Hollywood

by Gore Vidal

  “The subject will be you.” Burden smiled at Lodge, who allowed his white beard to twitch in response.

  “The International Court.”

  Burden nodded. “Harding wants us to join …”

  “Hughes wants us to join, and Harding does what he tells him to. Hughes is a lawyer. I hate lawyers. No lawyer can resist a court of any kind. Have you noticed?”

  “Depends on the venue.”

  “Exactly. Well, this is tied in with the League of Nations, and so we can never …”

  “Never! Never!”

  “Never,” whispered Lodge with some satisfaction. “Join!” The pale marble face was ever so slightly flushed. Anything to do with the League of Nations put him in a good mood. “The Foreign Relations Committee is split. Eight to eight on the issue. As chairman, I’ll naturally want more time to consider the matter. Anyway, we’re adjourning soon, and there’s no real hurry. They say Hughes is in bed with the flu.”

  Miss Harcourt entered with Burden’s notes on the International Court. “Mrs. Sanford rang. She said it wasn’t important. But if you get a chance …”

  “Is she at Laurel House?”

  “I’m sorry, Senator. I should’ve identified her more precisely. It is Mrs. John Apgar Sanford. She’s back in Georgetown.” Whatever Miss Harcourt may have suspected she betrayed nothing, ever.

  “Caroline has come home to us.” Lodge smiled at the prospect.

  “So it would seem. I must get Kitty to call her.”

  “What a curious thing to have become, a photo-play star.” Lodge shook his head in wonder. “She never seemed the type who wanted to … to dress up. But then she was raised in France. That explains so much.” Lodge was bleak. The glittering lost son, Bay Lodge, had lived abroad, in France. “I miss not having Henry to travel with, as vile as he could be, and that was very vile indeed.”

  “We are so … so …” Burden was not sure which word would suit his own bad mood. He made a choice. “Mediocre nowadays. Except for you, of course …”

  “And you, Burden. You’ll be president one of these days, for what that’s worth.”

  Burden nodded. “And what that’s worth is not so much, I’d say. We don’t seem to matter in this modern world.” Burden realized that he was speaking like a very old man to a really old man who was at the end; but Burden was not old, not at the end. He had never doubted that he would be president in time. But time had become chilly and remote and less and less familiar, and his own place in it of little consequence.

  “Politicians only matter when there’s war. The observation is not original. But no less true for that. War created Lincoln. Roosevelt. Wilson.” Lodge frowned at the thought of his ancient enemy, now living like an exiled, wounded king in S Street. He changed the subject. “Harding thinks you Democrats will give him the International Court.”

  “I suppose so.” Burden was guarded. They were now rival political gamesmen. “You’ll be giving him your committee report any day now, won’t you?”

  “Why such unseemly haste?”

  “Because the Sixty-seventh Congress ends Sunday, March thirteenth.”

  “But by the time Hughes replies, it will be another Congress, another epoch. Tell Harding we’re with him, of course. We want a court. It’s just that we don’t want this court with all its ties to the League.”

  Burden nodded. It was going to be the League of Nations fight yet again. To everyone’s surprise, Harding was threatening to take the issue to the country. Imperceptibly, the amiable soft-headed senator had turned into a hard-minded president, most jealous of his own powers as the executive.

  Together Burden and Lodge made their way down the high-ceilinged hall of the Senate Office Building. As it was February and dark, cheerless lights had been switched on, emphasizing the gloom. At Lodge’s office they paused. “What do you hear about Fall?” asked the old man.

  “Nothing. He’s gone back to New Mexico, hasn’t he?”

  “He’s been leasing the naval oil reserves to just about everybody.”

  “That was his job.”

  “Yes. Of course.” Lodge stepped into his own office.

  Still weak from the flu, the President was not in the west wing of the White House. He could be found, Burden was told, in the upstairs sitting room. An usher offered to escort him to the main residence, but Burden said that he knew the way well. En route, he recognized several Secret Service men and was greeted by the President’s secretary, George Christian, who was coming from the living quarters. “The President’s upstairs,” he said.

  As Burden stepped into the main hall of the White House, he was struck by the emptiness. It reminded him of the last Wilson year. But then sightseers seldom appeared on cold February days, while the usual business of the executive was transacted in the west wing.

  As Burden walked over to the elevator, he heard a loud furious voice from the Red Room. Simultaneously, two ladies were being received at the main entrance by the chief usher. Burden was alarmed: they must not hear whatever was going on.

  Quickly, Burden crossed to the Red Room, where he found the President of the United States shaking the Director of the Veterans Bureau by the neck. “You God-damned double-crossing bastard!” With one last shove, the scarlet-faced Harding flung Forbes against the red-damasked wall. Forbes’s glasses fell to the floor. His ginger hair was all on end.

  “Mr. President,” said Burden. Harding glared blindly at him for a moment, completely disoriented. Then he recovered himself; became his seemly, becoming presidential self. “Senator Day. Yes. We have an appointment. Let’s go into the next room.” Neither acknowledged the presence of the ashen Charlie Forbes.

  In the oval Blue Room, Harding sat, back to the window. He was breathing with great difficulty.

  “I gather,” said Burden formally, “you want to know how the vote will go on the Court bill.”

  “Yes. Yes.” Harding took a deep shaky breath. “Peculiar situation when a Republican president has to rely on the Democrats to get his program through the Senate.” He attempted a smile; and failed. “In this job it’s not your enemies you have to worry about; it’s your friends.” The reference to Forbes was clear.

  As Burden formally analyzed the Senate’s mood, he wondered just what had gone wrong. Everyone knew that the Court Jester spent money lavishly. Everyone assumed that he no doubt received presents from contractors, a venerable custom for government officials with contracts to let. But the thought that there might be serious corruption had not occurred to Burden even though two fellow senators, Wadsworth and Reed, were certain that something was wrong. Burden had put their suspicions down to partisan zeal.

  “I’m going to take a swing around the circle in May or June, ending up in Alaska. I know it’s going to look like I’m campaigning for re-election but I’m not, really. I just want to set the record straight on my troubles with the Senate.”

  Burden was reminded of Wilson. How extraordinary these presidents were in their own eyes! Even the modest Harding had succumbed to the crown’s hypnotic glitter, and had come to believe that if he merely showed himself to the people, his enemies would be routed. “Well, it’s always good to get away from Washington.”

  “I’ll say.” Harding offered Burden a cigar, which he refused. Then Harding tried to light one for himself but his hands trembled, and he could not. Burden lit the cigar for him. “The flu never really goes away, does it?” Harding puffed a cloud of smoke as if he wanted to vanish.

  “It goes, all right. But it takes its time. In my case a year before I felt myself again.”

  “Yes.” The smoke cleared. Harding’s olive-skinned face was now sallow. High blood pressure, Burden decided; due to overweight. As if Harding had read his thoughts, he said, “I’m starting on a strict diet this year. No more whisky, fewer cigars, more exercise, though I don’t have the get-up-and-go I used to have.”

  “That will come back.” It was odd to think that he, James Burden Day, was very apt to be the Democratic nomine
e for president in 1924 running against this amiable man. If the times were prosperous, Harding would win. If not, Burden would be installed in this altogether too familiar place.

  “I’m calling my trip a voyage of understanding,” Harding began; and ended. Then he said, “I’d appreciate it if you said nothing about what happened in there.”

  “If you ask me not to, I won’t. But I think you should probably tell me what it’s all about because if it’s public business I’ll find out anyway.”

  Harding rested his right cheek in his right hand. He shut his eyes. “It’s the Perryville, Maryland, business. Charlie told me everything was all right and I believed him. But the Attorney General didn’t. He’s just wound up an investigation. Charlie is going to resign.”

  “That means the Senate will investigate.”

  “I suppose we’ll have to. I mean,” Harding’s attempt at a smile was ghastly, “you’ll have to. Sometimes I keep thinking I’m still on the Hill and not down here—at the bottom of this damned well. What a time for this to happen!” Harding shook his head. “Daugherty’s close to a break-down with all his troubles, and I’m a bit down myself …”

  “Well, there’s one good thing. Congress adjourns in a few weeks. There can’t be much of an investigation till October, November.”

  “I thought I knew Charlie Forbes as well as I’ve ever known anybody, and then …” But Harding was not about to tell Burden what Forbes had done, nor would Burden ask. Executive and legislative, not to mention Republican and Democrat, must keep their distance at such a time. Burden doubted if Forbes could have got away with very much in so conspicuous a job. Bribes were an everyday affair in government, and there were agreed-upon limits to what an office-holder might demand. During the war, Burden had been offered numerous bribes by naval contractors and he had refused them all on the ground that not only was it a wrong thing to do but, if found out, the career was at an end. On the other hand, he was not censorious. What others chose to do was their business not his. By and large, the great political players stayed reasonably clean. Harding was honest, as far as Burden knew, which was quite a lot: the Senate was a relatively small club and who got money from whom was generally if not precisely known. Before 1917, Borah, the incorruptible, was thought to have taken money from one George Sylvester Viereck, who had been in charge of disbursements in the Kaiser’s name. A charming and cultivated figure, Viereck had tried to charm and cultivate Burden, who had not responded.

  But the lines were vague at best, and when it came to campaign contributions there was moral chaos. In 1904, Theodore Roosevelt had gone begging to every rich magnate in the land. “We bought him,” Frick was supposed to have said later, “but he didn’t stay bought.” Actually, Roosevelt had been sufficiently honorable to give value for money paid. That was the rule of the game, and one broke it at one’s peril. Ohio politicians tended either to the small-time, like Jess Smith, helping out bootleggers, or they were, like Mark Hanna, huge national operators, selling their presidents, like oil stock. Of the lot, Harding was, perhaps, the most honest, while the much-maligned Daugherty appeared to be above temptation except when it came to raising money for Harding; then he rivalled Hanna.

  “Well, we’ve still got Charlie Cramer at the bureau.” Harding stubbed out his cigar. “He’ll straighten everything out once Forbes is gone. Burden, I’d be most grateful if you said nothing about Forbes’s resigning until he actually has, in the next week or so.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Good.” Harding smiled; a normal color had returned to his face. “They tell me I may be up against you in ’24.”

  Burden laughed. “I hear that every four years but they always find someone else.”

  “Personally—selfishly—I hope they do again. You’d be hard to beat.”

  Burden gave the President a folder containing his reflections on the International Court; and departed.

  Burden let himself in the side door of the Sanford Massachusetts Avenue house, now up for sale. Whenever Blaise or Frederika wanted to stay over in town, they would use the upper part of the house; the rest was empty, dark, cold.

  Frederika wore a negligee. “Come in. Shut the door. The house is freezing.” She shivered even though her sitting room was as warm as a greenhouse with a great fire and masses of flowers everywhere. She liked it to be known that she gardened seriously. Actually, she did not know one flower from another and preferred goldenrod to chrysanthemums. The conservatories at Laurel House were well tended by professional gardeners, and Frederika never went near them.

  Burden sat beside the fire while Frederika made a cocktail containing gin. Since Prohibition, each felt obliged to drink more than ever before. Luckily, neither was addicted, unlike half the Senate—and their wives. “Harding’s gone on the wagon.”

  “Poor man.”

  “He owes it to the Constitution …”

  “His?”

  “Ours. Both, I suppose.”

  “Have you seen Caroline?”

  Burden shook his head. New mistress quite liked old mistress, who made no fuss of any kind. Then, suddenly, on cue, the door to the sitting room was flung open and there stood Caroline herself, with Blaise behind her.

  Burden’s first alarm turned, unexpectedly, to mirth. There they were, the four of them, like some intricate equation that, with time, kept bringing forth new answers or, more precisely, data, since there were no answers in life.

  “You have caught us at last,” Frederika observed dispassionately. She embraced Caroline; and patted Blaise’s cheek. Burden had always assumed that Blaise knew everything; now he wondered if, perhaps, Blaise had not known because—sad thought!—he did not care one way or the other.

  “This is cozy,” said Blaise neutrally and sat beside the fire. “I had no idea you were giving a party,” he said to Frederika.

  “I wasn’t. Until you two made it one. Burden has been telling me all about Mr. Forbes and the Veterans Bureau …”

  “I am home,” said Caroline, smiling fondly at Burden. “Where I live, you would be talking about how much Robin Hood really grossed last week at the Capitol … the one on Broadway, not ours.”

  “What,” asked Frederika, “is Douglas Fairbanks really like?”

  “Very athletic.”

  “I can see that on the screen. But—in person.”

  “There is no person in person,” said Caroline, who looked like someone Burden had never known except on the screen. She had managed to simplify her face so that now it was nothing but a number of perfect features in strict harmony with each other. Kitty was certain that surgery had been resorted to, but Burden thought not. The camera had burned away all imperfections, and fame had done the rest.

  “How long will you stay?” Burden was casual.

  “As long as I have to. I must wait for the scandal to die down.”

  “How I envy you!” Frederika was perfectly sincere in this. “I wish I could have my picture in the tabloids. Frederika Sanford …”

  “Traxler is our movie name,” said Blaise, gazing thoughtfully at Burden, whose cheeks were suddenly warm.

  “All right. Frederika Traxler, femme fatale, the pearl of Transylvania …”

  “Alsace-Lorraine, dear.” Caroline’s smile was dazzling.

  “Whatever. Were you really the last person to see that director?”

  “The last but two. At least.” Caroline’s smile began to fade exactly as it did on film.

  “Who killed him?” Blaise turned to Caroline.

  “Eddie Sands, they say. The servant. Anyway, this is not the sort of case that anyone wants to solve. We put it all down to the Californian Curse.”

  “Mary Miles Minter’s pink dressing gown in his closet!” Frederika shuddered with pleasure. “Mabel Normand in the middle of the night …”

  “Shortly before eight in the evening.” Caroline was precise.

  “I thought him charming, that evening at the Coconut Grove. But I had no idea he was such a … a voluptuary?”


  “Was he?” asked Blaise.

  “I saw no sign of it.” Caroline stopped smiling and, nonsmiling, began to resemble a younger version of her own self. “He was more … fatherly with the movie ladies. He was always the best of friends. Anyway, my new friend Will Hays is cleaning up Hollywood, and I’m helping him.”

  Burden wondered how he could explain, first, his immediate departure from the Sanford family bosom and, second, his presence in Frederika’s room. “We’re having,” he began, “more scandals here than Hollywood …”

  “But our cast is so unattractive.” Frederika began to recomb her hair. Caroline watched her with a professional eye. Blaise rang for Frederika’s maid, the only servant in the house.

  “Mr. Harding is very handsome.” Caroline looked at herself in Frederika’s mirror and saw Burden. He raised an eyebrow—in greeting?

  “I don’t think he’s involved, poor bastard.” Blaise turned to Burden. “What do you think?”

  “Harding’s honest. But he’s managed to surround himself with all these poker-playing small-time chiselers. Like Charlie Forbes.” After Forbes’s encounter with the President, he had fled to Europe, from where, on February 15, he had resigned. As Burden had predicted, shortly before adjournment, the Senate ordered an investigation of the Veterans Bureau. Then Congress went home, and the Hardings and the McLeans went to Florida together.

  “Forbes isn’t such a small-time chiseler. You’ve heard about Cramer, haven’t you?”

  Currently, the Veterans Bureau was being administered by its general counsel, Charles F. Cramer. “Is he involved, too?” asked Burden.

  Blaise nodded. “Very much so, I’d say. Or was. Last night he shot himself in the head. In Harding’s old house.”

  “Cramer’s dead?” Burden was astonished. Never before in his experience had politics veered off into overt crime, covert death.