“No, I wouldn’t.”
“I’m glad, because that’s why I’m here.”
He then proposed that Gurney work with him on a new show he had planned, a rock version of the Job story, to be set in a once-restricted country club on the outskirts of Ottawa that now admitted just about anybody. Gurney thought the idea had merit—especially since shows with rock scores had been doing well on Broadway.
“I’d be happy to kick it around once we wrap up Violencia.”
“I’m talking about right now.”
“Now?” said Gurney. “You want me to work on it now, while the goddamned ship is sinking? What kind of third-rate rat do you think I am?”
“What would you be doing right this second?” asked Mandarin. “I mean if I wasn’t here?”
“Oh, just sitting around, I guess, relaxing, waiting for Clement to get here so we can start thinking of ways to save Violencia.
“That’s my point,” said Mandarin. “That’s the time I’m talking about. When you’re sitting around, relaxing. Talking about Hey, Job! will help you to relax like you’ve never relaxed in your life. It will take you out of Violencia, and you’ll return to it with a fresh perspective.”
“I’d feel like a swine,” said Gurney. “If Clement ever found out, I’d never be able to face him.”
“Don’t kid yourself. With all due respect, he’s probably working on three backup shows himself, in case this one tanks.”
“Clement wouldn’t do that. Not Clement.”
“How much time do we have now?” asked Mandarin.
“He’ll be down in half an hour.”
“Shall we try to get in a quick session?”
“Oh, what the hell.”
The awful truth was that Gurney, deep in his soul, and even not so deep, had lost all heart to go on with Violencia. Just as he felt he had let the show down, he felt that Violencia had let him down as well. He had liked the craggy sourness of it in Winslow and the fact that it might make some money. But in its current stripped-down, antiseptic condition, he wasn’t terribly proud of it. He knew that he was just hanging around for a little showbiz action, as if he were trying to fondle an accident victim.
Though he had come down hard on Norman Welles, it could be argued, he knew, that the composer had been the honest one on the team. Crawling with guilt, Gurney now met the slippery and ambitious Mandarin for clandestine sessions on Hey, Job!—which, quite frankly, he enjoyed more than the work with Hartog on Violencia. At least it was fresh. He now saw Violencia as a great, spoiled cheese, with pieces flaking off, one by one. Meeting Mandarin was like having a rendezvous with a secret lover.
I guess I’m just a promiscuous person, he told himself.
With Mandarin at his side, he would sit at his desk, taking notes and keeping an ear cocked for the sound of Hartog’s weary footsteps. When he heard the director approach, he would fling the Hey, Job! script into a drawer, slam it shut, then leap onto the couch, cross his legs, and treacherously pretend that he and Mandarin were racking their brains, trying to think of composers who might help out on poor Violencia.
Only once did Gurney come close to reversing his feelings about the show. All along he had expressed the same sentiment to Hartog (who, incidentally, sensed his disillusionment):
“Clement, do you realize that not one mature adult who has seen the show and has some connection with the theatre has paid us a compliment? If I could just hear one good thing from someone I can respect—outside of our own group—perhaps I’d be encouraged.”
One night, after slipping away from a secret session on Hey, Job! Gurney joined the Hartogs for a preshow dinner at the Broadway Grotto. As he approached their table, Gurney realized there was an individual present he did not recognize, someone who seemed alien to the group but was evidently there to join them for dinner all the same. Gurney’s time at the Bureau had enabled him to recognize people from just a single feature—and he was confident he had never met this man before. The fellow had pointed elf’s ears and an odd-shaped head. It was as if a spell had been cast on the Broadway Grotto—perhaps by this individual—and everyone within was caught in it. The man’s face was unnaturally ruddy; he might have lived in some other world—perhaps in a forest among trolls. His eyes burned through little slits.
“Repeat to him what you just told us, Everett,” said Hartog as Gurney pulled up a chair.
When the man spoke, it was with a lisp of a variety that Gurney had never before heard.
“I was just telling your friends that I think Violencia is a classic. It is my intention to communicate this feeling to Philip Undertag and tell him that he is a king-sized horse’s ass if he even dreams about closing this gem here in Holliman.”
The curious little fellow’s size and appearance were misleading. Evidently, he was a man who spoke his mind in no uncertain terms. Gurney made no bones about the fact that he was thrilled. He was close to tears. The man turned out to be Everett Dondilee, an actors’ agent who made it a point to attend out-of-town openings. He did this out of curiosity and also because he simply liked to keep posted on what was going on in the theatre. No one had invited him to see Violencia in far-off Holliman; he had simply come of his own accord. If he hadn’t liked the show, he would quietly have gone back east and never said a word to anyone.
Gurney thought that if Violencia were indeed to become a smash, and the behind-the-scenes story to surface, one certainly would be able to point to a turning point in the show’s fortunes: the sudden, unannounced appearance of this curious and delightful little man.
“When I look up on that stage,” said Dondilee, “and I see Essie on her stilts, having highly charged verbal duels with her misbehaving detective son, I see my own dad and my own childhood. In my opinion, it’s the story of every thinking American. My friends, it is the American story.”
Dondilee gripped Gurney’s arm. He had a bonfire in his eyes.
“Don’t change a word of it, Gurns. And don’t you dare let them close it on you.”
“I won’t, sir,” said Gurney, who felt the strength pouring back into him and didn’t even mind that he’d been addressed by that hateful nickname.
“And I want you to know,” said Dondilee, looking away for the first time, “that all this has absolutely nothing to with the fact that my agency represents Essie Hartog. Not to speak of her son Clement, Matt Tanker, Hobie Hancock, and Han Nihsu, along with the four assistants. I’m this close to signing Ty Sabatini, but he hates to pay commissions.”
When Gurney discovered that Dondilee represented virtually the entire cast, the last bit of confidence passed right out of him. It may very well have been that the agent had expressed his honest opinion of the show, but his could hardly have been considered an objective view. If Violencia were miraculously to come in as a hit, he stood to make a tidy sum on commissions. If the show closed in Holliman, he would not earn a quarter. Gurney desperately needed a shot in the arm, but not from the almost certainly biased Everett Dondilee. As soon as he realized the agent’s motive, Gurney, with not a word to anyone, quietly gave up all hope for Violencia. He spent more time than ever with Mandarin on the promising Hey, Job, and merely went through the motions of collaborating with Hartog. And he wondered all the while what it was that kept him from throwing up his hands and leaving town.
Over the weekend, the inevitable came to pass. Toileau and Undertag, as promised, flew down, saw the revised show, then summoned Gurney and Hartog to a backstage meeting. It was held in the tiniest office Gurney had ever seen, Undertag having to sit on Toileau’s lap so that all the principals could fit in.
“You boys have done some wonderful work,” said Toileau, “but frankly, we’re a little displeased.”
“Oh?” said Hartog, feigning surprise. “How come?”
“Oh, cut it out, Clement,” said Undertag. “You’ve only got two songs left in the show and your second act’s four minutes long. I’m not bringing a ten-minute million-dollar skit to Broadway. If what I sa
w isn’t a turkey, I’d like to know what is.”
“What we’ve got is pure gold,” said Hartog. “I’ve even thought of dropping those last two songs.”
His face was drawn and his Adam’s apple stuck out a country mile. It occurred to Gurney that he now knew exactly how Hartog would look in his coffin.
“Let’s be frank, fellas,” said Undertag, with a certain kindness in his voice. “Let’s be men and do what we have to do.”
Hartog tried to speak but could not find his voice. He looked over to Gurney for help. The librettist was aware that some determination on his part might very well turn the tide and convince the shaky producers that they ought to continue battling for the show. But he could not find the strength or ambition to carry the ball.
“I’ve always sort of liked the show,” he said feebly.
“Sure, fella,” said Undertag, patting his knee. “We’ll post the closing notice tomorrow night. That will give you a chance to inform the kids, Clement.”
Gurney had the feeling that the producer would excel at making consoling remarks to bereaved people at funerals.
The four men shook hands all around, over and over, as though they were afraid to stop.
“It’s a funny thing,” said Undertag, stopping for a moment before he squeezed his way out of the tiny office. “With all of my flops, I’ve never before closed one of them out of town. I’ve always given them a chance to be turkeys on Broadway.”
Scene 13
Gurney knew that one thing he could not do was face the cast after the closing notice went up. He had always felt himself to be a bit of a hero to them, putting words in their mouths as he did, shaping and reshaping their characters and personalities. How would Holly look at him now, for example? As a fellow whose libretto had buried Violencia? As someone whose first try at a Broadway musical was so bad the show couldn’t even make it to New York? Of course, he hadn’t done too well with her before the closing notice, either. You never knew. Maybe she loved losers.
After the sad meeting with the producers, Gurney returned to his suite and started to pack a few things. Hartog walked in after him and rubbed his dried and aging hands.
“All right, let’s go,” he said.
“Where’s that?” said Gurney.
“To work. This is a good time for it.”
“I don’t understand. The closing notice is up. What are we going to work on?”
“The show,” said Hartog. “You don’t think I’m going to quit, do you?”
“What’s the point if it’s all over? How the hell am I supposed to do anything when there’s no chance the show will open?”
“Well, we’re down here, aren’t we? There’s always a chance. Anything can happen. Fuck Undertag. I don’t need him. I’ll get another producer. I am bringing the motherfucker in, that’s all. I’ll beg and I’ll steal and I’ll plead and I’ll bleed, but I am bringing this goddamned show in.”
“Maybe I’d feel that way, too, if my mother were playing the lead,” said Gurney.
And, of course, once he’d made the cruel remark he felt like cutting out his tongue.
Hartog took a long time before he replied.
“I knew you felt that way, Paul,” he said, before opening the door to leave. “I just wish you hadn’t said it.”
Gurney waited around a few hours and then tried calling the director.
“I’m sorry,” said the operator, “but Mr. Hartog is not taking any calls.”
Gurney packed the rest of his things and started to walk out of the suite. Then he turned back and unpacked and spent the night in Holliman, not seeing anyone, not tellling anyone he was there. He decided there would be plenty of time to pull out the next morning.
After he’d ordered breakfast, Gurney realized it was his birthday. It had been years since this was a cause for any kind of celebration. But he was forty now. He had been led to believe he would now have a clear vision of the highway ahead, a knowledge of which dreams were possible, which were absurd. As he ate his French toast, he realized that his vision, sad to say, was still indistinct. His hope was that it would clear up as the day went along.
As Gurney finished his second cup of coffee, he remembered suggesting to Angela that they take an apartment together. She loved the idea and had immediately sublet her flat to a team of bachelor Armed Robbery detectives, and moved in with a girlfriend. As a result, Gurney, at least for the moment, had no place to stay in New York. He hung around the hotel a bit longer and did some drinking, and soon it was early evening. Hartog would be telling the cast about the closing notice about this time, he realized. In a sense, this represented an official good-bye to Gurney’s adopted showbiz family. Prompted by that thought, he put in a call to his ex-wife at the home they’d shared on Staten Island—thinking perhaps he could spend a night or two with her to tide him over.
The phone was picked up by a man who sounded suspiciously like Detective Furbisher, an auto-thefter from his precinct.
“Wait a second, Paul,” said the man, “and I’ll let you talk to your old wife.”
Moments later, Gilda Gurney picked up the phone.
“Why are you calling me?” she asked.
As she spoke, Gurney heard a chorus of hearty male voices in the background. It sounded like the late shift in the detectives’ bullpen.
“They posted the closing notice tonight,” said Gurney. “I’d like to come back and stay with you a while. Nothing serious. I have nowhere to go, and I don’t think I can deal with a hotel.”
“Oh, Paul, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m having a few of your old friends over for the weekend. Maybe we can meet for lunch sometime.”
“Its my goddamned birthday, Gilda.”
“I’m aware of that. I sent you an ashtray.”
“I gave up smoking.”
“And I’m supposed to know everything?”
Gurney hung up and realized, amazingly, that he had begun to cry. It was a most unusual experience, the first time he had ever broken into tears and not given himself plenty of advance warning; the first time that he hadn’t been in on the planning of it. He was embarrassed by the tears, thinking of his old friends at the Bureau and how they would needle him if they ever discovered that he had let himself go in such a shameless manner. But you never knew—maybe they did a little secret crying, too. Maybe that could have been a number for Violencia.
Boo hoo
Boo Hoo
Tough detectives
They cry, too.
Maybe it would have saved the show.
She would do that, he thought. She has some sense of timing. The night my show closes and she’s rolling around on the carpet with all my old friends. He realized, of course, that he had no right to feel that way and that it was her life to lead. There was also a possibility that she wasn’t rolling around on the carpet. But this did not stop the tears. The liquor was partially responsible, and the crying probably had something to do with saying good-bye to the show as well. It was possible he loved Violencia more than he had realized. Was it his fault that he wanted it to be a hit all by itself; without any help from him?
When a room service man appeared with the club sandwich he had ordered, Gurney, still crying, asked the fellow if he’d like to have a drink.
“Take as much as you want,” he said. “Empty the bottle. Take anything you see—my clothes, my money; none of it means anything to me.”
“Maybe I will have a little nip,” said the man.
And he did take a surprisingly modest one, considering the grandiose nature of the invitation.
“I guess you went and caught yourself a little cold,” said the fellow.
It would have been impossible for him not to notice that Gurney was falling apart. Gurney was touched by his discretion.
“I been divorced,” said the room service man. “Best thing to do is move to another city. Interstate is the only way to handle the bitch. You send her a check and chances are she won’t cross state lines.”
The man had an uncanny way of getting right to the heart of Gurney’s difficulties. After he’d left, Gurney kept wondering whether the man had known the librettist was crying or whether he’d genuinely thought he had a cold or a mild flu attack. He continued to ponder this question, which was obviously related to the larger one of whether room service people could divine such things. Speculating on the matter somehow lifted his spirits, and he soon felt surprisingly chipper. Since he had no place in particular to go, he decided to attend the traditional “closing notice” party and to face the cast. The appearance would make him seem like a hero; no one had to know that the real reason he had remained behind was that his ex-wife was taking on the entire Homicide Bureau.
As Gurney was trying to decide which of his two windbreakers to wear, a call came through from a fellow who said he worked for an East Coast newspaper. He had heard that the show had given up the ghost.
“What our readers would like to know, sir, is how does it feel to have one of these things shot down beneath your feet? What’s the sensation in your gut?”
“I haven’t quite gathered my thoughts yet,” said Gurney.
“Well, then, suppose I help you along. I’ll give you some choices and you tell me the one you’d like to put in: A—a sharp, stabbing pain around the heart area; B—a dull sense of nausea in the pit of the stomach; or C—a certain sense of nothingness, a ‘What’s-it-all-mean-anyway’ attitude?”
“I’ll have to get back to you,” Gurney said, and hung up.
He stayed in the suite for another hour and then strolled into the Broadway Grotto where the Hartogs and Han Nihsu were having dinner. Clement Hartog was stunned to see Gurney. He jumped up and threw his arms around the ex-dick.
“Good Christ, Paul,” said the enfeebled director, “you’ll never know what this means to me.”
Essie Hartog wept until lumps of her mascara began to drop into her minestrone soup. Han Nihsu hugged Gurney to her tight little body and rubbed her aging but tough little Asian buttocks back and forth across his thighs.
Violencia! Page 19