Cocksure

“There are many sexes,” the Star Maker said, “and gradients on the Kinsey scale, categories within categories. Hetero, homo, Lesbian, the mundane variants, are all familiar to you, I’m sure. But there are the more complicated genders. There are the transvestites and, above all, the transsexuals. Tiresias changed himself into a woman because he felt that the woman’s kicks during intercourse were ten to the man’s one, and, damn it, he had the odds very nearly right. The East Indian King, Mahabharata, transformed himself for the same hedonistic reasons. Nero … well he’s still a dodgy case, but history abounds with more recent examples. The Chevalier d’Éon, for instance, lived forty-nine years as a man and thirty-four as a woman. L’Abbé d’Entragues had a shot at feminine facial beauty by submitting to frequent facial bleedings. A certain Mlle. Jenny Savalette de Lange died at Versailles in 1858 and was found out to be a man. More recently there was the sensational case of Christine Jorgensen, born a man, transformed into a woman by a with-it Scandinavian doctor. The true transsexual, Mortimer, is a man born into a woman’s body or vice versa. The most unhappy of God’s creatures until he or she is operated on.

  “I first became fascinated by these unfortunates some fifty years ago, when transsexual surgery was still in the Kitty Hawk stage. And then, maybe ten years ago, I learned of the genius of Casablanca, Dr. Georges Burou, who has been of such help to TS’s of both sexes … though, characteristically, I’m afraid, the Russians are miles ahead of us in penis making –”

  “In what making?”

  “I knew that would interest you.”

  “ Why should it interest me, you bastard?”

  “Because obviously, my dear, if they can build from scratch, sometimes requiring as many as thirty operations, then they can also add to what is already there, don’t you think?”

  Mortimer stared into his glass.

  “Whatever you decide, you must say no to the prosthesis.”

  “To the what?”

  “Artificial penises. They go in for it a lot in the States. It’s plastic, Mortimer. Déclassé. No damn fun at all, and then you’ve got to worry during the summer heat waves, electric blankets in winter are out of course, and so are hot baths and –”

  “I have absolutely no interest in the matter.”

  The Star Maker was seemingly unconvinced. “To return to the great Burou. He, needless to say, doesn’t mess about with plastic pricks at all. He has been of enormous help to the male TS, who wishes to be womanized. He has in fact again and again made the most marvy cunts, working with nothing more than a drippy, wizened old prick. He inverts the skin, don’t you see? There’s nothing quite like it for a new vaginal canal, because the penis, any old penis, is so rich in nerve ends and –”

  “I don’t want to talk about it any more, please.”

  “Well, I had been keeping a file on TS surgery for years and at the same time I began to worry about my own mortality. You do worry, you know, when the younger fellas begin to go. Churchill, Maugham, Beaverbrook … I knew morbid days, Mortimer. Even with my mobile hospital and spare-parts men at my beck and call, could I die too?”

  “Too?”

  “Exactly how I felt. Oh, Lord, what a waste, I thought. And me with no heir.”

  “Couldn’t you marry?”

  “For money? I have more than I can count.”

  “For love, then?”

  “But, my dear child, I only love me.”

  The Star Maker leaned forward and Mortimer relit the cigar.

  “Great ideas, my boy, are born accidentally. Newton and the apple, Watt and the teakettle.… Well, one day Dino Tomasso and I had a tiff, over his coming to London, and he actually said to me, Go fuck yourself, Star Maker.… Go fuck yourself, go fuck yourself … What a brilliant notion. Why not, I thought. Do you follow me so far?”

  Mortimer nodded.

  “If they can make cunts for men and outfit girls with cocks, well, why not everything, the whole shebang, within one human body?”

  “What about … defecation?” was all Mortimer could think of asking.

  “Through a pouch. Here.”

  “Christ.”

  “It’s taken countless operations … set-backs … grafts that wouldn’t take … more and more spare-parts men … secrecy … Until, well, here I am, ducks,” the Star Maker said, raising arms, one reaching higher than the other.

  Mortimer felt his stomach rising within him.

  “Since God, the first self-contained creator, Mortimer, I am now able to reproduce myself. I will have a son.”

  “What if it’s a girl?”

  “But I fully intend to have more than one. Only children are so spoiled, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t believe a word of it. You’re insane.”

  “Fifty years ago would you have believed in men flying into space?”

  Mortimer didn’t answer.

  “There is inner space as well as outer, you see. And it’s fun, oh it’s such fun. In all my years, I have enjoyed nothing more than making love to me,” the Star Maker said, embracing, nuzzling upper arms, kissing, licking.

  Mortimer averted his eyes.

  “It’s so good to be able to give it to myself regular. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m going to be ill.”

  “Over there, honey,” the Star Maker said, indicating a door.

  Mortimer rushed, retching, for the toilet, where he was sick again and again. On the glass shelf over the sink, after-shave lotion and a bottle of Joy stood side by side. Mortimer finally lit a cigarette, washed, and returned to find the Star Maker sipping a glass of warm milk.

  “And how are you?” the Star Maker said. “Have you been able to get it up since our last chat?” Mortimer glared.

  “Forgive me. Of course you have. Polly Morgan is positively blooming.”

  “Star Maker, I have only one reason for being here. To tell you that I’m resigning.”

  “Well, you have changed your tune, haven’t you? On the phone you said you were eager to take over. It’s definite, you said.”

  “I don’t want to work for you.”

  “A better offer?”

  “Hardly.”

  “I see.”

  “I will not repeat your secrets to anyone.”

  “You’re a man of your word.”

  “However, I have taken the precaution of setting down what I know about the Our Living History series. I have left this information somewhere in a sealed envelope. If any harm comes to me or Polly Morgan –”

  “What nonsense!”

  “Your men follow me wherever I go.”

  “Why, that’s frightful. I had no idea, I’ll put a stop to that immediately.”

  “You’d better. Because if you don’t –”

  “Please don’t threaten me, Mortimer. Let’s remain friends.”

  Mortimer lit one cigarette off another.

  “I still wish you’d take over Oriole from Tomasso. You look poorly, son. Why not think it over a bit longer?”

  “My decision is final.”

  “Well, in that case there is nothing more for me to do than wish you the best of luck.”

  “And call off your men, please.”

  “I will do nothing to harm you, my boy, so long as you give me your word not to speak of my private affairs.”

  “Gladly.”

  “No hard feelings, eh, Mortimer?”

  “None.”

  “You’ll come to the christening, then.”

  “I couldn’t bear to miss it. So long, Star Maker.”

  The Star Maker blew him a kiss and then pressed the buzzer for Miss Mott.

  “Yes?”

  “Get me Tomasso on the phone. Instantly.”

  The Star Maker explained to Tomasso exactly what had to be done.

  “Yes,” Tomasso said. “Can do. Right away.” He hung up and dialed long distance. “Get me Frankfurt,” he said.

  35

  WHOM COULD HE ENTRUST THE ENVELOPE TO? JOYCE, after all, was still his wife. They had taken
vows together.

  “Well,” she said expansively, “I hear that you and Polly Morgan –”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “Perhaps not. But I’m so glad to know that you can obviously get it up again.”

  “Again and again. We tend to overdo it, rather.”

  “Don’t you think she’s a bit young for you?”

  Mortimer jumped up to look out of the window. No Rover. No black-suited men. Relieved, he whacked the window open. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, staring at the matted tangle under her armpits and wondering if it would ever stop growing. “Incidentally,” he continued merrily, “if you should want a divorce –”

  “Divorce? What ever for?”

  “Well, I’d hate to stand between you and old Ziggy, you know.”

  “Ziggy,” she said snidely, “would never marry me.”

  “Ah ha.”

  “He respects me too much. He wouldn’t contaminate our relationship by having me become a possession, a chattel. He wants me to remain free to love him.”

  “How very, very nice for you. May I see Dougie now?”

  “He’s already asleep.”

  “Well, then,” he said, rising.

  “Wait. My congratulations, darling.”

  “What ever for?”

  “Your life’s dream come true. I understand you’re going to take over Oriole.”

  “You understand wrong. As usual. I’ve resigned.”

  “You’ve what?”

  “That ought to please Hy Rosen, don’t you think?”

  “What a dreadful thing to say. Hy’s your best friend.”

  “My best friend? Wake up. He doesn’t even talk to me any more.”

  “If he feels hurt I’m afraid he’s got good reason.”

  “You mean I’m an anti-Semite?”

  “Mortimer, how could you have written that article on Chagall for Jewish Thought?”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Did you have to call it ‘A Jewish Answer to Picasso’? Hy’s indignant. He thinks that was so cheap of you. He –”

  “I’ll kill that Shalinsky. I’ll murder him.”

  “Mortimer, wait.”

  But it was no use. He was off. He was lucky enough to trap a taxi immediately. Another car pulled out after him, right after him, but it wasn’t a Rover. There were no black-suited men inside. I’m jumpy, that’s all.

  36

  “HOW SWEET OF YOU TO VISIT ME, GRIFFIN. AFTER OUR little differences. So, how are you?”

  “Oh, fine. Just fine. And you?”

  “Like this, like that.”

  Shalinsky sat at his kitchen table correcting proofs. His trouser legs were rolled up and his feet were soaking in a basin of steaming water. A heap of old clothes was stacked on the chair beside him.

  “Do you also deal in old clothes?” Mortimer asked, his purpose to insult.

  “I collect them. I send parcels to my writers. In the Iron Curtain countries, you know, it’s no picnic for our Yiddish poets.”

  “But how on earth can you afford it?” Mortimer asked, indicating the pile of tinned foods on the table.

  “It’s a struggle, Griffin. A real struggle. But the artist’s lot, need I tell you, has always been the same. Anyway Levitt – he prints Jewish Thought for me – also gives me work as a salesman. I go from office to office. You know, letterheads, greeting cards, dance programs.… My feet aren’t what they used to be. I do a lot by phone now, but.… Well, the commission isn’t half bad.” He smiled stoically. “Would you like to see my bureau?”

  Mortimer followed Shalinsky into a small, stifling room. Over the rolltop desk was a framed portrait of Chaim Nachman Bialik. Yellowing newspapers, magazines, and proofs were heaped high on two chairs. Books were stacked everywhere. Shalinsky opened his filing cabinet and Mortimer had to jump back to avoid puffs of dust. Shalinsky pulled out a letter and handed it to Mortimer.

  MY DEAR SHALINSKY,

  Thank you for sending me your magazine. I enjoyed reading it.

  Sincerely yours,

  ALBERT EINSTEIN

  There were more, equally terse but polite notes from others, including Theodor Herzl, John Garfield, FDR, Harold Laski, Al Jolson, and King George VI.

  “In that issue there was a comparative study I’m sure he enjoyed of the House of Windsor and the House of David. Of Cabbages and Kings by I. M. Sinclair. At the time it was very widely quoted.”

  Shalinsky showed Mortimer some of his own published work, letters to the editor that had appeared in the New Statesman, the Guardian and the Observer. Protests against the release of the film version of Oliver Twist, pleas for impoverished Yiddish writers, a demand for a ban on East European goods until imprisoned poets were released. “I have published more letters to the editor than any other writer in England,” he said.

  “I’m impressed, really I am.”

  “Ach, we’re both in the same boat.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’m a writer manqué. Like you.”

  Restraining himself, Mortimer noticed signs of a relentless economy everywhere. Pencils had been shaved down to the last half inch; cigarette butts went into a special jar, obviously to be broken and rolled once more.

  “I still don’t understand how you manage,” Mortimer said.

  “Come,” Shalinsky said, leading him back into the kitchen. “People give me things.” He chuckled, fingering some crumbs on the enamel-topped table. “I’m a character, Griffin. An embarrassment. You think I don’t trade on it? So if I go to a rich Jew’s office and he says to me no, I say, okay, très bien, no hard feelings, and I sit outside in his waiting room. Coughing. Bringing up phlegm. Can he throw me out, an old man? What would the goyim who come and go say? Me, I sit and wait. I read. I suck my teeth. Eventually if they don’t give me money I get an old suit. If not that, something else. Paper and carbon from the office maybe …”

  “Shalinsky, you’re a blackmailer.”

  “What do they need paper for? Bookkeeping. But for a poet with a pencil and paper … magic, Griffin.”

  “All the same –”

  “In some of these offices all they have to do is see me coming and right away the hand dips into the pocket to get rid of me. From people in the needle trade I get seconds, last year’s numbers. Somewhere else I sell a subscription to Jewish Thought. Sure, they never read it. You think I don’t know? What is it for them? A conversation piece. Something to keep on the coffee table. I care? Two quid is not to be sneezed at.” Shalinsky squeezed his eyes together and groaned. “But my poor feet. Oi. The old gray mare, Griffin, she ain’t what she used to be. Well, to what do I owe this honor? No. Don’t tell me. You’ve brought me quelque chose for the magazine. A new essay. So, don’t be shy. Your piece on Chagall, I don’t mind telling you, was highly spoken of in influential quarters. I’ve heard many favorable comments.”

  “Why in the hell did you change the title?”

  “Oh, that Daniels, he’ll be the end of me. With him it always has to be snappy, up-to-the-minute. Could you pass me the kettle, please. The water’s getting cold.”

  Grudgingly, Mortimer handed him the kettle.

  “Ah, it’s good.” Shalinsky wiggled his toes. Under the nails the flesh was purple. “At my age, Griffin, once the sexual passions are spent, you’d be surprised what you enjoy.” Shalinsky laughed, his cigarette clinging miraculously to his lips, ashes dribbling to his trousers and into the basin. “So you’d like some tea?”

  Mortimer got up to look out of the window. His heart leaped. The car, a Vauxhall, that had started out after his taxi, was parked across the street.

  “Add water to the kettle and –”

  “I’m not sure I can stay much longer.”

  Shalinsky dried his feet, moaning pleasurably. “Griffin, you’re an honest man …” He hesitated, his smile impish. “Well, about some things. Advise me. I have been thinking of publishing a slim volume of my pensées at my own expense. In
the Continental tradition. But all my money seems to go on tinned foods and postage for parcels.”

  “What about your printing bills, Shalinsky?” Mortimer said drawing the curtains. “How do you manage that?”

  “Oh, with Levitt I have a special deal. He’s a unique chap.” Shalinsky leaned closer to Mortimer. “You are looking into the face of a mortgaged man.”

  So are you, Mortimer thought.

  “When I meet my Maker Levitt collects on the policy. He’s my beneficiary. Well, some men will their bodies to science; me, I’ve sold mine for the arts. C’est assez drôle, n’est-ce pas? Well, Griffin, enough. Let us put down our swords. The truth will out. Why have you come to see me at such a late hour?”

  “The truth is I came here to bash your teeth in.”

  “But,” Shalinsky demanded eagerly.

  “Well, the way you were sitting here … the parcels …”

  “There! You see! Violence. Ach. Pour les bêtes. Among us, however –”

  “God damn it, Shalinsky. I’m a wreck. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going these days –”

  “Have no fear, chaver. Society is sick, not you.”

  “The first time I spoke to you, you said I’d be famous one day. You were wrong, Shalinsky. I’m a ruined man.”

  Shalinsky sighed.

  “My wife’s thrown me over for another man. I’ve been tossed out of my own house.”

  Shalinsky nodded with ineffable sadness. “Mixed marriages,” he said, “never work.”

  Mortimer pounded his fist against the table. “Why do I even sit here talking to you?”

  “Ah, Griffin …”

  “I’ve resigned my job at Oriole.”

  “Griffin, the scapegoat.”

  “There are killers seeking me out even now.”

  “Well, now you see, now you know. It’s hard to be a Jew.”

  “I am not,” Mortimer said, seizing Shalinsky by the shoulders and shaking him, “a Jew.”

  “But Griffin, Griffin, don’t you see? A Jew is an idea. Today you’re my idea of a Jew.”

  Mortimer leaped up to peer through the curtains. The Vauxhall was still there. He paced up and down the kitchen. “Shalinsky, one minute. Hold on there. The truth is I did bring you a manuscript.”