Evening in Byzantium

by Irwin Shaw

  “The interview is closed, Miss McKinnon. I hope you enjoy your stay on the Côte d’Azur.”

  Still she didn’t move. “It can only do you good, Mr. Craig,” the girl said. “I can help you.”

  “What makes you think I need help?” Craig said.

  “In all these years you never came to Cannes for the Festival,” the girl said. “All the years you were turning out one picture after another. Now, when you haven’t had your name on a movie since 1965, you arrive, you install yourself in a big plush suite, you’re seen every day in the Hall, on the terrace, at the official parties. You want something this year. And whatever it is, a big splashy piece about you might just be the thing to help you get it.”

  “How do you know this is the first time I came for the Festival?”

  “I know a lot about you, Mr. Craig,” she said. “I’ve done my homework.”

  “You’re wasting your time, miss,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave. I have a busy day ahead of me.”

  “What are you going to do today?” Infuriatingly, she picked up a croissant and took a small bite out of it.

  “I am going to lie on the beach,” he said, “and listen to the waves roll in from Africa. There’s an example of the fascinating answers I’m likely to give you.”

  The girl sighed like a mother humoring a recalcitrant infant. “All right,” she said. “It’s against my principles, but I’ll let you read something.” She reached down into her bag and pulled out a batch of yellow paper covered with typescript. “Here,” she said, offering him the pages.

  He kept his hands behind his back.

  “Don’t be childish, Mr. Craig,” she said sharply. “Read it. It’s about you.”

  “I detest reading anything about myself.”

  “Don’t lie, Mr. Craig,” she said, impatient again.

  “You have a remarkable way of ingratiating yourself with potential interviewees, miss,” he said. But he took the pages and went over to the window where the light was better because he’d have had to put on his glasses to read in the shadowed room.

  “If I do it for Playboy,” the girl said, “what you have there will be in the form of an introduction, before the actual questions and answers begin.”

  At least, he thought, the girls in Playboy have their hair done before they present themselves.

  “Do you mind if I pour myself another cup of coffee?” she asked.

  “By all means.” He heard the china clink of the spout against the cup rim as he began to read.

  “To the general public,” he read, “the word ‘producer’ usually has pejorative connotations. The cliché about a movie producer is that he is likely to be a portly Jewish gentleman with a cigar in his mouth, a peculiar vocabulary, and a distasteful penchant for starlets. Or for that small group who have been influenced by F. Scott Fitzgerald’s romantic idealization of the late Irving Thalberg in his unfinished novel The Last Tycoon, he is a mysteriously gifted dark figure, a benevolent Svengali, half-magician, half-master politician, who strangely resembles F. Scott Fitzgerald himself in his more attractive moments.

  “The popular image of the theatrical producer is somewhat less colorful. He is less likely to be thought of as Jewish or fundamentally gross, although the admiration with which he is regarded is limited. If he is successful, he is envied as a lucky man who by chance one day picks up a script that happens to be lying on his desk, scrambles around for other people’s money to back the production, and then coasts happily forward to fame and fortune on the talents of artists whose work he most often tries to corrupt in an attempt to please the Broadway market.

  “Curiously enough, in a related field, that of the ballet, honor is given where honor is due. Diaghilev, who as far as is known never danced a step or choreographed a pas de deux or painted a décor, is recognized everywhere as a giant innovator of the modern ballet. While Goldwyn (Jewish, whip-thin, no cigar) and Zanuck (non-Jewish, with cigar, wiry) and Selznick (Jewish, portly, cigarettes) and Ponti (Italian, plump, no cigar) are not perhaps what magazines like Commentary and the Partisan Review call seminal figures in the art that they served, the films that they have produced and that plainly bear their individual marks have influenced the thinking and attitudes of populations all over the world and certainly prove that they came to their tasks equipped with something more than luck and money or an influential family devoted to nepotism.”

  Well, he thought grudgingly, you can’t fault her grammar. She’s been to school someplace. But he was still irritated by the offhand manner in which Gail McKinnon had broken into his morning. And irritated even more by her cool assumption that he would perform obediently. Craig would have liked to put the yellow pages down and order her from the room. But his vanity was aroused, and he wondered how she would place the name of Jesse Craig in her roster of heroes. He had to make an effort not to glance in her direction and examine her more closely. He read on.

  “In the American theatre,” he read, “the case is even clearer. In the 1920s Lawrence Langner and Terry Helburn, with their Theatre Guild, opened new horizons of drama, and as late as the 1940s, still functioning not as directors or writers but solely as producers, they transformed that most American of theatrical forms, the musical comedy, with Oklahoma. Clurman, Strasberg, and Crawford, the ruling trio of the Group Theater, while sometimes directors in their own right, made their chief contribution in their choice of controversial plays and the method of training actors in ensemble playing.”

  She wasn’t lying, Craig thought. She had done her homework. She wasn’t even born when any of this was going on. He looked up. “May I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two,” she said. “Does it make any difference?”

  “It always makes a difference,” he said. He read on with ungenerous respect. “More recent names are not hard to find, but there is no need to belabor the point. There was almost certainly someone, whatever he was called, who took on the task of assembling the talents for the festivals in which Aeschylus and Sophocles competed, and Burbage saw to it that the Globe Theatre was a running concern when Shakespeare brought in Hamlet for him to read.

  “In this long and honorable list we now come to Jesse Craig.”

  Brace yourself, he thought. This is where the brick drops.

  “In 1946,” he read, “Jesse Craig, then aged twenty-four, first commanded attention when he presented The Foot Soldier, still one of the few viable dramatic works about World War Two. Between 1946 and 1965 Craig produced 10 more plays and 12 movies, a high proportion of them both critical and commercial successes. Since 1965 no production bearing his name has been seen either on the stage or screen.”

  The phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, picking it up.

  “Craig speaking,” he said.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No.” He glanced guardedly at the girl. She slouched in her chair, absurd in the oversized sweat shirt.

  “Did you dream lascivious dreams of me all the terrible night?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “Brute. Are you having a good time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Double brute,” Constance said. “Are you alone?”

  “No.”

  “Ah.”

  “You know better than that.”

  “Anyway, you can’t talk at the moment?”

  “Not exactly. How is Paris?”

  “Sweltering. And the French as usual intolerable.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “The office.”

  He could picture her in her office—a small, cramped room on the rue Marbeuf, usually crowded with a dozen young men and women who looked as though they had rowed across the Atlantic instead of arriving on the freighters and steamships and aircraft for student tours that her business was to arrange for them. Anyone under the age of thirty, in whatever state, seemed to be welcome there, and it was onl
y when Constance got a whiff of marijuana that she would rise dramatically from the desk, point fiercely at the door, and clear the room.

  “Aren’t you afraid someone’s listening?” he asked.

  Constance was intermittently suspicious that her telephone was tapped—by the French tax people, by the American narcotics people, by ex-lovers highly placed in various embassies.

  “I’m not saying anything the French don’t know. They glory in being intolerable.”

  “How’re the kids?”

  “As usual. Well-balanced. One angelic. One devilish.”

  Constance had been married twice, once to an Italian, once to an Englishman. The boy was the result of the Italian and had been thrown out of four schools by the age of eleven.

  “Gianni was sent home again yesterday,” Constance said matter-of-factly. “He was organizing a gang-bang in his art class.”

  “Come on, Constance.” She was given to exaggeration.

  “Actually, I think he tried to throw a little girl with glasses out of the window. He says she was looking at him. Anyway, something perfectly normal. He can go back in two days. I think they’re going to give Philippa a copy of The Critique of Pure Reason as a term prize. They took her IQ, and they say she could be president of IBM.”

  “Tell her I’ll bring her a navy blue sailor’s jersey from here.”

  “Bring her a man to put inside it,” Constance said. She was certain that her children, like herself, were swamped in sexuality. Philippa was nine. To Craig the girl didn’t seem much different from his own daughters at that age. Except that she didn’t stand up when grownups came into the room and that she sometimes used words from her mother’s vocabulary that he would have preferred not to hear.

  “How’re things down there?” Constance asked.

  “Okay.”

  Gail McKinnon got up politely and went out to the balcony, but he was sure she could still hear what he was saying.

  “Oh,” Constance said, “I put in a good word for you last night with an old friend of yours.”

  “Thanks. Who was it?”

  “I had dinner with David Teichman. He always calls me when he comes through Paris.”

  “Along with ten thousand other people who always call you when they come through Paris.”

  “You wouldn’t want a girl to have dinner alone, would you?”

  “Never.”

  “Anyway, he’s a hundred years old. He’s coming down to Cannes. He says he’s thinking of starting a new company. I told him you might have something for him. He’s going to call you. Do you mind? At the worst, he’s harmless.”

  “He’d die if he heard you say that.” David Teichman had terrorized Hollywood for more than twenty years.

  “Well, I did my bit.” She sighed into the phone. “I had a bad morning. I woke up and reached out and said, ‘Damn him.’”

  “Why?”

  “Because you weren’t there. Do you miss me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sound as though you’re speaking from a police station.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Don’t hang up. I’m bored. Did you have bouillabaisse for dinner last night?”

  “No.”

  “Do you miss me?”

  “I’ve already answered that.”

  “That’s what a girl might call a very cool reply.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be.”

  “Do you wish I was there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Say my name.”

  “I’d rather not at the moment.”

  “When I hang up, I’m going to be prey to dark suspicions.”

  “Put your mind at rest.”

  “This call has been an almost total waste of money. I dread tomorrow morning.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to wake up and reach out and you won’t be there again.”

  “Don’t be gluttonous.”

  “I’m a gluttonous lady. Well, get whoever it is out of the room and call me back.”

  “Will do.”

  “Say my name.”

  “Pest.”

  There was a laugh at the other end of the wire. Then the click as Constance hung up.

  He put the phone down. The girl came back into the room. “I hope I didn’t cramp your style,” she said.

  “Not at all,” he said.

  “You look happier than before the call,” the girl said.

  “Do I? I wasn’t aware of it.”

  “Do you always answer the phone that way?”

  “What way?”

  “Craig speaking.”

  He thought for a moment. “I suppose so. Why?”

  “It sounds so—institutional,” the girl said. “Don’t your friends object?”

  “If they do,” he said, “they don’t tell me about it.”

  “I hate institutions,” she said. “If I had to work in an office, I’d—” She shrugged and sat down in the chair at the breakfast table. “How do you like what you’ve read so far?”

  “Early in my career I resolved never to make a judgment on unfinished work,” he said.

  “Do you still want to go on reading?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I’ll be still as the starry night.” She slumped in the chair, leaning back, crossing her legs. Her sandalled feet were actually clean, he noticed. He remembered how many times over the years he had ordered his daughters to sit up straight. They still didn’t sit up straight. The nonerect generation. He picked up the yellow pages that he had put down when he answered the telephone and began reading again.

  “At the time of this interview,” he read, “Craig received McK in the living room of his hundred-dollar-a-day suite in the Hotel Carlton, the pinkish gingerbread headquarters for the VIPs of the Cannes Film Festival. He is a tall, slim, slow-moving, bony man with thick graying hair worn long and carelessly brushed back from a forehead deeply ridged by wrinkles. His eyes are a cold pale gray, deeply set in their sockets. He is forty-eight now, and he looks it. His glance is hooded, the eyelids characteristically almost half-shut. One gets the impression of a sentinel scanning the field below him through an aperture in a fortress wall. His voice, from which not all traces of his native New York have disappeared, is slow and husky. His manner is old-fashioned, distant, polite. His style of dress, in this town of peacock adornment for men and women alike, is conservative. He might be a Harvard professor of literature on a summer holiday in Maine. He is not handsome. The lines of his face are too flat and hard for that and his mouth too thin and disciplined. In Cannes, where a number of the assembled notables had either worked for him or with him and where he was greeted warmly at every appearance, he seemed to have many acquaintances and no friends. On two of his first three evenings at the festival he dined alone. On each occasion he drank three martinis before and a full bottle of wine with his meal, with no noticeable effect.”

  Craig shook his head and put the yellow pages down on the bookcase near the window. There were still three or four that he hadn’t read.

  “What’s the matter?” the girl asked. She had been watching him closely. He had been conscious of her stare through the dark glasses and had carefully remained expressionless while he read. “You find a bubu?”

  “No,” he said. “I find the character unsympathetic.”

  “Read on,” the girl said. “He improves.” She stood up, slouching. “I’ll leave it with you. I know what a strain it is reading something with the author watching you.”

  “Better take this stuff with you.” Craig gestured toward the small pile of pages. “I am a notorious loser of manuscripts.”

  “Not to worry,” the girl said. “I have a carbon.”

  The phone rang again. He picked it up. “Craig speaking,” he said. Then he looked across at the girl and wished he hadn’t said it.

  “My boy,” the voice said.

  “Hello, Murph,” he said. “Where are you?”

  “London.”
r />   “How is it there?”

  “Expiring,” Murphy said. “Inside of six months they’ll be turning the studios into feeding lots for Black Angus bulls. How’s it down there?”

  “Cold and windy.”

  “It’s got to be better than here,” Murphy said. As usual, he spoke so loudly that everybody in the room could hear him. “We’re changing our plans. We’re flying down tonight instead of next week. We’re booked in at the Hotel du Cap. Can you have lunch with us tomorrow there?”

  “Of course.”

  “Perfect,” Murphy said. “Sonia says give him my love.”

  “Give her my love,” Craig said.

  “Don’t tell anyone I’m coming,” Murphy said. “I want a few days rest. I don’t want to have to run into Cannes to talk to spitballing Italians three times a day.”

  “Your secret is safe with me,” Craig said.

  “I’ll call the hotel,” Murphy said, “and tell them to put the wine on ice.”

  “I was thinking of going on the wagon today,” Craig said.

  “Not on my time, my boy,” Murphy said. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” Craig said, and hung up.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing,” the girl said. “That was your agent, wasn’t it? Bryan Murphy?”

  “How do you know so much?” Craig asked. His tone was sharper than he intended it to be.

  “Everybody knows who Bryan Murphy is,” the girl said. “Do you think he’d talk to me?”

  “You’ll have to ask him yourself, Miss,” Craig said. “I’m not his agent, he’s mine.”

  “I imagine he will. He’s talked to everybody else,” she said. “Anyway, there’s no rush. We’ll see how things work out. It’d be nice if I could listen in on you two talking for an hour or two. In fact, the best way to do the whole job,” she went on, “would be to let me hang around with you for a few days. An admiring silent presence. You can introduce me as your niece or your secretary or your mistress. I’d put on a dress. I have a wonderful memory, and I won’t embarrass you by taking notes. I’ll just watch and listen.”

  “Please don’t be so insistent, Miss McKinnon,” Craig said. “I had a bad night.”

  “All right, I won’t bother you anymore this morning,” she said. “I’ll just flee and let you read the rest of what I wrote about you and let you think it over.” She slung her bag over her shoulder. Her movements were brusque, not girlish. She was not slouching now. “I’ll be around. Everywhere. Wherever you turn, you’ll see Gail McKinnon. Thanks for the coffee. Don’t bother to see me out.”