28
FORTIFIED WITH BRANDY, MORTIMER HOPPED A BUS, alighting at the Albany.
“Well,” Lord Woodcock said, “so you’ve come to see me at last.”
Mortimer nodded feebly.
“Please sit down. I can see, well, that you have been ill.”
Can you, Mortimer thought, startled.
“It’s good to see you. Very good to see you.”
As a matter of fact, Lord Woodcock was appalled. Mortimer was clean-shaven, but the nicks on his cheeks betrayed a shaky hand. Purple welts swelled under his bloodshot eyes. His shirt collar curled at the ends. His suit was unpressed.
“What is it you wished to speak to me about?”
“I won’t mince words. I’ve always wanted you to be Oriole’s next editor-in-chief. It was my wish that once Dino Tomasso had gone, you would take over. The Star Maker, I’m happy to say, more than concurs. It only remains for you to apologize to, um” – Lord Woodcock consulted a paper on his desk – “Mr. Jacob Shalinsky for the vile things you said to him and resume your classes in ‘Reading for Pleasure.’ ”
Mortimer made no reply.
“Is it true that you said to Mr. Shalinsky that there are other problems besides the Jewish problem?”
“It was a stupid thing to say.”
“Is it also true that you said to him, Damn your perverse Jewish soul?”
Mortimer lit one cigarette off another. “Jacob Shalinsky is an obnoxious little man. His friends make me sick.”
“I appreciate your feelings –”
“Well, then?”
“But to an outsider this whole affair could only reek of racial prejudice.”
“If anyone is suffering from prejudice it’s me. There is such a thing, you know, as the tyranny of the minority.”
“There have been letters of complaint. And a petition from your lecture class. The Star Maker is dead-set against bad publicity.”
Mortimer sucked in a deep breath. “The Star Maker is a murderer, Lord Woodcock. He and Tomasso.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
Mortimer told him about the Our Living History series. About Herr Dr. Manheim and the Frankfurt efficiency team.
“How can you be anti-Semitic, on one hand, and prejudiced against Germans, on the other? I’m trying to understand you, but –”
“You are not taking me seriously.”
“Are you a misanthrope, then?”
“They’re murderers. Don’t you understand?”
“The Our Living History is quite the most successful line we’ve had in years. Nobody has reproached you for not thinking of it first. It is most unbecoming, then, for you –”
“You think this is all sour grapes on my part.”
“The competitive spirit, perhaps.”
Mortimer repeated his story once more. He told Lord Woodcock what he had read in the file.
“How very interesting,” Lord Woodcock said, surreptitiously removing the letter opener from his desk.
“You don’t believe me, you old fool.”
“Now, now, we mustn’t excite ourselves, must we?”
“You think I’m crazy?”
“Nobody is crazy. I’m not a boor, you know. Some people are better-adjusted than others, that’s all. Possibly, you’ve been drinking too much.”
“Yes,” Mortimer said, realizing there was no point, “that’s the truth.”
“Personal troubles?”
“A few.”
“Pity.”
Unaccountably, Mortimer began to laugh.
“Perhaps,” Lord Woodcock said, “you should rest a little longer. Stay away from Oriole for a few more days. No need to rush things.”
“Thank you.”
“The Star Maker, you know, thinks the world of you –”
“I’ve got a marvy lymph system. And Polly Morgan is the same blood type.”
“If you say so, I’m sure it’s true. He thinks the world of you, Mortimer, and I’d hate to disabuse him.”
“Good.”
“Now about your lectures. Your Mr. Shalinsky was here to see me only yesterday –”
“After an ad for Jewish Thought?”
“Among other things. A most dedicated and erudite little man, I thought.”
“He’s a snake.”
“Now, now. I thought it, um, interesting that he firmly believes that you are yourself, ah, of Hebraic origin.”
“I’m a Presbyterian, Lord Woodcock. Like my father.”
“I’m utterly opposed to prejudice. We must love one another or die has always been my credo, but if there is one thing I abominate, Mortimer,” he said, rising, “it is a Jewish anti-Semite.”
Mortimer, to his amazement, gave Lord Woodcock a shove.
“Anger,” Lord Woodcock said, his breath coming short, “sometimes betrays our deepest –”
Mortimer kicked the gold-tipped cane out from under him.
“You’re sick –”
Which provoked a punch to Lord Woodcock’s spilling belly.
“– mentally …”
Lord Woodcock gasped, sinking to the floor.
Next Mortimer took a taxi directly to The Eight Bells, where he consumed one brandy after another. Suddenly Polly Morgan stood before him. “Having a rough time?” she asked.
“Somewhat.”
“If ever you want me,” she said with a smile, “just whistle.”