Writers

by Barry Gifford

  TRAVEN/CROVES

  Señor Traven has read your screenplay and is quite satisfied that you have made a proper understanding of his novel. He is experienced in these matters, having written several screenplays for films made here in Mexico. As I make clear, it is Señor Traven’s request that anything you wish to tell him you will tell me.

  HUSTON finishes off his drink, then pours himself another.

  HUSTON

  Sure you won’t have a shot Mr. Croves? This is top-notch tequila, from Guerrero.

  TRAVEN/CROVES waves his hand dismissively.

  TRAVEN/CROVES

  I don’t wish to appear impolite or ungrateful, Mr. Huston, but I must decline this aspect of your hospitality.

  HUSTON

  I like a man who drinks with me. It’s a good way to get to know him.

  TRAVEN/CROVES

  I have no reason to doubt that you are well-acquainted with many men who share your opinion.

  HUSTON

  Women, too. The trouble with women is that the better they hold their liquor, the better they lie.

  TRAVEN/CROVES

  Down.

  HUSTON

  What’s that?

  TRAVEN/CROVES

  Down. They lie down. Is that what you mean, Mr. Huston?

  HUSTON laughs.

  HUSTON

  You’re clever, Croves. Is Traven as clever as you?

  TRAVEN/CROVES

  Señor Traven is a humanitarian. His desire is through his books to reveal the ultimate futility of greed and avarice so that the unnecessary suffering caused by exploitation of the common man shall be eradicated.

  HUSTON

  Are you sure you won’t imbibe, Mr. Croves? It makes the Wobbly credo go down better.

  TRAVEN/CROVES shakes his head no.

  HUSTON

  Let’s talk about Treasure. The way I see it, it’s Howard, the old man, who’s at the center of things. He wants to get rich but he’s not greedy, nor is Curtin, though Curtin can be manipulated. Dobbs lacks character and the confidence that goes along with it, so he’s dangerous. Traven means Howard to keep the peace but only to a point. He’s seen enough to know that sometimes the only resolution to a sticky situation comes out of the barrel of a gun, like Goering said about culture. Either that, or to skedaddle while the skedaddling’s good.

  TRAVEN/CROVES

  You make no attempt to disguise your cynicism, Mr. Huston. I like that. And the precise words of Herr Goering, I believe, were, “When I hear the word culture, I reach for my Luger.”

  HUSTON

  Call me, John, please. My father—who, by the way, has agreed to play the role of old Howard, without his false teeth—told me when I was a boy that it was impolite when in civilized company for a man to wear a hat indoors.

  TRAVEN/CROVES

  Ah, my pith helmet annoys you, does it?

  HUSTON

  The helmet doesn’t annoy me, only your keeping it on while we talk.

  TRAVEN/CROVES takes off the pith helmet and places it down on a chair next to his.

  HUSTON

  Traven’s a German, I understand.

  TRAVEN/CROVES

  He was born in Chicago and is of Norwegian parentage. He has been living in Mexico for many years.

  HUSTON

  Why?

  TRAVEN/CROVES

  Have you ever been in Chicago, Mr. Huston?

  HUSTON

  I have.

  TRAVEN/CROVES

  Then you know that it gets extremely cold there. Señor Traven prefers the climate in Mexico.

  HUSTON

  And you, Croves. You speak English with a German accent.

  TRAVEN/CROVES

  My parents were from a part of Poland that was taken over during the war. They were ethnic Teutons who spoke German in our house. German was my first language.

  HUSTON

  How did you and Traven become acquainted?

  TRAVEN/CROVES

  Quite by chance. But this is not the point of our meeting, Mr. Huston. Señor Traven wishes me to be present as an advisor during the filming. I believe this is stipulated in his contract with the Warner brothers. When are you scheduled to begin?

  HUSTON

  Next week. Most of the principal cast has arrived and we’re doing a run-through the day after tomorrow.

  TRAVEN/CROVES

  Señor Traven is pleased that Gabriel Figueroa will be the cinematographer. I’m sure you know that they have worked together and are close friends.

  HUSTON

  I do. Well, then, Croves.

  (HUSTON stands up.)

  I think we’re finished here. I’ll have my assistant contact you about the shooting schedule. Gabe and I are going to Tampico tonight.

  TRAVEN/CROVES rises and shakes hands with HUSTON.

  TRAVEN/CROVES

  It has been a pleasure to meet you.

  HUSTON

  Same here. Give Traven my regards. He wrote a great book. I hope my movie will do it justice.

  TRAVEN/CROVES leaves. Huston pours himself another shot of tequila but before he can drink it, there is a knock at the door.

  HUSTON

  Come in!

  HUMPHREY BOGART enters, looks around.

  BOGART

  Croves gone?

  HUSTON

  Just now.

  (He drinks the tequila, holds up his glass.)

  You want one?

  BOGART

  Sure, so long as it doesn’t cost me anything.

  HUSTON pours them both drinks. Hands one to Bogart.

  HUSTON

  You’re already in character.

  BOGART

  I like Dobbs. He can’t hide his real feelings.

  HUSTON

  The saints be with us.

  (They drink.)

  BOGART

  So, John, what’s the score with Mr. Croves?

  HUSTON

  He’s a Kraut. He’s Traven.

  BOGART

  Yeah? Why the cover?

  HUSTON

  Maybe we’ll find out. He’s gonna be on the shoot with us.

  BOGART

  Oh, that’ll be peachy. What if he doesn’t like what he sees?

  HUSTON

  I can’t keep him away. It’s in his contract.

  BOGART

  Jack Warner’s a fool to allow it.

  HUSTON

  Don’t worry, Figueroa will handle him. And if he can’t, I’ll flash my pistola.

  BOGART

  Ann Sheridan just pulled in.

  HUSTON

  Where’d they put her?

  BOGART

  Here, in the Reforma. Across the hall from me.

  HUSTON picks up the half-full bottle of tequila and heads for the door.

  HUSTON

  Let’s go welcome her.

  BOGART

  She never used to be that kind of girl, John.

  HUSTON

  How long since you’ve seen her?

  BOGART

  A couple of years.

  HUSTON

  Well, Bogey, a lot can happen to change a person in a couple of years.

  BOGART

  Just let me get out of there before you start waving your pistola around.

  HUSTON opens the door and Bogart exits. Before Huston follows suit, something catches his eye: TRAVEN/CROVES’s pith helmet, left on the chair. HUSTON goes over, picks it up and places the helmet on his head. He goes out.

  END

  IXION IN EXILE

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Albert Camus, French writer, forty-six years old, author of The Stranger, well-known for his essa
y opposing capital punishment

  Pixie, a young prostitute

  SETTING

  A hotel room in New York City, Summer 1959.

  PIXIE is sitting on the edge of the bed, putting on her stockings. Other than that, she is naked. CAMUS is lying on the bed, also nude, smoking a cigarette.

  PIXIE

  I could, I’d pull the fuckin’ switch myself. Way that man treated me deserves be electrified twice.

  CAMUS

  Yes, Pixie, I understand how you feel. But it is the state that is the machinery carrying out the sentence.

  PIXIE

  You mean it’s okay I do it, then? Leave the state out?

  CAMUS

  No, Pixie. If in the heat of passion such a crime is committed, if in the course, say, of being beaten and in fear of losing one’s life, in self-defense a murder is committed, or if it occurs after a long history of such abuse, even psychological abuse, a legitimate case can be made to justify the act. But the state has no right to act as executioner.

  PIXIE

  (continues getting dressed)

  I be happy scorch that motherfucker. I be happy whoever do it, long as Dorsey be dead.

  CAMUS

  It’s tonight he’s being executed?

  PIXIE

  Tonight at midnight.

  (She looks at a clock on a bedside table.)

  Thirty-two minutes from now. You ready again? Give you a blowjob twenty extra.

  CAMUS

  No, merci, Pixie. I am quite satisfied.

  (He lights another cigarette from the old one.)

  PIXIE is finished dressing. She stops at the door and looks over at CAMUS.

  PIXIE

  You a nice man, Mister Cam-yoo. All Frenchmen ain’t so nice, you know.

  CAMUS

  Thank you, Pixie. I will remember you with affection.

  PIXIE

  Bye now. Be careful while you in New York. Be rough you not pay attention.

  CAMUS

  I will. Good night.

  PIXIE leaves. CAMUS smokes, then gets up, looks in the mirror over dresser.

  CAMUS

  (to his reflection in the mirror)

  Who are you to tell anyone how to think or feel about anything? You lie to yourself all the time, not only to others. This is why you write your novels and essays, hiding behind Proust’s dictum that literature is the finest kind of lying. You cannot stop lying. For you, it is what makes living tolerable. You are foolish to presume to understand Pixie. To attempt to reason with someone you do not understand is not merely arrogant but absurd. This is the disease of Sartre. To go on lying is your only choice, so better to be good at it.

  The telephone rings. CAMUS answers it.

  CAMUS

  Hello.

  (pause)

  No, he is not here. He never was, he does not exist. My name is Dorsey, will I do?

  END

  ALGREN’S INFERNO

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Nelson Algren, writer, author of The Man with the Golden Arm. He is forty-six years old, having the night before finished writing his novel, A Walk on the Wild Side.

  Dolores Lonesome Sound, fifty-two years old, part African American, part Native American, formerly a drug addict and alcoholic, now pastor of God’s Paradise, a storefront church on West Madison Street, the city’s Skid Row.

  SETTING

  Chicago, 1955. Algren and Dolores Lonesome Sound are standing on West Madison in front of God’s Paradise. It is late on a winter afternoon; the sky darkens steadily as the pair converse.

  NELSON

  Dolores, you don’t mind, I hope, that I took the title for my new novel from something you said in one of your sermons.

  DOLORES

  No, child, ’course not. What was it I said?

  NELSON

  You were talking about your flock, taking in folks who’d been walking on the wild side and were now ready to enter God’s Paradise.

  DOLORES

  Oh, yes. Yes, Nelson, these are the ones got down so low no place left for ’em to go other than in the dirt. People like myself, the way I used to be, not yet gone but forgotten by everyone ’cept the Lord. You go on use the words do they serve a good purpose. Got any loose behavior in it?

  NELSON

  Not really. Only drinkin’, druggin’, whorin’, fightin’, in order to show how without a helping hand individuals come apart.

  DOLORES

  Adrift and bereft. How do you get those frightened souls down on paper?

  NELSON

  Pastor Lonesome Sound, I write about what I see, what most novelists ignore, writers who pick at scabs so small they’re not worth a whisper. I hear my characters crying in my sleep.

  DOLORES

  You are a righteous man, Nelson, and you own all the words.

  NELSON

  Righteous, perhaps, but never sanctimonious. I don’t hide from the horror.

  DOLORES

  No place to hide. You remember Mister Roland Walks Behind Himself, part Pottawotomi like me? He die night before last.

  NELSON

  Sure, I used to shoot pool with him at Benzinger’s.

  DOLORES

  Couple hoodlums jackrolled him, he fought back and one of ’em cracked open his skull, left him bleed to death in Losers Alley. Officer Muller tol’ me this mornin’. Was Miss Twisty discover the body takin’ a trick back there.

  NELSON

  That’s what gets me, Dolores, my writing about all the sadness and bad behavior doesn’t really do any good. It doesn’t change the way people treat each other or move the powers that be to improve lives of the have-nots. At least you give ’em a bowl of tomato soup.

  DOLORES

  And a friend in Jesus. You a good writer, Nelson?

  NELSON

  Some of the deep thinkers back East used to think I was pretty good. Nowadays they can’t seem to make use of me, so I’m sliding off the map.

  DOLORES

  Most everyone ’roun’ here never been on no map, no direction home and no home to go to even they got the bus fare. You want to come inside, get warm with some soup?

  NELSON

  No, thank you, Dolores, but my poker cronies are throwing me a little party to celebrate my finishing my novel.

  DOLORES

  God’s Paradise is for one an’ all, Nelson, believers and unbelievers both. You take care now.

  DOLORES turns and goes inside God’s Paradise. The stage is now in almost total darkness. NELSON lights a cigarette.

  NELSON

  In New Orleans, I met a whore who had tattooed between her belly button and her pussy the words, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” She told me she had a degree in European literature from the University of Texas.

  The stage goes dark. The last light we see is from the tip of NELSON’s cigarette.

  END

  THE LAST WORDS OF ARTHUR RIMBAUD

  PLACE: The Hospital of the Immaculate Conception, Marseilles, France.

  TIME: November 9, 1891. The day before Rimbaud’s death.

  ARTHUR RIMBAUD, thirty-seven years old, the poet and adventurer, lies dying in a hospital bed. He drifts in and out of consciousness, delirious with pain. His right leg has been amputated due to a malignancy.

  At his beside sits his sister, ISABELLE RIMBAUD, thirty-one years old. The bed is surrounded by candles, flickering in the otherwise darkened room.

  ARTHUR

  Tell them, tell them . . . say that I am entirely paralyzed, yes, and so I wish to embark early. Please let me know at what time I should be carried on board.

  ISABELLE

  My poor Arthur, it’s impossible for you to travel. You can’t be moved.

  ARTHUR

>   I’ll return to Harar, to Djami, he’ll be waiting. I’ll return with limbs of steel, dark skin and furious eyes. With this mask, people will think I am of a strong race.

  ISABELLE

  Forget Djami, forget him. I’m here, Isabelle, your sister. Think of me, of our mother, the ones who love you most.

  ARTHUR

  My name carved in stone at Luxor, only the wind and sand can erase it. Tell Djami I am coming, I will see him again soon. My one friend, my only friend.

  ISABELLE

  Djami cannot help you, Arthur. That boy is far from here, in Abyssinia. Probably dead.

  ARTHUR

  Send him money, three thousand francs. Tell him his master, who loves him, begs he make wise use of this sum, that he invest it prudently in an enterprise sure to realize a profit. Tell him not to be idle. His wife and child must prosper.

  ISABELLE

  Arthur, pray. Forget Africa.

  ARTHUR

  Djami and I . . . two ghosts . . . slipping through the subtle air. Sons of the sun.

  ISABELLE

  All the years away from France, broiling in the heat, your brain was affected.

  ARTHUR

  Capsule rifles, two thousand-forty at fifteen Marie Thérèse dollars each. Sixty thousand Remington cartridges at sixty dollars the thousand. Tools of various kinds valued at five thousand-eight hundred dollars. Total value of caravan forty thousand. Fifty days to Menelek, king to pay us on arrival. We leave from Tadjoura. Ivory, musk, gold. The Choans would have our testicles! French testicles. Harar to Antotto, twenty days. Avoid Dankalis, evil savages. Sixty thousand dollars, exchange at Aden, 4.3 francs, equals 258,000 francs. Coffee or slaves. Won’t take Egyptian piasters. Caravans form at Djibouti. Did I marry the Somali girl? She went back, Djami sent her away. Not my orders. Find Djami, quick! My leg, must rest my leg before meeting the Emir. Turks and cannons.

  ISABELLE

  (praying)

  Oh Lord, I weep! Lord, soften his agony. Help him to bear his cross. Have pity on my brother, his poor soul that writhes on earth. Have pity and take him, oh Lord. You who are so good, so kind.

  ARTHUR

  The hyenas laugh at us. Their laughing keeps me awake. Smelling my wound. Poetry poured from the open wound, words spilled until there was nothing left. Emptied, I fled. Djami, your warmth. She is far off, master, to BarAbir. Far, far. Cannot go there with accounts due. The business. Cheated by Menelek, cunning, cunning. Le Bosphore Egyptien, my case. Ragged, dirty rags, no way for a French citizen. Dead before my time, the late Arthur Rimbaud. I have been bitten by life before and survived. Two terrible years and nothing to show.