2

“YOUR TIME IS OVER,” THE BIG BLACK AFRICAN ON THE platform shouted, his smile lethal. “You’re done for, you stupid white swine.”

“That’s the stuff,” cried a man with a Welsh accent.

“You Anglo-Saxon pigs,” the African said, still grinning. “You stupid British nits!”

Before Mortimer could intervene, Miss Ryerson was shaking her umbrella at the African. “Mr. Speaker,” she began, with that in-built authority that had once been sufficient to make the fourth grade sit bolt upright, “we decent, Godfearing people of British origin want to support you –”

“Har,” the African growled, flashing pearly teeth.

“– but when you stand up there, all cheekiness, it doesn’t give us much encouragement, you know.”

“Who in the hell wants you to support us, you stupid old woman!”

“Shoot,” Agnes Laura Ryerson said to Mortimer.

“The English are an insult to humanity,” the speaker continued. “The quicker they are liquidated the better.”

A beet-faced gentleman, standing directly behind Mortimer and Miss Ryerson, touched his tweed cap, smiled, and said, “These black chaps are splendidly uninhibited, don’t you think?”

Somebody flung a half-peeled banana at the speaker. Another man shouted, “Tell us if you’re living here on National Assistance. With your three black wives and eighteen kiddies.”

Mortimer took Miss Ryerson firmly by the arm, leading her across Oxford Street and to the Corner House, stopping to collect the Sunday Times for them to study at tea. Unfortunately Miss Ryerson picked up the magazine section first, opening it at the glistening all-but-nude photograph of a sensual pop singer, a young man caressing a cat. The singer wished to star in a film about the life of Christ. Jesus, he was quoted as saying, was no square. But a real groovy cat.

Migod, Mortimer thought. Sweet, silver-haired Agnes Laura Ryerson was his fourth-grade teacher from Caribou, Ontario, and he had tried his utmost to discourage her from making this sentimental journey. Miss Ryerson’s long-cherished fantasy picture of the mother country, more potent than any pot dream, was constructed almost entirely on literary foundations. Shakespeare, naturally, Jane Austen, The Illustrated London News, Kipling, Dickens, Beverly Baxter’s London Letters in Maclean’s.

Together Miss Ryerson and Mortimer scanned the theater listings. As she made appreciative noises over her scones, he persuaded her that the Royal Shakespeare Company’s latest venture into the theater of cruelty was not quite her cuppa. “It’s vastly overrated,” he insisted nervously.

Shoot. Miss Ryerson pursed her lips, displeased, inadvertently evoking for Mortimer the day she had given him five of the best on each hand for being caught with a copy of Nana in his desk. She simply had to go to the theater every night, she explained, for she had undertaken to write a weekly “Letter from London” for the Presbyterian Church-Monitor of Southern Ontario. “What do you know,” she asked, “about this one?”

This one was a tender domestic comedy about a homosexual couple.

“Um, well, it’s a bit naughty, I’m told.”

They settled on a farce for Tuesday night. Monday, one of Mortimer’s lecture nights, was out, unfortunately.

Oriole Press, where Mortimer was an editor, was still one of London’s most distinguished publishing houses; that is to say, it had yet to be taken over and transmogrified by the Star Maker. Mortimer enjoyed his work and had reason to hope that he was being considered as the next editor-in-chief, the penultimate step toward a seat on the board of directors, his initials carved into the two-hundred-year-old round table. Oriole’s celebrated oak. The saintly proprietor of Oriole Press, Lord Woodcock, had hinted at the appointment during a meeting with Mortimer at his Albany flat two years back. “Hodges,” Lord Woodcock had said, referring to the then editor-in-chief, “is nearing the retirement age. It would be indelicate of me to say more, but I will tell you this much, Griffin; when the time comes I’ll be damned if I’m going outside our family for a replacement.” Which left Mortimer with one rival. Hy Rosen, his best friend.

Following in the footsteps of Lord Woodcock, a Fabian with the purest Christian motives, the younger editorial staff at Oriole Press was encouraged to make use of their leisure time by serving the larger community in one socially responsible form or another. Two nights weekly little Hy Rosen worked as a boxing instructor at a Stepney youth club. Mortimer chose to deliver a series of lectures on “Reading for Pleasure” at an evening college in Paddington, sponsored by one of England’s more forward-looking trade unions. Mortimer’s third lecture, on Monday night, dealt with Franz Kafka and naturally he made several allusions to the distinctively Jewish roots of his work. Afterwards, as he was gathering his notes together, a lachrymose little man approached him for the first time.

“I want to tell you, Professor Griffin, how much intellectual nourishment I got out of your lecture tonight.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Mortimer said, in a hurry to leave because he was supposed to meet Joyce at Hy and Diana Rosen’s and it looked as if he was going to be late. But the lachrymose little man still stood resolutely before his desk.

His wisps of gray curly hair uncut and uncombed, he was a puny round-shouldered man with horn-rimmed spectacles, baleful black eyes, and a hanging lower lip. His shiny pin-striped gray suit was salted with dandruff around the shoulders. A hand-rolled cigarette drooped from his mouth, his eyes half shut against the smoke and ashes spilling unregarded to his jacket. “Why did you change your name?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon? Did you ask me why I changed my name?”

The man nodded.

“But I haven’t. My name is Griffin. It always has been.”

The man considered Mortimer with a sardonic, pitying smile. “You’re a Jew,” he said softly.

“You’re mistaken.”

The man chuckled.

“Really,” Mortimer said. “What made you think –”

“All right. I’m mistaken. I made a mistake. Not to worry.”

“Look here, if I were a Jew I wouldn’t try to conceal it for a moment.”

Still smiling, blinking his eyes, the man said, “There’s no need to lose your temper, Professor Griffin. I made a mistake. If that’s the way you want it.”

“And I’m not a professor either. Mr. Griffin will do nicely.”

“A man of your insights will be famous one day … like … like I. M. Sinclair. A scholar renowned wherever the intelligentsia meet. Thanks once more, merci mille fois,for tonight’s intellectual feast. Good night, Mr. Griffin.”

Good night.

Driving out to the Rosens’ flat in Swiss Cottage, Mortimer smiled indulgently. Me Jewish, he thought, laughing out loud.

Joyce had eaten with the Rosens, and Diana, remembering how much Mortimer fancied chopped liver, had saved him an enormous helping. Seated in the living room, amid Hy’s framed photographs of Abe (the Little Hebrew) Attell, Phil (Ring Gorilla) Bloom, Chrysanthemum Joe Choynski, Ruby (the Jewel of the Ghetto) Goldstein, Yussel the Mussel Jacobs, Benny Leonard, Barney Ross, and others, Mortimer told him about the lachrymose little man, concluding with “…  and where in the hell he ever got the idea I was Jewish I’ll never know.”

Mortimer had anticipated laughter, a witty remark from Hy, perhaps. Instead there was silence. Nervy silence.

“Look, I don’t mean I’d be ashamed –”

“Gee, thanks.”

“– or that I was insulted that someone would think I was –”

“Ah ha.”

“Christ, you know what I mean, Hy.”

“You’re goddamned right I do,” Hy said, springing to his feet and removing his glasses.

Mortimer and Joyce left for home earlier than usual.

“Boy,” Joyce said, “you certainly have a gift. Once you have put your foot into it you certainly know how to make matters worse.”

“I thought they’d laugh. God, Hy’s my best friend. He –”

“Was,” Joyce said.

While Joyce was undressing in the bathroom, Mortimer slipped surreptitiously out of the bedroom, down the hall, and into Doug’s room. Doug was just eight years old and having a peek at him as he slept gave Mortimer a wonderfully warm feeling inside. He had to watch it, though, because Joyce felt this was very Saturday Evening Post of him. Specially the kissing bit. She’s right, too, Mortimer thought, as he gave Doug a hasty peck on the forehead and fled.

Joyce, Mortimer gathered, was still upset. “Come off it,” he said. “You don’t seriously think Hy thinks I’m an anti-Semite?”

Joyce raised one eyebrow slightly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Tomorrow the whole thing will be forgotten. Hy will make a joke of it.”

Then they settled into bed with books. Back to back. Joyce, on her side, with The Story of O; Mortimer, on his side, with The Best of Leacock.

“They have an excellent sense of humor,” Joyce said, “haven’t they? There’s Mort Sahl and Art Buchwald and –”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!”

“If I were you I’d phone him and apologize.”

“There’s no need. Damn it, I adore Hy. I’ve known him for years.”