by Mario Puzo
On a memorable day, she had a one-night stand with the great Eli Marrion himself. She enjoyed it, but it was not truly successful.
They met at a LoddStone Studio party, and Marrion was intrigued with her because she was not afraid of him and made some penetrating and disparaging remarks on the Studio’s latest blockbuster production. Also, Marrion had heard her repel Bobby Bantz’s amorous advances with a witty remark that left no ill feelings.
Eli Marrion had given up sex the last few years. It was more work than fun, since he was nearly impotent. When he invited Claudia to come with him to the Beverly Hills bungalow owned by LoddStone, he assumed that she accepted because of his power. He had no idea that it was her sexual curiosity. What would it be like to go to bed with so powerful a man who was so old? That would not have been enough, but in addition she found Marrion attractive despite his age. His gorilla-like face could actually turn handsome when he smiled, which he did when he told her that everyone called him Eli, including his grandchildren. His intelligence and his natural charm intrigued her because she had heard about his ruthlessness. It would be interesting.
In the bedroom of the downstairs apartment of the Beverly Hills Hotel bungalow, she observed with amusement that he was shy. Claudia rejected any coyness, she helped him undress, and while he folded his clothes over a stuffed chair, she got herself naked, gave him a hug, and followed him beneath the bedcovers. Marrion tried to joke, “When King Solomon was dying, they sent virgins to his bed to keep him warm.”
“Well, then, I’m not going to help you much,” Claudia said. She kissed him and fondled him. His lips were pleasantly warm. His skin had a dryness and waxiness that was not distasteful. She had been surprised by his tinyness when he shed his clothing and shoes, and she considered for a moment what a three-thousand-dollar suit could do for a man in power. But his smallness with the huge head was also endearing. She was not at all put off. After ten minutes of fondling and kissing (the great Marrion kissed with the innocence of a child), they both realized that he was now fully impotent. Marrion thought, This is the last time I will ever be in bed with a woman. He sighed and relaxed as she cradled him in her arms.
“Okay, Eli,” Claudia said. “Now I’ll tell you in detail why your movie is lousy from a money standpoint and an artistic one.” Still gently fondling him, she delivered a penetrating analysis of the script, the director, and the actors. “It’s not that it’s just a bad movie,” Claudia said. “It’s an unwatchable movie. Because it has no story sense and so all you have is some fucking director giving you a slide show of what he thinks is a story. And the actors just go through the motions because they know it’s bullshit.”
Marrion listened to her with a benign smile. He felt very comfortable. He realized that an essential part of his life was over, finished by an approaching death. That he would never again make love to a woman, or even try, was not humiliating. He knew Claudia would not talk about this night, and if she did, what would it matter? He still retained his worldly power. He could still change the destinies of thousands, as long as he remained alive. And now he was interested in her analysis of the film.
“You don’t understand,” he said. “I can bring a picture into existence but I can’t execute the picture. You’re quite right, I will never hire that director again. The Talent doesn’t lose money, I do. But Talent has to take the blame. My question is, Will a movie make money? If it becomes a work of art, that’s just a happy accident.”
As they spoke, Marrion got out of bed and began to dress. Claudia hated it when men put on their clothes, they were so much more difficult to talk to. Marrion, to her, was infinitely more lovable naked, strange as that seemed; his spindly legs, his meager body, his huge head, all made her feel an affectionate pity. Oddly enough, his penis, flaccid, was bigger than that of most men in a similar state. She made a mental note to ask her surgeon about that. Did a penis grow larger as it grew more useless?
Now she saw how fatiguing it was for Marrion to button his shirt and put in his cuff links. She jumped out of bed to help him.
Marrion studied her nakedness. Her body was better than many of the stars he had gone to bed with, but he felt no mental flicker and the cells of his body did not react to her beauty. And he did not really feel regret or sadness.
Claudia helped put on his trousers, button his shirt, put in the cuff links. She straightened his maroon tie and brushed back his gray hair with her fingers. He slipped on his suit jacket and there he stood, all his visible power restored. She kissed him and said, “I had a good time.”
Marrion was studying her as though she were some sort of opponent. Then he smiled his famous smile that erased the ugliness of his features. He accepted the fact that she was truly innocent, that she had a good heart, and he believed that it was because of her youth. It was just too bad that the world she lived in would change her.
“Well, at least I can feed you,” Marrion said. He picked up the phone to call room service.
Claudia was hungry. She polished off a soup, duck with vegetables, and then a huge bowl of strawberry ice cream. Marrion ate very little but did his share in polishing off the bottle of wine. They talked about movies and books, and Claudia learned to her astonishment that Marrion was a far better reader than she was.
“I would have loved to be a writer,” Marrion said. “I love writing, books give me so much pleasure. But you know I’ve rarely met a writer I could like personally, even when I adore their books. Ernest Vail for instance. He writes beauti-ful books but he’s such a pain in the ass in real life. How can that be?”
“Because writers are not their books,” Claudia said. “Their books are the distillation of the very best that is in them. They’re like a ton of rocks that you have to crush to get a little diamond, if that’s what you do to get a diamond.”
“You know Ernest Vail?” Marrion asked. Claudia appreciated that he said this without a trace of salaciousness. He must have known about her love affair with Vail. “Now, I love his writing but I can’t stand him personally. And he has a grudge against the Studio that is insane.”
Claudia patted his hand, a familiarity that was permissible since she had seen him naked. “All the Talent has a grudge against the Studio,” she said. “It’s not personal. And besides, you’re not exactly a sweetheart in business relationships. I may be the only writer in town who really likes you.” They both laughed.
Before they parted, Marrion said to Claudia, “Any time you have a problem, please call.” It was a message that he would not wish to pursue their personal relationship.
Claudia understood. “I’ll never take advantage of that offer,” she said. “And if you have trouble with a script, you can call me. Free advice but you have to pay my deal price if I have to write.” Telling him that professionally he would need her more than she would need him. Which of course was not true but told him that she had her own faith in her talent. They parted friends.
On the Pacific Coast Highway, traffic was slow. Claudia looked to her left to see the sparkling ocean and marveled at how few people were on the beach. How different from Long Island, where she had visited when she was younger. Above her head she could see the hang gliders sailing just over the power lines and onto the beach. On her right side she saw a crowd around a sound truck and huge cameras. Somebody was shooting a movie. How she loved the Pacific Coast Highway. And how Ernest Vail had hated it. He said driving on that highway was like catching a ferry to Hell. . . .
Claudia De Lena first met Vail when she was hired to work on the movie script of his bestselling novel. She had always loved his books, his sentences were so graceful, they flowed into each other like musical notes. He understood life and the tragedies of character. He had a novelty of invention that always delighted her as fairy stories had enchanted her in her childhood. So she had been thrilled to meet him. But the reality of Ernest Vail was another thing entirely.
Vail was then in his early fifties. His physical presence had none of the grace of his p
rose. He was short and heavy and had a bald spot that he didn’t bother to hide. He may have understood and loved the characters in his books, but he was totally ignorant of the niceties of everyday life. This was perhaps one of his charms, his childlike innocence. It was only when she got to know him better that Claudia discovered that beneath this innocence was an offbeat intelligence that could be enjoyed. He could be witty as a child is unconsciously witty, and he had a child’s fragile egotism.
Ernest Vail seemed to be the happiest man in the world at that breakfast at the Polo Lounge. His novels had earned him a solid critical reputation and good but unimportant money. Then this latest book had broken through and become an enormous bestseller and was now being made into a movie by LoddStone Studios. Vail had written the script, and now Bobby Bantz and Skippy Deere were telling him how wonderful it was. And to Claudia’s astonishment, Vail was swallowing their praise like some starlet headed for the casting couch. What the hell did Vail think Claudia was doing at this meeting? What dismayed her was that this was the same Bantz and Deere who had the day before told her that the script was a “piece of shit.” Not being cruel or even pejorative. A Piece of Shit was simply something that didn’t quite work.
Claudia was not put off by Vail’s homeliness, after all she herself had been homely until she blossomed into handsomeness under the surgeon’s knife. She was even somewhat charmed by his credulity and his enthusiasm.
Bantz said, “Ernest, we’re bringing in Claudia to help you. She’s a great technician, the best in the business, and she’ll make it a real movie. I smell a big hit. And remember—you have ten percent of the net.”
Claudia could see Vail swallow the hook. The poor bastard didn’t even know that 10 percent of the net was 10 percent of nothing.
Vail seemed to be genuinely grateful for help. He said, “Sure, I can learn from her. Writing scripts is a lot more fun than writing books but it’s new to me.”
Skippy Deere said reassuringly, “Ernest, you have a natural flair. You can get a lot of work out here. And you can get rich on this picture, especially if it’s a hit and especially if it wins the Academy.”
Claudia studied the men. Two pricks and a dope, not an unusual trio in Hollywood. But then she had not been any smarter. Hadn’t Skippy Deere screwed her, literally and figuratively? Yet she couldn’t help admiring Skippy. He seemed so absolutely sincere.
Claudia knew the project was already in serious trouble and that the incomparable Benny Sly was working behind her and that Sly was turning Vail’s intellectual hero into a franchise by writing him into a James Bond–Sherlock Holmes–Casanova. There would be nothing left of Vail’s book but the bare bones.
It was out of this pity that Claudia agreed to have dinner with Vail that night to plan how they would work on the screenplay together. One of the tricks in collaboration was to stave off any romantic involvement, and she did this by presenting herself as unattractively as possible in work sessions. Romance was always distracting to her when writing.
To her astonishment the two months they spent working led to an enduring friendship. When they were both fired from the project on the same day, they went to Vegas together. Claudia had always loved gambling, and Vail had the same vice. In Vegas she introduced him to her brother Cross and was surprised that the two men hit it off. There was absolutely no basis for their friendship that she could see. Ernest was an intellectual who had no interest in sports or golf. Cross hadn’t read a book for years. She asked Ernest about this.
“He’s a listener and I’m a talker,” he said. Which struck Claudia as being not a real explanation.
She asked Cross; though he was her brother, he was the greater mystery. Cross pondered the question. Finally he said, “You don’t have to keep an eye on him, he doesn’t want anything.” And as soon as Cross said it, she knew it was true. To her it was an astonishing revelation. Ernest Vail, to his misfortune, was a man who had no hidden agendas.
Her affair with Ernest Vail was different. Though he was a world-renowned novelist, he had no power in Hollywood. Also, he had no social gifts; indeed, he inspired antagonism. His articles in magazines addressed sensitive national issues and were always politically incorrect, but ironically this angered both sides. He jeered at the American democratic process; writing about feminism, he declared that women would always be subjugated by men until they became physically equal, and advised feminists to set up paramilitary training groups. On racial problems, he wrote an essay on language in which he insisted the blacks should call themselves “coloreds” because “black” was used in so many pejorative ways—black thoughts, black as hell, black countenance—and that the word always had a negative connotation except when used in the phrase “simple black dress.”
But then he enraged both sides when he maintained that all Mediterranean races be designated as “colored.” Including Italians, Spaniards, Greeks, et cetera.
When he wrote about class, he claimed that people with a great deal of money had to be cruel and defensive, and that the poor ought to become criminals since they had to fight laws written by the rich to protect their money. He wrote that all welfare was simply a necessary bribe to keep the poor from starting a revolution. About religion, he wrote that it should be prescribed like medication.
Unfortunately nobody could ever figure out whether he was joking or serious. None of these eccentricities ever appeared in his novels, so a reading of his works gave no insights.
But when Claudia worked with him on the screenplay of his bestselling novel, they established a close relationship. He was a devoted pupil, he gave her all the deference, and she on her part appreciated his somewhat sour jokes, his seriousness about social conditions. She was struck by his carelessness about money in practice and his concern about money in the abstract; his pure dumbness about how the world worked in terms of power, especially Hollywood. They got along so well that she asked him to read her novel. She was flattered when he came to the studio the next day with notes on his reading.
The novel had finally been published on the strength of her success as a screenwriter and the arm twisting of her agent, Melo Stuart. It had received a few reviews of faint praise and some derisive ones merely because she was a screenwriter. But Claudia still loved her book. It did not sell, nor did any-one purchase the movie rights. But it was in print. She inscribed one to Vail: “To America’s greatest living novelist.” It didn’t help.
“You’re a very lucky girl,” Vail said. “You’re not a novelist, you’re a screenwriter. You will never be a novelist.” Then without malice or derision he spent the next thirty minutes trying to strip her novel bare and showing her that it was a piece of nonsense, that it had no structure, no depth, no resonance in characterization, and that even her dialogue, her strong point, was terrible, witty without point. It was a brutal assassination but carried out with such logic that Claudia had to recognize its truth.
He ended up with what he thought was a kindness. “It’s a very good book for an eighteen-year-old woman,” Vail said. “All the faults I’ve mentioned can be repaired by experience, simply by getting older. But there’s one thing you can never repair. You have no language.”
At this Claudia, though crushed, took offense. Some of the reviewers had praised the lyrical quality of the writing. “You’re wrong on that,” she said. “I tried to write perfect sentences. And the thing I admire most in your books is the poetry of your language.”
For the first time Vail smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “I wasn’t trying to be poetic. My language sprang out of the emotion of the characters. Your language, your poetry in this book is imposed. It’s completely false.”
Claudia burst into tears. “Who the fuck are you?” she said. “How can you say something so terribly destructive. How can you be so fucking positive?”
Vail seemed amused. “Hey, you can write publishable books and starve to death. But why, when you’re a genius screenwriter? As for my being so positive, this is the only thing I know, but
I know it absolutely. Or I’m wrong.”
Claudia said, “You’re not wrong but you are a sadistic prick.”
Vail eyed her warily. “You’re gifted,” he said. “You have a great ear for movie dialogue, you’re expert in story line. You really understand movies. Why would you want to be a blacksmith instead of an automobile mechanic? You are a movie person, you are not a novelist.”
Claudia looked at him with wide-eyed wonder. “You don’t even know how insulting you are.”
“Sure I do,” Vail said. “But it’s for your own good.”
“I can’t believe you’re the same person who wrote your books,” she said venomously. “Nobody could believe you wrote them.”
At this Vail broke into a delighted cackle. “That’s true,” he said. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
All through the next week he was formal with her while they worked on the script. He assumed their friendship was over. Finally Claudia said to him, “Ernest, don’t be so stiff. I forgive you. I even believe you’re right. But why did you have to be so brutal? I even thought you were making one of those male power moves. You know, humiliate me then push me into bed. But I know you’re too dumb for that. For Christ’s sake, give a little sugar with your medicine.”
Vail shrugged. “I have only one thing going for me,” he said. “If I’m not honest about those things then I’m nothing. Also, I was brutal because I’m really very fond of you. You don’t know how rare you are.”
Claudia said smilingly, “Because of my talent, my wit, or my beauty?”
Vail waved his hand dismissively. “No, no,” he said. “Because you are blessed, a very happy person. No tragedy will ever bring you down. That is very rare.”
Claudia thought about it. “You know,” she said, “there’s something vaguely insulting about that. Does that mean I’m basically stupid?” She paused for a moment. “It’s considered more sensitive to be melancholy.”