by ILIL ARBEL
“What will you do?” asked Aubrey sympathetically.
“I am not sure, but I must find a solution, or the film will be lost.”
Aubrey became a mysterious and dark character. The Scarlet Pimpernel, perhaps, ready to defend the aristocracy from the disobedient, destructive mob, represented here by Miss Tudor who would not listen to Mr. Goldwasser. He leaned in Mr. Goldwasser’s direction and spoke conspiratorially in a low, clear stage whisper.
“I know what to do, Mr. Goldwasser. A difficult, risky move, but worth the effort.”
“You have an idea, Mr. Clover? Please tell me!” said Mr. Goldwasser, intrigued by Aubrey’s new image, which he, as a producer, was able to appreciate to the full.
“Mr. Goldwasser, do you remember what Alcott told us about his drinking exclusively orange juice?” asked Aubrey, looking seriously into Mr. Goldwasser’s eyes. “He mentioned that he had danced on tables when his drink was spiked with an alcoholic drink. If you give this boy enough brandy, he will prance and cavort. Perhaps he is good. And I have said from the beginning that he can be extremely good looking if he just relaxes a little.”
“The orange juice… yes…” said Mr. Goldwasser pensively. “I see what you mean. Mr. Clover, you are a playwright in a million. We will orchestrate this thing properly. I will go and get Keith to do the job.”
“Yes,” said Aubrey. “Only the young would have enough courage to do such a thing.” Mr. Goldwasser got up and approached Edmond, who was having a peaceful cup of coffee, unaware of the coming ordeal.
“Keith, come with me,” said Mr. Goldwasser imperiously. Edmond followed him back into the dining room.
“My boy,” said Mr. Goldwasser, “Mr. Clover has found the perfect solution. I know how much you want out of this wretched film. If my plan succeeds, I will pay you quite handsomely to release you from your contract, and you can go in peace and learn your real trade, writing plays.”
“This is very generous of you, Mr. Goldwasser. But what can we do?”
“We don’t have to go far. We shall recruit Alcott.”
“Alcott?”
“Why not? All the leading men that have worked with Glamora were unknown. Alcott is a good dancer, he adores Glamora, and he would kill to be in a film. I know that even though he is not aware that I know.”
“But Miss Tudor is not fond of him,” said Edmond hesitantly. “And for some reason she thinks she likes me, Heaven knows why. Would she be willing to make the exchange?”
“Not without a plan, but I know exactly what to do. If this little prig would just once remove his obnoxious jacket and tie, and wash some of that disgusting brilliantine or whatever he uses from his hair, he would be quite good looking. And if he dances beautifully on tables or even just on the floor, Glamora will be enchanted with him and perhaps lose her ridiculous fixation on you.”
“It’s possible,” said Edmond cautiously. “But dangerous.”
“Not in the least. Easy as pie, my boy. Just spike his orange juice with all the brandy in this bottle.” He took his beautiful silver flask from his pocket and handed it to Edmond.
“Me? Spike his drink? But…” Edmond said. “What if…”
“No ifs or buts, my boy. This is the time for decisive action. I know how much you don’t want to do this film, and I think you are right. This is not your type of film, and truthfully, you don’t want to act at all. Yes, you were good in Fever in Peru, but this is different. So just get on with the job. In America, we are efficient.”
“But he may become ill!” said Edmond weakly.
“He did not become ill when his friends spiked his orange juice some years ago, remember? He danced on tables. Go on, Keith, put the flask in your pocket, and fulfill your mission. You are about to save the film.”
Edmond returned to the drawing room, and to his surprise found that everyone had gone out into the garden except Mr. Alcott. He was bent over in his seat, his head in his hands.
“I hate you, Keith,” he said without passion. “I really hate you.”
“Why?” said Edmond, surprised. “What have I done?”
“Nothing. It’s her. Miss Tudor, I mean. I worship the ground she walks on, and here she is, totally fixated on you.”
“But it’s not my fault, Alcott. Really, I would rather she did not like me. It’s so embarrassing.”
“I don’t believe you; she is a Goddess. I took the job with Mr. Goldwasser because I wanted to become an actor, and I thought he could help me if he liked me. But then I met Miss Tudor, and I lost my heart.”
“But you still want to be an actor?”
“Yes, of course I do. I want to act with Her. My head is spinning, Keith, I just can’t think.”
“My friend, this is the time for orange juice,” said Edmond authoritatively. “I am going to the kitchen to get you some. You need to drink orange juice and think clearly.”
With great luck Edmond found some orange juice in the kitchen, took Mr. Goldwasser’s flask out of his pocket, and poured a generous amount of brandy into the jar. He then took two glasses, and filled one of them with water for himself.
“There you go, Alcott,” he said, pouring the spiked orange juice and handing it to Mr. Alcott. “Drink up.”
“You are a pal after all,” said Mr. Alcott. “Thanks! Cheers!” and he drained the glass with one gulp.
“This is an amazingly tasty orange juice,” he said, surprised, examining his glass. “I had no idea orange juice tasted differently in England!”
“Everything does,” said Edmond and poured another glass for the unsuspecting Mr. Alcott, who sipped this one with more patience. “Marvellous,” said Mr. Alcott. “This was a glorious idea, Keith. It’s amazing what orange juice can do for you – I am feeling so much better already. As a matter of fact, I am not in the least depressed anymore. I am happy, I am powerful, and I want to find Glamora and sweep her off her feet. I want to waltz. Put a waltz record on the gramophone, Keith.” He took off his glasses, flung his jacket on a nearby armchair and loosened his tie, then passed his two hands through his hair, fluffing it and messing up the sticky arrangement in a most becoming way.
Edmond obeyed, and put a record on the gramophone. At that moment, the party came in from the garden, and stood still, with their mouths slightly open, when they saw Mr. Alcott starting to dance. He twirled, he glided, he turned around. The King of Waltz from Vienna himself would have been proud to behold this performance. Mr. Alcott leapt on the table, and he leapt off the table, all with the grace of a professional. His eyes suddenly focused on the observers, and he danced toward them and took Glamora in his arms. “Dance with me, my Goddess!” he cried passionately, and Glamora, as light on her feet as he was, started gliding with him across the room. Edmond changed records to a tango. Mr. Alcott removed a red carnation from the vase on the table and put it between his teeth. This was the kind of tango that took the breath of the spectators away. Glamora and Mr. Alcott glided on the floor like drops of oil, every movement electrified. And when Mr. Alcott dipped Glamora so that she bent back, practically doubled over, which description we hope our intelligent readers immediately visualize and understand clearly, and simultaneously, Glamora lifted one perfect leg almost vertically, the group was compelled to applaud.
“We can never duplicate such a tango in our film, unfortunately,” said Mr Goldwasser, who was enjoying the spectacle tremendously. “Lady Fitz-Gardner could never do anything so risqué.”
“But… but…” said Mrs. Rivers, who was stunned by the display, “it was utterly magnificent… the audience would adore it…”
“Aurora Fitz-Gardner is a respectable married woman, Mrs. Rivers,” said Mr Goldwasser. “A pure and chaste one, with a living husband.”
“Yes, I know,” said Mrs. Rivers miserably, “that is what I always attempt to convey… but maybe one should move on with the times… Do you remember, when Maisie, the head screen writer, talked about a sequel… where Lady Fitz-Gardner is free to pursue her love of Nest
or Chardonay…”
“But you really ticked her off, Mrs. Rivers, remember? You practically had me dismiss her.”
“I do remember, Mr. Goldwasser, but I think I was, perhaps, a bit hasty. You must forgive me if I make a mistake; the cinema is a new world for me…”
“Bravo, Mrs. Rivers. You are a woman of great intelligence and flexibility of mind. I will send a telegram to Maisie, then, to prepare herself for more work. She will be delighted – she really set her heart on a sequel. What do you say, Glam? One more film? A sequel? With a happy ending?” he called to the dancing Glamora. She waved back cheerfully and cried back, “Anything you say, Jake. I’ll be happy to work with you again, Mrs. Rivers.” She went on dancing gloriously with Mr. Alcott.
Mr. Goldwasser looked at them benevolently. “She will still vamp them when she is ninety years old,” he said to Aubrey. “What a girl.” The dancers floated into the garden, and hovered like fireflies on the lawn. Edmond changed records to a rumba, and Mr. Alcott flung his carnation playfully at the group, then whirled Glamora as they went on dancing elegantly on the grass.
“Let’s see what she says when she comes back from the garden,” said Aubrey to Mr. Goldwasser. “If I were writing this scene, she would immediately have The Talk with Edmond, while still flushed from the dance. But this is your scene and you know best. From one professional to another, you have scripted this situation exceedingly well, Mr. Goldwasser.”
“Thank you, Mr. Clover. I am honored by your good opinion,” said Mr. Goldwasser. “And what would I have done without your suggestion, I don’t know. I think she will indeed speak to Keith. And you were right, Alcott is suddenly quite good looking.”
The dancers swirled back into the room. Suddenly, Mr. Alcott stopped. “I feel a little strange,” he said. Letting Glamora go rather abruptly, so that she staggered a little, laughing, he curled up like a puppy in an armchair and immediately went to sleep.
“I have never seen such dancing in my life,” said Aubrey, becoming a casting director.
“Neither have I,” said Mr. Goldwasser with great sincerity. “Glam, darling, this boy dances like a professional.”
“Yes,” said Miss Tudor, looking at the sleeping Mr. Alcott with great affection. “I have never had such a dancing partner. And look at him; who would have thought he could be so attractive! Why, this young man is star quality!”
It was now or never, Edmond felt. “Miss Tudor,” he said, rising to the occasion, “may I be honest with you?”
“Of course, Hank,” said Glamora. “Always, I hope.”
“Let’s face it, Miss Tudor. I could never dance like that, you tried and tried and I simply could not do it. Miss Brinton tried and I still could not do it. The professional did not work out. Things are at a standstill, which is very bad for the film and for Mr. Goldwasser. And here is a man who is not only a better dancer, but also very handsome and pleasant. In addition, he wants very badly to be an actor, and he wants to act with you more than anything in the world. Miss Tudor, I want to renounce my position with Send Me No Lilies and hand it over to Alcott. He was meant to be Nestor Chardonay.”
“My darling Hank,” said Glamora, tears in her eyes. “This is the kind of generosity that is seldom encountered in our profession. Are you sure?”
“Yes, Miss Tudor. I am absolutely sure. Why, even his name is really Nestor! This must have been a message! It was meant!”
“Oh, Hank,” said Glamora. “I am speechless with admiration.”
“I am just sorry that you will have to re-shoot all the scenes I have already done,” said Edmond. “I feel terrible about having wasted your time and money, Mr. Goldwasser.”
“Nothing was wasted, my boy,” said Mr. Goldwasser. “You and Alcott are exactly the same size. I will impose his face on your figure. Yes, I know it did not work with the dancer, but it’s different with Alcott. He is not a delicate flower like that dancer, but a very sturdy boy, just like you. It’s a bit of a miracle that he is so light on his feet, considering his size. Here, pull him up and make him stand. He can go on sleeping, it does not matter. I just want to prove a point.”
Aubrey and Edmond, with a combined effort, pulled the sleeping Mr. Alcott up from his chair. He opened his eyes, smiled seraphically, and went back to sleep, standing up.
“Here, Keith, turn him around and have Mr. Clover support him. Then, stand back to back with Alcott.”
The whole group had to admit that there was not an inch difference between the two. Same height, same breadth of shoulders, everything matched as if Edmond and Mr. Alcott were identical twins.
“You are a genius, Jake,” said Glamora.
“So what else is new,” said Mr. Goldwasser. “Let’s all have a drink to celebrate the new turn of events.” He pulled out his silver flask, then smiled. “Of course, it’s empty, it all went into the orange juice… ah, here is a nice bottle of something or other… may I, Lady Merton? The new arrangement will be great for both of you, Keith. Alcott will have his heart’s desire, which is to be a film star. Yes, I knew that was what he wanted all along, of course. I can read you boys like a book. You, Keith, will be released from the film and I will pay you very handsomely for your heroic sacrifice. This money, on top of the loot you made as Simon Bolivar in Fever in Peru, will allow you to live very comfortably while you train under Mr. Clover. No, don’t argue, my boy, you deserve every bit of the money. With what you had to go through with the dancing, and with Glam vamping you… you have earned it.”
“Vamping Hank?” asked Glamora, surprised. “Are you mad, Jake? Hank was like a son to me. I kept thinking that if I had ever had a son, he would have looked and behaved just like Hank. So sweet, so innocent. Did you think I was flirting with you, Hank?”
“Well, yes, a little bit, Miss Tudor,” said Edmond, very embarrassed, his face turning crimson.
“It was all my fault,” said Emma. “I thought you did and I told him so, Miss Tudor. I don’t know how to apologize enough.”
“I must have a terrible reputation,” said Glamora without heat. “I hope it didn’t bother either of you in any significant way. I liked you so much from the start, Miss Lover, and we both love clothes. Come to think of it, if I ever had a daughter, I would have liked her to be like you. If my behaviour annoyed you, I hope I can compensate by my future plans for your designs.”
“Oh, Miss Tudor,” said Emma. “Do you really want me to work with you? I have never felt so honoured in my life.”
“Of course I do; we will have a grand time working together. But Jake, didn’t you notice that I have treated Hank differently from all the other boys? And I was so hoping to advance his career. I never cared about the other boys’ careers.”
“Alcott suspected you were in love with Keith, as a basis for the difference in the way you treated him,” said Mr. Goldwasser. “My dear girl, you have vamped and conquered a legion of boys. Who would have thought you have discovered your maternal instincts all of a sudden? I hope you are not offended by all that, I know you don’t take any of the boys seriously.”
Glamora laughed. “You can never tell how I will treat our dear Mr. Alcott in the future – did you see the way he dances the tango? Have you ever seen such passion? And the way his hair fell over his eyes? Watch out, everyone!”
“What a woman,” said Mr. Goldwasser to no one in particular, and raised his glass. “I am so proud of you, Glam.” But deep down at heart he was still a little concerned. Yes, his plan was a total success, the film would now work out perfectly, and for the moment Glam seemed very happy with this new development. But all this talk about people being like her sons or her daughters worried him. Did Glamora really start to feel her age? Was she becoming truly discontented with her work and her life? He would have to look into it.
Emma, too, had a few uncomfortable thoughts. She finally believed that Glamora did not deliberately flirt with Edmond. But that did not mean that he did not love Glamora deeply anyway, did it? An unrequited love was even more de
vastating, more binding than a love rewarded! Everyone knew that, or at least in the films Emma saw it was made very clear. So what did Edmond really feel? And for that matter, why did she care about it, since she was so deeply committed to her love for Noel Merton?
Chapter Eleven
“But, but, but, Mr. Clover,” Edmond stammered, “shouldn’t it be the goal of a young playwright to explore, and then expose, the seamy side of life? To show the drama, the poverty, the sadness of everything? To become one with the great mass of suffering people and be their champion?”
“No,” said Aubrey calmly, lighting a cigarette. “The goal of a young playwright is to write good plays.”
“But the subject matter! It’s important, isn’t it? I am not sure I understand,” said Edmond, despairing of life.
“It’s simple, Edmond. When it comes to comedy, you are a natural. I can’t believe how good the comedy you showed me last time we met, really was. I could get it staged now, except that I think that if you practise a little further the plays will be even better, and since you can afford to wait, why rush? You have a genius for the humourous. I was astonished by the quality of your comedy; it was solid, tight, and highly entertaining. I read parts of it to Jessica and she laughed through it and demanded to read the whole thing, and then laughed some more. And here you go and get bogged down with this so-called drama. Maudlin, sentimental tripe, that’s what it is; I am angry with you.”
“So what am I to do?”
“Isn’t it as clear as day? Stick to comedy.”
“But writing comedy is so easy, Mr. Clover. I don’t feel I am doing real work…”
“I see. When something is easy, it seems inadequate to you, right?” Aubrey drew on his cigarette and laughed. “How trite, how silly. I assume you believe the myth that real authors panic as they struggle with the blank white paper, battle with the concepts that elude them, and so on… They say so because it make them look interesting, that is all. Moreover, Edmond, what do you know about the inner turmoil of an insane woman who is fighting with her desire to commit a horrible murder of an entire family of total strangers?”