by Peter Rimmer
“Bruno’s always wanted to get into film. With the new offensive he says the war in the Pacific will be over in months. Then America will go for the Germans. I’d love to live in Hollywood when the war’s over. This is exciting. I’ll tell my husband the moment I get off the phone.”
“You don’t have to ask him first?”
“Of course not. Bruno does whatever I want or I keep him short.”
Genevieve heard the girl’s giggle all the way from New York.
“Is that how it works?” said Genevieve.
“It’s the only weapon we women have got and it’s powerful. It’s so lovely to have you back in America. How’s your fiancé? Are you going to live in the States after the war? Doesn’t Tinus have a cousin in Virginia? His Uncle Harry owns a big share in the Tender Meat Company I remember. See their products everywhere. What fun. Tinus will be rich. So looking forward to seeing you. Just give me your address and phone number. Life really can be fun. I just love the unexpected.”
After Genevieve gave the information and put down the phone she sat silently on the bed, her mind going back through the conversation.
“Anything wrong, Genevieve?” called Gregory through the closed door. “Why did you close the bedroom door?” he asked.
“A girl needs her privacy,” she said opening the door and going back into her lounge. “That girl is a real bitch.”
“I know. Isn’t she lovely? So she’s coming I gather?”
“Oh yes. She’s coming, Greg. Probably for too long. Bruno’s off to cover the war in the Pacific after staying over with us a few days.”
“You think he can sort out this movie?”
“Just don’t tell Hollingsworth. If the changes come from us he won’t be so upset. Diplomacy. Why don’t we go out and get some supper? I’m hungry.”
“What’s the matter?”
“She was talking about Tinus. A right little know-all. How can you possibly screw someone like that? She’s not even pretty.”
“It’s called a dirty fuck.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Not when you’re doing it.”
“I hope he’s all right. I just hope he’s all right.”
“What time is it in New York?” Gregory had waited a full minute before changing the subject.
“I didn’t ask her. Any more than she asked Bruno if he wanted to visit and help with the script. Do all men do what their wives tell them?”
“Not all. Some. Makes life easier. My guess is Bruno Kannberg has a girl or two on the quiet. Fool if he didn’t. Only young once.”
“You can go off people, Gregory L’Amour. Did you know that?”
“I think you are jealous.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. What I really don’t understand is how Sir Jacob Rosenzweig gave Mr Hollingsworth the money to make a film from such a lousy script.”
“Now there’s a scandal story for the papers. The old boy’s wife found the London bombing too much for her nerves and pitched up in New York. They’d been separated for years. Kicked the young mistress right out of the apartment. If you won’t marry me, Genevieve, I’m never getting married. Just look at all the shit you have to go through to have kids. And some of the kids turn out just like their mothers, boys or girls, doesn’t matter, they want someone to look after them financially. It’s all about money.”
“Not with me. Tinus doesn’t have a penny. Oh, and you are a patronising swine, for the record.”
“But his uncle does.”
“Harry Brigandshaw has five kids. I think there’s a scandal there somewhere. Frank looks just like my Uncle Barnaby. The family have been pussyfooting around that one for years. Not mentioned in polite society. I love my Uncle Barnaby but he is a rotten sod.”
“What did I tell you? I think we should eat Italian tonight. With a nice big bottle of Italian wine now America has invaded Sicily. This war is crazy. Half of us Americans are Italians.”
“Then you’re doing them a favour deposing Mussolini. There are always two ways for looking at anything.”
“Except you of course. There’s only one way I will ever look at Genevieve,” said Gregory with a lecherous grin.
Bruno Kannberg had been listening to the phone call from the bedroom where he was trying to calm his nerves at the thought of living for a week on an American destroyer off the American landing grounds on the islands in the South Pacific. This time, whether he wanted to or not, he was going to war. The thought of incoming shells and torpedoes sent him into a funk. Being the Daily Mirror’s foreign correspondent in America had given him a job far from the sound of the guns. How his father had fought with the Whites in the Russian revolution was beyond his comprehension. He was a coward. He was afraid. Lying on the bed fully clothed, thinking of where he was going, sent him into a state of cold shivers, sweat soaking the inside of his clothes. If the rumours were true and Gillian was having an affair with Gregory L’Amour, it did not matter at the moment. The pain was less than the imminent prospect of going into a war.
Before the assignment Bruno had written the word ‘petrified’ many times in his dispatches to London. Only now did he know what it meant. He was going to die. Of that he was certain. ‘To hell with Gregory L’Amour,’ he said to himself, shutting his mind to the telephone conversation going on in the lounge even when it was over.
“Darling, we’re going to Los Angeles. They have a problem with the script. You’re going to write a film. Isn’t that exciting?… Are you all right? Bruno! Did you hear me? I need some money to pay for my flight. You can do a stopover on your way to Honolulu. Genevieve just phoned. Can you rewrite a script in a couple of days? If you get it right we can live in Hollywood after the war with all the rich and famous. Gerry Hollingsworth has made a muck of the dialogue. Genevieve and Gregory don’t know how to fix it. You owe them that after the success of their books and all the money we made. Are you listening, Bruno, or am I wasting my breath? They are going to give you your uniform as an honorary American officer in Hawaii. You only need a small suitcase. I can stay with Genevieve after you’ve gone so I won’t have to be alone after all. Isn’t that wonderful? You wouldn’t want me sitting here alone now would you? Will you book the plane tickets or must I? You don’t even have to tell Art the Bumley. When the tickets are booked and paid for you and I can have some real fun. You’d like that wouldn’t you? Bruno! What are you doing? Answer me.”
Even the thought of having sex with his wife could not pull him out of his funk. The very idea of being in the uniform of a foreign country made his stomach flip. Instead of going into the lounge to join his wife, Bruno lurched his way into the bathroom where he was violently sick, his head half down the toilet bowl.
By the time Bruno Kannberg left with his camera for the South Pacific on board an American Air Force Dakota, the dialogue made sense. Bruno had worked nonstop for forty-eight hours, drinking so much coffee his eyes felt they were popping. By the time the taxi delivered him to the designated air force base, in what looked like desert to Bruno, he no longer cared. About his life. Or about his wife. If they killed him it would all be over, the world no worse off. He had no children. Despite all his pleading Gillian had managed not to give him a child. He was thirty-five years old and childless without any purpose to his life. Fixing the lousy script so it talked all right had been the first pleasure in his life for months.
If his wife screwed her brains out with Gregory L’Amour it didn’t matter. After the vomiting he couldn’t make love. Something of a relief rather than a frustration. When she found out in the bedroom she couldn’t get him aroused, the woman changed. There was a hint of fear in her eyes. The recognition that at the age of twenty-six she might be losing her power to bend his will to whatever she wanted. From power to panic in half an hour, watching his wife made Bruno conscious of the fickleness of life.
Inside the base they took his small suitcase and told him where to go. He tried on three uniforms, one of which seemed to fit. There was no rank or in
signia. Looking in the mirror, the eyes about to fall asleep looked back at a stranger. His eyelids were half closed.
“That’ll do, Mr Kannberg. The corporal will call you when the plane is ready to take off. Get some sleep. You look terrible. You reporters are always up to something looking for a story.”
“You won’t forget me?”
“How could we? You’re in the army by the look of you. Just don’t forget your camera. Shots of our marines wading ashore on Japanese-occupied islands is just what the American public want to see. And the same goes for you British. I’ll be your press liaison officer right through the trip. Captain Delany. You can call me Johnny. Funny name, Kannberg. Where is it from as it ain’t English?”
“Latvia. My father fought for the White Russian Army against the Red Army in the Russian Revolution.”
“Then you know all about war. When did you last get some sleep?”
“Three days ago. I was rewriting a film script for Gregory L’Amour and Genevieve.”
“You met them! Now he’s a real American hero. The All American Man, they call him. Now I am impressed. Do you mind if I call you Bruno? I’d give just about anything to get that girl into bed.”
“Why am I not an officer? There’s no rank on this uniform that I can see.”
“Well, Bruno, first you got to be a soldier. Then you got to go to Officer College. Then they put a rank on your uniform. We don’t want photographers and newsmen in suits on our destroyers. Looks untidy. Bad for discipline. We want you to blend into the war, Bruno. When you go ashore, wading with the troops, you got to look right. But no rank I’m afraid.”
“I’m going ashore!”
“Of course you are. Don’t get your camera wet. Only bigshot war correspondents get invited. Daily Mirror. Popular paper. Spent a week in London when I was twenty-one. Just out of college. Did a stint with the Denver Telegraph. Denver, Colorado. I’m also a newspaper man, or was until I went into the army two days after the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor. You’ll still see our ships sunk in the harbour. Bastards didn’t even declare war. Now is that honourable? Is that the honour the Japs talk about when they despise their prisoners of war for being captured and not fighting to the death? After the fall of Singapore and the surrender of the British Army they’re making the prisoners build a railway line across Burma on a handful of rice a day, according to our information. Your troops are dying like flies. Don’t worry. Uncle Sam’s going to teach the Japs a lesson and save those British prisoners.”
“I hope so. My friend’s cousin was captured in Singapore. Not a word from him since. Chinese wife and two kids and William doesn’t know what’s happened to any of them. Are you sure about what you heard?”
“Get some sleep now. The aircraft is noisy. No frills in the army. When they come for you I’ll have them bring a mug of strong coffee. On the plane I want to hear all about Gregory L’Amour and Genevieve. All our information is correct, Bruno. Who would make up such a story?”
2
When Gillian asked to stay a few days, Genevieve agreed. There was a small bedroom with a single bed that was never used. She was lonely. Being famous often made it worse. To have another Englishwoman to talk to when she came home from the studio would stop her brooding over Tinus. Whether she liked the girl or not it did not matter, or what Gregory L’Amour was up to on the side. Ever since Tinus had given her the ring with the small diamond she had not so much as looked at another man. When Gillian, Bruno and herself were finishing off the book on her short life that had sold so well on both sides of the Atlantic, they had got on well enough. There were so many twists and turns in life.
The moment Bruno was seen off in the taxi at the start of his journey, Gillian had moved into the seventh-floor flat in downtown Los Angeles and Genevieve had the feeling her guest would remain until her husband came back from the war.
Genevieve had given her the spare key and a note to the downstairs security desk. She had also told Jim to expect a friend who was going to stay in her flat. When Genevieve came home after the day’s shoot and opened her front door, the smell of steak and kidney pudding wafted over her. Instantly her mouth watered. Steak and kidney pudding done in a white bowl with a saucer on top of the suet pastry, wrapped in a white tea-towel and boiled in a pot of water was the cook’s favourite dish for them when they stayed together at Hastings Court. It was Genevieve’s favourite, something she could never find in America; steak and kidney pie, but never steak and kidney pudding. Her guest was in the kitchen wearing Genevieve’s apron when Genevieve followed the smell of the cooking to its source.
“That smell, Gillian. It’s so English. Makes me so homesick.”
“He’s gone. Poor Bruno is scared to death. I thought men strode off to war with a smile and a whistle. So much for the big brave husband.”
“André Cloete threw up every time before he got into his aeroplane. Before and during the war. There’s nothing wrong with being afraid of dying. Tinus says he shakes from the moment they are scrambled to their aircraft in full flying kit and a parachute on his back. Once in the cockpit of his Spitfire his teeth chatter uncontrollably. Only when he sights enemy aircraft does complete calm come over him. Every fibre of his body comes into focus. Tinus says a man’s a fool if he thinks he’s not going to get killed. That most of the gung-ho types get themselves killed in the first two weeks of combat. My father said it was the same in the trenches in the last war. Uncle Harry told Tinus what to expect and not to be frightened of fear. Uncle Harry says it’s fear that concentrates a man’s mind. Makes a good pilot in war and in peacetime when something goes wrong. Don’t knock your husband, Gillian. You missed the Blitz. If I may be so rude to say, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Just pray Bruno comes home. He’s a good man. Uncle Harry once said good men, truly good men, not those who make themselves out to be good, are as rare as hen’s teeth.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry. I’m also on edge. All the time not knowing what he’s doing. The pudding makes up for everything. Now we can worry together. How about a gin and tonic? My mother’s favourite. Did I ever tell you my mother was the barmaid in the Running Horses at Mickleham during the last war?”
“It was in the book.”
“Of course it was. How silly of me.”
“Why aren’t you full of yourself, Genevieve? You’re famous. Your dad’s a lord.”
“My mother says we all look the same under a bus. You want too much, Gillian. There’s only so much we can have in life. All the baubles, however expensive, never count. They never change us, change who we are, however rich and famous we may become.”
“How’s the film?”
“Much better now we’re not talking garbage. He’s good, Gillian. Bruno’s good. Very good. There’s a big career waiting for him in films.”
“I’m going to enjoy staying with you.”
“So am I. I get lonely. Big gin or small gin?”
“Big one.”
“Good. Then we’ll open a bottle of red wine with the steak and kidney pud. No filming tomorrow. It’s a Sunday. We can get a little drunk and have a good chinwag. I haven’t had a good chinwag with a girlfriend in years.”
“Neither have I.”
Impulsively they both hugged each other before going into the lounge where Genevieve opened her cocktail cabinet and poured them both a stiff gin. Then they sat down.
“Tomorrow it’s my turn. I’ll take you out to dinner.”
Vida Wagner recognised Genevieve from her first dinner party at Abercrombie Place with Harry Brigandshaw and Robert St Clair. Everyone else in the restaurant knew Genevieve too. It was a game in Los Angeles to go out to famous restaurants looking to spot famous people. Vida waved. To her surprise, Genevieve waved back and walked across towards her table.
Life since running out of New York had been good to her. So far as she knew Jacob Rosenzweig, her ‘old goat’, had not found out where she lived despite her promise to still be his mistress on the q
uiet now his wife was back in his life and living with him in New York. She had his money from the trust fund which was what counted. In most people’s eyes she was rich.
The man holding her hand under the table and stroking her knee was ten years her junior. The poor boy had tried the movies where his good looks got him in the door. Unfortunately he could not act. Without money, away from his roots in the mid-west, the only alternative to going home or joining the army was rich, older women. The army thought he was thirty-two, which was a lie to avoid conscription. Nathan Squires was twenty-eight with not an ounce of fat on his beautiful body, and he knew how to ‘sing for his supper’. She would dump him when she was bored. For the moment he made her feel good. Attentive men always made her feel good. Like the large sum of money old Sir Jacob had placed in her trust fund to pay for the last bit of fun in his life before he died.
Rich in LA was the perfect combination. Going back to Berlin, with her Germany no longer winning the war, had slipped out of her mind. She was having a good time. All her plans had come to fruition. So long as no one found out her story, that her papers were false, nothing could go wrong. If they found out, she had money. Her own money. Coerced but not stolen. Anyway, she always rationalised with herself, old Rosenzweig had enough money for everyone. Priorities for Vida had changed. She had the best of both worlds in America pretending she was Jewish, not Lebanese where both her families came from, mother and father, her Arab ancestry as anti-Jewish as the Germans, whatever her family’s religion.
“Hello, Vida. Gerry Hollingsworth wondered where you were. Do you still keep in touch with Sir Jacob Rosenzweig?”
“His wife ran away from the London Blitz and came to New York. I had no idea he was married. This is Nathan. Nathan, meet the famous Genevieve. You want to join us?”
“I’d like to. You met my Uncle Robert who wrote Holy Knight, and Harry Brigandshaw I like to call Uncle Harry. That was some dinner party you put on. I think you know my friend, Gillian Kannberg? Her husband’s gone off to cover the war in the South Pacific. We’re consoling each other. You remember Tinus from that party? We’re engaged. He’s a fighter pilot in the Royal Air Force. Being German Jewish you won’t mind that will you? Are you also in film, Nathan?”