In downtown Los Angeles Mexican and Chinese destitutes, having sought the shade of withered trees, lie drunk in sun-soaked parks. The villas of old Spain are shabby. The Dons long since took their swords in the service of Carthage. Now Negroes and defeated immigrants shelter in haciendas, whose brittle lawns glitter with discarded cans and rotting candy wrappers. The palms are dusty and in need of repair. Even in Paradise the cannon-fodder of Carthage makes camp, awaiting a signal which it might not even recognise. Ich weiss. From their hill-top fortresses gracious Lords and Ladies look carelessly on steeples, cupolas and high adobe, seeing only antique romance through the blue-grey haze of noon. Their vassal city appears to dream in peace. Her boyars cannot guess how fiercely their security is guarded. Her great princes refuse to venture into ghetto slums so never confront the envious, misshapen creatures who plot, however lazily, to steal the treasures of the citadels; to steal the golden dreams. One is not supposed to speak of such things. Ich glaube es nicht. One joins the swift galliard and turns one’s head against the warning evidence. Ich will es nicht! Who that has tasted Hollywood’s luxurious opiates wishes to contemplate for a moment the threat growing like a virus in the Old Plaza, where Los Angeles began? Where, once more, Mexicans are an occupying force and the nights are horrible with their stamping feet, their wails, their melancholy self-reference, their awful guitars. Nicht wahr? Who can blame us?
Our dreams are always real. The test comes when we attempt to turn them into money, seeking power to build still greater dreams. Do not listen to the envious and the insensate. The illusion of Hollywood is thoroughly tangible. They have never learned, her citizens, that some things are impossible. The rules are formed and broken according to their own experience. Hollywood is a self-possessed city. Her vassals of the valley and the coast will claim she is a dissipation of someone else’s smoke; a mirage inhabited by poppy-chewing luftmaystern merely the more attractive alternative of muselmanisch. She has, they say, no special character or moral condition. She is all fantasy. This need not be challenged. The worn-out illusions of Paris and Rome were certainly as glamorous in their day. They reflected the wish-dreams, the Wunschtraumen, of their times: an affirmation of the popular mass. I cannot understand them. What are they saying? That Hollywood does not exist? Or should not exist? Was Periclean Athens not real? Or less real than Wren’s London and Speer’s Berlin? Are these critics of the Traumhauptstadt angry because her great palaces grew from wealth earned by answering the public’s needs rather than gold squeezed from fearful peasants? Do they think age alone makes the palaces of Europe attractive? What can be more vulgar and banal than Versailles? What cathedral was ever in worse taste than St Peter’s? They say Hollywood is a false scent, a gilded corpse, a trap. Did they not once say the same of Florence and Venice, and Rome herself? Hollywood attracts would-be popular actors. Florence attracted would-be popular painters and sculptors. Was she responsible for the disappointment of the ones who failed to find favour? Yet every day the tabloids tell us how some wretched ex-waitress has been ‘ruined’ by Hollywood. In other words Hollywood somehow conspired in her downfall, first luring her with false promises, then corrupting her and finally ‘destroying’ her. And what are Hollywood’s motives for this senseless behaviour? Viheyst dos? What would the Sun or the Reveille do with every eighteenth-century doxy who dreamed of becoming a King’s courtesan but actually wound up as a serving-wench in some provincial tavern? Was heisst das?
Hollywood is the first true city of the twentieth century. Like Rome or Byzantium she thinks herself inviolable. I have seen it all on the television. Of course there are changes, but the core is preserved. Was muss ich zehlen? A city founded on abstracts (and in this she is by no means the first) she next sought to make those abstracts reality. This is a common process. Wie lange muss ich werten?
Hollywood, though constantly threatened by her neighbours, is the strongest fortress of the modern world. She must not grow lazy. Hollywood purged herself once. It was painful, but she was successful. She purged herself as John Wayne might purify his blood after a rattlesnake bite; by drawing out the poison with his mouth, then, with a white-hot Bowie knife, cauterising the wound. Hollywood spat the poison into the sea, sending it East where it had come from. She banished writers, a few producers, some directors, a tiny percentage of her actors, and let them try to swim in the unfriendly ocean of reality. They drowned, most of them. A few eventually reclaimed themselves from Carthage. It is time for her to draw the poison from her arteries again.
Half-caste youths in studded leather ride their motorcycles amongst her fallen monuments. Mongrel dogs defecate upon slabs engraved with the names of honourable Lords and Ladies on that crumbling Avenue of the Stars. Gangs of gaudy vandals run unchecked over the broken walls of once unassailable castles. They loot the rotting costumes, the faded scenery. It is all that is left now of Republic and RKO, of Fox and Lasky. Hollywood offered her prophecies in so many films. She warned the world of the dangers of interbreeding and loose moral standards. Griffith drummed this message home, even in Broken Blossoms, the most unsound of his films (though Lillian Gish was exceptional). He died in poverty, that great man. From me he got only ‘trousers’. Everything he predicted came true. Pray, all of you, for the great Tsar City, the New Byzantium, the citadel of our Faith. Vergenen Sie nicht. Die Kapelle spielt zu schnell. Rock-and-roll magnates, champions of all that is barbaric, are the inheritors of our sunlit, melancholy ruins. Who could know The Jazz Singer would lead to this? Yet God is with his Emperor Stadt, even now. Not the yammering, drooling old God, but the new one, the Greek. The white palaces still stand guard above the valley, only apparently sleeping. Who better to accuse her than I? But I shall not. Six thousand miles from me and careless of my name, she yet retains my loyalty. Byzantium, you blaybn lebn. Hollywood was ever a Christian city, though many of her princes began as Jews. Wer Jude ist, bestimme Ich. Why not? Auf gut Deutsch. The Venice of the near past is still in a perpetual celebration, a carnival. Her pier swarms with happy souls. The sea is calm today. The ferris wheel turns slowly, like a useless mill. I walk beneath rococo arcades, her wooden fretwork, her brick that imitates stone. I admire the huge gondola on the Grand Canal which, itself, is smaller than the original. The gondolier sings some mock-operatic snatch as he poles his passengers towards the watery cul-de-sac’s terminal. The little railways flash and rattle. The yellow trolleys roll by. And girls in pretty beads and skimpy frocks, in cloche and aigrette, skip upon the arms of blazered Midwest dandies who walk awkwardly, trying to keep their boaters from falling off their bullet heads. I shall be leaving Venice soon, to move my few goods up the boulevard to the Hollywood Hills. A small grey and white palace of my own, for Esmé’s sake. I know what she prefers. At the pier I turn, still shaded by this idea of some Doge’s cloister, and here stands my bulky partner, my nervous benefactor. ‘Mr Hever!’ I surprise myself with my exclamation. There is a pause. The day is momentarily still. ‘Sara sheyn veter! ‘
‘ Ven kumt on der shiff? ‘
‘You’ll recall I leave by plane tomorrow.’
‘Of course. I was looking for you, old man.’ A wave of embarrassment rocked his untidy frame. ‘I didn’t find you home, so …’
‘I thought I had put all the PXI jobs in hand with Willy.’
‘Of course. That’s dandy. I’m very happy. I felt like a little gabfest, that’s all. Do you mind?’
I proposed we walk along the seafront in the general direction of Long Beach. The promenade stretched for miles, apparently meeting beach and ocean somewhere near Catalina Island. We walked. He said nothing for a long time. Then he suggested lunch at a nearby lobster place. Again I complied. I had time to kill. I was content. The food was excellent and became the topic intermittently for an hour or so. We finished our lobsters, our custards and our coffee and set off again. Still, save for remarks about the beachfronts, the weather, the Curtiss seaplane beginning its approach to Long Beach harbour, he was substantially mute. At last he asked
if I would mind taking a Red Car and continue ‘our real talk,’ by the workshop. I cheerfully agreed and we crossed the street to wait for the massive trolley of the inter-urban line. It was a hot, easy day. Children ran in and out of the water, chased by dogs and parents. Young people grew brown on the sands. Every town along the coast had its pleasure arcades, its little fairgrounds, its share of fun. I was amiable, thinking how much Esmé would be thrilled. I intended to bring her back by train from New York, so we could travel via the Broadway Limited and then take a Pullman all the way from Chicago. I guessed she had become unused to any luxury and what I proposed must surely pleasantly overwhelm her.
In the twilight palms, tall outlines now against the deepening blue of the sky and the rich wash of the sunset, he began to speak rapidly of his motion picture ambitions. He intended to be sole financer of a movie drama to star Mrs Cornelius. ‘She’s agreed to change her name to Dorothy Kord. Names are supposed to be important and easy to remember and all that rot. Mrs Cornelius wasn’t too happy about doing it. Well, to keep it short, what I’d like from you is the story—that’s White Knight and Red Queen—for which of course you’ll get a generous fee. Why don’t you try fleshing it out to full-length. About an hour.’ He made a shy smile. ‘I’m no Griffith.’
‘When would you need the script?’
‘About a month for the first draft.’
From his manner I knew he had not yet come to his chief subject. I said lamely, ‘It would be interesting to work on such a big movie.’ He offered me a large cigar. Against my normal custom, I accepted. We stood on the edge of the quay under the trees, smoking and looking into the rather dirty water.
‘Good,’ he said at length. Then, as usual, out came the real topic in a confused babble of which the salient concluding phrases were: ‘Pallenberg. I want her to marry me. I intend to ask her tomorrow, while you’re in New York. Do you think I have any kind of a chance?’ His huge eyes looked pleadingly down; he had the face of a lonely cow. I took some time before replying.
‘She’s very independent. She evidently cares for you a great deal more than anyone I’ve ever seen her with.’ Of course there was no point in mentioning Mrs Cornelius’s affairs with half the Bolshevik hierarchy. He would have fainted at the very notion. ‘She shouldn’t be rushed. Maybe you can wait until I get back from New York? I’ll have a female second opinion, then.’
Though seriously disappointed, he bowed to my judgement. ‘Okey-dokey. I guess I also wanted to ask if maybe you could, as an old friend, get her general feelings on the matter. What do you say?’ Without giving me time to reply he continued gravely: ‘See, I know she’s got It—whatever it takes to be a great actress. I don’t want her going through any more screen-test hoops. I’m going to cut across all that. She’ll get her movie career, no matter what.’ He looked out to where a tethered seaplane, some Schneider contender, bumped against the wooden cladding of her moorings. ‘See,’ he murmured, ‘it’s incidental I happen to think she’s the most adorable little honey who ever lived and breathed.’
‘I’ll do what I can, old man.’
He was grateful. He frowned, trying to pull himself together. ‘How do you think we should handle publicity for the car? Should we let the papers know we’ve made a successful first run? The press already has rumours. A couple of journalists were in my office today. From the L.A. Times, I think. One of them knew you. What was he called? Irish name?’
‘Callahan?’
‘That sounds right.’
‘The other wasn’t Brodmann, by any chance?’
‘I guess I don’t remember. I thought he was Irish, too.’
I turned away from him. I was becoming over-suspicious. I was also obscurely depressed. I took control of myself. ‘Well, I’ll leave all that with your publicity department. They’re the experts. I can brief them further when I get back.’
He shook my hand, then lumbered inland to find a taxi. I took the trolley back to Venice.
Hever was a pleasant, kind-hearted soul. He would do Mrs Cornelius no harm. Yet I had been upset when he declared his intentions. I was disgusted with myself for my obvious jealousy. Perhaps I feared she would be separated from me for good. I determined to put a decent face on it, give them both my honest help and (assuming Mrs Cornelius accepted him) my blessing. Moreover when I saw her tomorrow morning I would do exactly what Hever had asked. She was coming with me to the airfield, to drive my car back to my new home on Cahuenga Boulevard. I tried to recover what had been a perfect mood, anticipating the flight itself, then my reunion with Esmé. I could not deny that part of me still lusted for Mrs Cornelius. Perhaps I hoped she would one day fulfil my dream. These were not sensible thoughts. Returning to my little San Juan house I telephoned the detective agency I had commissioned to investigate suspected enemies. The woman who answered said I should call back in the morning. I had been a fool to leave it so late. There would be no time tomorrow. I consoled myself. There were a great many Irishmen called Callahan in the world, after all, and I had given innumerable interviews.
Next morning, throwing my little suitcase in the back seat, I drove through empty sloping streets where telephone poles and cable lines were black and sharp against the pallor of the warm Los Angeles dawn, through suburban ease. I climbed up Santa Monica, between massive earthworks already grass-grown, to the Beverly Hills Hotel. There I would collect Mrs Cornelius and continue on to the Burbank Flitplats. She emerged from a main door as I drew up. More glamorous than ever before in a pink silk twin-set trimmed with bands of red, two long strands of pink pearls, a powder-blue cloche and shoes to match, she was washed, perfumed and bright-eyed. She now had credit with every fashionable store. I said she was putting the accounts to good effect. She giggled with relish and pecked my cheek. ‘They bloody love me rahnd ’ere, Ivan! Lady Muck, eh?’ She shrieked. ‘Lady Mucker, anyway. Wot a turn up. I never fort I’d be carriage trade. Not like this. ’Igh-times and an ’arf, an’ no mistake!’
As she climbed in she was bursting with good cheer. Smiling, she nudged me in the ribs. ‘I done yer a favour. Left me bleedin’ brekker on me fuckin’ plate this time! Ow’s that fer sacrifice?’
‘You must never feel—’
‘Stuff that, Ive.’ She was serious. Her chin came up. She looked straight ahead, as she often did when she controlled strong emotion. ‘My silly fault, that kipper. Besides, yer gotta look arter yer own. You an’ me, eh? Birds of a bleedin’ fevver.’ At this she softened and chuckled. Quite uncharacteristically, she reached into my lap and gave me a quick, friendly squeeze to my privates. ‘Don’t let yer littel yid friend git yer inter trouble.’ She was aware of my dismay, my misleading circumcision, and it was a joke she had made before. I was moved almost to tears by her consideration. I promised I would do my best.
We drove through peaceful canyons on the other side of the hills. Steep cliffs rose on either side. Precariously balanced along their rims the new houses of a minor nobility could be glimpsed through fresh-planted bushes and saplings. They had followed the stars. Now some of the great princes were moving on. There was a fashion for beach houses at Santa Monica and Pacific Palisades. The roads were improving steadily, thanks to all the immigrants from other States who flooded daily in hundreds to Los Angeles. There was work for these Iowa hopefuls, but I think they were drawn chiefly by the prospect of living in the same city as Fairbanks, Chaplin and Swanson.
Descending rapidly into the Valley we entered what had lately become an unreal half-world. Replacing farms and orchards acres of land were now marked for lots and streets not yet built. The realtors awaited their customers. (The autumn herds were coming West. If you put your ear to the ground you could hear the distant rumble of their hooves.) The sleepy fruit-growing plantations of San Fernando Valley were vanishing. Identical clapboard would rise in the shadow of the snow-topped Sierras. The old names were Spanish. The new ones here were English, echoing a dream of Anglo-Saxon villages, thatched security. All over America they were at last ca
lling a halt to their foreign romances.
Eventually we saw the rough grass of the airfield ahead. There was one hangar covered in old barnstormer posters; one unenthusiastic windsock, one fence, one gate with a large red sign reading DO NOT ENTER UNLESS YOU ARE FLYING. There was one DH-4 biplane with a tall, skinny pilot standing leaning against its fuselage, smoking a cigarette and polishing his goggles on his moleskin riding breeches. Roy Belgrade was a veteran of the Flying Corps who seemed too young, even now, to be an airman. He yawned as he saw me, and flicked a salute, taking great interest in Mrs Cornelius as he started forward to open the gate. He had been recommended as the best by almost everyone I had spoken to in Hollywood. It was still considered daring to risk a day’s flying rather than spend three days on the train. I would have to land in a field in New Jersey and hope to get a bus or cab to the city.
The Laughter of Carthage: The Second Volume of the Colonel Pyat Quartet (Colonel Pyat Quartet Series Book 2) Page 73