by Irwin Shaw
“That’s loyal,” she said. “Will you add San Francisco? They tell me there are some good restaurants.”
“So I hear,” he said. “I’ll be there. From time to time.”
“From time to time,” she said. “A girl can’t ask for everything, can she?”
He didn’t answer her. “Foundations keep shifting,” he said.
Then, much later, she said, “I don’t pretend I’m wildly pleased by what you told me tonight. But I’m no child, and neither are you. You didn’t expect me to make a scene, or throw myself out the window, or anything like that, did you?”
“No, of course not.”
“As I said, I’m not wildly pleased,” she said. “But I am wildly pleased about a lot of other things about us. Will you do me a favor?”
“Of course.”
“Say, I love you.”
“I love you,” he said.
She stubbed out the cigarette, took off the robe, dropping it onto the floor, and got into the bed beside him, her head on his chest. “And that’s enough talk for tonight. I’m not in a chatty mood anymore.”
“I love you,” he whispered into her tumbled hair.
They slept late and woke to sunlight and birds singing. Constance called Marseilles, but the money from St. Louis hadn’t arrived yet for her Youth, and the narcotics man would not be in until tomorrow. They decided to stay in Meyrague another day, and he didn’t call Cannes to let anyone know where he was. The day was going to be only theirs.
Then, the next morning, the money still hadn’t come, and it was too nice to leave, and they stayed another twenty-four hours.
When he left her at the hotel in Marseilles the next morning, he told her he would take her to lunch in Paris on Monday. It looked, she said, as if she had a good chance to spring the Youth by nightfall. If she failed, she’d go back to Paris, anyway, and leave him to his fate. She had spent enough time in the south, she said. She was a working woman.
“DAMN it, Jesse,” Klein was saying loudly over the phone, “I tried to get you ten times. Where are you now?”
“Cassis,” Craig said. He had stopped off for lunch on the way back from Marseilles. He was calling from a restaurant on the harbor. The harbor was blue and toylike. The season hadn’t begun yet, and there was a sleepy, tranced look about it, the boats all closed up under their winter canvas and everybody away for lunch.
“Cassis,” Klein said. “Just when you need people, they’re in Cassis. Where the hell is Cassis?”
“In between,” Craig said. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“I think I have a deal for you. That’s what I want to talk to you about. When can you get here?”
“Three, four hours.”
“I’ll be here,” Klein said. “I won’t move all afternoon.”
“Will you do me a favor?” Craig said.
“What?”
“Will you call Murphy for me and ask him to be at your place at five o’clock, too?” He could sense Klein’s hesitation at the other end of the line, an intake of breath, an almost-cough.
“What do you want Murphy here for?” Klein asked.
“I want to spare his feelings as much as possible,” Craig said.
“That’s a new one, a client wanting to spare an agent’s feelings,” Klein said. “I wish I had some like that.”
“I’m not sparing an agent’s feelings,” Craig said. “I’m sparing a friend’s feelings.”
“Murphy’s read the script, of course,” Klein said.
“Of course.”
“And he said he didn’t want to handle it.”
“Yes.”
“Well,” Klein said reluctantly, “if you insist.”
“I think it would be better all round,” Craig said. “But if you don’t want to do business with someone looking over your shoulder …”
“Hell,” Klein said, “I’ll do business with the Pope looking over my shoulder. I’ll call Murphy.”
“That’s a good fellow.”
“That’s me,” Klein said. “Despite all rumors to the contrary.”
“I’ll be there at five,” Craig said. He hung up. While it was a fact that he was asking for Murphy out of affection for his old friend, he also wanted him in on the beginning of the talks about the deal. He knew that he himself was a poor dealer for himself, loath to press for advantage, and Murphy had always protected him in all the contracts he had signed. And this contract promised to be a complicated one. It was true that he had written The Three Horizons for other reasons than the money he might eventually make out of it, but he had been around the movies long enough to know that the more money you were paid, the easier it was to get your way in other matters. While the old formula, Money versus Art, often held, he had found that in the movie business, in his case, the formula, Money multiplies Art, was likely to be the more valid one.
Craig went out and sat at a table overlooking the harbor. He was the only customer. It was restful, being the only customer, looking out at the sunny little blue body of water, thinking of lunch and Klein not moving for an entire afternoon. He ordered a pastis in honor of the fishermen and vintners of Cassis and leisurely examined the menu.
He ordered a dorade and a bottle of white wine and sipped at his pastis. The liquorice taste made the Mediterranean richer for him, brought back the memory of a hundred lazy afternoons. The time with Constance had been good for him. He thought of her fondly. He knew that if he ever used the word in her presence, she would be enraged. No matter. It was a fair enough word. People were not fond enough of each other. They said they loved each other, but what they meant was that they wanted to use each other, patrol each other, dominate each other, devour each other, destroy each other, weep for each other. Constance and he enjoyed each other, at least most of the time, and fond was as good a word as any for that. He postponed thinking of San Francisco.
He had said, “I love you,” to Constance, and he had said, “I love you,” to Gail McKinnon, and he had meant it both times, and perhaps he meant it simultaneously. In the sunlight, alone over a milky cold southern drink, it seemed easily possible.
He also did not deny to himself that it was pleasant to sit idly by the side of a deserted harbor and know that a man as involved in important affairs as Walter Klein had called him ten times the day before and was even now waiting impatiently for his arrival. He had thought that he had given all that up, but he realized now, with some satisfaction, that he was not immune to the joys of power.
Well, he thought, with everything that has happened, it wasn’t a bad idea coming down to Cannes after all. He hoped that when he arrived in Cannes that evening he would discover that Gail McKinnon had left town.
When he reached Klein’s house just a little after five, he saw a car with a chauffeur parked in the courtyard and knew that Murphy was already there. Murphy didn’t like to drive himself. He had been in three accidents and had, as he put it, gotten the message.
Murphy and Klein were sitting by the side of the heated swimming pool, Murphy drinking. The last time Craig had been there, the night of the party, it had been Sidney Green, the director who had been hailed by Cahiers du Cinéma and who couldn’t get a job, who had come out of the bushes to greet him after pissing on the expensive green grass of Walter Klein. For losers only, Craig remembered thinking. Today he didn’t feel like a winner, but he didn’t feel like a loser, either.
“Hi, boys,” Craig said as he came up to the side of the pool. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.” He sat down quickly so that they wouldn’t have to decide whether or not to stand up to greet him.
“I just got here,” Murphy said. “A half ounce of Scotch ago.”
“I explained a little of the situation over the phone to Murph,” Klein said.
“Well,” Murphy said gruffly, “if there’s somebody damn fool enough to put up a million bucks for that script on today’s market, more power to him.”
“Where did you get that amount?” Craig asked. “
A million dollars?”
“That’s what I figure it’ll cost to make,” Murphy said. “Minimum.”
“I haven’t discussed money yet with anyone,” Klein said. “It’s all according how you want to make it and with whom.”
“You told me a director had read it,” Craig said to Klein. “Which director?”
“Bruce Thomas,” Klein said. He looked quickly from one to the other of the two men, enjoying his moment of triumph.
“If Bruce Thomas wants to make it,” Murphy said, “you can get all the money you need.” He shook his head. “I would never have guessed Thomas. Why he would want to do something like this. He’s never done anything like this before.”
“That’s exactly why,” Klein said. “That’s what he told me. Now,” Klein said to Craig, “Thomas agrees with me, the script needs a lot of rewriting. What do you think, Murph?”
“Yeah. A lot,” Murphy said.
“And Thomas would like to bring in another writer,” Klein said. “To work on it alone, preferably, or if there’s a hitch, to work with this fellow Harte. Just what sort of deal do you have with Harte, Jesse?”
Craig hesitated. “No deal,” he said.
Murphy made a startled noise. “What do you mean by no deal?” Klein asked. “Do you own the script or don’t you?”
“I own it, all right,” Craig said.
“So?” Klein asked.
“I wrote it,” Craig said, “with my own little old fountain pen. There is no Malcolm Harte. I just picked a name at random and put it on the script.”
“What the hell did you do that for?” Murphy said angrily.
“It’s too complicated to go into now. Anyway, there we are,” Craig said. “Let’s move on from there.”
“Thomas is going to be surprised when he hears,” Klein said.
“If he likes the script with the name Malcolm Harte on it,” Murphy said, “he’s going to like it with the name Craig on it.”
“I suppose so,” Klein said doubtfully. “But it’s bound to change his thinking somewhat.”
“How?” Murphy asked.
“I don’t know how, but somehow,” Klein said.
“Where is Thomas?” Craig asked. “Why don’t we call him up and have him come over?”
“He had to leave for New York this morning,” Klein said. “That’s why I was calling you so frantically. God, I hate it when people drop out of sight.”
“You’re lucky,” Murphy said. “You only lost him for one day. I sometimes lose him for three months at a time.”
“Well,” Klein said, “I might as well give you the whole thing. First, as I said, he wants another writer. Now, hold your hats, boys. The man he wants is Ian Wadleigh.”
“Oh, shit,” Murphy said.
Craig laughed.
“You laugh,” Murphy said angrily. “Do you see yourself working with Ian Wadleigh?”
“Maybe,” Craig said. “Probably not. What made Thomas pick on Wadleigh, of all people?”
“I asked him that myself,” Klein said. “He just happened to see Wadleigh around, you know how it is down here. He talked to the guy by accident once or twice, and Wadleigh gave him a copy of his last book. I guess he couldn’t sleep one night, and he picked it up and looked through it, and something caught him.”
“Wadleigh’s last book!” Murphy snorted. “It got the worst reviews since Hiawatha.”
“You know Thomas,” Klein said. “He doesn’t read reviews. Not even his own.”
“The perfect reader,” Craig murmured.
“What did you say?” Klein asked.
“Nothing.”
“Well, anyway,” Klein said, “Thomas thinks Wadleigh’s just the man to bring out the feeling he’s looking for in the script. Whatever that means. Don’t blame me, Jesse. I had nothing to do with it. It wouldn’t occur to me in a million years to read a book by Ian Wadleigh. You know my position—my client wants him—I try to get him. How the hell was I to know that you’re Malcolm Harte?”
“I understand,” Craig said. “I don’t blame you.”
“The question is, What am I going to tell Thomas? Will you talk to Wadleigh at least? Let him read the script and see what his ideas are?”
“Sure,” Craig said. “I have no objections to talking to him.” While Klein had been talking, the idea of collaboration with Wadleigh had begun to seem attractive. The uncertainty that had made him put a nom de plume on the title page of the script had not been dispelled by Thomas’s approval. The thought of sharing final responsibility was not unwelcome. And Wadleigh’s talent, however tarnished, was a real one. Finally, he knew, there almost never was a screenplay that was completely the work of one pair of hands. “I don’t promise anything,” Craig said, “but I’ll talk to him.”
“There’s another thing,” Klein said. Now he looked embarrassed. “There’s no sense in not putting it all on the table right from the beginning. You know, Thomas has produced his last two pictures himself. He doesn’t need another producer and …”
“If he wants to do this picture,” Craig said crisply, “he needs another producer. And that producer is me.”
“Murph …” Klein looked appealingly to Murphy.
“You heard what the man said,” Murphy said.
“Okay,” Klein said. “There’s nothing I can do about it, one way or another. I think the best thing we all can do is get on a plane to New York and talk it out with Thomas. And take Ian Wadleigh along with us and see if we can fit all the pieces together.”
Murphy shook his head. “I’m due in Rome next week and London the week after that. Tell Thomas to wait.”
“You know Thomas,” Klein said. “He won’t wait. He’s got another commitment starting in January, and everybody’ll have to work day and night to get this one in the can before then. One of the things he likes about your script, Jesse, is that it’s easy to do and he can fit it in.”
“Jess?” Murphy said. “You’re really the one who has to do the talking. I can come in later.”
“I don’t know,” Craig said. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“I’m going to call Thomas tonight,” Klein said. “What should I tell him?”
“Tell him I’m thinking about it,” Craig said.
“He’ll love that,” Klein said sourly. He stood up. “Anybody want a drink?”
“No, thanks.” Craig stood up, too. “I have to get back to Cannes. I appreciate what you’ve done so far, Walt.”
“Just out to turn an honest dollar for me and my friends,” Klein said. “I don’t know why the fuck you didn’t use your own name.”
“I’ll tell you some day,” Craig said. “Murph, why don’t you drive with me to Cannes? Tell your chauffeur to pick you up at the Carlton.”
“Yeah.” Murphy looked strangely subdued.
Klein walked out with them to the courtyard. They all shook hands ceremonially, and then there was the ringing of the telephone from inside the house, and Klein hurried in as Craig and Murphy drove off, the chauffeur following in Murphy’s Mercedes.
Murphy was silent for a long time, staring out at the wild green countryside, the trees throwing long shadows in the evening light. Craig didn’t speak, either. He knew that Murphy was troubled and was preparing himself for the conversation that had to take place.
“Jess,” Murphy said finally, his voice low. “I want to apologize.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for.”
“I’m a horse’s ass,” Murphy said. “An old horse’s ass.”
“Cut that,” Craig said.
“I’ve lost my touch. I’m just no good any more.”
“Oh, come on, Murph. Everybody makes mistakes. I could tell you about some of mine.” He thought of Edward Brenner in the empty theatre on the night after the final performance of Brenner’s last and best play.
Murphy shook his head sadly. “I had that script in my hand, and I told you to forget it, and that little punk Klein got you the hottest director in the bus
iness for it with one telephone call. What the hell do you need me for?”
“I need you,” Craig said. “Is that clear enough? I should have told you I wrote it myself.”
“That makes no difference,” Murphy said. “Even though it was a crappy thing to do to me. After all these years.”
“I have my own problems,” Craig said. “You know some of them.”
“Yeah,” Murphy said. “There’s one big problem I could have helped you with—should have helped you with—a long time ago … And I didn’t.”
“What’s that?”
“Your goddamn wife.”
“What could you have done?”
“I could have warned you. I knew what was happening.”
“So did I,” Craig said. “In general. And late in the game. But I knew.”
“Did you ever figure out why she did it?” Murphy asked. “I mean, she wasn’t a nymphomaniac or anything like that. It wasn’t as though she couldn’t control herself. She isn’t one of those women who throw themselves in bed with the boy who delivers the groceries, for Christ’s sake.”
“No, she isn’t.”
“Has it ever occurred to you how she made her choices?”
“Not really.”
“If this is painful to you, Jess, I’ll shut up.”
“It’s painful,” Craig said, “and don’t shut up.”
“She always picked your friends,” Murphy said, “people who admired you, people you worked with, people you admired.”
“I can’t say that I’m wild with admiration for her last choice,” Craig said.
“Even him,” Murphy insisted. “He’s a successful man, successful at something that you’re lousy at, that you’re ashamed you’re lousy at. You went to him for advice. You trusted him with your money. Do you see what I mean?”
“In a way,” Craig said, “yes.”
“And all these people always wanted to see you, listen to you, you were the center of attraction. She was always in the background. There was one way she could stop being in the background. And she took it.”
“And she took it.” Craig nodded.
“I saw it a long time ago,” Murphy said. “So did Sonia. And while there was still time to do something about it, I kept my mouth shut, I left you with your problem. And how do I make up for it?” He shook his head mournfully again. “I become another one of your problems.” He looked tired, somehow diminished, sitting in the small car, his bulk slack in the flimsy bucket seat, his voice weary, his face sorrowful in the moving shadows from the trees that lined the road.