“What’s the delay?” Munshin asked.
“Stop worrying. You’ll make a fortune on this,” Eitel said easily. He left Elena for a day and flew up to the capital to talk to his lawyer and visit his business agent.
The end came more easily than he had expected. As Elena had been promising for so long, she had her hair cut one morning and it turned out badly. To his flat eye she looked like a clipped rabbit. He would stare at her from time to time, not able to believe that she was any more to him than a drudge he hired by the day. While he sat in a dumb reverie watching her work, he would recognize how hopeless she became the moment his eyes were on her. She was sweeping with a broom, but so absent-mindedly, that three times he watched her move the dust from one corner to the other and then back again. Eitel had had a telegram from Crane the night before. There would be committee hearings in two weeks, and Crane was delighted that he would co-operate. When Elena asked him what was in the telegram, he told her.
“I guess it means you’ll be making pictures again,” she said.
“I guess it does.”
“Well …” She could think of nothing to say because there was only one question she wanted to ask and she hardly dared.
“When are you going?” she said a little later, waiting he thought for the word that she would go with him. That was all it meant to her, he decided bitterly.
“Couple of weeks, I think,” he answered, and they did not talk about it again.
She had finished sweeping and was sitting at the dining table, staring through the picture window at the yucca tree, stoically, like a peasant, much as her parents must once have stared with stony eyes out the dirty window of their candy store. He came up behind her, touched her shoulder, and said, “You know, I really like your hair this way.”
“You hate it,” she said.
“No, I wouldn’t say that.”
Tears forced themselves out of her eyes and she looked furious at how they betrayed her, for she must have sworn she would not weep. He moved across the table from her and watched Elena’s fingers tear at her nails. From his sure distance he felt a kind of sweet sorrow that neither he nor she had been able to make the happiness they should have made. He usually felt such sentiments when an affair ended, and if he were ashamed afterward of how easy his emotions were, it encouraged him now to feel he could finish their affair today.
“Elena,” he said, “there’s something I want to talk about.”
“You want me to go away,” she said. “All right, I will.”
“It isn’t that exactly …” he started to say.
“You’re done,” she said. “All right, then, you’re done. Maybe I’m done too.”
“No, now wait …”
“I knew it would end,” Elena said.
“It’s my fault,” Eitel said quickly. “I’m no good for anybody.”
“Who cares whose fault it is? You’re … you’re terrible,” she said and began to cry.
“Now, look, little monkey,” he said, trying to caress her shoulder.
She threw off his hand. “I hate you.”
“I don’t blame you,” said Eitel.
“You’re so good with words. I really hate you. You … you stink,” Elena said crudely, hopelessly, while he winced for her.
“You’re right,” he said, “I stink.”
Her fingers tapped on the table in a monotonous irritating rhythm. “I’m getting out of here,” she said, “I’m going to pack my stuff. Thank you for a lovely time.” How pitiful was her talent for sarcasm, Eitel was thinking.
“Why don’t I leave?” he asked. “You can stay here for a while. It’s your place too.”
“It isn’t my place. It never was.”
“Elena, don’t say that.”
“Oh, shut up,” she said, “it isn’t my place,” and she began to cry again.
“Elena, we can still get married,” he said, and knew the moment he uttered the words that he did not mean them so insincerely as he had thought.
She didn’t answer. She merely fled the room. In a moment he could hear her slamming drawers, and it was not hard to picture how she heaped things from one bag to the other, trying not to show her tears, and therefore sobbing uncontrollably. At last he was out of it. He only had to wait until she was gone.
But it became more difficult than he expected. He did not like to hear her weeping in the bedroom; it shivered the calm he had laid on himself and opened a question. What was she going to do? He held on to himself as if it were necessary to support a heavy weight for five minutes, for five minutes more, and then another five. It was vital not to weaken; every love which lasted beyond its time had continued because it took so long to pack a bag. He even thought of going out for a walk, but he could not do that. He would have to call a taxi, see her into it, close the door, wave good-bye with the sad sheepish grin of the man who knows he has not done well and wishes he could do better. Abruptly it occurred to him that he would look to her at that moment as Collie Munshin must have looked when he left her in Desert D’Or. Something turned over in Eitel. Elena should not be treated so badly.
He could hear her phoning for a cab, hear her voice stumble as she gave their address, and the sound of the phone being dropped back on its cradle. Then her bag was snapped shut, then the other bag. All she had accumulated in her life could be crammed into the space of two pieces of luggage.
When she came out of the bedroom, he was ready to give up. She could have done anything; she could have taken a step toward him, or merely looked helpless, and he would have had to do something; possibly he would even have promised to take her with him to the capital.
But she did not do any of these things. In a dry bitter voice, Elena muttered, “I thought you’d be interested to know where I’m going.”
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m going over to Marion.”
It brought back his hatred. “Do you think you really ought to?” he said.
“Do you care?”
He resented that she should use this trick to make him unable to let her go. “I suppose I don’t care,” he said. “I’m just curious. When did you arrange it?” His throat felt sore as though very soon it would be an effort to speak.
“I called him yesterday. Then I made my appointment for the haircut. This haircut you don’t like. Does that surprise you? Did you think you’d have to kick me out? All right.” She cleared her throat. “Maybe I’ll become a prostitute. Don’t worry. I’m not trying to make you feel sorry. You think I’m a prostitute anyway, so how could you feel sorry?” Her eyes were dull. This was one time he knew she would not burst into tears. “In fact you always thought of me as a prostitute,” Elena said, “but you don’t know what I think of you. You think I can’t live without you. Maybe I know better.”
There was the sound of the taxi coming up the drive. Eitel started to get out of his chair, but Elena picked up her suitcases. Like an actress she turned around to make a last speech. “At least for once I’m giving somebody the gate,” she said, and was out the door. Eitel remained standing until the taxi had driven away, and then he sat down and began to wait for her telephone call. It seemed certain to him that she would phone, but an hour went by, and then the afternoon, and much of the night. He sat drinking, too tired even to pry an ice cube from the tray, and as it got dark, he sighed to himself, not knowing if he were relieved that he was free, or if he were more miserable than he had ever been.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
WHEN Eitel finished telling the story, we continued to sit in the living room with the litter of a dozen half-filled cartons and several pieces of luggage. “Do you want me to help you pack?” I said at last.
He shook his head. “No, somehow I enjoy doing it myself. It’s the last opportunity I’ll have to be alone for some time.”
I guessed what he meant. “Everything’s been set for you to testify?”
Eitel shrugged. “You may as well know. You’ll be reading about it in t
he newspapers soon enough.”
“What will I read?”
He did not answer the question directly. “You see, after Elena left,” he said, “I couldn’t stand to stay here. Not for the first few days. I drove into the capital early that morning, and I went to see my lawyer. There’s no use giving you all the bits and pieces. I must have talked to a dozen people. The amazing thing is how complicated it is.”
“Then you’re going to have your secret session?”
“No.” Eitel looked away while he lit a cigarette. “They’re not letting me off that easy. You see, those people are artists. If you admit that you’re ready for a secret session, they know that you’ll testify in public session, too. They get down to bed-rock, don’t you see?” Eitel smiled pensively. “Oh, I gave them a bit of trouble. I walked out of a conference when they told me the session would have to be public, and I went to my lawyer’s office, and I raved, and I ranted, but all the time I knew I was going to give them what they wanted.” He took a careful swallow of his drink. “If I had had something to return to in Desert D’Or … well, in that case, I don’t know, I won’t look for excuses. The fact is I didn’t have anything. All I could do was admit how clever they are. They know you win an empire by asking for an acre at a time. After we’d agreed on a public session, there came the business of the names.” He gave a little laugh. “Oh, the names. You have no idea how many names there are. Of course I never belonged to that political party, and so it was obvious right along that I could never be the sort of witness who qualifies for Stool Of The Year. Still they knew ways to use me. I had several conferences with two detectives Crane uses for his investigations. They looked like All-American guard and tackle posing for a photograph. They knew so much more about me than I knew about them. I never realized how many papers a man could put his name to in ten years. Who asked me, they wanted to know, to sign the petition against the exploitation of child labor in the salt mines of Alabama? That sort of thing. A hundred, two hundred, four hundred signatures. I could just as well have been on a couch coughing up my childhood. A little word at this cocktail party with that dangerous political operator—some fool of a writer, mind you, who liked to think of himself as a liberal with muscles—he had given me a paper to sign.” Eitel felt his bald spot as though to learn how many hairs he had lost in the process. “I found it confusing for a while. There were certain people they wanted me to accuse, and there were others, particularly a couple of movie stars I know at Supreme and Magnum whom they were absolutely disinterested in. When I began to understand what sort of arrangement existed between the Committee and the studios we began to make progress. You see they had a list of fifty people prepared for me. Seven of those people I could swear I never met in my life but it seems I’m wrong. There were so many big parties after all, and my two football players knew all about them. ‘You were both in the same room on such and such a night at so-and-so’s party,’ they would let me know, and eventually I would produce the sort of political conversation that one might have had. Toward the end, they got friendly. One of them took the trouble to tell me he liked a picture I had made, and we even made a bet on a fight. Finally, it seemed to me as if I liked my detectives just as much as some of the people whose names I’m going to give. For that matter, half the names on my list have repulsive personalities.” Eitel smiled wearily. “The interrogation took two days. Then Crane was back and I went to see him. He was very pleased, but it seems there were still more things to be asked of me. I hadn’t done enough.”
“Not enough?” I said.
“There were still a few acres to be picked. Crane called my lawyer in, and they took the trouble to tell me that I ought to have a statement to release to the newspapers after I testified. Crane had written it for me. Of course I was free to use different wording, but he had thought, he said, to show me the sort of thing which was probably best. Later my lawyer gave another suggestion. Everybody seemed to think it would be practical to take out a paid advertisement in the trade papers to explain how proud I was to have testified, and how I hoped that others in my position would do their duty in the same way. Do you care to see the statement I’m giving to the newspapers next week?”
“I’d like to see it,” I said.
I glanced over a few lines:
It has taken me a year of wasted and misplaced effort to recognize the useful and patriotic function of the Committee, and I testify today without duress, proud to be able to contribute my share to the defense of this country against all infiltration and subversion. With a firm knowledge of the democratic heritage we share, I can only add that it is the duty of every citizen to aid the Committee in its work with whatever knowledge he may possess.
“It goes about par for the course,” I said.
Eitel was off on other subjects. “You ought to know,” he remarked, “that Crane keeps his word. While I was in his office he called up people at different studios, and said a word or two for me. It was the one part of the process I found surprising. My mind’s too subtle. I didn’t expect he would pick up the phone in front of me.”
“What about your script?” I asked. I had a headache.
“That’s the funny part, Sergius. You know when I started to feel ashamed? It was at the idea of double-crossing Collie Munshin. I felt I ought to see him first, and I told Collie that I intended to sell the script as my own. He didn’t even get angry. I think he was expecting it. Collie just said he was glad I would be back, and he talked me into staying with him. Do you know, I realized that he does care about me, and I was very touched by that. We worked out a new contract. Collie and I will split evenly if he’s able to talk Teppis into letting me direct the film. Tomorrow, when I get in, everything will be settled. All I have to do is approve the galley-sheet on my advertisement.”
“Yes, but how do you feel?” I asked suddenly, not able to listen to him any more.
The ironic disciplined expression on his face gave way for an instant to something vulnerable behind it.
“How do I feel?” Eitel asked. “Oh, nothing so extraordinary, Sergius. You see, after a while, I knew they had me on my knees, and that if I wasn’t ready to take an overdose of sleeping pills, I would have to let myself slide through the experience, and not try to resist it. So for the first time in my life I had the sensation of being a complete and total whore in the world, and I accepted every blow, every kick, and every gratuitous kindness with the inner gratitude that it could have been a good deal worse. And now I just feel tired, and if the truth be told, pleased with myself, because believe me, Sergius, it was dirty work.” He lit a cigarette and held it away from his mouth. “In the end that’s the only kind of self-respect you have. To be able to say to yourself that you’re disgusting.” He put his cigarette in his mouth and took it out again. “By the way,” he murmured, and he looked a bit apologetic, “I’ve been thinking that it was a trifle presumptuous for me to tell you to turn down that offer from Supreme.”
“I’m not sorry,” I said not altogether truthfully.
“Are you sure?” He rotated his glass in his fingers. “Sergius, I’ve been entertaining the idea of inviting you to be my assistant.”
Suddenly I was angry. “Did they put you up to it?” I asked. “Are they still thinking of making my movie?”
He was hurt. “You go too far, Sergius.”
“Maybe I do,” I said. “But what if I hadn’t come over tonight? Would you have thought of making your offer then?”
“No,” Eitel said, “I have to admit I didn’t think of it until this minute. But that shouldn’t matter so much. You can’t keep polishing knives and forks all your life.”
There was a minute when I was tempted again. But there came into my mind the thought of seeing Lulu at the studio and how she would say hello to me as Eitel’s assistant. So I folded his offer into that mental file we carry with us of those jobs we have turned away, and I said, “Forget it,” to him, and looked at my watch.
As I got up to go, I said abruptly, �
��Do you want me to keep an eye on Elena?”
There was something forlorn about Eitel in the middle of his packing cases. “Elena?” he asked, “well, I don’t know. Suppose you do what you want to do.”
“Have you heard from her?”
He seemed about to say no, and then nodded. “I got a letter from her. A long letter. It was forwarded to me while I was in the city.”
“Are you going to answer her?”
“No, I just wouldn’t know how to do that,” he said.
Eitel came to the door to say good-bye. As I was walking down the drive he called to wait, and came out his door. “I’ll mail you her letter,” he said. “I don’t want to keep it, and I don’t want to tear it up.”
“Should I write to you after I read it?”
This, too, he considered. “I don’t think so,” he said carefully. “You see, I get the feeling that if I allowed myself, I would miss her very much.”
“Well, good-bye.”
For a moment he gave his charming smile. “Please forgive me, Sergius, for that offer as my assistant.”
“I guess you meant it well,” I said.
He nodded. He was about to say something, he changed his mind, and then just as I was ready to turn away, he mentioned it after all. “You know, I don’t want to worry you,” he said, “but those detectives asked a lot of questions about you.”
Deep in me, I suppose I was not as surprised as I should have been. “Well,” I said, and my voice was small, “what did you tell them?”
“I told them nothing. That is, I gave them a few details of your life, I thought it would sound suspicious not to, but I think I succeeded in convincing them that there was no need to bother you.”
“Only you’re not sure,” I said.
“No,” Eitel admitted, “they may come around to pay you a visit.”
“Well, thanks for telling me,” I said coldly.
The Deer Park: A Play Page 31