Read Online Cocksure by Mordecai Richler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mordecai Richler
Ads: Link
Morgan? No, no; unlike every other man at Oriole (and, according to rumor, at most other publishing houses) he was not out to make Polly. Not only, he thought, because I have no chance of success where everyone else has reportedly failed. I just don’t give a shit about Polly Morgan, that’s all.
Good old Ziggy, he thought, for he had already forgiven him. Unrepressed Ziggy, he thought, finally falling asleep.
Pale and weary, her gorgeous big blue eyes smarting, Polly Morgan emerged from the late movie at the Academy and hailed a taxi. Whew, she thought, for it was her fourth movie of the day. “Annabel’s, please,” she whispered.
Until he pulled up before the discothèque in Berkeley Square, the taxi driver, absorbed in a reverie of his own, didn’t notice that his fare was no longer there. His taxi was empty. What the hell, he thought.
Entering her basement flat, Polly rested briefly with her back against the door. Her eyes twinkling, she sucked in an enormous breath, inflating her bosom, and then, quite suddenly, she kicked off her shoes. Arms outspread, Polly spun across the living room floor, skirt billowing high, as she floated toward her bedroom, finally tumbling to her bed, laughing secretively, joyously, as she wriggled free of her skirt and went to gaze out of the window.
A full moon stared back at Polly as she hummed the opening bars of the “Moonlight” Sonata. He is looking at the same moon , she thought.
Polly scooped up the red telephone. Holding it to her as she tumbled backward on the bed, her jet black hair simply ravishing against the white pillow, she began to sing into the receiver,
Somebody loves me,
I wonder who,
Maybe, it’s you.
12
M ORTIMER LEAPED OUT OF BED TO COLLECT THE morning mail. There was a thick letter from his regiment, which he hastily tore up.
“Aren’t you even going to read it?” Joyce asked.
“It’s the anniversary of the battle. I know exactly what’s in it,” he said, putting a match to the pieces.
Hy Rosen put down his Daily Express and glared at Diana across the breakfast table.
“Where were you last night?” he demanded.
“For the last time, darling, I was at the movies. I –”
“If I ever catch you with another guy –”
“Another man? After your brutish demands, where would I find the energy?”
Heh-heh. Hy swept his arm across the breakfast table, sending boiled eggs, toast rack, milk jug and teapot crashing to the floor. “Into the bedroom with you,” he said.
Diana swallowed a sob. Leaping up, hopeful yet incredulous, she asked, “First thing in the morning?”
“Come on.” Hy clapped his hands together. “Mush!”
Dino Tomasso, taking breakfast at his desk at Oriole House, read in his morning newspaper that the postmen were going out on strike. They were asking for another fifteen shillings. Two dollars. Well,that wasn’t exactly peanuts, maybe they would settle for half. Then Tomasso looked at the newspaper story again. No, no, they weren’t asking for another two dollars an hour. Incredibly enough, what they seemed to want was two dollars more a week. Tomasso thrust the newspaper at Mortimer, the first to arrive for the morning conference. “Is this a misprint?” he asked.
“No.”
Tears welled in Tomasso’s eyes. “Oh, my God,” he said, “how much are they paid now? Basic?”
“Oh, thirteen … fourteen pounds a week, possibly.”
Tomasso thought his heart would break. O England, my England, where they haven’t even got enough niggers to collect the garbage, but have to do it themselves.
The morning conference was dull, uneventful, until the efficiency experts from Frankfurt appeared, bringing Tomasso a copy of the first title in the Our Living History series. The manuscript was delivered by Herr Dr. Manheim, two assistants in black leather coats, and Fräulein Ringler. “All right,” Tomasso said, seemingly alarmed. “That’s all for this morning, fellas.”
Later, Mortimer sought Tomasso out. Like
Good old Ziggy, he thought, for he had already forgiven him. Unrepressed Ziggy, he thought, finally falling asleep.
Pale and weary, her gorgeous big blue eyes smarting, Polly Morgan emerged from the late movie at the Academy and hailed a taxi. Whew, she thought, for it was her fourth movie of the day. “Annabel’s, please,” she whispered.
Until he pulled up before the discothèque in Berkeley Square, the taxi driver, absorbed in a reverie of his own, didn’t notice that his fare was no longer there. His taxi was empty. What the hell, he thought.
Entering her basement flat, Polly rested briefly with her back against the door. Her eyes twinkling, she sucked in an enormous breath, inflating her bosom, and then, quite suddenly, she kicked off her shoes. Arms outspread, Polly spun across the living room floor, skirt billowing high, as she floated toward her bedroom, finally tumbling to her bed, laughing secretively, joyously, as she wriggled free of her skirt and went to gaze out of the window.
A full moon stared back at Polly as she hummed the opening bars of the “Moonlight” Sonata. He is looking at the same moon , she thought.
Polly scooped up the red telephone. Holding it to her as she tumbled backward on the bed, her jet black hair simply ravishing against the white pillow, she began to sing into the receiver,
Somebody loves me,
I wonder who,
Maybe, it’s you.
12
M ORTIMER LEAPED OUT OF BED TO COLLECT THE morning mail. There was a thick letter from his regiment, which he hastily tore up.
“Aren’t you even going to read it?” Joyce asked.
“It’s the anniversary of the battle. I know exactly what’s in it,” he said, putting a match to the pieces.
Hy Rosen put down his Daily Express and glared at Diana across the breakfast table.
“Where were you last night?” he demanded.
“For the last time, darling, I was at the movies. I –”
“If I ever catch you with another guy –”
“Another man? After your brutish demands, where would I find the energy?”
Heh-heh. Hy swept his arm across the breakfast table, sending boiled eggs, toast rack, milk jug and teapot crashing to the floor. “Into the bedroom with you,” he said.
Diana swallowed a sob. Leaping up, hopeful yet incredulous, she asked, “First thing in the morning?”
“Come on.” Hy clapped his hands together. “Mush!”
Dino Tomasso, taking breakfast at his desk at Oriole House, read in his morning newspaper that the postmen were going out on strike. They were asking for another fifteen shillings. Two dollars. Well,that wasn’t exactly peanuts, maybe they would settle for half. Then Tomasso looked at the newspaper story again. No, no, they weren’t asking for another two dollars an hour. Incredibly enough, what they seemed to want was two dollars more a week. Tomasso thrust the newspaper at Mortimer, the first to arrive for the morning conference. “Is this a misprint?” he asked.
“No.”
Tears welled in Tomasso’s eyes. “Oh, my God,” he said, “how much are they paid now? Basic?”
“Oh, thirteen … fourteen pounds a week, possibly.”
Tomasso thought his heart would break. O England, my England, where they haven’t even got enough niggers to collect the garbage, but have to do it themselves.
The morning conference was dull, uneventful, until the efficiency experts from Frankfurt appeared, bringing Tomasso a copy of the first title in the Our Living History series. The manuscript was delivered by Herr Dr. Manheim, two assistants in black leather coats, and Fräulein Ringler. “All right,” Tomasso said, seemingly alarmed. “That’s all for this morning, fellas.”
Later, Mortimer sought Tomasso out. Like
Similar Books
