answer.
'Ready to go blind?'
'Ready to risk it.'
The real reason was that Malkie had nieces the same age as Treslove and Finkler, girls who had trouble finding boyfriends. Nothing came of the matchmaking - even Treslove couldn't fall in love with Malkie's nieces who bore not the slightest physical resemblance to her, though he did, of course, fall in love with Malkie, despite her being old enough to be his mother. Libor had not exaggerated. Malkie looked so like Ava Gardner that the boys canvassed the possibility between them that she was Ava Gardner.
The friendship faded a little after that. Having shown the boys his wife, Libor had little else to impress them with. And the boys for their part had Ava Gardners of their own to find.
Shortly afterwards the first of the biographies was published, quickly followed by another. Juicy and amusing and slightly fatalistic. Libor became famous all over again. Indeed more famous than he had been before, because a number of the women he was writing about were now dead and it was thought they had confided more of their secrets to Libor than to any other man. In several of the photographs, which showed Libor dancing with them cheek to cheek, you could almost see them spilling their souls to him. It was because he was funny that they could trust him.
For several years Sam and Julian kept in touch with Libor's progress only through these biographies. Julian envied him. Sam less so. Word of Hollywood rarely penetrated the deserted late-night corridors of Broadcasting House which were home - if a hell can be called a home - to Julian Treslove. And because he considered Libor's career to be the inverse of his own, he was continuously, if secretly, seduced by it.
Sam Finkler, or Samuel Finkler as he still was then, had not done a modular degree at a seaside university. He knew better, he said, which side his bread was buttered. Finklerish of him, Treslove thought admiringly, wishing he had the instincts for knowing on which side his own bread was buttered.
'So what's it going to be?' he asked. 'Medicine? Law? Accountancy?'
'Do you know what that's called?' Finkler asked him.
'What what's called?'
'The thing you're doing.'
'Taking an interest?'
'Stereotyping. You've just stereotyped me.'
'You said you knew which side your bread was buttered. Isn't that stereotyping yourself?'
'I am allowed to stereotype myself,' Finkler told him.
'Ah,' Treslove said. As always he wondered if he would ever get to the bottom of what Finklers were permitted to say about themselves that non-Finklers were not.
Unstereotypically - to think which was a further form of mental stereotyping, Treslove realised - Finkler studied moral philosophy at Oxford. Though this didn't appear an especially wise career move at the time, and his five further years at Oxford teaching rhetoric and logic to small classes seemed less wise still, Finkler justified his reputation for shrewdness in Treslove's eyes by publishing first one and then another, and then another and then another, of the self-help practical philosophy books that made his fortune. The Existentialist in the Kitchen was the first of them. The Little Book of Household Stoicism was the second. Thereafter Treslove stopped buying them.
It was at Oxford that Finkler dropped the name Samuel in favour of Sam. Was that because he now wanted people to think he was a private investigator? Treslove wondered. Sam the Man. It crossed his mind that what his friend didn't want to be thought was a Finkler, but then it would have made more sense to change the Finkler not the Samuel. Perhaps he just wanted to sound like a person who was easy to get on with. Which he wasn't.
In fact, Treslove's intuition that Finkler no longer wanted to be thought a Finkler was the right one. His father had died, in great pain at the last, miracle pills or no miracle pills. And it had been his father who had kept him to the Finkler mark. His mother had never quite understood any of it and
'Ready to go blind?'
'Ready to risk it.'
The real reason was that Malkie had nieces the same age as Treslove and Finkler, girls who had trouble finding boyfriends. Nothing came of the matchmaking - even Treslove couldn't fall in love with Malkie's nieces who bore not the slightest physical resemblance to her, though he did, of course, fall in love with Malkie, despite her being old enough to be his mother. Libor had not exaggerated. Malkie looked so like Ava Gardner that the boys canvassed the possibility between them that she was Ava Gardner.
The friendship faded a little after that. Having shown the boys his wife, Libor had little else to impress them with. And the boys for their part had Ava Gardners of their own to find.
Shortly afterwards the first of the biographies was published, quickly followed by another. Juicy and amusing and slightly fatalistic. Libor became famous all over again. Indeed more famous than he had been before, because a number of the women he was writing about were now dead and it was thought they had confided more of their secrets to Libor than to any other man. In several of the photographs, which showed Libor dancing with them cheek to cheek, you could almost see them spilling their souls to him. It was because he was funny that they could trust him.
For several years Sam and Julian kept in touch with Libor's progress only through these biographies. Julian envied him. Sam less so. Word of Hollywood rarely penetrated the deserted late-night corridors of Broadcasting House which were home - if a hell can be called a home - to Julian Treslove. And because he considered Libor's career to be the inverse of his own, he was continuously, if secretly, seduced by it.
Sam Finkler, or Samuel Finkler as he still was then, had not done a modular degree at a seaside university. He knew better, he said, which side his bread was buttered. Finklerish of him, Treslove thought admiringly, wishing he had the instincts for knowing on which side his own bread was buttered.
'So what's it going to be?' he asked. 'Medicine? Law? Accountancy?'
'Do you know what that's called?' Finkler asked him.
'What what's called?'
'The thing you're doing.'
'Taking an interest?'
'Stereotyping. You've just stereotyped me.'
'You said you knew which side your bread was buttered. Isn't that stereotyping yourself?'
'I am allowed to stereotype myself,' Finkler told him.
'Ah,' Treslove said. As always he wondered if he would ever get to the bottom of what Finklers were permitted to say about themselves that non-Finklers were not.
Unstereotypically - to think which was a further form of mental stereotyping, Treslove realised - Finkler studied moral philosophy at Oxford. Though this didn't appear an especially wise career move at the time, and his five further years at Oxford teaching rhetoric and logic to small classes seemed less wise still, Finkler justified his reputation for shrewdness in Treslove's eyes by publishing first one and then another, and then another and then another, of the self-help practical philosophy books that made his fortune. The Existentialist in the Kitchen was the first of them. The Little Book of Household Stoicism was the second. Thereafter Treslove stopped buying them.
It was at Oxford that Finkler dropped the name Samuel in favour of Sam. Was that because he now wanted people to think he was a private investigator? Treslove wondered. Sam the Man. It crossed his mind that what his friend didn't want to be thought was a Finkler, but then it would have made more sense to change the Finkler not the Samuel. Perhaps he just wanted to sound like a person who was easy to get on with. Which he wasn't.
In fact, Treslove's intuition that Finkler no longer wanted to be thought a Finkler was the right one. His father had died, in great pain at the last, miracle pills or no miracle pills. And it had been his father who had kept him to the Finkler mark. His mother had never quite understood any of it and
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