“So if the Jews have stolen all of the black material, what are you going to write about?” Brashford looked at his watch.
“Armenians. I’m going to write about Armenians. I’m going to create characters with depth and nuance.” He rose, went to the full-length mirror, and put on a tie. He went to the other end of the spacious room and removed a jacket from a closet. It was velvet. Brashford wore suits and sports jackets, his shoes were always shined, and his hair trimmed. It was rumored that he’d had a drinking problem, but had been cured. (In the 1950s he’d gone around saying that in order to write like O’Neill, one had to live like O’Neill.) “I’m doing my research and I’ve been taking notes for about three years. I’m going to ask for complete control over this play, because you know some of these directors and producers and people will probably get upset about me writing about Armenians. Joyce can write about Jews, Updike, Malamud, and Wolfe can write about blacks, but when we try to write about something outside of the black experience, as they used to call it, we’re accused of, well, like the title of your play, Reckless Eyeballing.” Brashford pulled out his wallet and inspected his cash and cards. He spent a lot of time buying clothes and eating in fancy restaurants.
“I’m glad you liked something about my play,” Ball said. Brashford walked over and touched Ian’s shoulders.
“Look, Ian, I wouldn’t have gotten you those fellowships and grants if I didn’t think you had talent. You remember after the then incipient feminist movement got their contacts among the patrons to stop you, it was my contacts that kept you going. That Suzanna was a disaster, but I got them to give you that award.”
“Sure came in handy.”
“You see there. I mean I would have helped some of your other friends if they weren’t so pushy. Said all of those mean things about me. That Randy Shank. Called me those names. Hear he’s in bad shape. Cleaning restrooms or something. You can’t get help from the people in this town with a hostile attitude.” He was combing his hair as he said hostile. He had white hair and a white beard. He looked most distinguished.
“Look, I got to go,” he said, looking at his watch. “Some German scholar is writing a book about my plays.” Plays? Ball thought. “He and his wife are taking me to the opera. I think it’s Wagner. Did you know that they used Wagner’s music in the soundtrack of The Birth of a Nation, and that the Americans commissioned Wagner to write the music for the American Centennial? Man, these American and German Nazis were together even way back then in 1876. Anyway, I hope that it’s not a whole lot of fat white people jumping up and down screaming and hollering at the top of their lungs.” They laughed as they started out of the building. The white doorman greeted Brashford, but ignored Ian. He looked him up and down again. The doorman blew his whistle to get the attention of a cab driver.
“How are you going to bring it off? I mean, reading about Armenians is one thing, but writing about them — I don’t know.”
“I’ll do it. You watch. The play is about a conflict between a broken-down alcoholic Armenian actor, his hophead wife, and their two loser sons.”
“You talk about the Jews all the time. Why don’t you write something about them?”
“Are you kiddin’? Did you see what they did to Chester Himes and Langston Hughes? By the time they finished with Zora Neale she was mopping floors. No. No. I’m not writing about no Jews. I’ll stick to Armenians.” A cab pulled up and the doorman opened the door for Brashford. He climbed into the backseat. Ian was standing at the curb.
“Good luck with the play. With that Jim Minsk directing the work it’s bound to be a hit. He’s a great director.” The car pulled away before Ian could respond. He wanted to ask Brashford why he would praise Jim so when he knew that Jim was Jewish. How could Brashford have it both ways, put down Jews for an hour or so and then praise one? Brashford’s stack of white hair showed above the taxi’s backseat as the car disappeared into traffic.
7
Flying a plane these days was like playing Russian roulette; you never knew which one would have a pilot flying in bad weather just to make his schedule, or a pilot who was addicted to alcohol or drugs. Every time the plane Jim was aboard passed through dark clouds he felt as though he were riding a bucking horse. Finally he saw some lights below, and the fasten-your-seat-belt come on. The commuter plane landed.
The airport was small. Instead of a gate, the stairs for the passengers to descend upon were wheeled up. As he entered the terminal, he came upon a man with a gaunt, nearly skeletal face holding a sign: “Welcome, Jim Minsk.” The man was lemon-colored and grinning.
“Mr. Minsk,” he said, “it’s an honor,” extending his hand. Jim shook his hand and returned a smile.
“I’m glad to be on the ground. It was bumpy up there,” Jim said.
“We’ve had some bad weather these last few days. Do you have any more bags?”
“Just a carry-on,” Jim said, pointing to a black nylon garment bag. Inside the terminal there were pinball machines and video games lined up against the walls. Two commuter airlines shared the terminal’s single counter. He walked over to the newsstand, Professor Michael Steepes, as the man had introduced himself, following. A man was brewing coffee. There were sandwiches for sale. Minsk approached the magazine rack. He noticed some cheap pulp magazine with articles about the Nazis. In fact, there were so many books, television shows, and movies about the Nazis, he was sure that it was difficult for the younger generation, who saw the swastika as some kind of toy, to determine who had really won the war. Roosevelt’s name had become synonymous with welfarism; Winston Churchill’s best speech had been adopted by a fast food commercial; Stalin had been de-Stalinized. Only Hitler fascinated the 1980s as much as he did the 1930s and 1940s. He must have been a charmer for Gertrude Stein to nominate him for a Nobel Peace Prize and for even Walter Lippmann to say nice things about him. One magazine carried a photo of Eva and Hitler talking. They both held their hands behind their backs. He was wearing a three-piece suit including knickers and a Tyrolean hat, and she was dressed in a style that might be called Aryan peasant. The headlines on the cover said: TEETH FOUND IN BUNKER NOT EVA’S.
He bought a copy of The New York Pillar, and some Life Savers. While waiting for his change he glanced at the leading news story. The Flower Phantom had struck again. This time his victim was a feminist revisionist who had written that all of the black men in the South who had been accused of rape were actually guilty, and had deserved to be lynched. The same M.O. had been used. The man had tied the woman and then began to recite her alleged crimes against black men. He left her a chrysanthemum. Sick.
“How far is Mary Phegan?” Minsk asked as he and his escort, the lanky Professor Steepes, walked out of the terminal.
“We should be there in an hour.” They got into Professor Steepes’ small station wagon and headed toward the highway. They passed miles of farmland on which grew pecan trees, apple trees, cotton, and soybeans, and occasionally he noticed some tobacco. About thirty miles from their destination, the full moon appeared. Down here it wasn’t umbraged by manmade lights, and it gave the landscape an eerie and primitive slant. Steepes hadn’t changed his expression. His grin seemed frozen. There was something about him that gave Jim the creeps.
“I’m looking forward to the play.” He had been invited to Mary Phegan to be the celebrity spectator at an annual play that had been performed by the Mary Phegan drama department since 1912.