Evening in Byzantium

by Irwin Shaw

  “Take me into another room, Jesse,” she was saying, stretching her hand out in greeting. “The biggest bore in the world will be back with a drink for me any minute now.” She spoke English so well that anybody hearing her without knowing that she had been born in Hungary would only get a little echo of an unidentifiable accent. She spoke German, French, and Italian equally well. She looked no older than when he had seen her last. They had parted more or less by accident, without recriminations. She had had two pictures to do in England. He had had to go back to America. He hadn’t seen either of the pictures she had made in England. He heard that she had taken up with a Spanish count. As far as he knew, he and Natalie had never given each other anything but pleasure. Perhaps that was why they had parted so easily. She had never said she loved him. It was another aspect of her character he admired.

  She held his hand as they wove through the other guests toward the library. She had a large diamond ring on her finger. When he had known her, she was pawning jewelry, and he had loaned her money.

  “As usual,” he said, “you’re shining tonight.”

  “If I had known that Lucienne Dullin was going to be here,” she said, “I would never have come. Anyone who looks like that should be forced to wear a sack over her head when she comes to parties with older women.”

  “Never fear,” he said. “You’re defending yourself very well.”

  They sat down side by side on a leather couch. They were the only ones in the room, and the noise of the party, the music and the conversation, was pleasantly subdued here.

  “Give me a sip of your champagne,” she said.

  He handed her his glass, and she drank all of the wine. She had avid appetites, he remembered.

  She put the glass down. “You didn’t answer my call,” she said reproachfully.

  “I got in late.”

  “I wanted to talk to you,” she said. “And the other night there were too many people around. How are you?”

  “Alive,” he said.

  “There’s no news of you. I have asked.”

  “I’ve been vegetating.”

  “That isn’t like the Jesse Craig I knew.”

  “Everybody’s too active. If we’d just stand still six months a year, we’d all be much better off. I stepped off the merry-go-round for a while. That’s all.”

  “When I think of you,” she said, “I worry for you.”

  “Do you think of me often?”

  “No.” She laughed. She had small, very white teeth and a little pink tongue. “Only at obscene moments.” In bed, he remembered, just before she came, she often said, “Fock me, fock me.” He had found the mispronunciation endearing. She squeezed his hand affectionately. “How long has it been—five years?”

  “More like six or seven.”

  “Ach,” she said, “don’t remind me. Are you still as bad as ever?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I saw you talking to that beautiful young girl. Hanging all over you.”

  “She’s a reporter.”

  “A woman isn’t safe anymore,” Natalie said. “Even reporters now look like that.”

  “It would be unseemly,” he said. Natalie’s teasing made him uncomfortable. “She’s young enough to be my daughter. How about you? Where’s your husband?”

  “He’s not my husband yet. I’m still struggling to land him.”

  “The other night you told me you were getting married.”

  “I will believe it when he puts the ring on my finger,” Natalie said. “Then no more getting up at five in the morning to get my hair done and my face made up. No more being treated like a beast by temperamental directors. No more having to be nice to producers.”

  “I was a producer,” he said, “and you were nice to me.”

  “Not because you were a producer, darling.” She squeezed his hand again.

  “Anyway, where is the husband-designate? If I were going to marry you, I wouldn’t let you roam loose in a place like this just before the wedding.”

  “Only you weren’t going to marry me, were you?” For the first time her tone was serious.

  “I guess not,” he said.

  “Like a lot of other people,” she said. She sighed. “Oh, well, little Natalie has had her fun. Now it’s the time for proper behavior. Or should we be wicked and slip off and find out if they still have that room over the sea in Beaulieu?”

  “I’ve never been to Beaulieu,” Craig said, straight-faced.

  “What a coincidence,” she said. “Neither have I. Anyway, it would hardly be worth it. He’s arriving tomorrow.”

  “Who’s arriving tomorrow?”

  “The husband-designate,” she said. “Philip. He was supposed to come with me, but at the last minute he had to stay in New York.”

  “Oh, he’s American.”

  “People tell me they make the best husbands.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Craig said. “What does he do?”

  “He makes money. Isn’t that charming?”

  “Charming. How does he make money?”

  “He manufactures things.”

  “How old is he?”

  She hesitated, and the tip of her tongue showed between her lips. He recognized the signs. “Don’t lie,” he said.

  She laughed. “Clever man. As always. Let’s say he’s older than you.”

  “How much older?”

  “Considerably older.” She spoke in a low voice. “He doesn’t know anything about you.”

  “I should hope not. We didn’t exactly publish advertisements in the papers.” They had had to be discreet. She had had an official lover at the time who was paying some of her bills, and he was still trying to avoid scenes of jealousy with his wife. “And what if he did know about me?” he asked. “He doesn’t think he’s marrying a virgin, does he?”

  “No, not exactly.” Her smile was a little sad. “But he doesn’t know the full extent.” She made a wry, childish little grimace. “Not by half. Not by a quarter.”

  “Who does know the full extent?”

  “I hope nobody,” she said.

  “Just for the record,” Craig said, “in the next room there—how many?”

  Natalie made a small grimace. “Would you settle for five?”

  He grinned and shook his head.

  “Six, then,” she said. “What do you expect—your little Natalie’s been around a long time. And being in the movies is a little like being on an island with the same group of castaways for years and years. A lady is liable to go to and fro—to and fro. A gentleman, too, my friend.” She touched Craig’s lips lightly with the tip of her finger.

  “Nolo contendere,” Craig said.

  Natalie laughed, little white teeth. “Isn’t it nice,” she said, “I hardly ever had to lie to you.”

  “And to your husband-to-be?”

  She laughed again. “I hardly ever have to tell him the truth.” She grew serious. “He’s a solid citizen. Very conservative. A Baptist from Texas. He’s so puritanical he hasn’t even slept with me yet.”

  “God,” Craig said.

  “That’s it,” she said. “God. When he gets here, I’ll have to pretend I barely know you. If we meet, don’t be surprised if I call you Mr. Craig. If he heard that I was the sort of lady who was known to go off on weekends with married men, there’s no telling what he’d do.”

  “What’s the worst he could do?”

  “He could not marry me. You will be careful, won’t you, Jesse?” There was a pleading note in her voice that he had never heard before. It occurred to him that she was actually past forty.

  “If he hears anything,” Craig said, “it won’t be from me. But I advise you to get him out of Cannes as quickly as possible.”

  “He’s only going to stay a few days,” she said. “Then we’re flying to Venice.”

  “Haven’t you and I ever been to Venice together?”

  “Don’t you remember?”

  “No.”

 
“Then we haven’t been to Venice,” she said. She looked up and smiled. The man she had been talking to in the salon was standing at the door of the library, two glasses in his hands.

  “Oh, there you are,” the man said. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Craig stood up, and Natalie mumbled both their names. Craig didn’t recognize the man’s name. He had a small, anxious, easily forgettable face. Arbitrarily, Craig decided that he worked on the distribution end for one of the major companies. The man gave Natalie her glass and shook Craig’s hand gravely.

  “Well,” Craig said, “I’ll leave you two kids alone. You’ve reminded me I’m thirsty.” He touched Natalie’s shoulder reassuringly and went out of the library and back to the bar, avoiding Ian Wadleigh en route.

  In the dining room, where a buffet had been set up, Craig glimpsed Gail McKinnon and Reynolds waiting to be served.

  Murray Sloan was standing at the bar, chubby and dapper, staring out at the guests. He was smiling pleasantly, but his eyes were like small, dark computers. “Hi, Jesse,” he said. “Join the working press in a free drink.”

  “Hello, Murray,” Craig said, and asked for a glass of champagne.

  “This isn’t your scene anymore, is it, Jesse?” Sloan said. He was munching contentedly on a small cucumber sandwich that he had lifted from a tray or hors d’oeuvres.

  “It’s hard to know just what scene this is,” Craig said. “The Tower of Babel, the entrance to the Ark, a Mafia meeting, or a prom at a girl’s school.”

  “I’ll tell you what the scene is,” Sloan said. “It’s the ball at Versailles at the court of Louis the Sixteenth, July thirteenth, 1789, the night before the storming of the Bastille.”

  Craig chuckled.

  “You can laugh,” Sloan said. “But mark my words. Did you see that picture Ice they showed in the Director’s Quinzaine?”

  “Yes,” Craig said. The picture had been made by a group of young revolutionaries and was a deadly serious work about the beginning of armed revolt in New York City in the immediate future. It had some chilling scenes of castrations, murders of public officials, street fighting, and bombings, all portrayed in a flat cinéma vérité style that made it very disturbing.

  “What did you think of it?” Sloan asked, challengingly.

  “It’s hard for a man like me to know if it has any validity or not,” Craig said. “I don’t know kids like that. It might just be a put-on.”

  “It’s no put-on,” Sloan said. “It’s what’s going to happen in America. Soon.” He waved his arm to indicate the crowd of his fellow guests. “And all these fat cats are going to be in the tumbrels.”

  “And where will you be, Murray?” Craig asked.

  “In the tumbrels with them,” Sloan said gloomily. “Those kids aren’t going to make any fine distinctions.”

  Walter Klein wandered over to the bar. “Hi, boys,” he said. “Having a good time?”

  Craig allowed Sloan to answer the question. “Loving every minute of it, Walt,” Sloan said, observing the ritual.

  “How about you, Jesse?” Klein asked.

  “Every minute,” Craig said.

  “It’s not a bad little do,” Klein said complacently. “A nice mixture of beauty, talent, and larceny.” He laughed. “Look at those two over there.” He indicated Hennessy and Thomas, who were talking earnestly near the fire-place. “Bathing in it. On the crest of the wave,” he said. “Nice work if you can get it. They’re both clients.”

  “Naturally,” Craig said. He took another glass of champagne from the waiter behind the bar.

  “Come on over and say a word to the two geniuses,” Klein said. It was his abiding rule to introduce everybody to everybody else. As he told his lieutenants, you never know where the lightning will strike. “You, too, Murray.”

  “I’ll keep the duty here at the bar,” Sloan said.

  “Don’t you want to meet them?” Klein asked, surprised.

  “No,” Sloan said. “I’m going to pan their pictures, and I don’t want to be swayed by any false feeling of friendship.”

  “Have you seen their pictures?” Klein asked.

  “No,” Sloan said. “But I know their work.”

  “Lo and behold,” Klein said mockingly, “an honest man. Come on, Jess.” He took Craig’s arm and led him toward the fireplace.

  Craig shook Hennessy’s hand and apologized to Thomas for not having called him back. Thomas was a slim, gentle-looking man who had a reputation for being unbendingly stubborn on the set.

  “What’re you two doing?” Klein demanded. “Comparing your grosses?”

  “We’re crying in our beer,” Hennessy said.

  “What about?” Klein asked.

  “The corruption of the lower classes,” Hennessy said. “And how difficult it is to remain pure in an impure world.”

  “Hennessy’s new to the game,” Thomas said.

  “He can’t get over the fact that he had to bribe a sheriff and his deputy when he was shooting in a town in Texas.”

  “I don’t mind a bit of reaming per se,” Hennessy said. “But I like it to be a little subtle. At least pay lip service to the notion that the bribery of public officials is somewhat distasteful. But these guys just sat there in my motel room drinking my whisky and saying, ‘It’s three thousand for each of us or don’t bother to take the cover off your camera.’” He shook his head mournfully. “And no nonsense like don’t you think a big rich company like yours could make a little contribution to the Policemen’s Benevolent Fund, or anything like that. Just put the money on the bed, mister. It’s tough on a boy who used to be first in his class at Sunday school to shell out six thousand dollars in cash to a couple of cops in a motel room and put it into the budget as incidental expenses.”

  “You got off cheap,” Klein said. He was a practical, empirical man. “Don’t complain.”

  “Then, after that,” Hennessy said, “they had the nerve to bust the leading man for smoking pot, and there went another two thousand to get him off. What this country needs, like the vice-president says, is law and order.”

  “You’re in France now,” Klein said. “Remember?”

  “I’m in the movie business,” Hennessy said, “wherever I am. And the thing that drives me crazy in the goddamn business is all the dough that flows out that you never see on the screen.”

  “Easy come, easy go,” Klein said. A man who had recently received a check for three and a half million dollars could talk like that.

  “I’m teaching a seminar at UCLA next year in the art of the cinema,” Hennessy said. He drawled out cinema mockingly. “All this will be in my first lecture. Hey, Craig, how’d you like to be my guest one or two hours and tell the kids how it is in the glamorous world of celluloid?”

  “I might discourage them for life,” Craig said.

  “Great,” Hennessy said. “Anything to keep the competition down. I mean it, though. Seriously. You could really tell them a thing or two.”

  “If I’m not busy,” Craig said carefully, “and I happen to be in the States, maybe …”

  “Where can I reach you?” Hennessy said.

  “Through me,” Klein said quickly. “Jess and I’ve been talking about the possibility of his getting back into production one of these days, and I’ll know where I can get hold of him.”

  Klein wasn’t exactly lying, Craig thought. He was just shaping the truth to his and perhaps Craig’s benefit.

  The two directors had glanced sharply at Craig as Klein spoke. Now Thomas said, “What’s the property, Jesse? Or don’t you want to say?”

  “I’d rather not say for the moment. It’s still all in the dreaming stage.” Murphy’s dreams, he thought.

  There was a small commotion at the doorway, and Frank Garland came in with his wife and another couple. Garland was an actor who had starred in one of Craig’s early movies. He was several years older than Craig but looked no more than thirty-five, dark-haired, athletically tall, strong-jawed, and han
dsome. He was a very good actor and an imaginative businessman and had his own company that produced not only his own films but the films of others. He was a bouncingly healthy, jovial, extroverted man with a pretty wife to whom he had been married for more than twenty years. He had been superb in Craig’s picture, and they were good friends, but tonight Craig didn’t want to be exposed to that glorious health, that sensible intelligence, that flawless luck, that unfaked and all-embracing cordiality.

  “See you boys later,” he said to Klein and the two directors. “I need a breath of air.” He went out to the patio and down the wet grass of the garden toward the illuminated swimming pool. The band was playing, “On a Clear Day You Can See Forever.”

  Craig looked down at the bright water. The pool was heated, and a slight mist was rising from the surface. Orgies in the swimming pools, he remembered. Not tonight, Nicole.

  “Hi, Jesse,” a voice said.

  Craig looked up. A man was advancing from the shadows of the shrubbery near the end of the pool. As he came closer, Craig recognized him. It was Sidney Green. The thought occurred to Craig that Green had been driven into the solitude of the cold, wet garden for some of the same reasons as himself. Losers outside, please. Ian Wadleigh would soon appear.

  “Hello, Sid,” Craig said. “What are you doing out here?”

  “It got too rich for my blood in there.” Green had a mournful, soft voice, the voice of a man who expects to be treated badly at all times. “I came out and pissed on the expensive green grass of Walter Klein. A man takes what satisfactions he can find in this world.” He laughed apologetically, breathily. “You won’t tell Walt, will you? I don’t want to seem ungrateful. It was nice of him to invite me. With all those people in that room. There’s a lot of power in that room tonight, a lot of clout.” Green shook his head slowly to emphasize his respect for the potency of the company assembled by Walt Klein that night. “I tell you, Jesse,” he went on, “there are men in there who could get a ten-million-dollar production started tomorrow morning just by crooking a finger. They look like me, maybe even worse than me, they’re wearing the same kind of tuxedo, maybe we even had our suits made by the same tailor, but God, what a difference. How about you, Jesse? People’ve been talking about you, wondering what you’re doing here. The guess is you’ve got a picture ready to go and you’re here to make a deal.”