"Yes."
"Even though you had been so splendidly prepared for a career in writing?"
"I don't know how splendidly I was prepared. I certainly didn't expect to step out of college and be acclaimed a new Hemingway."
"So you postponed writing your novel, is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Until you felt certain you would be acclaimed a Hemingway?"
"No, until I felt I could write the book I wanted to write. My own book. Not a Hemingway book, or anyone else's book."
"Had you written anything before you started your novel?"
"In college, yes."
"Was any work of yours published?"
"No."
"What sort of writing did you do in college?"
"Short stories mostly."
"Never a novel?"
"No."
"The Paper Dragon was your first novel."
"Yes."
"Your only novel."
"Yes."
"Did you submit any of your stories for publication while you were in college?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"They weren't good enough."
"Did you feel The Paper Dragon was good enough for publication?"
"Obviously, I did. I wouldn't have sent it out if I hadn't."
"Suddenly, out of the blue, you wrote a novel — never having written one before — and it was good enough for publication. In fact, according to Chester Danton's testimony yesterday, 'the remarkable thing about the book was that it was so good and so fully realized that there were very few suggestions an editor could make.' Do you agree with Mr. Danton?"
"In what way?"
"That the book was remarkable in its quality and in its realization."
"I would have no way of judging my own work."
"You seem perfectly capable of judging Mr. Constantine's work."
"But not my own."
"Do you think many first novels come to a publisher 'so good and so fully realized'?"
"I don't know."
"What would you guess?"
"Your Honor, the witness has already stated that he does not know."
"Sustained."
"Did you take any courses at N.Y.U. on the writing of a novel?"
"No."
"You just sat down to write one."
"Most novels are written by people who just sit down to write them."
"And they come out of the typewriter 'so good and so fully realized,' is that correct?"
"I don't know how anyone else's novel comes out of the typewriter."
"Were you satisfied with the way yours came out of the typewriter?"
"Not wholly. But it was the best I could do at the time."
"Can you do better now?"
"I don't know."
"The fact is, you haven't written anything since The Paper Dragon, have you?"
"No, I haven't."
"No other novels, no short stories?"
"Nothing," Driscoll said.
"Do you plan to write anything else?"
"No."
"But you're a writer, aren't you?"
"I'm a Vermont farmer."
"I thought you were a writer."
"You've been misinformed."
"Apparently," Brackman said, and smiled. "Mr. Driscoll, you have testified that Lieutenant Alex Driscoll»»
"Lieutenant Alex Cooper."
"Yes, forgive me, Lieutenant Cooper is an idealized version of yourself, is that true?"
"Yes."
"He is not entirely yourself?"
"Not entirely."
"Because, for example, Lieutenant Cooper is killed in the next to last chapter of your novel, and you, sir, are obviously not dead."
"Obviously not."
"So he is only partially based on yourself?"
"Yes."
"Would it be fair to say that somewhere along the line he ceases to be you?"
"Yes, it would be fair to say that."
"Mr. Brackman, I'm sorry I must interrupt you at this point," McIntyre said, "but it's exactly noon, and I think we should recess for lunch."
13
The two men had hot dogs and orange drinks at the Nedick's on Duane, and then walked up Centre Street, past the County Court House and the Criminal Courts Building, and then onto Baxter and Bayard and into Chinatown. The weather was not mild — there was in fact a strong wind blowing — but it seemed almost balmy in contrast to yesterday's bitter fierceness. As they turned into Mott Street, Arthur felt for the moment as though he were entering an actual Chinese street in a Chinese city — Shanghai or Tientsin, Canton or Soochow — the undecipherable Chinese calligraphs, the quiet watchful men in doorways, hands tucked into their armpits, exotic women rushing by in abbreviated coats and slit skirts, pushing shopping carts or carrying baskets, the snug, tight, intimate landscape of winter in a foreign place, where the language is strange and the faces are alien and the only link with past experience is the weather. The sudden appearance of a grinning cardboard Santa Claus in a window brimming with ivory and jade shattered the illusion, brought once more into focus the strictly Anglo-Saxon proceedings downtown and the presence of Kent Mercer at his side, walking briskly and prattling on about the horror of the ghetto and these poor underprivileged Orientals. Did Arthur know there was no juvenile delinquency among the Chinese? The women pushed their shopping carts. Somewhere, he could smell roasting pork. He thought suddenly of Lamb's Dissertation, and then heard Kent's voice again, the slightly lilting monotony of it, the strident note that told Arthur he was about to get to the point, at last.
"… in the middle of a trial and everything, but I thought I should see you before this thing came to a head. That's why I called you this morning, Arthur."
"Um-huh," Arthur said.
"I understand they've made some suggestions concerning the play," Kent said.
"That's right."
"At least, that's what Oscar told me."
"Yes, they made some suggestions."
"What do you plan to do?" Kent asked.
"I don't know."
"Well, I don't like to press this, Arthur, nor do I wish to risk that terrible look you get in your eyes whenever…"
"I don't get a terrible look, Kent."
"… whenever you're angry," Kent said, and smiled. "Oh, you know you do, Arthur. You're a completely menacing person when you're crossed."
"Well," Arthur said, and sighed.
"But I would like to know what your plans are because — I might as well be frank, Arthur — I've got to know where we're going with this-play."
"Why?"
"I've got to know whether it's going to be done."
"It'll be done," Arthur said.
"Do you mean you've decided to make the changes?"
"Well, no, not yet."
"Did the changes sound reasonable to you?"
"No."
"Not at all?"
"Well, some of them maybe."
"Which ones?"
"I don't remember."
"Arthur, I'm going to be frank with you," Kent said, and stopped in front of a candy store, and turned to face Arthur, and put one hand on his arm. "I've always been frank with you, you've got to admit that."
"Yes, you have."
"Arthur, you must make those changes."
"Why?"
"Because Hester won't take the part unless you do. And if Hester doesn't take the part, the play will not be produced. I'm being frank with you."
"All right."
"All right what?"
"All right, you're being frank with me."
"Will you make the changes?"