“I don’t understand.”
“The last thing that happened before my scandalous exhibition of a little bit ago was you calling to those two men and I just assumed—he is deaf, your husband?”
“No; that’s Rudy Miller. He’s a writer friend of Charley’s.”
Branch smiled. “How silly of me. Well, then, how wonderful of Mr. Miller, ignoring his handicap, writing all those mysteries the way he does.”
“Rudy doesn’t write mysteries,” Betty Jane said. “He’s just written one book—”
“I’m just getting everything wrong tonight. I would have sworn—well, perhaps it’s because it’s such a common name, Miller.”
“Rudy’s R. V. Miller. V for Valentino. It’s really very easy to remember.”
“I’m just horrible with names,” Branch told her. “Would you believe me? I’ve forgotten it already.”
“ ... still, it must be fascinating, working with writers the way you do, Mr. Wesker. Would you like a slice of ham?”
“Call me Archie. Yeah, I’d like a hunk, thanks.” They moved slowly through the buffet line. “You’re Branch, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, I’ll tell you about writers, Branch. Basically—should I shovel you some turkey?”
“Please.”
“Basically, writers are the most ungrateful sons of bitches on the face of the earth. It’s the editor that makes the book, and you’d think just once a goddam writer would have the decency to admit it. Will you look at that roast beef? I’ll bust.”
“I think I’ll have some too.” Branch forked a slab of rare beef onto his plate, then one onto Archie’s. “I suppose once they make all that money and move into those big country houses—”
“They don’t all live like that, lemme tell you.”
“Where do they live, I wonder?”
“Depends. All over.”
“I think I’ll have to pass up the lobster. For example, are there any writers here? Where do they live? If you’ll take my ham, I can have some crabmeat.”
“Done. Sam Dunnaway lives at Eightieth and West End, Rudy Miller at Orchard off Rivington, Ed—hey, you’re spilling—”
“Sometimes I’m clumsy,” Branch told him.
“ ... basically, it has to do with sacrifices for your art,” Branch said as Charley gave his glass to the bartender. “And when I happened to be talking to your lovely wife earlier, and she happened to mention that you were an editor, well, I just had to talk to you.”
“My pleasure,” Charley said.
“Well, now, I’m a producer, and that’s sort of in the arts, and certainly your writers are artists, and you see, I think it’s best—until one is established—not to get married and have a family. It applies too many pressures. What do you think?”
“Don’t you think it depends on the individual?” Charley said.
“Well, for example, if a man is a writer, and he only has himself to support, he can write whatever he wants. If he has a wife and family, then there’s pressure. Terrible pressure. Are most of your writers married?”
“That’s kind of impossible to answer.”
“Then let’s take a specific. Your lovely wife mentioned that the deaf boy was a writer.”
“Rudy’s single,” Charley said.
“Is he engaged?” Branch said, too quickly.
Charley looked at him.
Branch laughed. “I mean, is he, for example—well, you see, to support my thesis—well, if someone were living with a young lady, that would be the same as ... being married; it would apply pressure and—”
Charley took his drink from the bartender. “I’ve left my wife stranded,” he said. “You’ll have to excuse me.”
“Of course. A pleasure.”
“Yes.” Charley crossed away from the bar. Betty Jane was talking with Archie. Rudy stood beside them. “You have an admirer,” Charley said. “Or something.”
Rudy said nothing.
Charley glanced back at Branch, turned to Rudy. “I’ll describe him, then you can look. But don’t look now; he’s watching you.”
“I always know who’s watching me,” Rudy said.
That night, when Aaron was almost asleep, Branch said, “We’ve got to talk.”
Aaron muttered something about the morning.
“Now.”
Aaron muttered something about going to hell.
Branch turned on his reading lamp. “I mean it, Aaron.”
Aaron whirled over. “Turn that—”
“It’s about the play. About Madonna with Child.”
“What about it?”
“You’ve got to change it.”
“Change it?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“Because it needs changing.”
“I thought you said you loved it.”
“I do love it. It’s brilliant. But it’s got to be changed.”
“Blow it out.”
“You mean you won’t change it?”
“I won’t change it.”
“Then I won’t produce it.” Branch turned off his reading lamp. “Good night, Aaron.”
Aaron lay very still. Then he turned on his reading lamp. “What the hell do you mean, you won’t produce it?”
“Just what I said.”
“Scudder—”
“I’m not kidding, Aaron.”
“The play’s perfect the way it is.”
“Then you won’t have any trouble getting another producer, will you?
“Goddam right I won’t.”
“How wonderful it must be to have such confidence. Sleep tight, Aaron.”
“I will, don’t worry.” He switched off his bed lamp.
“You know what I think, Aaron?” Branch said then.
“It’s after four, let’s knock it off.”
“I think you’re taking a terrible chance.” He switched on his bed lamp. “I love your play. I think it’s brilliant and needs just a few minor little teeny changes. You think it’s perfect. What if we’re both wrong? What if nobody else will touch it?” He switched off his bed lamp. “I sure hope you’re right.”
Aaron made a snore.
“You know what else I think? I think for the first time since we met I’ve got something you want.”
“What have you got besides dandruff?”
“The endurance to suffer your insults. But that’s minor. The theater’s a funny place. What’s important, what’s crucial, is getting done. Being seen. Being heard. It doesn’t matter if the play’s another Hamlet or the actor Kean. What matters is if your talent shows. And if it does, then sometimes other things come. But if you’re never seen or heard, then nothing. And what I’ve got that you want, Aaron, is the desire to do your play. And if I do it, even if it stinks, somebody might think you had some talent. Other things might come. But if I don’t, and if nobody else does either, then nothing. But of course, like you said, the play is perfect, so I’ll shut up. Good night, Aaron.”
Aaron turned on his bed lamp. “All right, smart ass, what changes?”
“There are just two.”
“What are they? Get going.”
Branch turned on his bed lamp and arranged his pillows beneath his back. “The first one involves Clubfoot Claire, the boarder in love with Loretta.”
“Don’t summarize my own play, Scudder. What about her?”
“She’s the best character in the play. Potentially.”
“But?”
“These changes are very small, Aaron. They require next to no rewriting.”
“Tell me, goddammit.”
“Well, Claire has this lesbianic love for Loretta, right?”
“Right.”
“The lesbian stuff has got to go,” Branch said.
Aaron grabbed for a cigarette. “You’re out of your trick head, Scudder.”
“There is no audience for a lesbian play. It’s too sick. Nobody wants to see one and I don’t want to produce one.”
“There’s no play if she’s not a dike. You can’t justify her calling up the rich kid and telling the truth. Love’s the only reason.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Branch said.
“When girls love each other they’re lesbians, Scudder.”
“Who says Claire had to be a girl?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Make her a boy. It’s so easy, Aaron, don’t you see? Make her a boy and you don’t even have to change her name—Clare can be a man’s name too. It’s perfect. The lesbianism goes—just like that—and you’ve got to admit a boy could make that call.”
Aaron had to smile.
“Well?”
“It’s crazy, Scudder. What the hell’s a guy doing living in close quarters like that with a mother and daughter? It’s a little rigged, if you ask me.”
“Not if he’s her brother,” Branch said.
Aaron broke out laughing.
“It’s not funny, Aaron.”
“I’m laughing at something else.”
“Well, stop.”
In time, Aaron did.
“What do you think if Clare’s her brother?” Branch said then.
“Scudder, that’s incest.”
“So?”
“Lesbianism’s sick but incest is ginger peachy?”
“There’s all the difference in the world. Lesbianism is cheap, sensational. Incest—Ford did it three hundred years ago—’Tis Pity She’s a Whore. You’d just be giving new life to an old myth, Aaron. There’s nothing cheap about that.”
“I hope your boots are waterproof,” Aaron said, “ ’cause it’s getting kinda deep in here.” He began laughing again.
“Aaron, I’m not kidding!”
Aaron stopped. Quickly this time. “All right; what’s the other change?”
“You’ll do the first one, then?”
“I didn’t say that. I just asked about the other.”
“It’s about Clare too. Aaron, I just don’t think an audience—this is from a producer’s point of view, remember—people have got to pay money to see this play, and I just don’t think an audience is going to enjoy looking at a character club-footing his way around all evening long. It’s painful to see, Aaron. And besides, that’s not what the play’s about. Clare doesn’t have to have a clubfoot.”
“There’s got to be some kind of infirmity!”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Branch said. “What if he were deaf?”
“Deaf?”
“I think that’s a perfect solution. From both of our points of view. There’s nothing wrong with looking at a person who’s deaf—you can barely see a hearing aid nowadays—and you’ve got to admit it’s certainly an infirmity.”
Aaron nodded. He put out one cigarette, lit another. “Why are we having this talk now?”
“Because we didn’t have it a week ago.”
“Meaning?”
“There’s something you don’t know, Aaron. You think my mother’s the only one who’s read the play. She loved it, and you think she’s all, but she isn’t. I gave it to some people two weeks ago. Very bright people. Rich and bright.”
“And?”
“Well, they had some interesting comments.”
“They hated it, didn’t they?”
“Now, Aaron—”
“Goddammit, admit it—they hated it!”
“I’m not going to say anything as long as you insist on shouting.”
Aaron lit a cigarette.
“That makes two,” Branch said.
“I’ll light fifty if I want,” Aaron said. He flicked both burning cigarettes across the room.
“You’re just crazy sometimes,” Branch said. He got out of bed and retrieved the cigarettes.
Aaron had another lit and in his mouth.
Branch went to the bathroom, dropped the cigarettes down the toilet, flushed it. When he came back he said, “That was to give you time to calm down.”
“It’s a good play,” Aaron said, his lips barely moving. Then: “Isn’t it?”
“Of course it is.”
“I had a bad experience once,” Aaron went on softly. “With the novel I wrote. I don’t think I could stand it if something like that happened again. I tried on this play, Branch. I really tried. Just as hard as I could.”
“Aaron, it’s a wonderful piece of work and it’s going to be even better.”
“But they did hate it?”
“Hate’s a very strong word.”
“I really tried on this play, Branch. Did you tell them that?”
“They all had lovely things to say about your talent, Aaron. Believe me.”
“But they hated the lesbian part?”
“All of them. Yes.”
“How many people did you give it to?”
“Five, six. It doesn’t matter. Nobody liked the lesbian thing and nobody liked the idea of spending all night with a cripple. One of them suggested the deafness.”
“They didn’t want to invest any money?”
“Aaron, the money’s my responsibility, so forget it.” He lay back down in bed and turned off his bed lamp.
Aaron grabbed him. “Now you tell me what they said!”
“They said I was crazy to produce it. There. Now you know.”
Aaron turned off his bed lamp. His cigarette glowed in the darkness.
“I’m sorry I had to tell you that, Aaron.”
Aaron’s cigarette glowed brighter.
“I want you to know if you try and take it to other producers, I won’t hold a grudge.”
“Will you produce it?”
“Will you change it?”
“I’ll change it.”
“I’ll produce it.”
“You know what, Scudder?”
“What?”
“You beat me.”
“I guess I did.”
“For the very first time.”
“Probably won’t happen again.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Time will tell.”
“Doesn’t it always?”
The day Aaron started rewriting, Branch took the subway down to Orchard Street. He wandered around until, after about an hour, he saw what he was looking for. Up ahead of him, the other boy cut through the crowd and Branch followed, careful not to be seen. When the other boy entered an old building, Branch hurried across the street, hoping to find the floor, and a moment later the dark face appeared momentarily in a second-floor window. Then the face withdrew, down came the shade. Branch stood on the opposite sidewalk, his hands behind his back, staring. A little later he bought himself a paper and read it, staring up, every few lines, at the shade on the second-floor window. That was what he saw that day, and in the days ensuing: the shade. What he did not see was the dark figure on the roof behind him who crept onto the top of the fire escape—graceful, quiet, sad, still: watching.
The room was very small. There was a chair and a desk and a sink. The room was warm. Outside, there was no wind on Orchard Street. The boy lay on the bed, his head hurting. He wore white pants and a tee shirt and was barefoot. He got up and crossed the room, spinning the “cold” spigot on the sink, but the coolness could not seep behind his eyes. He spun the spigot the other way, turning it as far off as it got. The dripping was audible to him only when he stood nearby. He crossed back to his bed, lay down, closed his eyes. The knock came then.
“Mr. Miller?”
“The door is open.”
“My card.”
He half sat, taking the card from the balding man who smiled at him, dressed impeccably in gray suit and blue shirt and striped red tie and shined cordovans. “Yes, Mr. Scudder?”
“This is really the most incredible coincidence. I mean that. Coincidence of the very purest kind. You were outside a bit earlier this morning, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Well—can you hear me? Am I speaking loudly enough?”
“Yes.”
“The reason I ask
is—that’s where the coincidence part comes in—you see, I’m a producer—theatrical producer for now—and I’ve got this play I’m doing—brilliant thing, Madonna with Child—and the main part, you see, it calls for a young man about your age and looks and—here’s the incredible part now—the script calls for him to be deaf, hard of hearing, whatever, you understand? And the second I saw you something just clicked and I thought, ‘There’s your actor, Branch’—you may call me Branch—it’s really quite warm in here, isn’t it? May I open the window?”
“It is open.”
“Of course, of course, with the shade down I couldn’t tell. Well, to go on, it would make the most marvelous publicity story—you understand, producer just wandering along, sees—well, you must read the play for yourself. I probably sound like an absolute lunatic going on this way, but you see I’ve read the play and I can just tell from talking to you now how perfect you are—it’s one of those crazy wonderful coincidences that just happens sometimes, you understand—it’s a superb part, best in the play—it will make whoever plays it—but why am I rambling on when you can see for yourself. Here—” and he handed over a typed manuscript—“see for yourself, read it. It’s hot off the presses, as they say—this is the only true copy—I haven’t even had time to have it mimeographed yet, the rewrites were just finished late last night and aren’t I the lucky one, casting the crucial part just like that—go on, take it, take it, take it.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Scudder, but—”
“No buts now, no buts, no-no, you just do as I say, take it and—”
“I’d really rather not, thank—”
“Listen, I promise you I’m not as crazy as I may sound to you right now. I know a certain amount about the theater—I’ve wanted all my life to produce plays—and I know where of I speak. Now, I understand your reticence and all that—I mean, if I came bursting in on me like this, I’d be reticent too—but you must have confidence in my judgment—can’t you stop the sink from dripping? Really, it’s maddening.” He glared at the sink. “Forget it, it’s not important. What is important is that you have faith in me and in my judgment and in this absolutely phenomenal coincidence that has brought us both together—and don’t you worry if you’re not experienced—ninety percent of the stars of this world can’t act, but they have something else—they have what you have—I could tell it as soon as I saw you and now that I’ve talked to you I know it, I swear to Jesus God I’m telling the truth—you can’t take your eyes off them—you watch them—that’s what makes them special—not experience—no—they dominate—wherever they are, the circle forms around them—that is their essence, and it is yours—”
The Novels of William Goldman Page 80