by James Jones
“Very nice,” I said, and ducked back into the reverberating office immediately, “but what do you do about baths?”
“Oh, we go to the public baths around the area,” Raymond smiled. “When we have the time to.”
The kids were still discussing. I could not quite make out what the new discussion was about, but Weintraub had reappeared, sweating and red-faced.
“She’s quite a little chick, old Florence,” he grinned when he came over. “Would you like to try her? She likes you, she said. Likes you a lot.”
“She said that?”
“Sure. I wouldn’t kid you.”
“I wonder if she washed?” I said.
“Washed?” Weintraub said. “Washed? Oh, washed. Well, I guess so. There’s a john right outside in the hall. She went there.”
At that moment Florence, looking pleased and happy, came in from the outside door; and suddenly something took hold of me and I thought why not? After all, if this was the way it was going to be, why not see what it was like? I might be an “Older Generation”, but I still ought to know what the new world was going to be like. So when Florence came over to us, I took her hand.
Actually, she needed no urging. We went immediately into the “cooking quarters”, where the preoccupied boy was now eating the can of soup he had so laboriously and meticulously heated. We used the same blanket in the same corner she and Weintraub had used, and I was pleased to see that we did not upset the young man’s meal.
I must say that she was not much of a lay. She certainly did not have any of Martine’s experience or finesse. She just sort of laid there. But, of course, as Weintraub said later, she was very young, she was only a kid.
13
“YOU CAN’T EXPECT HER to have the ability of someone older who’s had years of practice and education in bed behind them,” Weintraub said reasonably.
“Perhaps not,” I said. “But look at Sam. She’s the same age. Nineteen, too.” I was feeling bad now about the whole thing.
“Ah, but Sam is a different kettle of fish!” He grinned. “To coin an apt phrase. She’s sophisticated. She’s been around plenty.”
“I suppose.” I felt gloomy. “But what about her and Hill, now? I saw them in the—, you know.” I coughed. “I thought Florence was Hill’s—well, you know.”
“But none of them believe in sleeping with just one person. Monogamistic love,” Weintraub said agitatedly. “You know that. Unless, of course, both parties decide that that is what they want. Then it’s their business. You know all that. So Sam’s making it with Hill a little bit now. And Florence is making it with me. And you. And a bunch of others, I expect.”
We were sitting in a bar. In fact, it was the old Monaco Bar, that bum’s hangout, the same place where Dave had told me about first meeting the Cinema Group kids earlier in the month. We had left the Odéon around one-thirty, with the understanding I would do what I could about writing a Commentary for them when and if that were possible, and in the meantime would try to get two articles written for the Review, all of the material for which, the entire issue, the kids would guarantee to get out to my printers in Holland for me. They had offered me an assistant, and I had chosen the angelic-faced Terri of the beautiful hair when Hill, after his tête-à-tête with Samantha, had declined my request for him. Sam had not left with us.
I must say, the old Monaco did not look like such a low dive anymore, after the happenings of the past few weeks. We had walked straight down to it from the front steps of the Odéon along the rue de l’Odéon. Ahead of us all that way was a huge cordon of police and police camions at the Carrefour, blocking off rue de l’Odéon where it met Boulevard St.-Germain. The CRS boys were lined up across the entire street, at least three lines deep, and wearing their helmets, gasmasks and fighting raincoats, and carrying shields and the long matraques. They hardly looked human. The smell of tear gas was everywhere, but we all were used to that by now.
“Don’t worry about it. You and me can walk right through them to the Boulevard,” Weintraub said cheerily as he led me into his old Monaco stamping-ground. “Of course, if we were twenty years younger and had long hair we probably couldn’t,” he added.
We had picked an empty table at the back.
“I think Hill is falling for her,” I said now, after the exchange on sex. “For Sam. I mean in a really serious way.”
“Oh, come on! Of course he is! Just like he fell for Florence, and then turned her over to me and that other kid. What’s his name? Raymond. The one that took you around.”
He was probably right. In any case I didn’t think it was that important anyway. “Listen, Dave,” I said. “I’ve just had an idea. A really brilliant idea. It was playing around sort of in the back of my mind all the time we were up there, and now suddenly it has crystallized.”
“So what is it?”
“I’m not the man to do their Commentary on their film for them. Oh, I could do one. And I’ll certainly go ahead and write those articles for them for the Review, though I doubt if they will help them as much as they are hoping. But as for doing a film Commentary, I’m not really the man they want. I’ve never done any film work. Harry Gallagher is the man they want!”
Weintraub did not answer for a full minute, and then grabbed up his Pernod and drained its milky contents suddenly and almost savagely. “Well, Jesus! Why didn’t I think of that?” Then he paused another very long moment. “But it’s going to cause all sorts of hell’s orchards with Hill, you know. He was furious enough when I suggested bringing you over. I told you, he voted against, remember? What’ll happen if they ask his dad to come?”
“Are we doing all this for the Cinema Committee, or are we all doing it all for the sake of Hill Gallagher?” I said.
“That’s true,” Weintraub said thoughtfully. He signaled for another Pernod. “But somehow it bothers me. I don’t know what could happen.”
“Listen,” I said. “If it’s for the good of the ‘Revolution’—and you know what I think this ‘Revolution’ is going to come out to in the end—I don’t see how Hill can fight it. Is he for the Revolution? or is he for Hill Gallagher?”
“Well,” Weintraub said. “I am for the Révolution. We could go back up there and present them with the idea, certainly.”
“Harry would be perfect for what they want,” I said. “And I’m not chickening out or anything.”
He drained off his new Pernod savagely, after adding a little water, and I suddenly had the distinct impression, quite clearly, that he was not at all that happy or that much at ease about having had to give up his beautiful Samantha to Hill, or to any of the others for that matter. “Okay, let’s go,” he said toughly, and pushed the little cash register tabs for our drinks over to me suggestively. I picked them up. “But will they be there still, now?”
“Are you kidding? They’ll be there all night, most of them.” So that was what we did. We turned our backs on the massive cordon of CRS at the foot of the street and walked straight back up to the massive front steps of the Odéon where our Laissez-Passer cards got us admitted immediately through the crowds.
“You understand I hate to do this to Hill,” Weintraub said to me as we went up the marble stairs to the first floor, “but I do think it is good for the entirety of the Révolution.” I had not anywhere questioned his motives.
It turned out that Hill was not there when we arrived back up at the tiny moisture-laden little room up under the eaves backstage. Neither was Sam. They had gone somewhere. And after my presentation of the case for Harry’s nomination to do the Commentary, led on by Daniel the Chairman who harangued forcefully for Harry during the inevitable democratic discussion which followed, there was, with the absence of Hill and a few others, a unanimous vote in favor of asking Harry to do it. Anne-Marie voted for it, so did my now co-associate Terri, so did the bearded Bernard. And certainly Daniel the Chairman voted for it. It turned out that not one of the Cinema Committee knew or realized that Harry Gallagher, the famous avant-
garde and radical screenwriter, was the father of their Comité member Hill Gallagher of the same last name.
“I’ll talk to him about it tomorrow,” I said to Weintraub as we made our dim way back downstairs and left through the crowd.
I called Harry the next morning.
“What? A Commentary? A Commentary on the film they are going to make? On the Revolution?” There was a pause. “Hell, yes! Christ, yes! I’d love to do it!” Then another pause. “But I’ll have to see shot film. And I’ll have to have cutting permission. I’ll have to be able to work with whoever they have for cutters.”
“I think they will give you all that, and more if you want. Look, I’ll take you over there tonight. Around midnight. That is, Weintraub and I will take you,” I added. “It was really his idea from the beginning.”
“Okay. But wait,” Harry said. “Wait. Wait a minute. I’m not sure I can go tonight. I’ve got a meeting. I guess you know what happened at Cannes yesterday?”
In fact, I did not. I had not yet seen the morning papers. Harry proceeded to tell me about it.
Apparently on Sunday night the Cannes Film Festival, which had been going on for some days, had been closed down five days early by a group of agitators composed largely of the younger French directors and actors like Godard, Louis Malle, François Truffaut, Jean-Pierre Leaud and Carlos Saura. There was some confusion as to why, but mainly it was supposed to be a sympathy strike with the students and workers of France. Geraldine Chaplin, the pretty young star of the Spanish film Peppermint Frappé had rushed up onto the stage and attempted to close the curtains on the showing of her own film. M. Favre Le Bret had proceeded to close down the entire proceedings after these demonstrations, to avoid the possibility of violence during film showings and “since circumstances did not permit projections under normal conditions.” So the whole thing was definitely finished, for the year.
“So I’ve got to get down there,” Harry said over the phone.
I didn’t understand. “But why? If it’s all over and finished, what’s the point? Why do you have to go?”
“I’m going down to strike my own film,” Harry said. “It’s the only film still shooting in France, for Christ’s sake.” I could hear the clarion call of the old warrior in his voice.
“You’re what?” I roared. “You’re out of your mind. It’s an American film, not a French one.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Harry said. “They’re using French crews. I’m going to strike it.” It was a French-murder-Western-love-story which was being shot in the semi-desert Camargue country by Harry’s old friend Allen Steinerwein. Harry had not only written it, but had worked on it all along with Steinerwein.
“You really must be out of your mind,” I said into the phone.
“No,” Harry said. “We had a meeting of the Directors and Actors Union, yesterday night, after the news came in, late, and voted to strike that film, too. I was selected to go down because I know personally just about every grip and cameraman-technician working on it.”
“But what about poor Allen Steinerwein?”
“Tough luck. But he’ll have to take his chances like everybody else. So we’re having a strategy meeting this afternoon, to decide on the best approach. That’s why I’m afraid I might not be able to make it to the Odéon with you tonight.”
“Well, I suppose it will wait till you get back,” I said. “But these kids are getting nervous and if anybody ever needed help, I think they do. How long will you be gone?”
“I don’t really know. It depends on how much trouble I have when I get there. Five days. Maybe a week.”
“Well then I think you really ought to try to make it to Odéon tonight. Before you leave.”
“Actually I probably won’t leave until Wednesday,” Harry said. “Look. I’ll call you tonight. After dinner. Sometime around ten-thirty. I’ll know more about what the situation is like by then. Okay?”
“All right. But I think you really are off your rocker.” There was a pause, as if he not only did not care about my comment, but actually had not heard it, something else totally occupying his mind. Then he said, “What is Hill going to think, or say, about all this?” he asked suddenly. “He’s on that Committee, aint he?”
“I’m sure he’ll be against it,” I said. “He was already against Weintraub bringing even me over there. But he’s already been outvoted by a massive majority.”
Harry didn’t answer for a moment. “Well, if he was outvoted that much, I think it’s my duty to go anyway. Don’t you?”
“I suppose I did,” I said. “It was my idea in the first place. —But I do think you’ve gone off your nut to go to Cannes. Let somebody else go.”
“Go fuck yourself,” he said.
“Good-bye,” I answered. “Don’t forget to call tonight.” But the phone had already gone dead somewhere in the middle. I dined alone that night. I went across the bridge, past the two little camions of cops who were there now 24 hours a day, to Chez René on the corner of Cardinal Lemoine and Boulevard St.-Germain, a favorite place of mine for years where I was well known by all the waiters and the boss himself, who had been a wheel in the Resistance. I had had a bellyful of students, film Documentaries and Commentaries, and film people in general. Who in hell gave a real damn about the Cannes Film Festival anyway? Whether they struck them God damned selves or not? It was some kind of macabre joke. And I was sick of Harry, driving all that way down to Cannes, to strike his own film. He must really be out of his head.
I was back home by ten-thirty, passing the ominous, yet gentle and preoccupied little blue camions. Several of the cops inside, who knew my face by now, waved and grinned at me. The phone rang soon after I was back in the apartment.
“I’m ready to go,” Harry said. “Can you get Weintraub?”
“We’re to pick him up at the Monaco Bar,” I said. “I’ll meet you at the footbridge, okay?” I do not think I ever saw anyone take over a roomful of people the way Harry took over that sweaty, steamy, overladen little room under the eaves of the Odéon and its gang of democratic-discussion-oriented students. Not one of them talked back, or offered to argue, or mentioned discussion. This included Hill. And anyway, Harry went right to the prime point.
“You say you want to make a film about the Revolution. But what kind of film is it you want to make? Something to be shown at Rotary Clubs and Ladies’ Clubs luncheons across America? Just what have you got shot? Have you listed it down, for each can, like you should have done? No. Of course not. Nobody thought of that. So what you’ve got here is this. And nobody really knows what it is, really.” He looked at the refrigerator box. “Is this all the shot film you’ve acquired during the past month?”
“No,” said Chairman Daniel, who was looking less and less like a steel-rimmed Commissar. “We have at least that much more stored in the private quarters of Mister Weintraub here.”
“Ha!” said Harry. “All right. That’s not so bad. Except for one thing—repetition. I’ll bet you got about two miles of film, most of it over- or under-exposed, showing groups of students marching toward a stationary camera; and about two miles of film, over- or underexposed, of masked cops charging a stationary camera, which is probably hand-held and wavery anyway. And what kind of a film are you going to make out of that? They probably won’t even want to show it in the high schools in the States, let alone the colleges.
“So. Questions:
“Have you even got remotely in mind any sort of a continuity, a story? If you have, you’ve got to have characters. Have you got characters, to whom things happen, and whom the audience can follow the development of through-out?
“No. Of course, you haven’t. You never thought of that, did you?” Harry looked sardonically, and very professionally around the room. “Take him,” he said, indicating Terri of the beautiful hair. “He’d make the perfect boy for your film.” He looked again. “And take her.” He indicated Anne-Marie. “You give me those two, plus three camera crews, with or without hand-he
ld cameras, and I can make you a film that will be begged for in every theater in America. And I can do it all in ten days. I think the Revolution is going to last that long. And I’m sure there’s some footage in what you’ve already shot that we can use for fill-in, timewise.
“Now. Do you want to do that? Or something like that? If so, I’m your man. And gladly. And all for free. I don’t want a dime of the take. But I’ll get your story seen, and loved, in every moviehouse in Europe and America.” He paused, and grinned. “Except perhaps in France.”
“Well, we asked you over here for that kind of professional advice, Mister Gallagher,” Chairman Daniel said, in an exceedingly unbrassy voice, for him. “I think we ought to discuss it, though, first. Since that is the method we hold to in a democratic Revolution of this sort.”
“Well, you discuss it, gentlemen,” Harry said. “I’m prepared to sit and wait half an hour. But I will not discuss. And if I take it on for you, there will be no more discussion once you designate me as the ‘Man’. From that time on I’ll have to be the absolute boss. Please understand that.”
“I’m not sure we can decide in half an hour,” Daniel said placatingly.
“Well, that’s okay,” Harry grinned. “I’ve got to go to Cannes to do a little job tomorrow or next day. You can have until I return, which may be anywhere from five days to a week. There’ll still be plenty of Revolution left to shoot from, I expect. Especially with all this footage that you’ve got shot already, to splice in when we need it. I’ll need to get to know your cutters, of course. Need to get to know them intimately. Because once the shooting is all done we’ll be working together very closely.”
“We haven’t even decided on cutters yet,” Daniel said.
“Well, like I said, you’ve got roughly five days or a week.” And he stood up from the chair where he had been sitting uncomfortably in front of the “office” table-desk.
Young Hill had been standing far at the back, in a darkened corner, all of this time while Harry was making his big-time lecture. I guess I had sidled slowly over toward him unconsciously. He and Harry had said a brief “Hello” and passed a perfunctory handshake when we first came in. But after that, Hill had offered not a word.