by Daniel Stern
“There’s a good possibility, darling.”
“That means no, yes?”
“That means maybe, darling. I have to plan a whole season, not just one show, for my girls. A dentist doesn’t fill one tooth these days. He plans your whole mouth. But tonight could be very good for you. Where’s your darling daughter?”
“She’ll be here soon,” Paul said. “The boy friend called to make up after a fight just as we were leaving the house.”
“Is there going to be a wedding?”
“First let there be a reconciliation.”
Fanny glanced around the room anxiously. “I hope she comes soon. The chairlady, Mrs. Rose, is going to introduce you all from your table before the guest speakers.”
“She’ll be here,” Louise said.
“Maybe she’s embarrassed at being an understudy in public. I mean, you know an actress is an actress. I saw her on television, a rerun, last week. Wonderful!”
“Don’t start, Fanny,” Paul said. “Or tell Jud. The director does the casting.”
“I was just asking,” Fanny said. Her attention wandered, as usual. “Look,” she said. “Even with the weather coming from the mouths of my enemies, look what a turnout. Where will they put all the galoshes?”
But Paul was no longer listening to Fanny. He was watching Jud and Walkowitz, who were seated at the other end of the table. Walkowitz was wearing a tight blue suit and a black bow tie to simulate a tuxedo effect. Jud was doing the talking. Past a cluster of women in the doorway, removing damp coats and fluffing out dampened hair, Paul saw Joe and Nancy Lear enter. From a distance, separated by the long expanse of ballroom floor and the moiling crowd of people, he saw Joe Lear, at that moment, stripped of the comfortable and familiar atmosphere that surrounds everyday associates. He saw the imposing bearing of the tall businessman, the slightly off-center set of the jaw, the sealed-over ambiguous expression of the blue eyes; but, in particular, he saw him as a Gentile among Jews. It was a comparative observation that was not typical of Paul. He had, in fact, criticized Jud sometimes for using such a narrow method of personal assessment. Still, it was startling to see Lear in his “otherness,” and it made Paul even more nervous at the idea of the discussion that was inevitable before the night was ended.
“I was afraid of what your reaction might be,” Walkowitz said.
“That’s crazy,” Jud said. “Anyway, it wasn’t for you to decide. I can have any reaction I damn well please.”
“And you’re not having much of one, are you?”
“That Rolfe is anti-Semitic? No, not much. But I’m angry that you went to Marianne and not to me.”
“I wanted her advice on how to handle it.”
“That doesn’t sound like you, Carl. You don’t go around asking women for advice.”
“I assumed that she knows you better than anyone else.”
“And?”
“She wasn’t much help. She got too upset, herself. So I spoke to Paul.”
Jud was amazed. It seemed that everyone knew about it but he. He wondered, briefly, if Carl had made up the whole story, wanted to make trouble for the production for some reason. But there was no apparent purpose to such maliciousness. Marianne? He buried the thought in an angry question: “Why in hell did you go to Paul? Of all the trouble-making—” Jud lowered his voice. “Why?” he whispered. “Why?”
“I wanted him to guide me.”
“My wife didn’t know me well enough so you figured Paul would. What were you, on a quest for my soul, all because somebody babbles a few offensive words?”
“Your soul.” Walkowitz adopted Jud’s barely audible tone. He murmured, “Maybe that’s it.”
“This is no joke, Carl. You’ve made a real mess. I’ve got to handle Paul now, and, Marianne. Do you really expect me to believe that you were so concerned for my peace of mind that you couldn’t tell me?”
Walkowitz said, “You don’t have to believe me. That doesn’t matter. What are you going to do about Rolfe?”
“Your confidante, my wife, has it all figured out.”
“Oh?”
“She says I should fire him. Simple as that.”
“Isn’t it simple?”
“I’m not going to fire him. I can’t.”
“Can’t?”
“Won’t, then.”
“Because it’s not nice?” Walkowitz hissed the final sibilance. “Because it’s not the sort of thing that would be admired by the New Republic, or the New York Post, or the people who go to string quartet concerts at the Y.M.H.A., or the people who read the Saturday Review?”
“No, because that would be the way to make it into an issue, if you must know. What the hell is the matter with you, Carl? What are you yelping about? You think I like the idea of working with an anti-Semite?”
Walkowitz stared at him fiercely, until the one good eye seemed to grow larger and the other one smaller. He nodded his head, wearily. “What is it, Jud,” he said, “don’t you feel entitled to hate a man like that? The sleepwalker still sleeps?” His voice could hardly be heard.
“What—what did you say?”
The lights around the ballroom were dimming; an artificial imitation of the actual night outside. To the left of the central dais a five-piece band played a fanfare. Then silence joined the indoor twilight. In the moment before the hush was complete, Jud saw Janet Rovic half walk, half run to the table and slide onto an empty chair.
6
THE CHAIRLADY, MRS. ROSE, expressed her pleasure at being visited by the cast of an important new Broadway show, and then looked past the orchid on her left shoulder into the restless audience. When she spoke again her voice was weighted, the words paced more slowly.
“Some of you may know that this is a play which deals with the sufferings of the Jewish people in Europe under the Nazis. It is called At the Gates, and it is being produced by Mr. Joseph Lear …”
A spotlight appeared in the vicinity of the table where the company sat, wavered, then settled squarely on the corner of the table where Joe Lear was already on his feet, a strawberry flush decorating his cheeks.
Jud watched the man in his boyish moment of glory. This was the sort of thing just being a businessman could never provide; this was why he’d had to produce a play. He looked nervous, proud, and out of place. Undoubtedly he sheltered some other picture of how he appeared—poised, modest, self-possessed. For the moment it reassured Jud to see Lear at a disadvantage, but it was a foolish emotion and he did not like indulging it.
“… and Mr. Paul Rovic, director of the famous Theater Workshop.” Paul half stood in his seat and smiled in response to the applause. “… and directed by Mr. Jud Kramer. Mr. Kramer is, himself, a survivor of the concentration camps.”
Oh, my God, Jud thought, as the applause grew. Why didn’t somebody think to tell her not to do it? He was thankful that the brightness of the light kept him from seeing anything. The people at nearby tables were standing up to get a better look at him. Then the sound died away in an embarrassed patter. Jud settled back into the comparative darkness minus the spotlight. The rest of the cast all received perfunctory tribute, and Marianne got a slightly bigger hand. Dasha looked lovely. Her olive skin gleamed against the reflection of her white dress. Jud watched her hands clench and unclench during her few illuminated seconds.
When Janet rose the entire ballroom exploded into a roar that refused to die down. She stood, a marvel of public presentation, looking as if she were delighted to be precisely where she was and would be pleased to stay there forever—which, of course, was true. What the hell is this, Jud thought. The excitement showed no signs of subsiding. People were nudging those next to them, craning their necks to see. Television, he thought—I should have known. That lousy postage-stamp screen in the living room can develop fame faster than anything else.
He searched out Dasha’s face. She sat next to Emmet, straight in her chair; she was the only one at the table not applauding. Jud could not see the expression o
n her face, but the rigidity of her spine was eloquent.
While dinner was being served, the band played. Jud danced with Dasha. He guided her around the floor, carefully avoiding the waiters who darted between the couples like jugglers, plates held adroitly high.
“Still glad you came to New York?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Will Harold or Manya come to the opening?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re so quiet. Janet’s reception trouble you?”
“It’s irritating, that’s all.”
“Then what?”
“I’m tired. Hard work rehearsing in a play.”
“So they tell me.”
“And Emmett took me to the Village this afternoon. We battled the snow in Washington Square Park. I love snow. It’s more exciting than the beach.”
“It sounds like a romantic afternoon.”
“Jealous?”
“Don’t tease an old relative.”
“It’s just that sometimes I think I came to New York more to see you than to be in a play.”
“If I were you I’d switch that around.”
“You’re not me.” Her voice was edgy.
“Thanks to God. I have enough trouble being one member of our family.”
“Do you?”
“These days. But I’d rather not talk about that.”
“Rather talk about why I came to New York to see my successful cousin Jud who was directing a play and try to blackmail him into giving me a part?”
“Is that how it started?”
“Partly.”
“Well, that’s not how it finished.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Do you think you blackmailed Paul and Joe Lear and Walkowitz, too?”
“Not Walkowitz. No one could ever blackmail him. He’s too formidable. But I figured you’d do all that for me.”
“Not so. You performed magnificent blackmail at your audition. The proof was, you beat out the co-producer’s daughter.”
“I haven’t been able to decide whether she became my understudy as a tribute or a watchdog.”
“Both, perhaps. But she’s no threat either way—in spite of the adulation of TV fans.”
“Is that why you asked me to dance, when we’re both lousy dancers? So you could reassure me?”
“That’s right.”
“Go to hell,” she said.
A few steps away Marianne was dancing with Joe Lear. He carefully avoided Jud’s glance. Just beyond them Larry Elgin was waving at Jud.
“What’s wrong?” Jud asked.
“How did you know something was wrong?” Larry asked.
“You were flailing like a windmill. Besides, tonight it figures.”
“Did you see Lear? He was burning mad after Janet brought the house down. You could see him counting every ticket not sold because Janet was passed over.”
“He’s an easy burner. Is that what’s up?”
“It’s Hendrix. He’s here and he wants an interview with you.”
“I gave him one. If he wants another one tell him to check my schedule.”
“He wants it now. And he was being very intense about it. It’s the press, Jud. Be nice. He’s waiting in the lobby. Said he wanted privacy.”
“Nothing like a hotel lobby for privacy.”
The food Jud had nibbled at was churning in his stomach. When he found Hendrix sitting on a faded sofa in the lobby, he said: “What’s all the urgency?” but it was only a sort of formality.
The reply was exactly what he’d expected.
“Someone,” Jud said, “has been very busy making a mountain out of some ill-advised conversation. Who told you?”
“You know better than to ask that, Kramer.”
Jud made an attempt to make his tone more friendly. “Could you forget about it? As a favor?” The friendliness was as unconvincing as his thin, forced smile.
Hendrix shook his head. “Afraid not.”
“A man makes a few remarks. He may have been nasty, but words can be misinterpreted or overinterpreted.”
“I understand the man he said it to is a survivor, too.” He leaned heavily on the “too.” “That makes it a pretty rotten business.”
Jud knew it was hopeless. It had become maddeningly clear. Hendrix had him down as some kind of “professional survivor,” and nothing could change his attitude.
“Are you going to fire Rolfe?” Hendrix asked.
Jud decided to fight. “No. And if you print the story, Rolfe can sue you and the paper for a fortune.”
“He wouldn’t. It happens to be a true story. And he knows I’d have a strong witness. Besides”—Hendrix smiled conspiratorially—“you know about Glenn Rolfe. Everybody knows. So he has to watch how he goes a little bit.”
My God, Jud thought, how dirty is this thing going to get? Walkowitz, my good and stalwart friend Walkowitz—ghost from the past come to help me and to be helped. What had he gotten into by letting the man into his life? And how did one go back and change everything from the start, answering a phone call, saying: “I’m sorry, Mr. Walkowitz, I don’t know you, I never knew you, and besides I’m happy now. I don’t want any reminder of the old days, but thank you for calling”?
Hendrix was saying: “I only wanted to let you give your side of it, since it will be in the papers anyway.”
“I don’t have a side,” Jud said brusquely. The brief attempt at being nice to the man was ended. “I never spoke to Rolfe about anything except problems of lighting the play. And I don’t know anything about his personal life, or how careful he has to be.”
“You’re not going to fire him?”
“No. Excuse me, my coffee’s getting cold.”
“How about Joe Lear or Rovic? Are they in agreement?” The expression on the newspaperman’s plump, red-cheeked face was bland as pudding, but there was threat in his words.
“You don’t like me much, do you?” Jud asked.
“I think you’re an emotional opportunist, Kramer.”
“So that’s where Fanny got the words,” Jud said quietly.
“Excuse me?”
“No, I don’t think I will,” Jud said, and walked back toward the ballroom. He was now in a state of prickling alertness, an instinctive response to danger. The first thing to do was to have it out with Carl, to find out how much he had done and why. Then he would have to speak to Paul to ward off any precipitous action by Lear.
Before he could reach the entrance to the ballroom, Lear and Nancy came hurrying toward him. Lear was carrying his Chesterfield neatly folded over his arm and Nancy was struggling into her fur coat.
“Oh, Jud,” she said in the false little voice of embarrassment, “we were looking for you to say good-by. Joe has a business thing—”
“That’s not so.” Lear spoke to Jud bluntly. “I suppose you know about this lighting fellow and the newspapers? Of course you knew.”
Jud glanced back over his shoulder. “You mean Hendrix?”
“I mean the telegrams the papers got today. A nice assortment, too. The News, the Mirror, Journal-American. They tossed in a few columnists and The Times for class.”
Nancy said, “There were two phone calls just now. I don’t know how they knew we’d be here tonight.”
“Telegrams?”
Lear was continuing his march to the door with Nancy trailing behind, leaving an apologetic look for Jud as a farewell. But Jud decided not to accept it. He caught up with the Lears and followed them through the swinging doors into the night, swarming with snow.
“Jud, you’ll get pneumonia without a coat,” Nancy called out.
“That’s right,” Lear said, leading the trio up the street. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“The hell there isn’t. We’re opening next week, for Christ’s sake.”
“Jud”—Lear breathed in white puffs—“you fire him or count me out.”
“Walkowitz sent all those telegrams. I’m sure of it. He told Hendrix, too. He’s m
aking a big thing out of nothing.”
“Then fire him, too. I never liked him, from the start.”
They turned the corner and were hit by a wild splash of wind and snow. Near the curb a sailor slipped and dragged himself to his feet. His trousers were splashed with slush, and he moved off in a stream of curses.
The garage where Lear had left his car was halfway up the block. As they waited for the attendant to bring the car around, Nancy busied herself by repairing her make-up with a pocket mirror from her purse, and Lear stared empty-eyed at Jud, as if Jud were some panhandler and he was waiting for the pitch.
“What’s the big fuss?” Jud asked. “It’s not going to hurt us, no matter what Rolfe said.”
“Can you imagine those people at the dinner tonight reading about it and then rushing to see the play? Try to live in the real world, Jud. I’ve wanted to produce this play more than anything I’ve ever wanted to do, but if it’s going to be a disaster, I don’t want anything to do with it. Nobody cares what a play has to tell them if it’s a failure. There’s a rough thing to learn, but I learned it young and I’ve tried never to forget it. Anybody who wants to be listened to and taken seriously had better speak with the authority of success. It’s a law of life.”
The attendant zoomed up to them in the black Lincoln, hopped out, and handed the keys to Lear. Lear gave him a mechanical smile, crumpled a bill into his hand, then climbed in behind the wheel. Nancy got in on the other side, opening the door for herself.
“I’m not going to argue philosophy with you, Joe. But we can’t work together at all if you’re going to give ultimatums.”
“That suits me. We were having trouble enough before, with you scaring Wolfson off by your temperament. If you don’t fire this guy the whole project will develop a lovely stink. The hell with it. Jud, I don’t give a damn what you do! If you’re running it this way, then there’s no place for me.” The tires scrabbled for purchase on the wet pavement, gripped, turned, and the sleek car was gone.
7
THE WIND WAS DYING. The snow stopped streaking in slanting lines, and the flakes were larger and softer. No longer driven, they floated, drifted down, melting on hand or cheek.