The Censor, page 2
By the time Askelon reached the San Diego Freeway the shape and construction of the book was clear. Four boys. From St Louis, Denver, Washington and Cleveland, Ohio, Pete, Dan, Rod and Shelton. Young, free, randy, uncomplicated, all hitching their way to San Francisco and Paul Potter’s dream.
The backdrop would be the wide changing skies and long horizons of their separate journeys. The incidental cast could provide the entire skein of life. Bums, drunks, vagabonds, the nice and the nasty, good, sweet, sour, bad. Beautiful. Ugly. A queer farmer trying to make Pete; the unsatisfied housewife, tired of her shabby commuter husband and the eternal drab drag, seeking solace with Dan, young enough to be her son; the society girl with a sweetly-tuned Mustang and the long nervous legs; small town hypocrisy and big city depravity; the core of goodness. The present, painted in harsh colours through the growing minds of a quartet of teenagers.
Then a shift of image, San Francisco. The boys converging into an inescapable floodlight. Meeting. Mating. Forming a group. Spectacular success on a Beatlewide scale. Agents. Recording managers. The benders and the bent. Glare, gloss and freak show. The men, women and children of the night world. The whole false fabric of making it intolerably big only to find you are sitting on a real cloud as insubstantial as the air on which it floats.
Askelon researched and wrote the book in four and a half months. A circus bounding from his mind. Only after that did the dazzling wheel of fortune begin to turn and he found himself screwed up in the bestselling hayride.
Offers. Movie rights. Reprint rights. Foreign rights. Tax problems. Smooth smiling faces and a satisfaction greater than any he had yet known.
Celia stirred, moaned something again in her whirling dream and sank once more into silence. Askelon’s thoughts, a montage of the past year, came down to a small stain on the sheet. He had dripped a cup of coffee there yesterday morning a million years before Celia.
It was nine-thirty before the girl woke. Askelon was already bathed and shaved, dressed with the coffee made and eggs frying.
Like the precoital moments of the previous night they hardly spoke.
She sat in one of the high-backed, buttoned, leather armchairs looking stale and out of place in yesterday’s dress, red eyed, self-conscious, preoccupied, smoking, taking quick drags at the cigarette with the movements of an anxious squirrel.
‘You want a cab?’
She nodded.
‘See you tonight?’
Celia looked at him with eyes like little crimson marbles, moving her head sharply to signify the negative.
It was a relief when she left. She had to ask for a dollar for the cab fare. Askelon gave her ten.
‘Send it back when you feel like it.’
He thought she was going to spit in his face.
At ten-thirty Askelon sat down to work. Strangely his mind was clearer than it had been for weeks. At eleven the telephone broke his train and, unknowingly, slammed him into another world.
Peter Goldsberg was on the line.
‘David, I don’t want to worry you but we’ve got a slight problem.’
‘Problem. Schmoblem. What gives?’
‘Not on the phone. How about lunch?’
‘Fine. I’m free.’
‘Four Seasons, twelve-thirty?’
‘Okay. Pete?’
‘Yes.’
‘The problem. Can you give me a clue?’
‘How long can you tread water?’
They both laughed. Fans of Bill Cosby.
Askelon did not get to The Four Seasons until nearly quarter to one. The Maitre d’, arm outstretched, led him into the complicated dance routine which seemed obligatory to reach Peter Goldsberg’s table.
The atmosphere was sleek but hard. Businesslike. At The Four Seasons you ate among professionals.
Goldsberg was looking into a Gibson as though it was a crystal ball. Askelon was surprised to see that his agent, Joe Tireling, had joined them.
Joe was the antithesis of any dream movie or TV reproduction of a literary agent. There was nothing devious about him. He would never collect an ulcer and, even against the modern sculpture which decorates The Four Seasons, he looked relaxed as always. Even though he appeared vaguely out of place, dressed conservatively in dark suit, quietly sucking his briar pipe.
‘Sorry I’m late. The rickshaw boy didn’t have much stamina.’
‘Hi there bestselling author still socking it to them it the top spot.’ Peter Goldsberg rose, looking anxious in spite of the breezy manner. His long sad face betraying the façade of gush.
Askelon felt an icy nip deep in his stomach as he took his place at the table, grinned and accepted the large menu. He ordered an unimaginative smoked salmon and rare steak au poivre with tossed green salad. When the waiter bowed himself out, Askelon glanced eagerly at the two men as though trying to read their news. Goldsberg looked away.
‘So what gives? My publisher invites me to lunch and I get my agent as a bonus.’
Goldsberg raised his head. ‘Joe called me for advice in the first place David.’
‘I thought we’d be better as a threesome. Peter has some specialist knowledge in this field.’ Joe casually removed the pipe from his mouth and aimed the stem at Askelon’s chest. ‘We’ve got problems in Britain.’
‘They’ve reneged?’
Joe made a small explosive sound. ‘Quit talking like a celluloid tycoon. You’re getting obsessed with finance. No, of course they haven’t reneged. The money’s fine. I told you it’s one of the best advances I ever got from an English publisher. No David, it’s the book.’
Askelon bristled. ‘So what’s wrong with the book? Not good enough for them? They knew what they were buying.’ He was beginning to get touchy about the godamn book. Celia bitch Aston had set that mood in motion.
‘The book’s great David ...’ Peter started, then looked to Joe for help.
‘Too damn right it’s great. People don’t pay my kind of money for trash.’
Joe gave a wry smile. ‘As a matter of fact they do. They pay the devil of a lot of money for trash. But in this case I happen to believe your particular brand of trash has a certain merit.’
‘It’s a fine book,’ muttered Goldsberg.
‘So what’s the trouble?’
Tireling stuck his pipe between his teeth. ‘John Sutton, your English publisher, is a solid man. A good publisher. He’ll see that Spin get’s the maximum publicity and best sales he can raise. But they have an edgy censorship situation over there.’
‘I thought they didn’t have any public censorship?’ Askelon bridled.
The smoked salmon arrived together with Peter’s avocado and Joe Tireling’s smoked trout. Carelessly, Askelon squeezed lemon onto the thin pink slices and liberally sifted pepper over them. ‘I mean, I know they have a movie censor, but they don’t have one for the theatre anymore. Or for literature.’ He looked up quickly, challenging his companions. ‘Well do they?’
‘In publishing it’s not quite as simple or clear cut as that.’
‘Then how clear cut is it for chrissake?’
Joe shrugged. ‘In its simplest terms you publish and take your chance with the law.’
‘You mean they get you on indecent exposure because on page thirty-two you got a guy with his pecker hanging out?’
‘Peckers are in, or hadn’t you heard?’ Peter still kept his mournful expression.
‘Something like that.’ Smiled Joe. ‘They have a thing called the Obscene Publications Act, and if they decide to hit you with it…’
‘They hit,’ completed Goldsberg.
‘Hit who? Me?’ Askelon forked salmon into his mouth.
‘The publisher. Or the retailer, the guy in the bookshop.’
‘Then it’s the publisher’s problem. If he doesn’t publish he’s breaking his contract with us. Right?’
‘If you’ll keep quiet for a minute I’ll try to explain.’
‘Sure.’ Askelon swallowed a mouthful of salmon and rinsed it away with a gulp of water.
‘David, you’d be the first to admit The Golden Spin’s evenly salted with reasonably advanced sexual description.’
‘I’ve got one review says it’s the dirtiest book of the decade. I ...’
Tireling cut him short. ‘I don’t subscribe to that view and neither do you David.’ He was punching the words over the table. ‘Not now. Not at any time and certainly never in public or to the Press.’
‘I tell it how it is.’
‘Right. You tell it how it is. Your book tells a story that it tells it in terms of the modem confusion, the mixed values ...’
‘The pattern of life today?’
‘It’s trite but you’ve got it. And that’s all The Golden Spin does. It does not try to titillate or arouse sexual appetites or even give a vicarious thrill or two.’
Peter stopped looking mournful and rested a hand on Askelon’s sleeve. ‘The real crux of the matter, David, is if you’ll cooperate with John Sutton.’
‘Cooperate?’
Goldsberg nodded. ‘The Golden Spin’s a hot property anywhere and Sutton has to protect his investment.’
‘How?’ Askelon spoke flatly.
‘Like any other publisher who’s acquired a book like this he’s had counsel read it.’
‘His legal department?’
‘A little more than that.’ Gollsberg seemed to take a deep breath. ‘Counsel’s advised that he should not publish Spin as it stands.’
‘Go on.’ Askelon felt the blood draining from his face, the prelude to a storm.
‘Hear it out Dave.’ Joe Tireling firm.
‘He wants a few adjustments.’
Askelon did not reply.
Peter Goldsberg continued. ‘It amounts to toning down some of the sexual descriptions. Some of the language.’
‘What do you think Joe?’ Askelon tried to sound calm.
‘I’d rather you heard it all first.’ Joe Tireling rarely compromised. ‘Sutton wants the thing cut? Right?’
Goldsberg moved in a fast series of nods. The waiter appeared again to remove their aperitif plates and place the main dishes in front of them. Askelon sat hunched and brooding during the process. Fussing with his knife. Testing the temperature of the plate with finger and thumb. His immediate reaction was anger. Fury that some snotty English lawyer wanted to rip passages from his work so that happy houseproud snobby little Britons could continue safe in their narrow limited tiny worlds, escaping the facts. Eventually he asked, ‘How many cuts?’
Goldsberg raised an eyebrow. ‘The present count is fifty-three.’
‘What does he think I am?’
‘He thinks you’re a writer of considerable talent.’ Tireling grinned.
Joe had that trick of sometimes coaxing you on by treating the whole thing as a kind of joke, thought Askelon.
‘What goes?’ he asked aloud.
‘Don’t you mean what’s left?’
‘Now wait a minute.’ Goldsberg held out a restraining hand. ‘Just try to see their argument. Take, for instance one particular passage. Where Rod gets married and Jenny is pregnant. During the pregnancy you have three scenes where ...’
‘Where she blows him and he reciprocates. Sure.’ Askelon said grimly.
‘They argue that once is enough. One scene. It establishes the situation. Three times in a row could be judged as pornographic repetition.’
Joe Tireling made a retching sound. ‘Okay, I’ll show my colours. I think this is despicable. David uses a lot of sex, sure. He plays with language and situation, but there’s nothing in that book that’s out of line. Pornographic. I’d go as far as saying he doesn’t use one single scene too many, and you, Pete, have got to stand by that as well. You edited the book.’
Goldsberg cleared his mouth. ‘True.’ His lips drooped. ‘But I do see John’s difficulty. He is in a spot.’
‘So I have to emasculate my work because of some crutty legal hocus pocus.’
Joe chuckled. ‘It’s the pocus they’re worried about.’
‘Balls.’ Askelon thumped the table lightly. ‘It just so happens that Pete’s hit on three scenes I took special care over. The ones with Rod and Jenny. Sure they’re doing the same thing three times in a row. In what? In thirty pages?’
They nodded agreement.
‘But the whole point is the change in their relationship. They get closer to each other during the pregnancy. The three oral scenes are meant to underline the new physical togetherness. Hell, they’re discovering one another in much more detail than they did when they first made the baby. Each one of those scenes has its own place. Its own importance.’ He pushed his plate away as though the very idea of cutting the book had spoiled his appetite. ‘They’re just as important as the other key scene in that section.’
‘Jenny and the cat.’ Peter Goldsberg nodded.
‘You remember? Where this stray cat comes in and they find it’s pregnant and Rod insists on putting it out at night.’
‘What’s going to happen to its babies? You wouldn’t put me out. Rod, you wouldn’t put me out?’ Joe remembering the line.
‘The way you say it, sounds like a dime novel.’
‘Sells it to girls who are kinky for pregnant cats. Yet I can hear Farrow doing that line.’
‘Farrow? They haven’t cast ...?’
‘No Dave. Jokies. The draft screenplay isn’t finished, let alone the casting.’ Tireling looked over at Askelon’s half-touched meal. ‘You not hungry?’
‘When a book like Spin is going to be hacked to pieces? Hungry?’
‘I think we’ve reached a working decision.’ Tireling leaned back, fingers touching each other lightly. A priest’s mannerism. ‘The Golden Spin’s about human relationships. It’s about the motivation of young people. It’s about their reactions, exploitation, desires. If anyone can prove absolutely that a particular scene has been added merely to spice things up then we have to think again.’
‘What else goes?’ Askelon placed his question directly to his agent.
‘The ice cubes.’
‘The ice cubes stay.’
‘They aren’t happy with the riot sequence.’
‘Jesus, where are the guys living? Eighteen hundred?’
‘They want cuts and they want it moved away from the scene with the two coloured girls. They’re also not too keen on any of the homosexual scenes or the fight between Shelton and the whore.’
‘It still doesn’t add up to fifty-three.’
‘It adds up. With the other things it adds up.’
Askelon closed his eyes, tried to blot out the blur of silver and glass against china, man against woman against woman against man, the background music of any restaurant.
Pale blue smoke turning to grey, then red. The Golden Spin. His baby. Butchered so that the Churchill breed could lie easy in their beds. It was monstrous. For Christ’s sake, when you thought of some of the books and movies they sent over. Who the hell did they think ...? ‘Joe?’ He opened his eyes. ‘Can you come over to London with me?’
‘You mean now?’
‘Now.’
‘Your thinking’s right, but no can do.’
‘Why the hell not? You’re my agent.’
‘Mr ten per cent baby. For that you get ten per cent of my time. In fact you, being who you are, get a little more. But it doesn’t stretch to leaping the ocean with you when you speak.’
‘You mean you won’t come?’ Askelon could hear the menace in his voice. Inwardly he warned himself to take care. Agents like Joe Tireling did not come by the gross.
‘I mean just what I say, David. I can’t come. Yes, I think you should go. I think you ought to get this sorted out on a personal basis with John Sutton and his boys. Freddy Cadogan of the Shand Agency looks after things for us in London. He’ll see you’re okay. If it gets really tricky then maybe I’ll have to follow you, but I can’t drop things and start straining because you say shit.’
Goldsberg wrinkled his nose.
Askelon was silent for a moment. Then. ‘You got a full list of the cuts?’ He still looked at his agent.
‘Right here.’ Tireling’s hand slid into his breast pocket and withdrew several sheets of quarto neatly folded into a narrow oblong.
He pushed the papers across the table. Askelon clawed them up without looking at them and turned to Goldsberg. ‘Thanks for your expert advice Pete.’
‘Look, I’m sorry, but you wanted the truth. I see it from Sutton’s viewpoint. The publisher’s angle.’
‘And I need support.’
‘You’ll get all I can …’
‘Good. You think I ought to go?’
‘You ought to go. But for god’s sake be careful. It’s their law and it’s their necks.’
‘Just coffee for me,’ said Askelon. The waiter had materialised again.
In the cab on his way back to the apartment, Askelon had vague second thoughts. It’s their law and it’s their necks Peter had said. After all, Peter Goldsberg knew his job. Publishers did not just read manuscripts and dash them off to the printers. Goldsberg had worked just as lovingly on The Golden Spin as though he had written it himself. Indeed. together they had even cropped some sections from the original. He must be experiencing some of Askelon’s feelings. Anger, frustration at having the book mutilated. Again, was it mutilation? Did it amount to anything as strong as that?
Askelon thought he had taken all the critical stuff, and the adulation, the interviews and a kind of recognition, in his stride. Success like this is not going to affect me, he had thought at the time. It cannot affect me because the financial side does not matter like it does to some people. I can stand back and watch the whole shebang going on right until they fold up the big top and leave the one little girl crying about the day the circus left town.
Now, as he gazed out of the cab window at the earnest worried faces and the women of New York, top coated and booted against the sparkling pinch of cold, Askelon wondered if he had really avoided the mantrap of success. The injection of added power into the subconscious and an additional arrogance. The myth that you were a kind of god. Was not his present reaction pompous? Overbearing? Could he be taking it all too seriously? All that hang up about screwing the arse off Celia Aston. The revenge of the big man. For crying out loud he was not a Tolstoy. He had not even a tiny particle of talent like those of say, Bellow or Vidal. See it how it is Askelon. You’re a junior league wealthy hack who has managed to pull one out of the bag. You might never do it again. And what was it someone had once written? There are bestsellers and there are books. So push the illusions away, baby, they all drop dead anyhow.
