None, your Honor," Genitori said.

"None," Willow said.

"Thank you, Mr. Knowles," McIntyre said.

"Thank you, sir," Ralph said.

"Your Honor, Mr. Knowles is on his way to the Orient where he is beginning a new film. Would it be possible to release him at this point?"

"Certainly."

"Thank you," Ralph said, and rose and began walking toward the jury box. Behind him, he could hear the judge telling everyone that it was now ten minutes to four, and then asking Willow whether he wanted to begin his direct examination of James Driscoll now or would he prefer waiting until morning. Willow replied that he would rather wait until morning, and McIntyre commented that this was probably best since he thought they were all a bit weary, and then the clerk said something about the court reconvening at ten in the morning, and Ralph kept walking toward the jury box and then realized that everyone was rising to leave the courtroom and turned instead to head for the bronze-studded doors. He was very pleased with himself, and he nodded and smiled at Driscoll, who was rising and moving out of the jury box, and then he glanced over his shoulder to see Genitori rising from behind the defense table and moving very quickly toward him, and he continued smiling as he opened the door because he knew without a doubt that he had performed beautifully and perhaps saved this miserable little trial from total obscurity.

"You're a son of a bitch," Genitori said.

"What?" Ralph said. "What?"

"You heard me, you prick!"

"What? What?"

He had wedged Ralph into a corner of the corridor, and now he leaned toward him in fury, his fists bunched at his sides, his arms straight, his face turned up, eyes glaring, as though he were restraining himself only with the greatest of effort. He is very comical, Ralph thought, this little butterball of a man with his balding head and pale blue eyes, hurling epithets, I could flatten him with one punch — But he did not raise his hands because there was something terrifying about Genitori's anger, and Ralph knew without question that the lawyer could commit murder here in this sunless corridor, and he had no intention of provoking his own demise.

"What's the matter with you?" he said. "Now calm down, will you? What's the matter with you?"

"You son of a bitch," Genitori said.

"Look, now let's watch the language, do you mind? You're…"

"What do you think we're doing here? You think we're playing games here, you son of a bitch?"

"Now look…"

"Shut up!"

"Look, Sam…"

"Shut up, you egocentric asshole!"

The juxtaposition of adjective and noun amused Ralph, but he did not laugh. The anger emanating from Genitori was monumental, it was awesome, it was classic. He knew that a laugh, a smile, even a mere upturning of his lips might trigger mayhem, so he tried to ease his way out of the cul-de-sac into which Genitori had wedged him, but the walls on either side of him were immovable and Genitori blocked his path like a small raging bull about to lower his horns and charge.

"Now take it easy," Ralph said.

"What did we discuss last night, you miserable bastard?" Genitori said. "Why did I drive all the way to Idlewild…"

"Kennedy."

"You son of a bitch, don't correct me, you miserable jackass! All the way in from Massapequa, you think I enjoy midnight rides?"

"Now look, Sam…"

"Don't look me, you moron! There's a man's career at stake in that courtroom, we're not kidding around here! We lose this case, and James Driscoll goes down the drain!"

"What did I do, would you mind…"

"What didn't you do? You gave them everything they wanted!"

"How? All I…"

"Is there a homosexual colonel in that goddamn play?"

"What?"

"I said—"

"How do I know? I didn't say there was a—"

"Well, there isn't. But you were so busy denying even the suggestion of one in your movie…"

"How was I supposed to know…"

"Is even the suggestion threatening to you?"

"Now look here, Sam, nothing about homosexuality threatens me, so let's not…"

"Then why did you insist a clearly homosexual scene wasn't one?"

"I told the truth as I saw it!"

"Yes, and make it sound as if you were hiding a theft."

"I didn't intend…"

"Were you also telling the truth about dividing Colman into two characters?"

"Of course. What's wrong with that? I was explaining…"

"It's exactly what they claimed was done."

"Huh?"

"Huh, huh? They said Driscoll changed it when he copied the play, and you changed it right back again. Huh?"

"I did?"

"That's what you admitted doing, isn't it, you stupid ass!"

"I was under oath. I had to explain how I wrote the screenplay. That's what he asked me, and that's what I had to tell him."

"Do you even remember how you wrote it?"

"Yes. Just the way I said I did."

"I don't believe you. I think if Brackman said you'd made fifteen characters out of Colman, you'd have agreed."

"Now why would I do anything like that, Sam?"

"To show that your movie was an original act of creation, something that just happened to pop into your head, the hell with Driscoll and his book, you practically ad-libbed the whole movie on the set!"

"I never said that! The" only scene we ad-libbed was the one with the mess kit. How was I to know all this other stuff was so—"

"Why didn't you read the play, the way we asked you to?"

"I have better things to do with my time."

"Like what? Destroying the reputation of a better writer than you'll ever be?"

"Now that's enough, Sam. You can't—"

"Don't get me sore, you… you porco fetente" Geni-tori said, apparently having run out of English expletives. "You've done more toward killing this case…"

"Look, Sam…"

"… than any witness the plaintiff might have called!"

"Look, Sam, I don't have to listen to this," Ralph said, having already listened to it.

"No, you don't, that's true. All you have to listen to is that tiny little voice inside your head that keeps repeating, 'Ralph Knowles, you are wonderful, Ralph Knowles, you are marvelous.' That's all you have to listen to. Are you flying?"

"What? Yes."

"Good. I hope your goddamn plane crashes," Genitori said, and then turned on his heel and went raging down the corridor.

Boy, Ralph thought.

10

He saw her for the first time in Bertie's on DeKalb Avenue, a girl with short blond hair, wearing sweater and skirt, scuffed loafers, her elbow on the table, her wrist bent, a cigarette idly hanging in two curled fingers. Unaware of him, she laughed at something someone at her table said, and then dragged on the cigarette, and laughed again, and picked up her beer mug, still not looking at him while he continued to stare at her from the door. He took off his parka and hung it on a peg, and then went to join some of the art-student crowd jammed elbow to elbow at the bar. Some engineering students at the other end of the long, narrow room were beerily singing one of the popular sentimental ballads. He watched her for a moment longer, until he was sure she would not return his glance, and then wedged himself in against the bar with his back to her, and ordered a beer. The place smelled of youthful exuberant sweat, and sawdust, and soap, and booze, and of something he would have given his soul to capture on canvas in oil, a dank November scent that seemed to seep from the windswept Brooklyn street outside and into the bar.

He knew all at once that she had turned to look at him.

He could not have said how he knew, but he sensed without doubt that she had discovered him and was staring at him, and he suddenly felt more confident than he ever had in his life. Without hesitating to verify his certain knowledge, he turned from the bar with the beer mug in his hand and walked directly across the room toward her table — she was no longer looking at him-and pulled out the chair confidently without even glancing at any of the other boys or girls sitting there, nor caring whether they thought he was nuts or whatever, but simply sat and put down his beer mug, and then looked directly at her as she turned to face him.

"My name is Jimmy Driscoll," he said.

"Hello, Jimmy Driscoll," she answered.

"What's your name?"

"Goodbye, Jimmy Driscoll," one of the boys at the table said.

"Ebie Dearborn," she said.

"Hello, Ebie. You're from Virginia, right?"

"Wrong."

"Georgia?"

"Nope."

"Where?"

"Alabama."

"It figures."

"What do you mean?"

"Honey chile, that's some accent you-all got there."

"Don't make fun of it," she said, and then turned toward her friends as laughter erupted from the other end of her table. "What was it?" she asked them, smiling in anticipation. "I missed it, what was it?"

"Ah-ha, you just try and find out," one of the boys said, and they all burst out laughing again.

"Would you like a beer?" he asked.

"All right," she said.

"Waiter, two beers," he said over his shoulder.

"Who'd you just order from?" she asked, and laughed.

"I don't know. Isn't there a waiter back there someplace? Two beers!" he yelled again, without looking behind him.

"Come and get them!" the bartender yelled back.

"You think you'll miss me?"

"Huh?"

"When I go for the beers."

"I doubt it. There's lots of company here."

"You may be surprised."

"I may be," she said.

He went to the bar and returned with two mugs of beer. She was in conversation with her friends when he approached, but she immediately turned away from them and pulled out a chair for him.

"How'd it work out?" he asked.

"I missed you, sure enough."

"I knew you would."

"Here's to your modest ways," she said, and raised her glass.

"Here's to your cornflower eyes."

"Mmm."

"How's the beer?"

"Fine."

"Would you like another one?"

"I've just barely sipped on this one."

"So what? Let me get another one for you."

"Not yet."

"Do you always wear your hair so short?"

"I cut it yesterday. Why? What's the matter with it?"

"You look shaggy."

"Say, thanks."

"I meant that as a compliment. I should have…"

"What else don't you like about me?"

"… said windblown."

"What?"

"Your hair. Windblown."

"Oh," she said, and brushed a strand of it away from her cheek.

"That's nice."

"What is?"

"What you just did. How old are you?"

"Nineteen."

"That's good."

"Why?"

"Older women appeal to me."

"What do you mean? How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"Oh? Really?"

"I'm a first-year student."

"Oh?"

"But very advanced for my age."

"Yes, I can see that."

"You think this'll work out?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know, the age difference, the language barrier…" He smiled hopefully, and let the sentence trail.

"Frankly, I don't think it has a chance," she said, and did not return his smile.

"Let me get you another beer."

"I'm not ready for one yet."

"I'll get you one, anyway."

"I'm really not that thirsty."

"It doesn't matter. I'm the last of the big spenders," he said, and smiled again, but she only glanced toward her friends, who had begun a lively discussion about Mies. "Well, I'll get one for you."

"Suit yourself," she said, and shrugged.

He rose and went for the beer, half afraid she would leave the table while he was gone, aware that he was losing her, desperately searching in his mind for something to say that would salvage the situation, wondering where he had made his mistake, should he not have told her he was eighteen? or kidded her about the accent? if only he could think of a joke or an anecdote, something that would make her laugh. "One beer," the bartender said, and he picked it up and walked back to the table with it.

"Drink it quick before the foam disappears," he said, but she did not pick up the mug, and they sat in silence as the bubbles of foam rapidly dissipated, leaving a flat smooth amber surface an inch below the rim of the mug.

"Tell me about yourself," he said.

"My hair is shaggy," she said, "and I have a thick Southern accent, and…"

"Well, I know all that," he said, and realized at once he was pursuing the same stupid line, the wrong line, and yet seemed unable to stop himself. "Isn't there anything interesting you can add?"

"Oh, shut up," she said.

"What?"

"Just shut up."

"Okay," he said, but he could not remain silent for long. "We're having our first argument," he said, and smiled.

"Yes, and our last," she answered, and began to turn away from him. He caught her hand immediately.

"Come out with me this Saturday night," he said.

"I'm busy."

"Next Saturday."

"I'm busy then, too."

"The Saturday after…"

"I'm busy every Saturday until the Fourth of July. Let go of my hand, please."

"You'll be sorry," he said. "I'm going to be a famous artist."

"I'm sure."

"Come out with me."

"No."

"Okay," he said, and released her hand, and rose, and walked back to the bar.

He knew then perhaps, or should have known then, that it was finished, that there was no sense in a pursuit that would only lead to the identical conclusion, postponed. But he found himself searching for her on the windswept campus, Ryerson and Emerson, the malls and the parking lots, Steuben Walk in front of the Engineering Building, and then in the halls and classrooms themselves, and even on the Clinton-Washington subway station. In his notebook, he wrote:

The notebook, which he had begun in October, and which he would continue to keep through the next several years, was a curious combination of haphazard scholarship, personal jottings, disjointed ideas and notions, doo-dlings, line drawings, and secret messages written in a code he thought only he could decipher. He had learned from his uncle a drawing technique that served him well all through high school, though it was later challenged by his instructor at the League. Revitalized provisionally at Pratt, it was an instant form of representation that sometimes veered dangerously close to cartoon exposition. But it nonetheless enabled him to record quickly and without hesitation anything that came into his line of vision. The technique, however, candid and loose, did not work too well without a model, and as his memory of the girl he'd met only once began to fade, he found himself relying more and more upon language to describe her and his feelings about her. A struggle for expression seemed to leap from the pages of the notebook, paragraphs of art history trailing into a personal monologue, or a memorandum, or a query, and then a sketch, and now a poem or an unabashed cartoon, and then again into desperate prose, until the pages at last were overwhelmed with words:

On Friday, November 12th, he hit upon the idea (and dutifully recorded it verbatim in his notebook) of perhaps asking a second-year art student about Ebie. Outside an illustration class, he stopped a girl with her arm in a cast, her hair pulled back into a pony tail, and asked her if she knew Ebie Dearborn.

Late that afternoon, he spent the last of his week's allowance on a dozen red roses, and went up to her apartment without calling first. The building she lived in on Myrtle was a crumbling red brick structure with enormous bosses on either corner, a simulated keystone arch over the front doorway. The elevated trains roared past the building, but he scarcely heard them over the pounding of his heart, or so he wrote faithfully in his notebook that night:

"Come in," she said.

He tried the door, found it unlocked, and stepped into a narrow corridor that seemed to run the length of the apartment. An ornately framed mirror hung directly opposite the entrance. He looked at his own image and shouted, "Where are you?"

"Where do you think I am?" she shouted back. "In here."

He shrugged at himself in the mirror and followed the sound of her voice. She was sitting up in a large bed in a small bedroom facing the street and the elevated structure. She was wearing a blue nightgown, and there was a blue ribbon in her hair. She looked thin and pale and very tired as she turned to greet him. She blinked once in surprise and then said, "What are you doing here?"

"Who'd you think it was?" he asked.

"Peter."

"Who's Peter?"

"The boy who lives upstairs. He's been bringing me chicken soup and such." She paused. "How'd you know where I lived?"

"I've been searching for you."

"What are those?"

"Roses."

"For me?"

"Yes."

Ebie nodded, and then stared at him and continued nodding. At last she said, "I'm sick."

"Yes, I know."

"Who told you?"

"A girl with a broken arm."

"Cathy?"

"I don't know her name."

"With a pony tail?"

"Yes."

"That's Cathy Ascot. She's accident prone."

"She told me you were sick and that you lived on Myrtle Avenue. Why are you listed in the book as Dearborn, E. B.?"

"So everyone'll think it's a man living here and I won't get calls from all the nuts in Brooklyn."

"I know one nut who's going to be calling you a lot."

"Who? Oh. You mean you?"

"That's right."

"Well, I don't guess I can stop you from calling."

"No, I don't guess you can."

"Are you going to just stand there with those roses in your hand?"

"I should put them in something, huh?"

"I think there's a vase in the kitchen. The cabinet over the stove."

"You won't disappear, will you?"

"What?"

"When I go for the vase."

"I don't usually disappear," Ebie said. "I just happened to get sick the day after I met you, that's all."

"What've you got?"

"Oh, it's so cliched it makes me want to puke."

"What is it?"

"Mononucleosis."

"I never heard of it."

"Peter didn't know what it was, either. Hey, can you see through this gown?" she asked suddenly, peering down at her breasts.

"No."

"I wasn't expecting anyone but him," she said, and shrugged.

"You mean Peter?"

"Yes. He usually stops by in the afternoon."

"I don't think I like Peter."

"He's very sweet."

"What's his last name?"

"Malcom. Peter Malcom. He's an actor."

"Mmm?"

"Yes. He works mostly in television. Usually, he plays heavies. He's blond and has sort of a curling lip. He can look very sinister when he wants to."

"I'll bet."

"But you didn't come up here to talk about Peter," she said, and looked down at the bed covers. "Did you?" she said.

"No."

"I didn't think so."

"I don't even know Peter, you see," he said. He was beginning to get very angry. He stood at the foot of the bed, foolishly holding the goddamn roses, and wishing he had not bought them, and wondering what mononucleosis was, and wondering if it was contagious; it sounded like something you sprinkled on meat to tenderize it. "Look, uh… where'd you say the vase was?"

"In the kitchen. Over the stove."

"I'll just put these in water for you, and then I'll take off."

"Why?"

"Well, you're expecting Peter, and I really…"

"Well, he may not come. He doesn't always come."

"I see."

"And…" She shook her head.

"And what?"

"Nothing."

"Okay." He walked out of the bedroom and down the corridor and into the kitchen where he found a cut glass vase in the cabinet over the stove. He filled the vase with water, put the roses into it, and carried them back to the bedroom.

"Where shall I put these?" he asked.

"On the dresser yonder, I guess."

"Yonder," he said.

"Yes. Please."

He put the roses down. When he glanced up into the mirror, he saw that she was staring at his back. His eyes met hers, and she quickly looked away. He turned and leaned against the dresser. Without looking at him, and in a very small voice, she said, "What did you come up here to talk about?"

"You," he said.

"What about me?"

"I came up here to tell you I love you."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"Oh, I see," she said.

"Yes." He shrugged. "And so, having said it, I will clear the premises so that Peter can come down with his chicken soup and such, and look through your nightgown."

"You can see through it, can't you?"

"No."

"Tell me the truth."

"That's the truth."

"Is it true what you said before?"

"What did I say before?"

"That you love me?"

"Yes, it's true."

"I think that's very sweet."

"Yes."

"Really," she said.

"Mmm."

"Gee," she said, and grinned, and heaved her shoulders in a massive sighing shrug. "I've never had anyone fall in love with me just like that. I really think it's so sweet I can't tell you."

"Well, I think it's pretty sweet too," he said.

"Oh, it is," she said, "it is."

"Well."

"Mmm."

They stared at each other silently. He decided he would kiss her. He leaned against the dresser gathering courage, turning to touch one of the roses, plotting. He would cross the room swiftly, cup her face in his hands, taste her mouth, risk all, now, do it now, go ahead, go, man. The outer door to the apartment opened. It opened with the speed of familiarity, banging back against the doorstop, no knock, nothing, bang went the door, and heavy footsteps pounded surely through the apartment toward the bedroom. "Ebie!" a man's voice shouted, and he knew with certainty that this was Peter, enter Peter, would he be carrying chicken soup? and hated him at once and intensely, even before he laid eyes on him.

He was a tall blond man of about twenty-two, handsome, with the curling lip Ebie had described, blond eyebrows thick over pale gray eyes, a clean profile, even white teeth that looked as though they had been capped. He was smiling when he came into the bedroom, but he saw immediately that Ebie was not alone, and the smile dropped from his face.

"Oh, hi," he said. "I didn't know you had company."

"Peter, this is… what's your name again?"

"Jimmy Driscoll."

"This is Peter Malcom."

"Hi," Peter said.

"Hi."

They looked each other over. Unexpectedly, almost unconsciously, Peter reached into his jacket pocket and took out a pair of eyeglasses. Perching them on his nose, he turned to study Driscoll with deliberate scrutiny.

"You go to Pratt?" he asked.

"Yes."

"That where you know Ebie from?"

"Yes."

He nodded, took off the glasses, replaced them in his jacket pocket, and then turned toward the bed, completely dismissing Driscoll. "How do you feel?" he asked Ebie.

"Much better," she said.

"Good."

"She's got mononucleosis," Driscoll said.

"Yes, I know."

"It's what you put on meat to tenderize it," Driscoll ventured cautiously, and was immediately relieved when Ebie burst out laughing.

"That's very comical," Peter said dryly.

The room went silent.

"Well," Ebie said.

"Well, here we are alone at last," Driscoll said, and grinned, and felt a new surge of confidence when Ebie laughed again.

"Listen, I sure as hell hope I'm not interrupting anything," Peter said, scowling.

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact you are," Driscoll said. "I came to bring her some notes."

"Notes? What do you mean?"

"For one of her courses."

"What course?" Peter asked.

"Sculpture," Ebie said.

"Really?" Peter said.

"Mmm."

"Well, in that case…"

"Maybe you can drop by later," Ebie said.

"Yes, well, it won't be till after dinner, Ebie. I've got to see my agent."

"That's all right," Ebie said. To Driscoll, she said, "He's an actor."

"Yes, I know. You told me."

"He's a very good actor."

"I'll bet you play a lot of heavies," Driscoll said.

"How'd you know?"

Driscoll shrugged. "Intuition."

"Well," Peter said, "I'll see you later, Ebie." He glanced at Driscoll. "Nice meeting you."

"Pleasure," Driscoll said.

"So long now, Ebie."

"Bye, Peter."

"Yeah," he said, and scowled again at Driscoll, and then turned abruptly and went stamping through the apartment. The front door slammed shut behind him.

"He makes a lot of noise," Driscoll said.

"But he's very nice," Ebie said. "He really does bring me chicken soup."

"Mmm." He cleared his throat.

"Yes?"

"Nothing."

"I feel as if…"

"Yes?"

"Nothing."

"Listen, I…"

"Yes?"

"I think I'd better be going."

"You just got here."

"Well, still. He'll be back, and…"

"Not until after dinner."

"Still…"

"Well, if you have to go…"

"Yes, I think I'd better."

"All right."

"Fine," he said. He started for the door, turned, and said, "Well, I hope you get better."

"I feel better already," she said.

"Well, I'll see you around," he said.

"Listen…" she said.

"Yes?"

"Wouldn't you like to…"

"Yes?"

"Kiss me goodbye or something?"

"Well, yes, I would," he said.

"I would," she answered. "I would too."

"But what about…"

"Well, why don't you?" she said.

"What about Peter?"

"I mean, don't you want to?"

"Yes, but you've got mononucleosis, and…"

"Oh, boy," she said.

"It's just… who'll take care of you? If I get sick too."

"Peter can bring us both soup. Come on over here and kiss me."

"You really think I should?" he said, grinning.

"I really think so. As you yourself pointed out, I'm much older than you…"

"Hey, I'm sorry I said that. I didn't mean to…"

"… and it's my mature opinion that you should come here and kiss me because you can't just go saying sweet things like I love you and then not even kiss a girl goodbye."

"I do love you, Ebie," he whispered.

"Then kiss me."

"I love you."

"Kiss me."

"I love you."

"Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me."

Her mouth then in that small bedroom on Myrtle Avenue, the elevated train rushing past outside as he took her face in his hands and covered her lips with his own, the softness of her mouth. Her mouth now in the hotel room as he lay full length on the bed and looked across the room to where she sat before the dresser putting on lipstick, the same mouth, deeper lines radiating now from the flaps of her nose to the edges of her lips, but the same mouth, nothing could change her mouth, she could live to be a hundred and that perfectly formed mouth would sit upon her withered face like a rose blooming in the desert. The smell of roses wafting across the room from the dresser top, and her lips parting to accept his kiss while the train rushed past in a roaring clamor that rattled the windows of her bedroom. His hands touched her naked breasts beneath the blue nylon gown, he could feel her blossoming nipples and the warmth of her body, the low fever burning inside her. Everything seemed in that moment to take on a truer scent and color, a deeper intensity — the roses, the lowering dusk, the aroma of soap in her hair, the blue ribbon loosening and the golden strands falling free and whisper-light upon his cradling hands — as though her mouth demanded a fuller response, a keener awareness. He held her against him and felt rather than heard her murmur deeply, the sound moving into her lips to hum secretly against his own, trembling with vibration that deepened as she moaned against him, mouth locked to mouth. The sound of the elevated express engulfed the room, and suddenly there was only a whirling vortex the center of which was her mouth. He thought he would lose consciousness, struggled to catch his breath, felt certain he would come against the bedclothes covering her, her mouth persisted, there was nothing in the world but Ebie Dearborn's mouth.

They came up over the brow of the hill from beyond the river that cold November day, he could remember hearing only the bugles at first, could remember wiping his hand across his mouth, and thinking immediately of Ebie, and thinking he might never kiss her again, might never be able to kiss her again, and then he saw them in the distance. Stumbling out of the hole, he reached for his rifle and saw them silhouetted against the misty November sky, the bugles bleating, the terrifying shrill whistles, the shouts in Chinese. They were wearing strange fur hats that gave their faces a foxlike look, pointed, with sharp erect ears. The bugles kept sounding over and over again, like angry screams on the early morning air. There was rifle fire now as his men sleepily stumbled into the mist and tried to halt the charge. The letter, he thought, and touched the pocket of his combat jacket, and then began shooting angrily and randomly into the' horde of advancing Chinese, shouting obscenities at them, firing with a wild glee.

"Dris?"

"Yes."

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"I'm fine, Ebie."

"Shouldn't you get ready for dinner? We ought to go down soon."

"I'll shave in a minute," he said.

"What were you thinking about?" she asked.

"I was thinking about November," he answered.

11

Hester Miers came into Sardi's accompanied by fat Mitzi Starke who, despite her mink coat, looked as though the bitter cold outside had penetrated to her marrow and frozen her solid. Her face was red and her eyes were tearing, and she took off her gloves immediately and began kneading her hands as she scanned the tables just inside the entrance, her glasses fogging. Oscar Stern rose from the table where he was sitting alongside Arthur, and waved at the door, mouthing Mitzi's name. Mitzi did not see him because of the fogging glasses, but Hester took her elbow and began leading her toward where the three men were sitting. Mitzi took off her glasses as they walked, wiping the lenses on a tiny lace-edged handkerchief which she took from the pocket of the mink. She had replaced them on the bridge of her nose by the time they reached the table, and she smiled amiably in recognition, shaking hands all around, kissing Stuart Selig — whom she had known for many years — and telling Arthur she had heard a lot about him and thought he had written a wonderful play. Arthur thanked her, and then held out a chair for Hester, who sat directly alongside him, so that he was between Oscar and Hester, with Mitzi and Stuart on the other side of the table. Stuart asked if the ladies would care for a drink, We've had a head start already, and Mitzi said, Yes, she certainly would like a drink, it was too cold out there even for the brass monkeys. Hester pretended not to know which brass monkeys her agent was referring to. She pressed her knee against Arthur's under the table and said she would like a very dry martini.

"How did the opening in Philly go?" Oscar asked.

"Very well," Mitzi said. "Well, Boris is a marvelous actor, marvelous. He could read the telephone book and make it exciting, you know that."

"Certainly," Stuart said, and glanced at Arthur.

"But the play is a very good one, and that helps," Mitzi said, and smiled graciously at everyone, and then glanced over her shoulder to see what was keeping the drinks. When they came, she downed hers almost at once, and asked the waiter to bring another, a double this time. Hester sipped demurely at her martini, her knee pressed against Arthur's. The table was silent for several moments, and then Oscar said, "I can only remember once when it was this cold. That was four years ago, I'll never forget that winter."

"Yes, it's very cold," Mitzi said.

"I'm sure Arthur wants to hear about his play," Hester said.

"Well, that's why we're here," Stuart said, and smiled at her. "Mitzi tells me you'd like to do it, is that right?"

"Well, she has certain reservations," Mitzi said, and then said "Ahhhh" as the waiter brought her second drink. "Here's to your fine play, Mr. Constantine," she said, and Arthur nodded acknowledgment and raised his own glass.

"It is a lovely play, Arthur," Hester said.

"Thank you."

"Though, of course, it does need a few minor things done to it," Mitzi said.

"Well, any play needs changes," Stuart said. "A play isn't written, it's rewritten."

"That's right."

"But nothing serious," Hester said. "Nothing basic to the structure."

"Or the theme, for that matter," Mitzi said.

"No, we wouldn't want to touch any of that. You can ruin a play by tampering too much with it," Stuart said.

"Oh, don't I know it," Mitzi said. "The changes we have in mind are really minor and transitional. If they were anything more than that, I assure you Hester wouldn't be interested in the part at all."

"Of course not," Stuart said.

"That's right," Oscar said.

"But Hester very definitely is interested in doing the play, and I'm fairly certain we can spring her from Lincoln Center. At least I'm hoping we can, I haven't discussed it with them yet. I wanted to get Mr. Constantine's reaction to the changes we had in mind before I contacted anyone."

"Arthur's been very reasonable about any suggestions thus far," Stuart said, "so I can't imagine…"

"That's right," Oscar said.

"… him refusing to make a few minor changes now, when we're so close to getting the play on at last."

'That's right."

"We're dealing with a professional writer here," Stuart said, and smiled at Arthur.

"Well, thank you," Arthur said. He started to put his hand on Hester's knee, and then changed his mind. She looked very lovely, with her blond hair still arranged in its careless coiffure, and wearing a blue sheath scooped low in the front, a string of pearls around her throat. She smiled at Arthur assuringly, and he lifted his glass and sipped at it and began to feel a warmth spreading through him, a genuine feeling of fondness for all the people at the table, including fat Mitzi, who had put down her drink and was blowing her nose into a tiny handkerchief. She had still not removed the mink coat, and she still seemed to be suffering from exposure.

"Well now," she said, giving her nose a final wipe and putting the handkerchief back into her pocket, "I think we should start with the age of the girl, don't you think so, Hester?"

"Yes," Hester said, "I think that's important."

"Important, but minor. Hester's twenty-five, you know, and whereas she comes off a bit younger onstage, we think we'd be asking for trouble if she tried to pass for nineteen."

"Well. " Arthur said.

"That's right, we don't want the critics to start picking on stupid little things," Oscar said. "They'll find enough anyway, without any help from us."

"So we thought the girl's age might be raised to twenty-two or twenty-three," Mitzi said. "That would be more reasonable, in terms of Hester playing the part."

"Well, there's a lot of stuff in the play about her nineteenth birthday coming up," Arthur said. "I'd have to…"

"So it'll be her twenty-third birthday coming up," Oscar said. "That's no problem."

"No, but she's supposed to be leaving for college in the fall."

"Yes, we—"

"In fact, the conflict, you know, is between this girl who wants to go to college and…"

"Yes, that's a problem, admittedly."

"… her uneducated father, a Bronx mailman who, you know, wants her to marry this guy and settle down. That's the conflict."

"Yes, we know."

"So she'd have to be a college girl, you see."

"Well, she can be a college girl at twenty-two," Stuart said.

"That's right."

"She can just be graduating college maybe," Stuart said, "and she wants to go to graduate school or something, and her father objects. That could be exactly the same."

"Well. " Arthur said.

"Of course, Hester played a college girl in the last thing she did at the Rep," Mitzi said.

"Mmm," Stuart said.

"If she keeps playing college girls. " Mitzi said, and shrugged.

"Well, Carol is a college girl," Arthur said. "That's the part. I mean, that's the part."

"The way it is now, yes," Mitzi said.

"But we'd have to make her older," Hester said. "Don't you think so, Arthur?"

"I don't know. I think you could pass for nineteen," he said, and decided to squeeze her knee after all, which he did.

"That's very sweet of you, Arthur," she said, and smiled, "but I think the girl has to be older."

"She's supposed to be a virgin," Arthur said. "Do you know any twenty-two-year-old virgins?"

"I don't even know any seven-year-old virgins," Oscar said, and laughed.

Mitzi laughed too, and then said, "Actually, she doesn't have to be a virgin, does she? That really doesn't add anything to the play."

"Well, there's an entire scene where…"

"Yes, with the boy…"

"Yes, the one her father wants her to marry…"

"That's right."

"And he tries to, well, to lay her, you know, and this is another thing that adds to the conflict of this girl trying to lead her own life without interference from her father or from the people her father has chosen for her."

"The boy, you mean?"

"Yes. So the scene has meaning only if she's a virgin, you know, and is, well, saving herself for… for the person she chooses."

"Well, do you think girls actually save themselves anymore, Arthur?" Mitzi asked, and smiled.

"I don't know, but Carol is supposed to be…"

"I mean, you said yourself not three minutes ago that you didn't know any twenty-two-year-old virgins."

"Carol's only eighteen, going on nineteen. I think…"

"There's a difference, certainly," Stuart said. "But, Arthur, is it really that important that she be a virgin?"

"Or even a college girl?" Hester asked.

"What?"

"Is it important that she plans to leave for college in the fall?"

"Sure it is."

"Why?"

"Because that's the conflict."

"Yes, but the conflict can be any conflict, isn't that true? So long as it's between the girl and her father."

"I think we all need another drink," Oscar said, and signaled to the waiter. "Mitzi? Hester?"

"Yes, I'm still cold," Mitzi said.

"I'd love another," Hester said, and smiled at Arthur.

"The same all around," Oscar said to the waiter.

"Double for the lady?"

"Yes, a double," Mitzi said.

"We ought to think about ordering," Stuart said.

"Oh, we've got plenty of time. Let's thrash this out, shall we?" Mitzi said. "I know Mr. Constantine is anxious to hear our views, and we're certainly anxious to know his reactions to them. I can't make a move with the Rep, you know, until…"

"Certainly," Stuart said. "What do you think, Arthur?"

"Well… about changing Carol's age, do you mean?"

"About having her a little more experienced," Stuart said.

"A nice girl," Mitzi said, "but a little more experienced."

"So she's been to bed with one or two guys already," Oscar said. "That doesn't make her a slut."

"A dozen guys wouldn't make her a slut," Stuart said.

"A dozen?" Arthur asked.

"Well, I don't think that's exactly the image we want for Hester," Mitzi said. "Arthur's right in that respect. We want Carol to be a sweet and confused young girl. If we have her sleeping around with half the men in the city…"

"I was only trying to indicate…"

"I think she may have had one affair," Hester said. "She is twenty-two, you know, going on twenty-three. It would seem implausible otherwise."

"One affair sounds reasonable," Stuart said. "What do you think, Arthur?"

"I'm trying to think of the whole," Arthur said. "We've got to think of what any revisions would do to the whole of the play. I really feel it's important that she be a virgin."

"Here're the drinks," Stuart said.

The waiter put their glasses on the table, and they all drank silently for a moment. Mitzi blew her nose again, and then said, "It's just that a girl like Carol who has, after all, been around a little…"

"But she hasn't," Arthur said. "Her father's kept her cooped up in—"

"Well, a social worker would get to meet a great many people," Mitzi said. "Isn't that so?"

"A great many people," Hester said.

"What do you mean?"

"A social worker."

"I still don't get you."

"If Carol were a social worker," Mitzi said.

"Instead of a college girl," Hester said. "Working for a state agency, you see. Or even a private agency."

"And her father objects to her wanting a life of her own, and insists that she marry this boy he has chosen for her. And the boy tries to lay her, just the way you've got it now, which only strengthens her resolve to lead her own life, choose her own friends, her own lovers, and this leads to the showdown in the third act, just the way you've got it now, between her and her father."

"A social worker," Arthur said blankly.

"Yes, instead of a college girl," Hester said.

"She played a college girl in that last thing at the Rep, you know," Mitzi said to Stuart.

"Yes, she was very good," Stuart said.

"Did you see it?" Hester asked.

"Yes, you were marvelous."

"But, of course, she's done the college girl bit," Mitzi said, "and there has to be a challenge, otherwise what's the sense?"

"That's right," Oscar said. "There has to be a challenge."

"I don't know anything about social work," Arthur said.

"What do you know about mailmen, for that matter?" Oscar said.

"My father was a mailman."

"Well…"

"Do you think the father in the play ought to be a mailman?" Mitzi asked.

"If his daughter is a social worker?" Hester said.

"Do you know anything about social work?" Arthur asked her.

"No, but we can find out anything we need to know. For any scenes showing the girl in her office."

"What office?"

"Where she works."

"Where she does her social work," Mitzi said.

"She could have a colored family she's working with," Hester said, "and maybe her father objects to that, too. Maybe he's a bigot."

"But he isn't," Arthur said. "He's just narrow and… and oriented to… to… to the way things were in the old country. And in the old country, a girl didn't go running off to school, she… she got married and had children and…"

"Do you think that's a universal problem these days, Mr. Constantine?" Mitzi asked.

"What do you mean?"

"An immigrant father and a daughter who rebels…"

"I think the conflict between a father and a daughter is universal, yes. We're dealing with Electra here, what difference does it make whether the father is an immigrant or—"

"That's just my point. If we're dealing with something as universal as the Electra bit, why does the father have to be an immigrant mailman who can hardly speak English?"

"He speaks English fine," Arthur said.

"Well, you know what I mean."

"No, I don't. He's been in this country for thirty-five years. He's a man who's fifty-eight years of age, he speaks English fine. But he still clings to the old traditions, he's got a background of traditions…"

"That's Fiddler, isn't it?"

"What?"

"Fiddler on the Roof. That's Tevye's character, isn't it?"

"That's a different thing entirely," Arthur said. "I lived through this with my father and my sister, and I can tell you…"

"When was that, Arthur?"

"I don't know, she's married now and has three children, she was only eighteen at the time. But I can tell you that the showdown between those two shook our house from the roof to the—"

"Very often, though," Oscar said, "something can seem very dramatic in life, but not when it's put on the stage."

"I think he's presented it very dramatically," Hester said, and smiled.

"Yes, no one has any objections to the dramatic structure," Mitzi said.

"It's just these few character changes."

"Why can't the father work in an office someplace? Or why can't he have his own business? If you insist on his being Italian, why can't he be a building contractor?"

"There are a great many Italian building contractors," Hester said.

"I don't see why he can't be a mailman," Arthur said. "The way I wrote it."

"We're trying to understand him in terms of the modern theatergoer."

"Besides, there was a mailman in the Schisgal play."

"Which Schisgal play?"

"The Tiger."

"Write me a play like Luv" Mitzi said, "and I wouldn't ask for a single change…"

"Brilliant," Stuart said.

"Penetrating," Oscar said.

"Can't I be a social worker, Arthur?" Hester asked. "I'm so tired of playing college girls."

"If this man were educated…" Stuart said.

"Which man?"

"The father. If he were educated, we could offer the part to somebody like Fonda, you know."

"In fact, I hear Fredric March is looking for a play," Oscar said.

"They'd be great with Hester."

"I'd love to work with either one of them," Hester said.

"Don't think they wouldn't love to work with you, baby," Mitzi said, and finished her drink.

"You're a marvelous actress," Stuart said.

"Thank you. I see the social worker as a very dedicated person, don't you?" Hester said, turning to Arthur.

"I don't know anything about social workers," Arthur said. "My sister was a simple girl living in a house she wanted to get out of. That's what this play is about. The fight between her and my father. She wins the fight, Carol wins the fight and goes off to school. All this other stuff…"

"That's not your sister's real name, is it?" Mitiz asked.

"Carol? No."

"What's her name?" Oscar asked.

"Julie. Why?"

"I just wanted to know."

"I didn't know this play was based on an actual experience of yours, Arthur," Stuart said.

"Well, most fiction comes out of a man's life, doesn't it?" Mitzi said.

"I guess so."

"We're not asking you to change the reality of the situation," Hester said.

"We're just asking for a few revisions that would make the story more understandable to a modern audience."

"You talk as if I wrote it back in the Middle Ages," Arthur said, and Oscar immediately laughed. Everyone at the table laughed with him.

"Well, you understand what we mean," Mitzi said, drying her eyes.

"Yes."

"What do you say, Arthur?" Stuart said.

"I don't know. Ill have to think about it."

"Certainly," Mitzi said. "We don't expect a man to make a snap decision. Not when he's worked on something for such a long time."

"That's right," Oscar said.

"You think about it," Hester said.

"Can you let us know by Friday?" Mitzi asked.

"That's only the day after tomorrow," Arthur said.

"Yes."

"Well, I thought… I'm in the middle of a trial, you see, and… I thought I'd read the play over the weekend and see if your suggestions…"

"Well, the only reason I'm suggesting Friday," Mitzi said, "is because they're bringing the new Osborne play over from London, and they've asked Hester to play the part."

"Osborne," Arthur said.

"Yes."

"His new play."

"Yes. And I promised I'd give them an answer before the weekend. And then, of course, I'd still have to go to the people at the Rep and work all that out, so I think you can understand the reason for speed."

"Well, I…"

"The changes seem reasonable, Arthur."

"Well…"

"I think a social worker could be very exciting," Hester said.

"Fonda would be great for the father," Oscar said.

"Think it over, and let us know by Friday, will you?" Mitzi said.

"I'll think it over."

"He'll let you know by Friday," Stuart promised.

He had been watching the office from the drugstore counter across the street on Madison Avenue, drinking three cups of coffee, and then wandering over to browse the paperback racks near the plate glass window (The Paper Dragon, he noticed, was still in print) and then going back to the counter for a fourth, and finally nauseating, cup of coffee. He was heading for the paperback racks again when he saw the lights go off across the street. He quickly paid his check and went to stand just inside the entrance to the drugstore. Chickie came out onto the sidewalk first, wearing a black cloth coat with a black fox collar, and Ruth came out of the office immediately afterwards, pulling the door shut behind her, locking it, and then trying the knob once again before stepping out of the doorway. She looped her arm through Chickie's, and the two women started up Madison Avenue, their heads ducked against the wind. Sidney opened the door immediately and went outside. The sidewalks had been shoveled almost clear of snow, but the footing was treacherous, and the wind was brutally sharp. His eyes began to tear at once. He was wearing gloves, but he thrust his hands into his pockets nonetheless, looking up immediately to make sure the girls were still in sight, and then wondering again why he was behaving so foolishly, following them home from work this way, ridiculous, a man his age.

Ruth lived four blocks from the office, and he supposed they were heading there, though he didn't much care where they were heading so long as they got there quick. His feet were freezing, and his ears throbbed. He lowered his head as a fierce gust of wind knifed the avenue, took one hand from his pocket to clutch his homburg tightly onto his head, holding it there as the wind raged. His coat flapped wildly about his knees, his trousers were flattened against his legs, he coughed bitterly and hung on to his hat, pushing against the wind, trying to keep his footing on the slippery pavement. The wind died momentarily, and he took a deep breath and raised his head and then stopped dead in his tracks because the girls were directly ahead of him on the corner, not fifty feet away.

A tan Cadillac was parked at the curb, its engine running, white fumes billowing from its exhaust. The driver of the car had leaned over on the front seat toward the window closest to the curb, which was open. Both Ruth and Chickie, vapor pluming from their mouths, were slightly bent as they talked to the man in the car, snatches of sound rising, carrying unintelligibly on the wind to where Sidney stood rooted to the sidewalk. He watched a moment longer, and then realized how vulnerable his position was. Ducking into a doorway, he stared at the Cadillac from his new vantage point, watching as Ruth opened the front door and got onto the seat beside the man driving. She reached behind her almost immediately to unlock the back door, and Chickie opened the door and climbed in. Sidney blinked. The car idled at the curb a moment longer, and then gunned away in a burst of power, skid chains clanging.

Sidney emerged from the doorway and watched the car as it went up the avenue and out of sight.

In a moment, the wind rose again.

Leo Kessler was wearing an overlarge red robe, belted loosely at the waist. Beneath the robe, he wore a ribbed undershirt with shoulder straps, and red-and-white check undershorts with black piping on either leg. He had taken off his shoes and replaced them with fleece-lined slippers, but he was still wearing black socks supported by yellow and black garters. Every now and again, he dipped his nose into the brandy snifter in his hands, and then looked up at Sam Genitori, who was outlining what had happened that day in court. "Mmm-hmmm," Leo said, "mmm-hmmm," and then dipped his nose into the brandy snifter again, and looked up at Sam, and rose and walked to the windows and then walked back to his easy chair angled before the marble fireplace in his apartment on East 57th Street, and made himself comfortable, looking down at his long hairy legs and flashy garters, and nodding, and saying "Mmmm-mmm, mmm-hmmm," and then sipping a little brandy again.

"So I told him just where he could go," Sam said. "You got any more of that brandy?"

"Help yourself," Leo said.

"Damn egotistical jackass," Sam said, and poured some brandy into a shot glass.

"I think you were a little too rough with him," Leo said. "Don't you want a snifter for that?"

"I don't know where they are."

"Under the bar. Near the wine glasses."

"Too much trouble," Sam said. "Salute," he said, raising the shot glass, and then downing the brandy in one swallow. "Ahhhhhhhh," he said. "What do you mean too rough on him?"

"He seems to think he did a good job today."

"Knowles, you mean?"

"Mmm-hmmm."

"How do you know?"

"He told me."

"You saw him today?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"At the office."

"He came to the office?"

"Mmm-hmmm."

"Why?"

"To ask for six million dollars."

"Did you give it to him?"

"I gave it to him."

"You gave him six million dollars?"

"I authorized six million dollars for his new picture, yes."

"You gave that idiot six million dollars?"

"Someday, Sam, when I have a little time, I'll explain the motion picture business to you."

"Don't bother," Sam said. "All I know is that after his performance in court today, I wouldn't even trust him to walk my dog around the block. So you give him…"

"I don't have a dog," Leo said.

"Even if I didn't have a dog," Sam said, "I wouldn't trust Knowles to walk it around the block."

"He's a good director."

"He's a lousy witness."

"He makes good pictures."

"That's debatable."

"I'm not talking about artistic pictures, Sam. Artistic pictures can get you in the subway if you also happen to have a twenty-cent token. Ralph Knowles is a good director because his pictures make money."

"Some of them."

"Most of them."

"He still almost wrecked our case today."

Leo shrugged. "I'm not so sure he did, Sam. I heard him telling it this afternoon, and I've just now heard you tell it again, and I'm not so sure he wrecked our case at all."

"Leo, take my word for it…"

"Driscoll, maybe. Maybe he wrecked Driscoll. But not the case, and not API."

"He told them—"

"He told them he used the book."

"Yes, but he also—"

"He also told them there are no fairies in his pictures. What's so bad about that?"

"Leo, the point—"

"You want a man to go around saying there are fairies in his pictures? Come on now, Sam."

"Leo, by saying what he said—"

"It made it seem like Driscoll wrote a dirty book."

"No! It made it seem—"

"Which Knowles made into a clean picture."

"Leo, I think you're missing something important."

"What's more important than making clean pictures the whole family can go see? Is Walt Disney doing so bad with it?"

"Leo…"

"He also said he made two characters out of one character, right?"

"Yeah, did he tell you about that?"

"He told me. But they claimed one of those characters was a fairy, and that's where he had them, Sam. Because it wasn't."

"What wasn't?"

"A fairy."

"Leo, he walked into a trap, don't you see that?"

"It would have been worse the other way."

"What other way?"

"If he denied something he actually did. If he told them he didn't make two characters out of one."

"Leo, the truth is he doesn't remember what he did."

"Oh, certainly he does. He wrote the picture, didn't he? He directed it, didn't he?"

"All right, suppose he did make two characters out of one?"

"That's exactly what he did."

"Then where did he get the idea?"

"What do you mean?" Leo asked.

"For the other character? The second character."

"Where?"

"From the play, Leo."

"What play?"

"Catchpole."

"What?"

"In our files, Leo."

"What?"

"At the studio, Leo."

"He never said that."

"He didn't have to say it."

"Why would anyone think…"

"Because first he said, Yes that's what I did, I made two characters out of one, but then he couldn't remember which characters he'd put together to form the second character, and then he said the villain in the book wasn't a queer, or even the guy in the picture, and Leo I am telling you he made a holy mess of the whole damn thing."

"Well, he may be a horse's ass," Leo said, "but he is a bright horse's ass. I cannot believe…"

"It's what he did, Leo."

"He's too smart for that."

"He's a jerk, Leo."

"A whole lot smarter than most directors around."

"A moron, Leo."

"And certainly smarter than a tinhorn shyster like Brackman."

"Leo, he may have wrecked our case beyond repair."

"The stupid bastard," Leo said.

If Christie were here, Jonah thought, she would pour some boric acid into hot water (it must be scalding hot, darling, she would say) and then insist that I soak my wrist in it, changing the water whenever it got lukewarm, that's what Christie Dunseath Willow would do. And I would allow her to do it while marveling at how adequately she ministered to my needs, and delighting in the sight of her, and simultaneously knowing that we did not have a marriage at all. Oh how surprised they all were, our friends, oh how shocked, stunned, disbelieving when they learned that Christie and I were going to part (but they're such a darling couple) that we were going to take up separate residence and live separate lives (so marvelously alert, so much fun to be with) that finally we were going to end this ridiculous, sham exercise, recognize it for what it really was, and chalk it off as a total failure (both so bright and talented, so very much alive).

Talented, yes, the very talented Jonah Willow who defended a pair of Communist adolescents trying to change the world by blowing up Gracie Mansion, and then found himself defending similar unpopular clients and causes in the years that followed. Talented, yes, and bright enough to recognize the public need for a champion, clever enough to set out to fill that need. A man loses his innocence once and for all time when he makes a calculation he knows is even slightly dishonest, makes it (he will tell himself) for the sake of Survival, or Ambition, or Health or Sanity, or for the sake of Honesty to Oneself (the most dishonest reason) but makes it coldly and shrewdly and with malice aforethought. Jonah was bright enough and clever enough to recognize that he had successfully defended two rather unsavory individuals (because their Rights Were Being Violated, he told himself, and perhaps was being Honest to Himself) and that his less than brilliant courtroom display had put his name before the public eye, where he intended to keep it. It was no accident that the firm of Gauthier and Willow defended in the next several years a succession of individuals accused of murder, rape, pornography, spying, draft evasion, government manipulation of contracts, obscenity, and other such exotic and lofty activities executed by believers, fanatics, followers and fools of every persuasion.

But if a man loses his innocence only once, a woman surely loses it twice, and neither time has anything to do with her defloration. Christie lost her innocence for the first time when she realized her father wasn't God, and she lost it for the second time when she realized Jonah wasn't God, either. She realized this in the early years of her marriage and was not bright enough to find any solace in historical precedent. She only knew that she had married someone who pretended to be what he was not. What she expected Jonah to be was never clearly defined to him, although she repeatedly told him he was a fraud and a fake, even before the succession of unpopular wrongdoers began parading to his office door. He quite naturally regarded this condemnation as unfair and a trifle hostile, even though he suspected it had nothing to do with professional ethics or personal ambitions, but only with Christie's image of him as a man, an image he was somehow destroying. He once asked her, "Why am I a fake and a fraud?" and she answered, "Because you are," which was considerably enlightening and which helped to ease tensions between them that week, especially since she was in her sixth month of pregnancy by that time, and had begun denying him connubial rights in her fourth month. "You're insensitive," she told him. "You don't know what a woman feels."

Amy came on the seventh of May, 1954, and the birth was every bit as painful and as horrible as Christie knew it would be, an ordeal for which she never fully forgave Jonah. She made it clear the day she came home from the hospital that this was to be their one and only venture into parenthood, and that if he so much as looked at her before she was properly prepared for "having sex," she would strangle him without remorse. Her preparations for "having sex," as she invariably referred to it ("Do you want to have sex?" she would ask, not without a wicked glint in her eye) assumed ritual proportions in the months that followed. She would spend what seemed like hours in the bathroom before coming to him. Once he fell asleep waiting for her, and once he sent her a memo on a Tuesday, actually mailed it from his office to the house, reading: "Thursday night! Get ready!" But despite these rigorous preparations, they "had sex" often and with apparent satisfaction, and the only time he ever thought of getting himself another woman was in the year just before the divorce, by which time things had become really impossible.

Christie was a beautiful woman, and most beautiful women can say or do anything they wish, as long as they perform with a certain amount of style. She possessed style in abundance, from the tips of her Bendel shoes to the top of her Victor Vito coiffure. Her eyes snapped with whiplash certainty whenever she delivered another of her absurd banalities. She would stand with hands on narrow hips, flatchested but sinuous and sexy as hell, splendid legs widespread as though she were trying to maintain balance on the deck of a lurching yawl, head tossed back, tiny beauty spot penciled near her lips, a spirited laugh (her mother's) erupting after each of her own half-witticisms. "Craparoo," of course, was her identifying theme, and was repeated with the regularity of the NBC chimes. But she knew other devastatingly funny catch phrases, too, and she used them with similar frequency, to the amusement of all their new friends.

Nor was her comic virtuosity limited to verbal thrusts alone. She began drinking too much, and told Jonah to go to hell whenever he brought this failing to her attention. He once found her in the bedroom with a young actor whose nose he punched, her skirt up over her knees, oblivious to what the son of a bitch was attempting. (On the night he decided to end it, she kept sipping a glass of sherry which she finally left on the dresser, and which the next morning had its surface covered with a scum of floating dead fruit flies.) Figuratively, Christie rode her mother's horse into every living room, theater, restaurant, concert hall, and night club in New York — and because she had a good seat and remarkable hands, everyone applauded her performance. Except Jonah. Jonah wondered what had happened to the little girl who used to pick her delicate way through the forsythia bushes.

Maybe she grew up too soon, or maybe she never grew up at all, or maybe they both grew up simultaneously but in opposite directions. This too shall pass, she assured him, but of course it did not. By the tenth year, of their marriage he was ready to agree with her that it was all craparoo. The odd thing about it, he thought now as he struggled with his pajama top, his wrist throbbing, the odd thing about it was that he had loved her all that time, and probably had still loved her when they decided there was no use going any further with it. He could remember watching her undress one night, here in this bedroom, taking her time with her underthings, and then floating a nylon gown down over her slender body while he watched from the bed, delighting in her presence, could remember the sidelong glance she gave him as she turned out the light, could remember his intense excitement, and her cold "Put that away, buster. We're calling it quits, remember?" Yes, he could remember.

And remembering, could not understand. Or perhaps understood it all.

He pulled back the covers and climbed into bed.

On impulse, he reached for the telephone, lifting the receiver, and began dialing Christie's number. No, he thought, and hung up. He sat staring at the phone for a moment. Then he lifted the receiver, waited for a dial tone, and called Sally Kirsch.

Her phone rang six times before it was answered. Sally's voice, edged with sleep, started to say "Hello," but the receiver must have slipped from her grasp. He heard a clatter as it tumbled onto a hard surface, and then heard her mutter, "Oh, goddamn," and then heard her recovering the receiver, and then her voice again, hardly more awake this time, "Hello?"

"Sally?"

"Who's this?" she said flatly, and suspiciously, and somewhat angrily.

"Jonah."

"Who?"

"Jonah." He paused. "Willow."

"Oh." *

There was a silence.

"What time is it?" she asked, and yawned.

"Two o'clock, something like that."

"Mmm?"

"Were you asleep?" he asked.

"Mmm."

"Are you awake now?"

"Mmm."

"Would you like to have lunch with me tomorrow?"

"What time did you say it was?"

"Two o'clock."

"In the morning, do you mean?"

"That's right."

"Mmm," Sally said, and again was silent.

"How's your lip?" he said.

"Haven't you got court tomorrow?"

"Yes, I have."

"Don't you think you ought to go to bed or something?"

"I am in bed."

"To sleep, I mean."

"I wanted to ask you to lunch first."

"It's two o'clock in the morning," she said.

"I know. Will you have lunch with me?"

"Yes, I'll have lunch with you."

"Good. How about dinner?"

"When?"

"Tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night," she repeated.

"Yes."

"What is all this, Jonah?"

"I want to have lunch with you tomorrow and dinner with you tomorrow night."

"All of a sudden."

"Yes. All of a sudden."

"All right," she said, and he was sure she shrugged.

"Can you meet me at Gasner's?"

"What time?"

"Twelve, twelve-thirty, give me a chance to get from the courthouse."

"Listen…" Sally said.

"Yes?"

"Aren't you married or something?"

"No."

"Somebody told me you were married."

"Who told you that?"

"A friend of mine. The night we met. At that party."

"Said I was married?"

"Yes."

"No, I used to be married," Jonah said. "That was a long time ago."

"How long ago?"

"Why?"

"Because I don't kid around," Sally said.

"I was divorced in 1962."

They were silent.

"You mean you thought I was married when you went up to Vassar with me?" Jonah asked.

"Yes."

"Do you usually go out with married men?"

"No. Well, once before I did."

They were silent again.

"Well," he said.

"Well," she said.

"They turn off the heat in this building at eleven o'clock," he said.

"Here, too."

"It's like an icebox."

"Yes, here too."

"Well," he said.

"Well," she said.

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'm looking forward to it," she said.

"Good night," he said.

"Good night," she said.

Chickie did not come into the apartment until two-thirty a.m., using the key he had given her. He was asleep in an armchair near the bookcase, and he was startled into wakefulness by the sound of the key being turned in the lock, the tumblers falling. He opened his eyes and looked toward the door just as it opened. Chickie stood there for a moment, silhouetted by the light burning in the hallway. With one hand on the doorknob for support, she lifted first one foot and then the other to remove her shoes. Holding the shoes in one hand, she closed the door behind her and tiptoed into the room.

"Hello, Chickie," he said.

"Ooooo," she answered, "you scared me."

"Put on a light."

"I thought you were asleep."

"I was."

"Did I wake you?"

"Yes."

"You poor dear man."

"I thought you'd be here before midnight."

"What?"

"You said you'd be here before midnight."

"Oh, yes, I know, but we got all hung up. I'm terribly sorry, Sidney."

"I've got to get some sleep, you know," Sidney said. "Driscoll goes on the stand tomorrow morning."

"I know. Sidney, do you have any milk in the fridge? I'm dying for a glass of milk?"

"I think so. What's today?"

"Wednesday."

"I think they deliver on Wednesday."

"Don't go away, you dear man," she said, and she padded out of the room and into the kitchen.

"What time did you leave the office?" he called.

"What, dear?"

"What time did you leave the office?"

"Oh, I don't know. It must have been six or six-thirty. Why?"

"I just wondered."

Chickie appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, holding a glass of milk in one hand and a cookie in the other. She took a bite of the cookie and then drained half the glass of milk. "Mmmm," she said, "that's good. Would you like some milk?"

"No, thanks. Where'd you go from the office?"

"We went out to eat."

"Where?"

"Oh my, listen to the lawyer," Chickie said. "How's the trial going?"

"Pretty well, I think. Where'd you eat?"

"Pavilion, where else?"

"Come on, Chickie."

"Lutece."

"Chickie…"

"The Four Seasons."

"I'm trying…"

"The Forum."

"I want to know where you and Ruth went."

"We went to eat at a restaurant on Madison, a few blocks from the office. I don't even know the name of it. It's a tiny little dump."

"And then where did you go?"

"Up to Ruth's, where we worked on the trip."

"What trip?"

"The trip I was telling you about."

"The one you said might materialize?"

"That's right. Only now it looks as if it might very well materialize. How's the trial going, Sidney?"

"I told you. Pretty well."

"Does that mean you'll win?"

"I don't know."

"Well, you must have some indication, Sidney."

"I think it's going our way. They put on a witness today who was a real shmuck, he did them a lot of harm."

"Who was that?"

"Ralph Knowles."

"I never heard of him."

"He's a movie director."

"What did he direct?"

"What difference does it make?"

"I'm only trying to understand what happened, Sidney. Do you mind if I take off my dress?"

"I've got to get some sleep," Sidney said.

"Are you afraid I won't let you sleep?" Chickie asked, and smiled.

"No, but…"

"I'm very tired myself, darling," she said. "Unzip me, will you?" She walked to where he was sitting, and then turned her back to him. He lowered the zipper. "Thank you," she said, and walked away from him into the bedroom. "It's very smoky in here," she said. "Were you smoking in here, Sidney?"

"What?"

"In the bedroom here."

"Yes, I had a cigar when I got home."

"What time did you get home?"

"About eight," he said. He paused. "I got a lift." He paused again. "In a Cadillac." He could hear her rustling around in the bedroom.

"I'm just exhausted," she said.

"Those Cadillacs are very nice."

"They're the only kind to have, Sidney," she said.

"What time is it?"

"It's a little past twelve. Come to bed, Sidney."

He rose and went into the bedroom. She had put on one of his robes, and was standing by the mirror brushing out her long red hair. "Have you ever been in a Cadillac?" he asked.

"Of course."

"Recently?"

"Sidney," she said, without turning from the mirror, "what is this?"

"What is what?"

"What is all this business about Cadillacs? Are you thinking of buying one, is that it?"

"Well, if I w-w-win this case…"

"Yes, you'll be very wealthy."

"I c-c-could…"

"You could buy three or four Cadillacs, Sidney, all in different colors."

"You don't believe me, d-do you?" Sidney said.

"Believe you about what, dear? That you're going to win your case?"

"I am going to win," he said.

"Well, don't get so fierce about it, Sidney. I believe you."

"I am," he said.

"Mmmm-huh."

"If you were to m-m-marry me…"

"Sidney, let's not go into that right now."

"I'm only saying."

"Yes, but not now." She put the brush down on the dresser top, and then turned and leaned against the dresser and folded her arms across her breasts and smiled thinly and said, "Would you like to do Eddie Cantor?"

"No," he said.

"I thought you might like to."

"No."

"The way you did at Harvard."

"No."

"What was it called, the group? Hasty Pudding?"

"No, it was just the Dramatic Club."

"Anyway, I thought you might like to."

"No."

"Well," she said, and shrugged. "I can't force you, I guess." She shrugged again and then took off the robe. Naked, she walked to the bed, pulled back the blanket, and propped herself against the pillows.

"Chickie," he said, "there's something we've got to talk about."

"It's a shame, though," she said, "because you know how much I love it."

"I get the feeling that something's going on and I don't know what."

"The way you roll your eyes, and wave your hands around, I just love that, Sidney."

"What's going on, Chickie?"

"What's going on where, baby?"

"With… with you and Ruth."

Chickie looked down at her breast, took it in one hand and idly examined the skin around the nipple. Without looking at him, she said, "Did you see us get into the Cadillac tonight, Sidney? Is that it?"

"Well… yes."

"Were you following us, Sidney?"

"Yes."

"What, Sidney?"

"Yes. I was."

"Following us?"

"Yes."

"To see where we were going, Sidney?"

"Yes."

"Because something's bothering you?"

"Yes."

"If I were to marry you, Sidney, would you still follow me around?"

"I… I don't know. I get the feeling…"

"Would you, Sidney?"

"… that you're lying to me all the time, that something. " He shook his head. "I don't know wh-what, I j-j-just don't know."

"Don't stammer, Sidney," she said, and looked up at him.

"I j-j-just…"

"The man in the Cadillac was a man named Jerome Courtlandt…"

"I didn't ask you."

"Shut up, Sidney, and listen. He's the man we're arranging the European trip for, and he was heading for the office when he happened to spot us, and he asked Ruth if he could drop us off someplace, because it was so bitter cold, and she said, Yes certainly, and he drove us to the restaurant. Now that's what happened with Mr. Jerome Courtlandt."

"I didn't ask."

"No, you just sneaked around and followed me from work."

"Because…"

"Because you don't trust me."

"I t-trust you, Chickie. It's just…"

"Oh my," Chickie said, "how could I possibly marry a man who doesn't trust me?"

"I trust you, I do."

"Who doesn't care about me at all…"

"I care about you."

"Who follows me around…"

"I'm sorry, Chickie."

"Do Eddie Cantor," she said.

"No, I…"

"Do it."

"It's… undignified," he mumbled.

"Do it."

"… and silly."

"Do it."

He hesitated. "If…" he started, and then stopped.

"That's it," she said.

"If you knew…"

"Go on, honey."

"If you knew Susie. M

"Go on, baby, go on."

"I can't. I fell…"

"Do it, Sidney."

"If you knew Susie," he sang, "like I know Susie… oh, oh, oh, what a girl…"

"Roll your eyes. You're not rolling your eyes."

"There's none so classy," he sang, and then raised his hands, the elbows bent, and began hopping from one foot to the other in a sliding sideward motion, rolling his eyes, his voice suddenly going higher in imitation of Cantor, "as this fair lassie," rolling his eyes and hopping back and forth, mouth pouting, eyes rolling, "oh, oh, holy Moses, what a chassis…"

"That's it, baby," Chickie said, and began giggling.

"If you knew Susie," he sang, his voice stronger now, "like I…"

"Yes, yes," she said, giggling louder.

"… know Susie…"

"You're marvelous," she said, "wonderful!"

"… oh, oh, oh, what a girl!" he sang, and then abruptly turned toward the bed, and dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around her waist and fiercely pressed his face to her naked belly.

"Yes," Chickie whispered. "Yes, baby, that's it."