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void. Quickly, he tried calling her back at each of her numbers. Either by accident or design, all went instantly to the automated message and then the dreadful beep. These beeps still gave Alex stage fright. He seemed the only man left who felt that way about it. He despised the performance aspects. Anyone who is able to leave a successful answering machine message is a kind of actor. At Esther’s home, Alex left some silence. On her mobile, he said, “But no, look, the thing is I’ve really got to go to work now.” But this was simply thinking aloud.
    FROM THE FLOOR of his wardrobe, Alex picked up his big leather satchel. He was an Autograph Man. The job fell into three compartments: Collecting. Trading. Verification. The first two, fairly self-explanatory; the third he had sometimes to explain to people at parties. He had been humiliated many times by that ubiquitous good-looking drunk girl who rests against the refrigerator and coolly assesses the validity of your life while people dance wildly in the lounge. She is impressed by the simple career nouns—
lawyer, doctor, journalist,
even
fireman.
But
junior information consultant interfacer, second technical administrator
—jobs like these do nothing for her. Nor do fanciful careers, jumped-up hobbies with aspirations. So try convincing her that you, Alex-Li Tandem, are the man people pay to flick through a selection of aging paper and give your opinion as to what is real and what forged in their collection. It does not matter to her that this is a skill and an art. It is a skill knowing the difference between the notorious Sydney Greenstreet secretarial (expertly forged by his assistant, Betty) and the curves and loops of the real thing. It is a skill distinguishing the robotic scratch of a Kennedy Autopen from the real presidential signature. Knowing when to lie about these matters, and how much, is an art. But try telling her that. Alex-Li is an Autograph Man. A little like being a Munchkin, or a Good Witch, or a Flying Monkey, or a rabbi. Not much, without your belief.
    The greatest portion of Alex’s work is done from home, but on the occasions when he leaves the house he uses the bag. He puts it on the desk now, opens it, and into the many folds and pockets he slips Elizabeth Taylors and Veronica Lakes, Gene Tierneys and James Masons, Rosemary Clooneys and Jules Munshins, back to back, separated by sheaths of plastic. Today, along with the regulars, he fills it with an auction catalogue, some racy photographic items (Bettie Page, Marilyn, Jayne Mansfield, various Playmates; for a private customer he hopes to see at the auction), a folder of private letters from David Ben-Gurion to his tailor, a banana, a difficult Russian novel he has no intention of reading and an autograph magazine he does.
    THE PHONE RANG .
    “Obviously,” said Adam crossly, “you have no right to mine or anyone else’s friendship, really, anymore. You’ve finally disqualified yourself. That’s what antisocial behavior means, Alex, that’s the result.”
    “Adam?
Adam!
” said Alex. He was delighted to hear from his friend. Hearing Adam’s voice sat firmly in the pros column of life.
    “No,” said Adam, “listen. I’m serious. Two facts: she has a broken finger, index. And she also has a strained neck. That’s
neck,
Alex. Imagine my reaction. Your girlfriend, yes. But also my sister.”
    “Wait: Esther? She didn’t say anything.”
    “That would be because she’s not talking to you. For no good reason, however, I am.”
    “That’s big of you.”
    “Yeah, I think so.
And,
in exchange, these are the things I want. One, you owe me back
The Girl from Peking.
You’re now two weeks overdue. You need to
buy your own copy.
Sometimes other people might want to rent it? Two, you need to phone Esther
immediately
and start I don’t know what. Groveling. And three, I want you to go and see a doctor, because that was some sort of allergic reaction, Tandem, that wasn’t normal. And