the Last Buffoon Page 16

  “Would you like me to carry your suitcase downstairs?”

  “Thank you very much, but I can manage myself.” She lifts it and walks to the door. “Mr. Warmflash will send you the check for the rest of the money I owe you.”

  “When will that be?”

  “In about two weeks, right after I get my green card.” She drops her set of keys on the table and unlatches the door. “Well, goodbye, Alexander Frapkin. I think I can say for certainly that I will never forget you.”

  “Adios, Mabra. I won’t forget you either.”

  She enters the smoking darkness of the hall, and as she shuts the door I catch my last glimpse of her pretty face, half-covered by her raincoat collar. Her footsteps move away, vanishing into the sounds of a piano, a horn blowing outside on the street, children playing.

  Chapter Eighteen

  With a scream of joy Duke Blackstone dove straight for Shanahan’s throat. Shanahan kicked hard, the soles of his size-twelve broughams connecting with Blackstone’s face, flattening his nose and knocking out two teeth. Blackstone fell back and Shanahan went after him throwing a punch at his solar plexus, but Blackstone blocked it and kicked Shanahan in the balls. Shanahan dodged out of the way and

  Rrrriiiinnnnnggggggg.

  Naturally somebody would call when I’m writing the most crucial scene in the book. I shouldn’t answer, but it might be important.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Frapkin. This is Selma at Brunswick.”

  “Oh hi. I’m working on Shanahan right now. It’s almost finished.”

  “I’m afraid I have bad news.”

  “Oh-oh.”

  “Ready?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We declared bankruptcy today.”

  My eyes fill with kerosene, and my mind crumbles.

  “Are you there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Can you speak a little louder?”

  “I’m here!”

  “I suggest you try to sell what you’ve written to Criterion. They’ve got a few cop series like Shanahan.”

  “I’ll never go back to Criterion.”

  “Sure you will.”

  “Oh fuck.”

  “I want to wish you the best of luck with your career, despite our many disagreements over the years.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “I’ve got to call some more writers. Good luck, Frapkin.”

  I don’t think I can get up from the chair. I’m finished. Brunswick was my last resort, and now it’s gone. I can’t go back to Criterion. I’ve come to the end of the line. Maybe the time has come for me to face the fact that I don’t have what it takes to be a writer.

  There’s a fatal flaw in my character — I can see it now. I’m not an artist because I don’t have the majesty of an artist. I’m just a petty stupid little man, a faker, a dud. I don’t have it and I might as well admit it. It’s time for me to move on to something else.

  I think I’d like to get a job on a farm. It’d be nice to work in the dirt and grow tomatoes and corn and things. A simple honest life for a simple honest guy. And no more of this slaving over a typewriter and fighting the world single-handedly.

  I’ve got it! I’ll go to Israel and live on a kibbutz. I’ll till the soil of my sacred homeland with no more worries and grandiose ambitions. This is the best idea I’ve had in years. I pick up the phone book, look up the number of the Israeli embassy, and dial.

  “I’m interested in emigrating to Israel, and I wonder if you can give me some information.”

  “I’ll switch you to the Aliyah desk,” says a woman.

  Pow.

  “Aliyah.”

  “I’d like to emigrate to a kibbutz in Israel, and I was wondering if I could make the arrangements here in New York.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Forty-two.”

  “I’m sorry, but the age limit for new members of kibbutzes is thirty-five.”

  “Oh shit!”

  “What did you say?”

  I hang up the phone. Now what do I do? Maybe I’d better go up on the roof where my psyche can spread out, and think things over.

  I put on my field jacket and Irish hat, go out into the hallway, and climb the stairs to the roof. I push open the door, and straight ahead are rooftops, chimneys, and the sun shining on the steeple of Saint Anthony’s Cathedral.

  I pace around the roof, my hands in my jacket pockets. It’s very beautiful up here, there’s a nice breeze and the cool air is calming my mind. My problem is I can’t write good books because I don’t have the time, and I don’t have the time because I don’t write good books. Somehow I must break this vicious cycle. Maybe I should apply for a government grant.

  I happen to glance into the apartment of the Japanese girl across the way, and she’s lying on her bed in a corner, her feet pointed toward me. She’s reading a book that’s hiding her face, her dress is hiked up — and she’s masturbating herself with her free hand! My throat tightens and balls start to foam. I’ve been lusting after her for these many years, and there she is playing with herself, right before my very eyes.

  And — wait a minute! That bookjacket — I’d know that lurid artwork anywhere — twenty yards or twenty miles away. I clutch my thrashing heart in my hand because I realize that the book she’s reading is none other than Patti’s Honeymoon by Lancelot Wimbledon!

  Oh my God! How am I to deal with this? There’s only one thing to do. I must go over there, introduce myself, and offer to help. She’ll probably call the cops, but what the hell, only in danger is there glory.

  I run down to my apartment and look at myself in the bathroom mirror. I brush my hair, splash on a little English Leather, and gargle with Lavoris. Then I put on my Burberry and Borsalino, which show me to the best of my advantage.

  I leave my apartment and bound down the stairs. At street level I run west on Christopher Street, south on Bedford, and east on Barrow. I reach the front of her building and pause to catch my breath, because I want to deliver my lines smoothly, directly from my diaphragm. Although this maneuver is certain to fail like everything else I’ve done, I want it to be impeccable.

  Ascending the stoop, I enter the hallway and press all the buttons, because in every New York apartment building there is always somebody waiting for somebody.

  Sure enough the door buzzes back, and like a thief I enter the downstairs corridor. The stairs are to the left, covered with green carpeting. I begin to climb to the temple of the rising sun.

  There’s just one problem, and it’s major. If she starts screaming for the police, and I flee, someone on a lower floor might stop me with a lead pipe. In that eventuality I’ll go to jail and be disgraced, but of course Warmflash’ll get me out on bail and then I’ll kill myself. There’s nothing to worry about.

  But how wonderful it’d be to stick it to that Japanese girl. She’s a real piece of ass — just my type. She’s not American so she’d probably understand and even appreciate the sexuality of a real man.

  I’m approaching the top floor. There are four doors, and hers must be the one farthest on the right. I walk on the green carpet to the sacred portal, pause, bite my lower lip, and read her name: Tamiko Ohashi. What lovely syllables. Well, I’d better get this over with. The Nos don’t count — only the Yesses count. Grinding my teeth, I knock.

  There’s scurrying inside, then silence.

  I knock louder.

  Light footsteps come to the door. She must be looking through the peephole. “Who is it?” she asks in a high sharp voice.

  “Your neighbor from across the alley. I have to talk with you.”

  “What you want?”

  “Open the door so I won’t have to shout.”

  Locks are unsnapped and the door opens three inches, held to that distance by a thick gold chain. Behind it is Tamiko Ohashi, her eyes like a cat’s, lips like a little pink flower, black bangs, and fear. “Yes?”

  I smile as best I can. “I live in the apartment
behind you, and I happened to be up on the roof just now, when I looked down and saw what you were doing. I thought you might want to know that — ”

  She slams the door in my face.

  Okay, I expected that. I’ll just go back to my office and apply for a federal grant.

  I’m a few steps down when her door opens again. She’s standing behind the chain, a little porcelain figure.

  “Come here, please,” she says.

  I walk back and stop at the door.

  She looks searchingly at my face. “You are the writer, are you not?”

  “How do you know?” I stammer.

  “I can see over there just like you can see over here.”

  I blink and swallow. “Oh.”

  “You work very hard.”

  “Maybe too hard.”

  “What is your name, please?”

  “Alexander Frapkin.”

  “Say that again please, slowly. My English pronunciation is not so good.”

  “Al-ex-an-der Frap-kin.”

  “Mr. Frapkin, I am Miss Ohashi.” She bows her head slightly.

  “How do you do, Miss Ohashi.”

  “What do you write, Mr. Frapkin?”

  “Novels.”

  “Do you get them published?”

  “I’ve had about fifteen of them published.”

  “That many?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must be very famous.”

  “No, I haven’t been very successful so far.”

  “What do you write about?”

  “All sorts of things.”

  “I have never met an American author before. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  She smiles demurely, pulls the chain off the door, and opens it wide. I smell flowers and see on the wall a Japanese brushstroke painting of two wild horses. Koto music is being played, making the air quiver. I step forward and she closes the door with deft movements of her little hands. My head is spinning and my heart is thundering but somehow I must

  HOLD ON!

  THE END

  Afterword

  I’ve just finished re-reading THE LAST BUFOON. What a strange book. The vulgarity is way over the top. It doesn’t fit into any category. What kind of sick mind could write such a novel?

  It was published in 1980 but actually written several years before. Believe it or not, it was conceived as my breakthrough novel, to establish me for all time as a great American novelist. Ah, the webs we weave.

  I was deeply involved in writing pulp fiction at the time. It occurred to me that my crazy desperate life might be the basis for a novel in the tradition of other novels about mad artists such as THE GINGER MAN by J.P. Donleavy, THE HORSE’S MOUTH by Joyce Cary, and THE FAN MAN by my old friend William Kotzwinkle.

  THE LAST BUFOON is not 100% autobiographical. I never masturbated in movie theaters. No one ever hung me out of a window by my heels. No one ever raped someone as a result of reading one of my novels, as far as I know. I never had a love affair with my Japanese neighbor, although she really existed and occasionally I saw her across the back alley between our Greenwich Village apartments.

  Yet essentially THE LAST BUFFOON was a very true psychological portrait of my stressful life at the time, when I was living hand to mouth, and my publishers never paid me as stipulated in their own contracts. One of my editors, the great Peter McCurtin no less, told me once that if I wanted to get paid, I’d have to break into the office safe. When my bathroom window broke, my horrible landlord really did say, “Put your coat on.”

  Alexander Frapkin was me, exaggerated to the max. All my frustrations, confusions and warped insights were poured into the novel, twisted and spun to make them more freaky. Mabra was based on a real woman from Uruguay. We had a little romance, broke up, then she called one day, said she was having immigration problems, and asked if I’d marry her. I felt sorry for her so we went down to City Hall and got hitched. I didn’t marry her for money but to help her remain in America, and also because I still loved her sort of. Unfortunately we had to live together and didn’t get along well. Our values were very different to say the least. She thought I was a failure, loser and totally deluded fool. Based on the evidence, it was difficult to disagree. Some dialogue between Mabra and Frapkin was based on our actual interactions. But the true story became tragic because she died of breast cancer when she was around 28, while we still were still legally married but not living together.

  My then literary agent, the magnificent Elaine Markson, was enthusiastic about THE LAST BUFFOON but unable to sell it. Several years later I convinced my new editor at Belmont-Tower, Milburn Smith, to publish it. He put a photo of me on the cover, standing in a trash barrel in Washington Square Park, where I probably belonged. It was published under my pseudonym Leonard Jordan.

  After publication I received a lot of fan mail for THE LAST BUFFOON. Evidently many people really liked it. Two movie producers optioned the book but no movie ever was made. As I write these words on 7/15/2015, a Hollywood screenwriter has optioned the novel and presumably is writing a screenplay. I’m not getting my hopes up because the odds are against Frapkin leaping onto the silver screen. But the odds always are against Frapkin, yet he never gives up hope. He has faith in his talent despite all indications to the contrary.

  Now THE LAST BUFFOON apparently has achieved the status of underground cult classic. I’ve found some used copies selling for $268.00. I’m very grateful to Devin Murphy for republishing it in paper for sale at reasonable cost. I hope it sells a zillion copies so that I can relocate to Paris and date dancers in the Folies Bergere.

  — Len Levinson

  About the Author

  Len Levinson (Photograph by Ray Block)

  LEN LEVINSON is the author of 83 novels written under 22 pseudonyms, published originally by Bantam, Dell, Fawcett, Harper, Jove, Charter Diamond, Zebra, Belmont-Tower, and Signet, among others. He has been acclaimed a “Trash Genius” by Paperback Fanatic magazine, and his books have sold an estimated two-and-one-half million copies.

  Born 1935 in New Bedford, Massachusetts, he served on active duty in the U.S. Army 1954–1957, graduated from Michigan State University class of 1961, and relocated to New York City where he worked in advertising and public relations for ten years before becoming a full-time writer of novels.

  He left NYC in 2003, residing first in Aurora, Illinois, and since 2004 in a small town (population 3,100) in rural northwest Illinois, surrounded by corn and soybean fields, way out on the Great American Prairie.

  He has married twice, but presently lives alone with his MacBook Pro and a library of approximately three thousand books, which he studies assiduously in his never-ending effort to understand the meaning of life itself.

  He has three novels and one non-fiction book in the pipeline.

  Painting of Len Levinson (1) by Ari Roussimoff

  Painting of Len Levinson (2) by Ari Roussimoff

  For more information:

  www.destroyerbooks.com/len-levinson-collection.php

  devin@destroyerbooks.com