Cocksure (22 page)

“What are we going to do,” Polly asked, running a long cool finger over his lips, “about us?”

“What do you mean?”

“I wouldn’t want to hurt … Joyce.”

He and Joyce, he explained, somewhat irritated, were no longer living together.

“You needn’t explain,” she said, running a hand down his side. “Um, one minute. Perhaps there’s something I should explain. About me.”

“But there’s no need. I know, I know.”

He had thought only Doug knew, and Ziggy, but obviously –

“You’ve been living in the same house, you and Joyce, strangers under the same roof. You’ve been sharing a bed, but there’s no love in your lovemaking.… Once you could talk to each other, but not any more.…
Listen!”

Outside, somewhere in the night, a bird called to its mate. Then she was in his arms again, passionately this time, and Mortimer, his anguish total, began falteringly, “Wait, there’s something I
must
tell you … I’m sort of not well recently … 
unfit
. I –” He feigned dizziness. “If I could only shut my eyes and rest, just for a minute, please.”

But when he opened his eyes she was gone.

“Polly?”

He found her luxuriating on the bed, nude, sleepy-eyed, satiated. She scooped up the sheet, covering herself, holding it coyly to her bosom. “It was super,” she said. “Absolutely super. Was it super for you too, darling?”

“Well, yes.”

“Was it never like this for you before?”

“No!”

“You’re such a bad liar. I love you for that.”

“But I’m telling the truth, God damn it.”

“Yes, you are. That’s exactly what I mean. If you were lying, I could tell from your face.”

He sat down on the bed beside her and reached for the bottle of wine. To his amazement, it was empty. The ashtray on the bedside table was full. He scrutinized the butts. Yes, they were his brand.

“Was life ever this good?”

But I’ve still got my clothes on, he thought, his head aching. “No,” he said.

“Am I your whole life to you, Mortimer?” He didn’t answer.

“No, my sweet,” she answered for him, “and I wouldn’t want to be.”

“Why the hell not?” he asked, irritation, bewilderment, ripening into anger.

“If I were your whole life,” she said, “that would mean you would die without me.” “Would I?”

“I couldn’t bear that responsibility.”

“Oh, my head, my poor head.”

“Let’s live for love, Mortimer, you and I,” she said, hugging him. “Let’s not die for it.” Then she fell away from him and was asleep almost immediately.

Mortimer tottered into the living room and stared once more at the table where they appeared to have eaten together. The champagne bottle, he saw, was truly empty but, in the kitchen, he was
unable to find any used pots or pans or soiled dishes. In fact all he found in the kitchen was stacks and stacks of film scripts, shooting scripts complete with camera directions. Mortimer found his coat and let himself out of Polly’s flat. Outside, he noticed two black-suited men seated in a parked Rover. He stopped a taxi and clambered inside wearily. The Rover started up and followed, but at a distance.

Migod.

30

“H
ELLO, HELLO, MAY I SPEAK WITH THE STAR MAKER
, please.”

“Who is it calling?”

“Mortimer Griffin.”

“One moment, please,” Miss Mott said.

There was a pause.

“Well, hello there.”

“Star Maker?”

“At your service.”

“I’ve thought it over. I’ll take the job.”

“Are you sure, Mortimer?”

“Absolutely. It’s definite.”

“Good boy.”

“Oh, incidentally, Star Maker, I’ve kept your secrets. All your secrets, I haven’t spoken to anyone. Just like I promised.”

“Your word is your bond.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that all, then?”

“Oh, well, I suppose I should tell you I had something of a tiff with Lord Woodcock.”

“What happened?”

“What happened?”

“Yes.”

“He hasn’t mentioned it, then?”

“No.”

“It’s very funny.”

“How come?”

“Well, I was drunk, see, my mind’s a complete blank, but I think I hit him.”

“Not to worry.”

“The embarrassing thing is I can’t remember a thing I said to him. But he’s not to be trusted.”

“Is that so?”

“Lord Woodcock has his virtues, God knows, but he’s a compulsive liar. I can’t tell you how anxious I am to get started at Oriole.”

“Good boy. When can we meet and talk again?”

“Any day now, Star Maker. I’ll call you the day after tomorrow.”

“Splendid.”

“Meanwhile, don’t you worry about me. My lips are sealed.”

“You have my complete trust, Mortimer.”

“You too, Star Maker. Goodbye now.”

“Toodle-loo.”

Mortimer stepped out of the telephone booth and walked slowly toward The Eight Bells, the Rover following after. Once inside, he scooted downstairs to the Gents, and out the back door.

The first travel agency he came to was on Oxford Street.

“One way,” the clerk said. “Economy or first class?”

“Economy.”

“Two tickets to Toronto would come to two hundred and five pounds.”

“Thank you.”

We’ll need a stake, Mortimer thought, continuing down Oxford Street. A nice hunk of cash. In a hurry.

31

“T
ONIGHT, FANS,” DIG BEGAN GLEEFULLY, “WE HAVE A
rare and distinct pleasure in store. We have with us in the studio a holder of … the
Victoria Cross.”

This brought forth jeers and hoots. “Here’s a hot one coming up,” somebody said.

“The Victoria Cross, fans, is awarded
for
valor. ‘
For conspicuous bravery or devotion to duty in the presence of the enemy.’ ”

Superimposed on the screen was the face of Peter Sellers, his eyes crossed under a battle helmet as he peered down the wrong end of a rifle. Laughter exploded in the studio.

“Its inscription reads ‘
For the Brave.’ ”

On screen, David Warner as
Morgan
ran backwards, the action speeded up.

“During World War II,” Dig continued, “in the six years of violence that was to make” – here he cupped a hand over his mouth, swallowing a giggle – “a brave new world for us cats …”

The atomic bomb exploded on screen.

“…  just fourteen Canadians in all won the Victoria Cross, and five of them paid for it with their lives.”

The opening bars of “God Save the Queen” was played off key by the Berliner Ensemble Band.

“One of the survivors … Captain, once Major, Mortimer Griffin, is with us here tonight.”

Tssst-tssst-tssst
.

“But, first of all, let me fill you in on some of the other Victoria Cross winners. One of them, formerly a captain, has said, quote, I enjoyed the war.”

Dig’s voice ran over a superimposed panning shot of a military graveyard, an endless vista of crosses.

“It was like a game of cowboys and Indians. The only difference is we were using live ammunition, unquote.”

In the ensuing laughter Mortimer noted that Dig had neglected to add that the captain in question had lost both his legs in the action for which he was decorated.

“Another,” Dig said, “writes me that his favorite reading is … 
James Bond!”

Finally, Dig got to Mortimer. An old photograph of Mortimer in his army uniform was flashed on the screen. A decidedly comic, hollow military drumbeat in the background.

“On August 8, 1944, Major Mortimer Griffin of the 2nd Canadian Infantry was in command of a battalion in the Falaise pocket. Heavily outnumbered, his armored support battered, he was attacking an enemy position of vital importance. If he took it he would cut off the retreat of not one, but two” – Dig raised two fingers –
“Nazi-rat
regiments.…”

Action frames from American wartime comic books were superimposed on screen.

“POW! KAZAAM! BOOM!”

Laughter rocked the studio.

“His superiors ordered Griffin to pull back, but the clean-cut young major replied, according to press reports, ‘Retreat, heck.’ ”

Dig swung his chair round to smile encouragingly at Mortimer.

“Was it actually ‘retreat, heck,’ you said … or was it something less, um,
wholesome?”

“Something less wholesome.”

“Major Griffin, according to the press report I have here, told his men, ‘There are enemy in front of us, enemy behind us, and enemy on our flanks. There’s only one place to go, fellas. Onward.’ In the ensuing action, the Canadians lost 132 men, but the … 
Nazi-rat
retreat was cut off and as a result 2,000 prisoners were taken. Major Griffin, in a conspicuous act of … um … 
bravery
 … crawled to a knoll exposed to enemy machine-gun fire –
Rat-tat-tat … rat-tat-tat –
and rescued a wounded corporal. His corporal. Wounded twice in the legs, he refused to be evacuated until his men had been seen to and reinforcements had arrived.”

Laughter began to rise in the studio. “Wait,” Dig said, choking it off with a wave of his arm, “it gets better.… Major Griffin’s commanding officer, one of the first on the scene, said – we are assured in Canadian Press dispatches – with a grin from ear to ear, ‘For disobeying orders, Griffin, I’m stripping you to the rank of captain, effective immediately. But for amazing Canuck bravery in the face of a superior enemy force I’m recommending you for – for’ – Drums, please,” Dig asked.

The camera dollied in on the drummer, an old man with a Beatle haircut wearing a uniform obviously bought at “I Was Lord Kitchener’s Valet.”

“…  ‘for the Victoria Cross.’ ”

Laughter was unconfined.

“Before we question Major Griffin about details, who, you may well ask, is this brave soldier?”

Dig glowered at the studio audience: the laughter subsided.

“Born in Caribou, Ontario, Major Griffin became a Queen’s Scout at the age of fourteen.”

This brought forth yet another explosion of laughter, which Mortimer didn’t comprehend because he couldn’t see the monitor on which there was now projected a blowup of another Queen’s Scout, Charles Joseph Whitman, who on August 7, 1966, climbed the
University of Texas Tower, rifle in hand, and shot everyone in sight, killing thirteen people and wounding thirty-one.

“In high school, Mortimer Griffin won a Rotary Public Speaking Award and was voted –”

Now Richard Nixon’s face filled the screen.

“– Most Likely to Succeed.”

On and on went the potted, incriminating biography. Finally Dig turned to Mortimer again, his grin infectious.

“Well now, Major, what would you say if I could demonstrate to you, statistically proven, that the average I.Q. of Victoria Cross winners is more than slightly below the national average –”

“But –”

“– and considerably lower than that of deserters. What, if anything, would you say to that?”

“We didn’t get the medal for I.Q.”

“Quite. But it does say something, doesn’t it, about the nature of
physical
courage and its relationship to imagination, the failure thereof.”

Women applauded until their hands ached. Men stamped their feet.

“Tell me, Griffin, during the war did you kill any Germans?”

“Yes.”

“And how do you feel about that … now?”

“Well, that was the war. We were at war then.”

“Quite. And you were only obeying orders?”

“Yes …”

“Like Adolf Eichmann?”
“Hold on there!”

“Just another little cog in the wheel, weren’t you?”

Tssst-tssst-tssst
.

“Now, your citation reads that you crawled out on to a knoll, under enemy fire, to rescue one of your men. A corporal. Your very own corporal. Right?”

“Yes.”

“Not bent, are you, Griffin?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Did you have carnal knowledge of the corporal?”

“No!”

“Then why did you crawl out to save him, for Christ’s sake!”

“It just seemed the thing to do.”

“Come on, come on. You’re more articulate than that.”

“I was there. I saw him. I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t seen him. I had to go after him.”

“So you saved his life?”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“Griffin, what if I told you that the man whose life you saved has since slit his wife’s throat and raped his eight-year-old girl?”

“It wouldn’t be true.”

“It wouldn’t be
factually
true. But, if it were the case, wouldn’t your action – like all our actions, good or bad – be absurd? Don’t you, an intelligent man, recognize our lives as absurd?”

“No. I believe in the possibilities within each of us for goodness.”

“For
what?”

“Goodness …”

“Louder, please.”

“Goodness!”

“Griffin, to return to your rescue of the man on the knoll. You said, quote, I saw him. I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t seen him. I
had to go after him
, unquote. Right?”

“Yes.”

“You a conformist?”

“What?”

“Don’t suffer from a death wish, do you?”

“No.”

“And so, in other words, it would have required more courage, moral courage, to hold back. I mean to say, if you hadn’t been so
worried about … looking bad … about riding with the herd … if you had been absolutely honest with yourself, you would have held back. Yes or no?”

Mortimer hesitated.

“He is –
” a man in the audience hollered.

“– shittier than the rest of us,”
another fan returned.

“Wait,” Dig cautioned. “Give him a chance to answer my question.”

“The answer is I did the necessary thing.”

A man rose, cupping his hands to his mouth.
“Bullsh –”

“Fans, wait! Hold it! The fact is Mortimer Griffin is no phony.”

Studio fans, unsettled, began to mutter among themselves.

“He isn’t shittier than we are.”

The camera played on the studio audience just as an irate young couple got up and walked out.