Greta Garbo was not easy. If she put pen to paper at all, Garbo tended to use a pseudonym, Harriet Brown. Garbo would demand that her bank chase up the whereabouts of any check she had written that had not been cashed. She wouldn’t let her name go, even on a receipt. A Garbo autograph, even a bad one, is still worth about six thousand pounds. Kitty Alexander signed even less than Garbo. Kitty was as awkward and invisible as Jehovah. She was aloof. The public hated her for it. And in time she was forgotten, for the public do not like to be ignored. But Autograph Men are rather more masochistic than the public (the public are primarily sadistic); they
enjoy
contempt. The Autograph Men remembered Kitty, always. These are the same people for whom untimely deaths are good business, along with assassinations, and serial murders, and high-profile failures. Monroe’s first husband, the third man on the moon, the Fifth Beatle. They have peculiar tastes. For a long time, Kitty Alexander’s autograph has been one of the most sought-after scribbles in this peculiar world. Most Autograph Men have given up the hope of ever getting one. Not Alex. Every week since he was thirteen, Alex has sent a weekly letter to Kitty, to an address in Manhattan, her fan-club address. Never once has he received a response. Not once. Only a drawer full of form letters, signed by the fan club president. And therefore,
therefore,
it takes Alex a long moment, therefore, to remember why, how,
by what means,
a blank postcard with Kitty’s autograph clearly written upon it has come to be pinned, like Luther’s declaration, to his own front door. Carefully, he unpins it and holds it up to the light. It is exquisite. It is real. Or he is not Alex-Li Tandem. He presses the
TALK
button.
“Alex,” says Joseph in his quiet way, “listen to me one more time. You did not receive it from God. Nor did you receive it in the post. You forged it, Alex; you were on a very bad trip. Everybody was. Listen to me. It isn’t real, it never will be real, and things do not become real simply because we want them to be so.”
CHAPTER THREE
Netsah
ETERNITY • Three rabbis • The problem of the bookcase • The world is broken • Rebecca’s midgets
• Alex’s secret book • Rubinfine’s goyish tastes
• Bette Davis was Jewish
The black trees, vivid against the blue sky, were elms. The crazy boxes, each containing one regretful man, were Ford Mondeos. The birds, for the most part, were magpies. And the tall young man with the Oriental look, deliberately slowing his pace down the Mountjoy Road, was none other than Alex-Li Tandem. He realized he was heading directly for three men staring at an open car boot, and he didn’t like it. He had not been spotted yet, but soon he would be. One of these men was a rabbi well known to him. Where to hide? From here he could see Adam’s video store, Hollywood Alphabet, like an open cave across the street. Closer by, one of these outdoor toilets, fitted with the mechanical doors and the urban myths. But for sanctuary it was too late. There was no escape. Nothing to be done.
“Alex!”
“Hullo, Rubinfine.”
“Alex, Alex,
Alex.
What a day, no? What a gift of a day!”
With gloomy clarity, Alex noted that Rubinfine’s smile this morning was merely a grimace the other way up. He stood with his right foot crooked up against the Justice side of Mountjoy’s War Memorial, a huge stone monolith engraved with four values—
Justice, Courage, Honor
and, for some reason,
Patience
—a proud commemoration of Mountjoy’s wartime sacrifices although Mountjoy itself had not been built until 1952. Two other men, unknown to Alex, stood at the corner of
Courage
and
Patience.
“And yet,” said Rubinfine, solemnly, “even on a day such as this, we are presented with a problem.”
He put his hands on his hips in the oddly feminine way he had sometimes and gaped into space. Before him, a parked Citroën, its boot open, gaped back. Quickly, Alex became panicked. Although already outside, he began looking about him in the manner of a man searching for the exit sign.
“Look, Mark,” he said, “I mean,
Rabbi
Rubinfine—you know what? I actually can’t really stop. Heading for the tube. I’ve got an auction on this morning, you know how it is. Places to go, people to buy. So, if you don’t mind, actually, I might just—”
“Alex-Li,”
said Rubinfine. The beauty spot on his cheek twitched, and with it, his new and unpleasant mustache took a leap to the right. He cupped his hands round Alex’s face. He was wearing a salmon-colored V-neck, paired with some ridged green cords, a long houndstooth coat and a pair of black sneakers.
“When a man hurries,” said Rubinfine, trying to sound Talmudic, “the first things he forgets are his toothbrush and his God.”
This kind of thing drove Alex crazy. In his opinion, Rubinfine was too young to be making up aphorisms. He was only three years older than Alex. He was thirty, only thirty. You can quote all you like at thirty, but that’s where it’s got to end.
“Now,” puffed Rubinfine, “other things being equal, I’ve some friends here I want you to meet. This is Rabbi Darvick and Rabbi Green. Rabbi Darvick visits us from Brooklyn, New York. Rabbi Green, you may have met, actually. He’s a Mountjoy man. We’re attending a rabbinical conference—Grantam Park? Lasts a week. We’re swapping ideas, learning tolerance,” said Rubinfine, grinning at Green, who seemed to barely tolerate him. “Come and say hello.”
Darvick was small and round and in slacks, indistinguishable from a civilian, an Ultra-Progressive like Rubinfine. Green was Orthodox, much taller and with the corkscrew curls of payess, pale-skinned and flame-haired, wearing a very sharp suit and a tallis.
“Right. Of course. I was being rude. Rabbi Darvick,” said Alex, drawing a hand from his pocket, “it’s nice to meet you. Rabbi Green. I’m not sure . . . have we? We must have, at some point, I suppose. . . . Or maybe not?”
Rabbi Darvick made the sound of having had something caught at the back of his throat, having released it and being pleased with the fact. Rabbi Green made a noise of acknowledgment which Alex, a young man without illusions, took for what it was: a grunt.
“Alex-Li,” said Rubinfine, “we have a problem. Maybe you could help us with?”
Rubinfine tilted his head and smiled.
“What’s your hurry? Shift in the cosmos? Is someone selling a Kitty Whatshername or something?”
Poor Alex made a fist in his pocket.
“It’s Kitty
Alexander.
And no. All right? Just an important auction, and I’m already late.”
“But,
Alex-Li
. . .”
Fuming, Alex made a dance to the left, but Rubinfine met him. Alex moved to the right, and there was the rabbi again. Above them, two magpies flipped black and blue from one bare tree to another across the street, carrying nothing shiny in their beaks, no gems, no glass, for magpies rarely do. Realizing the battle was lost, Alex grabbed at his flask, uncapped it, and took a swig.
“Hmmm, that smells
great,
” said Rubinfine, holding Alex by his elbow and ushering him towards the car boot. “Now. Do you see it?”
It
was a mahogany bookcase, grand and in the Georgian style. It was about six inches wider than the boot. It lay on its side on the pavement. This bookcase was not going to fit in the boot, Alex saw that much.
“Rabbi,” he said evenly, “it’s just too big. I mean, it’s
too big.
”
Green raised his eyebrows as if this were news. Following a recent cue of Darvick’s, he made a frame of his fingers like a cinematographer and peered at the bookcase. Rubinfine bent down and traced his finger along a shelf.
“I
suppose
we’ll have to push it along the back seats . . . maybe even as far as the passenger seat! Or—wait a minute, now wait—what about
your
car?”
Alex pushed both hands deep into the sad wells of his coat pockets. So he had been set up.
“Yes, all right. Well done. Envelope opened. Best Actor awarded.”
He made to walk away, but Rubinfine caught him by the wrist.
“Yes, Alex, naturally I heard about Tuesday. And far be it from me to say I told you so, but. Now, what are my two rules? One,” he said, sticking up a thumb, “mysticism and theosophy of all kinds are to be avoided. Given the old heave-ho. And, two: illegal substances can’t help anyone get closer to God. I spend my whole life telling Adam this. I mean, don’t I? And now look.”
“Why are you giving
me
the lecture?” asked Alex, sulkily. “Give Adam the lecture. It’s
his
thing.”
“I’ve said it before,” intoned Rubinfine, shaking his head at the floor. “At best, it’s a thirteenth-century fake, Alex, at
best.
The letters, the lights, the
mystic writing.
The Zohar is a pretty good novel, no more no less. It’s also eleven hundred years later than they say it is.
Yes.
Basically, it’s a forgery. It’s up there with Shabbatai Zevi, the Loch Ness, Bigfoot . . .”
During this little speech, a pensive look had come over Green’s long face, like the sad mask of Keaton in the silents. He knelt down and placed his hands on the bookshelf. Darvick was agitated, tapping his right foot against the monument, frowning at Rubinfine.
“Rabbi, with all respect et cetera,” said Darvick sharply, “Kabbalah is the center of the mystery. The point is, surely, that it’s only for the truly learned men, for the really big fish.”
“He
needs
us,” Green murmured. “Without us, He is incomplete. The world is
broken.
This is the whole of the Kabbalah, Rabbi. This is not to be made light of—or rather,” said Green with a smile at his own sudden pun, “this is
made out of light.
The Kabbalah is the light hidden within the Torah.”
“Whoa, whoa . . . now stop, everyone,” said jumpy Rubinfine, laughing, trying to pat both rabbis simultaneously. “Now, everybody calm down. Am I an idiot? Am I? What I
meant
was that people shouldn’t meddle with what they don’t understand. Trust me about this, please, Rabbi. If the world is broken, Alex-Li Tandem is not the man to mend it.” Rubinfine laughed again and encouraged the others to laugh.
“Well, one thing’s for sure,” said Darvick loudly. “It’s obvious he can’t help
us.
”
Darvick pushed by Alex and stretched over the bookcase, opening his palm to reveal a measuring tape and pulling the ribbon from its cradle.
“He just doesn’t look the type to
me.
Looks
schloompy.
”
“He’s an
intellectual,
” explained Rubinfine irritably. “They all look like that.”
“How’s Rebecca?” queried Alex in a loud and cordial tone, just for revenge. At the thought of his wife of five years, Rubinfine struggled with his face, and from among several more benign choices, a look reminiscent of Lenin after his second stroke won out.
“Fine, fine. Busy. Arranging a fund-raiser, I believe. Charity. Barn dance . . .” Rubinfine’s voice began to disappear. “For midgets. Though I’m told they’re not called that anymore.”
“People of restricted growth,” boomed Darvick with authority.
Rubinfine looked desperate, opened his mouth and then shut it again.
Alex smiled warmly.
“Right. Well, send her my love. Always helping somebody, that’s Rebecca.”
Rubinfine tried to restrain it but a noticeable shudder passed over him, the tremor of the target board after a bull’s;-eye.
“Alex,” he said stiffly, “I’ve been meaning to ask . . .”
Rubinfine loved nothing better than to end a sentence before it was actually finished. He thought it appropriately rabbinical. You could ride the awkward silence for as long as you liked with Rubinfine, but he would not speak again until you prompted him.
“About . . . ?”
“That book of yours. The insulting one. Regarding goyishness and what-have-you. I was wondering whether there’d been any recent progress? Or maybe you’ve come to your senses? Abandoned it?”
Alex swore, very gently, at Rubinfine. Rubinfine gave Alex the International Gesture for not swearing in front of rabbi-looking rabbis (crossed eyes, flared nostrils). Alex gave Rubinfine the I.G. for not mentioning his book,
ever
(tongue curled behind lower front teeth, mouth open).
“Fine. Well, another thing: have you any Harrison Ford at the moment? Maybe some Carrie Fisher?”
Alex willed blankness onto his features. Rubinfine motioned to Darvick and Green that the bookcase might be lifted, and now each rabbi took a corner, leaving one corner lurching dangerously, until Rubinfine’s long thigh slipped underneath to support it.
“Maybe some later Harrison?” repeated Rubinfine, straightening up, wiping his sweaty forehead with the underside of his wrist. “From circa
Witness,
maybe. A film still. Just an eight-by-ten.”
Alex-Li felt a deep satisfaction at the thought of an eleven-by-fourteen color photo of Ford in the
Millennium Falcon
boldly signed, coincidentally,
To Mark, keep up the good work,
Harrison Ford
which sat in his briefcase this very day and which he had no intention of selling to Mark Rubinfine even if he gave him twenty thousand pounds and his liver.
“I don’t think so. . . .” began Alex, rubbing his chin. “I’ve got some Marlon Brando, one Brando . . . small, though, seven by five. And a bit late in the day. Honestly, he doesn’t look his best, but I don’t think that overly detracts. I could give it to you for about two hundred and fifty. Or thereabouts.”
Rubinfine shook his head.
“That’s not for me. It’s really Ford I want. I’m a Ford man, Alex-Li, now, you
know
that.”
Rubinfine’s unremittingly goyish taste in autographs was a hard one to get your head round. And it was never just a little bit goyish. It was goyish in the extreme. It was Harrison Ford in a film about the
Amish
type of goyish.
“This is the Autograph Man?” said Rabbi Green.
“This is the Autograph Man,” said Rubinfine.
“You’re the Autograph Man?” asked Green.
“For my sins,” said Alex-Li Tandem.
“You collect autographs?” asked Green.
“I’m not a collector,” said Alex-Li, loudly and slowly. “I’m a trader. It’s not really a personal thing. I prefer to think of it as a business.”
Green frowned. The left side of his face hiked up as if some god, fishing for rabbis, had just hooked himself a juicy one.
“You run around after people?” asked Green, wagging a finger. “You know, with a pen and paper? People deserve a little privacy. Just because people are on the television, this doesn’t mean they don’t have feelings. You should leave people alone.”
Alex took a long, cleansing breath. “I don’t hunt. I don’t hunt anymore and I don’t collect. I collect only in so far as I
trade
. I buy, I sell. Like any other business. I don’t wait outside theaters at midnight. That’s kid stuff.”
“Well . . .” said Darvick, going over his front teeth with a muscular-looking tongue. “If you’re so clever . . . have you got
Bette Davis
? You’re probably too young to remember Bette, but—”
“No,” said Alex firmly, patting his closed case as if to ensure that Bette was absent. “No . . . I had an early still from
Jezebel,
but it went last week.”
Darvick clapped his hands.
“He knows Bette? Now, you see, I
liked
Bette. She had a certain flavor about her. People talk about divas these days, but they don’t really know. Well, well. A schloompy guy like this, you wouldn’t guess he knows Bette. But he knows Bette.”
Tandem shut his mouth, thrust his free hand into his trouser pocket and felt his own testicles, a familiar action that had saved him from grievous misdemeanor in the past.
“I kind of know everyone,” he answered quietly, admirably. “This is my card. I’ll write my home phone and my name. Look, phone me in a few weeks, Rabbi Darvick. I’ll keep an eye out in case any Bette turns up. She’s hardly obscure.”
“Bub, I won’t be here in a few weeks, this is a flying visit,” said Darvick, reaching over and taking the business card anyway. “Call that a signature? Alex . . . what? I can’t read that.”