Two Weeks in Another Town

by Irwin Shaw

  “It’s an intellectual experience,” said Mrs. Holt. “Since I’ve come to Rome, I feel my brain expanding. Actually expanding. Would you believe it, until tonight, I never met a real, live modern composer of modern music.”

  They drifted off, radiant, to greet a Sicilian novelist who had just published a book about the war, the villain of which was a captain in the American Army.

  “Jack…” It was Despière, touching his arm. “I was hoping you’d come tonight.”

  “I didn’t get a chance to say hello,” Jack said, shaking hands. “I was busy trying to figure out whether I was a round-headed aurochs or a flat-headed Henry Ford.”

  Despière chuckled. “I like him, the Italian. At least he has theories. You’d be surprised how many people I meet these days who refuse to have any theories at all.”

  “Oh, by the way,” Jack said, making himself sound offhand, “I met a boy who says he’s a friend of yours. A kid called Bresach.”

  “Bresach?” Despière wrinkled his eyebrows in an effort of memory and pushed at the short bangs of hair that fell onto his forehead. “A friend of mine?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve seen him a couple of times with Veronica.” He looked slyly and mischievously at Jack. “Very handsome boy. Veronica’s crazy about him.”

  “So he told me,” Jack said noncommittally.

  “What did he want?”

  “Nothing,” Jack lied. “I just met him by accident.”

  “Be careful of him,” said Despière. “He once tried to commit suicide in somebody’s bathroom. He’s a very dramatic boy. I’ve seen him slap Veronica in the face because she smiled at an old friend in a restaurant.”

  “What did she do?” Jack asked, not believing Despière.

  “She stopped smiling at old friends,” Despière looked around him and drew Jack into a corner. “Will you do something for me, Jack?” he asked, his voice light and casual, as usual, but his eyes serious, searching Jack’s face.

  “Of course,” Jack said. “What is it?”

  Despière reached into his inside breast pocket and drew out a long sealed envelope. “Hold onto this for me for a while.” He gave Jack the envelope. “Put it away, put it away.”

  Jack put the envelope, which was plump and bulging, into his pocket. “Do you want to tell me what to do with it?” he asked.

  “Just hold onto it. When I come back, give it to me.”

  “What do you mean, when you come back?”

  “I’m leaving for Algiers tomorrow,” Despière said. “They cabled me from the office this morning. There’s a story they want me to get. I’ll just be gone six or seven days. You’ll still be here, won’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “The paper wants a couple of thousand words on how atrocious the Algerian atrocities are,” Despière said. “I’m the atrocity editor. No decent up-to-date magazine is without one. Thanks. You’re a good boy.”

  “You want to tell me anything else?”

  Despière shrugged. “Well…” he drawled, “if I don’t come back, open the envelope.”

  “Now, Jean-Baptiste,” Jack began.

  Despière laughed. “It’s a small war, I know,” he said, “but I understand they’re using live ammunition. Anyway, atrocity editors have to think of all eventualities. One other thing. Don’t tell anybody I’m going to Algiers. Not anybody,” he repeated slowly.

  “Where’re you supposed to be?” Jack said. “If anybody asks.”

  “St. Moritz. I heard the snow was good. I’m staying with some friends. But you don’t know their name.”

  “What about the piece about Delaney?”

  “I’ll finish it when I get back,” Despière said. “This is the twentieth century—atrocities before art.” He looked at his watch. “I’m late,” he said. He patted Jack’s arm and smiled at him, his smile sweet and boyish and friendly, untouched by malice, and turned and walked off through the drinkers toward his small secret war, a short, swaggering, tough little figure in his sharply cut Roman suit. Jack watched him leave and noticed that he didn’t say good-bye to anyone.

  Jack touched the bulge in his coat. Its weight disturbed him. If I don’t come back, open the envelope.

  Moved by a sudden impulse, Jack started through the crowd toward the door, to follow Despière. If a man is going to a war, however small, he thought, his friend can leave a cocktail party and accompany him. At least part of the way. At least to the nearest taxicab.

  But as he neared the door a new, large group of guests came in, blocking his way, and before he could make his way through them, he felt a hand grasping him, hard, on the elbow, holding him back. Jack turned and saw that it was Stiles, grinning woodenly at him, standing close, the hand firm on his arm.

  “Hi, brother,” Stiles said. “I’ve been wanting to say hello to you all night.”

  “Some other time, if you don’t mind.” Jack tried to pull away without making it too obvious to the people around him, but Stiles, who was a large man, gripped him more firmly.

  “That’s no way to treat an old friend, brother,” Stiles said. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember me, Mr. Royal.”

  “I remember you,” Jack said. He jerked his arm suddenly and was free, but Stiles slid, with surprising agility, between him and the door, blocking it. The two men faced each other. Stiles still had the glazed, pugnacious drunkard’s grin on his face, happily prepared to make a scene. It’s not worth it, Jack thought. I probably can’t catch up with Jean-Baptiste by now, anyway.

  “What’s on your mind?” Jack asked shortly. He felt uncomfortable in the actor’s presence, foolishly guilty.

  “I thought maybe you and me could have a nice little talk together,” Stiles said. He had a curious, stiff-lipped manner of talking, hardly moving his mouth, the drunkard’s evening disguise. “About art and acting and allied subjects. I’m an old admirer of yours. When I first started acting, I used to try and sound like you.” He laughed breathily. “And now you’re getting paid to sound like me. Life’s little ironies, eh, Jack?” He rocked unevenly, his face coming close to Jack’s, the smell of gin strong on his breath, the drink in his glass slopping over and staining his trousers, unnoticed. “You’re not going to deny it, are you, Jack? The sneaky little dubbing-room sessions. You used to have a reputation as an honest man, you’re not going to deny it, are you?”

  “I’m not going to deny anything,” Jack said.

  “You’ve seen my performance, in fact, you must be the biggest godamn expert on my performance alive today,” Stiles said loudly. “Have you got any little hints on what I should do to improve it?”

  “Yes,” Jack said. “Join Alcoholics Anonymous.”

  “You’re a help,” Stiles said flatly. “You’re a big help. You sound like my godamned mother.” He sipped noisily at his martini. “Tell me,” he said, “how am I going to sound? Am I going to sound sincere and troubled? Am I going to sound pathetic and brave? Will I sound virile and tragic? Will the girls like me, Jack? My fate is in your hands, Jack. Don’t take it lightly.”

  “I’m not taking anything lightly,” Jack said.

  “Maybe when the picture comes out, I’ll sue you for de-de—formation of character.” Stiles laughed loudly at his pun. “A half million dollars. I could use a half million dollars. Especially when the news gets around that they had to bring in a clerk to read the lines for me in Rome. Boy, that’ll raise my price back home, won’t it?”

  “Stop whining,” Jack said, annoyed with the gin-stained, foul-breathed actor clutching at him, grimacing close to his face. “You’ve got nobody to blame but yourself.”

  “The saddest words of tongue or pen,” Stiles said, grinning loosely, the spit bubbling on his lips. “You’ve got nobody to blame but yourself.” He moved his hand clumsily, and brushed Jack’s shoulder with the glass. The glass dropped onto the floor, shattering. Stiles didn’t bother to look down at it. “Serves them right,” he said, looking around him bel
licosely. “The bastards didn’t invite me. I’m the stinking pariah of the company. I’m the Leper of Rome. But I came anyway. And they didn’t have the guts to say, Blow, bud, this party is for ladies and gentlemen. I came for you, Jack. I’m an old fan, Jack, and I came for you. Aren’t you touched?”

  “Why don’t you go home and get a good night’s sleep?” Jack said.

  “You don’t know anything, Jack.” Stiles shook his head sadly. “A big grown man like you and you don’t know anything. I’m still a quart away from sleep, boy, a good fat quart…”

  “Well, have a good time,” Jack started to move away, but Stiles held him once more, his hand shaky but tight on Jack’s sleeve.

  “Wait a minute, Jack,” Stiles said. “I got a proposition to make you.” His voice sank to a hoarse whisper, and the drunkard’s flesh around his mouth quivered loosely. “Go away. Get out of town. Tell that bastard Delaney you reconsidered. Tell him you’re too proud. Tell him your wife’s dying. Anything. Leave tonight, eh, Jack? I won’t ask you what they’re paying you, but I’ll pay it. For doing nothing. Out of my own pocket,” he said desperately, his bloodshot eyes blinking, as though he were trying to hold back tears. “Go have a holiday. On me. If you do that, I swear I won’t touch a drop till the picture is finished…” He stopped. His hand dropped from Jack’s sleeve. He laughed loudly and wiped his mouth. “Ah, I was only kidding. What the hell, I wouldn’t give you ten cents. It was a joke, boy, I just wanted to see what you would say. What the hell difference does it make to me? The picture stinks anyway. Maybe I’ll hire you as my personal ghost. You can dub me in all my pictures. Probably give me a new lease on life. Have a good time in Rome, boy.” He clapped Jack on the shoulder, then walked, straight-backed, toward a window, threw it open, and stood there, staring out at the windy dark street, taking deep breaths of air, smiling widely.

  Jack would have left then, even though it was still too early to meet Veronica, but he saw Delaney beckoning him to come over. He made his way through the perfume and conversation, passing two doctors who were drinking grapefruit juice in champagne glasses. “There’s a man here,” one of the doctors was saying, in the accents of Minnesota, “who claims to have extraordinary cures with colitis. He feeds them mashed potatoes for five days. Every two hours for five days. Nothing else. Four kilos a day.”

  “What was the bastard telling you?” Delaney asked as Jack came up to him and smiled at Tucino and Barzelli and Tasseti. “Stiles?”

  “He complained because he wasn’t invited tonight,” Jack said.

  “That didn’t stop the bastard from coming, did it?” Delaney said. “Did he say anything else?”

  “He offered to pay me to clear out of town tonight,” Jack said. “To stop the dubbing.”

  “Oh, he knows,” Delaney said.

  “Maurice,” said Tucino, smiling tolerantly. “Whatch’yu want? This is Rome. Nobody has kept a secret in Rome for three thousand years.”

  “If he gives me any more trouble on the set,” Delaney said, lowering at Stiles’s distant figure, planted in front of the long window, “I’m going to slug him.”

  Tucino glanced negligently at Stiles. “The actor will not give trouble,” he said. “I am behind a month on his salary. He will starve.”

  “If I had it to do all over again,” said Delaney, “I would vote for Prohibition. Especially for actors and writers. He shrugged, dismissing Stiles. “And Clara,” he said belligerently. “I saw her filling your ear. What’s on her mind?”

  “She’s thinking of hiring a good cook,” Jack said, “so that you’ll have something to come home to at night. A nourishing meal.”

  “Oh, my God,” Delaney said, as Barzelli laughed softly. “A cook. I tell you, finally I’m going to retire to a hermit’s cell and only come out for the first day’s shooting.”

  “I bet,” Jack said.

  “Jack, my friend,” Tucino said, stroking Jack’s sleeve, “I am very ’appy. Maurice tells me you are doing very good with the dubbing, very passionate.”

  “Maurice is a liar,” Jack said.

  “We all know that,” Tucino said. “Maurice is a liar. Otherwise, what would he be doing in Rome?” He laughed, delighted with his city.

  “Hi, Jack.” Unobserved, Brutton, the actor who could no longer work in Hollywood, had joined the group. He clapped Jack heartily and nervously on the shoulder and stood there, his hand outstretched, an uncertain smile on his dark, tense face. “You remember me, don’t you, Jack?”

  “Of course,” Jack said. He shook the proffered hand.

  “I heard you were in Rome,” Brutton said. His voice was hoarse and rushed and you could tell that he meant it to be hearty and full of easy confidence and that he was fooling nobody, especially himself. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. He gave the impression of a man who was trying to get into a sporting event with a forged ticket. “Everybody winds up in Rome these days, don’t they, Jack?” Brutton said. He laughed windily and Jack could tell that he regretted the sound he was making. “Hi, Mr. Delaney.” He turned toward Maurice, offering his hand. “I’ve been wondering when you were going to decide you needed a good actor and would call me. I still speak English, you know.”

  “Hello, Brutton,” Maurice said, without inflection. He ignored the proffered hand.

  The sweat glittered on Brutton’s forehead and he blinked his eyes erratically. “My hand is out, Mr. Delaney,” he said.

  “I see it,” Delaney said.

  Tasseti moved in a little closer to Delaney, watching with pleasure and interest. These were the scenes for which Tasseti lived and he smiled gently, ready to protect his masters, administer punishment, fulfill his watchdog destiny.

  Brutton dropped his hand. He took in two or three short, whistling breaths. “Jack shook my hand,” Brutton said shrilly. “He’s not too proud. And he’s in the government, besides.”

  “Jack’s a diplomat,” Delaney said, staring coldly at Brutton. “He has to shake the hand of any sonofabitch who asks him.”

  “Now be careful,” Brutton said loudly and emptily. “I don’t let people talk to me like that.”

  Delaney turned his back on Brutton and said to Barzelli, touching her arm affectionately, “You look beautiful tonight, carissima. I like the new way you’re doing your hair.”

  Brutton moved so that he was facing Delaney again and Jack saw Tasseti’s fingers twitching hopefully, waiting for the first moment of violence. “I’ll tell you what I think about you,” Brutton said hoarsely to Delaney. “I think you’re a secret Communist sympathizer. There’re still plenty like you left in Hollywood, don’t think there aren’t. The last time I was there, I was in Chasen’s, and I was passing a table, and I had my head turned and somebody threw a drink all over me…There were six of them there, big men in the industry, contributors to the Republican party, and when I asked them to tell me who did it, they just laughed…”

  “Calm down,” Jack said, ashamed for Brutton, ashamed for the movie business, for Americans at home and abroad. He put his hand on Brutton’s sleeve. The man was trembling. “Delaney wouldn’t know how to be a secret anything. And everybody knows he was against the Communists for years while you were going to the meetings every Tuesday night. Why don’t you go home?”

  “The Committee gave me a clean bill of health,” Brutton went on, obsessed. “When I testified, they shook my hand, they said I was a loyal, patriotic American, who had recognized his mistake and had courageously rectified it. I can show you the letter.”

  “The Committee would give a clean bill of health to a typhus bug,” Delaney said, “if he turned in the other typhus bugs, the way you did. If you want to know something, Brutton, I think deep in your heart you’re still a Communist, if you’re anything. You’re just stupid enough. You’re a loyal, patriotic coward, and you screamed to save your own skin, and you denounced a lot of poor bastards who used to be your best friends and who never did anything worse than sign a paper saying hooray for the Russian Army in
1944. I pity you, but I don’t shake hands out of pity. If you’re busted and need a handout, come to my office tomorrow and I’ll give you a few bucks. Because in principle I think I ought to try to keep all actors alive, even bad ones like you, since I make my living off them. Now get out of here, you’ve made enough noise.”

  “I ought to hit you,” Brutton whispered, but keeping his hands at his sides.

  “Try it,” Delaney said flatly. “Some day.” He turned to Barzelli. “Let’s go get a drink, carissima,” he said. He took her arm and walked over toward the bar.

  Tasseti smiled gently, observing Brutton with pleasure. Tucino shrugged. “I tell you,” he said, “I will never understand America.”

  Brutton wiped his forehead with a green silk handkerchief, his eyes shifting, near tears, from face to face. “He’s an egomaniac,” Brutton said loudly. “Wait till it all catches up with him.” He smiled, baring his teeth painfully. “What’s the sense in taking an egomaniac seriously.” He waved, in a hideous attempt to be debonair. “See you around, Jack. I’ll invite you to dinner. Show you how the poor people live.” For a last time he glanced swiftly, appealingly around him. Nobody said anything. Tasseti put his hands in his pockets, disappointed that there was no need for violence. Brutton turned and walked with a crippled attempt at jauntiness over to a corner of the room where two Italian starlets were speaking to each other, and put his arms possessively around their shoulders as he began to talk to them. His laugh came harshly across the room, high over the noise of conversation.

  “What is it?” Tasseti asked in his almost incomprehensible Sicilian French. “Did Delaney take a girl away from the actor?”

  “Probably,” Jack said. “One time or another.” He shook hands with Tucino and Tasseti and made his way to the door. He had had enough of the party.

  Out in the hall, waiting for his coat, he saw one of the pretty young American college girls seated on a marble bench against the wall, bent over, sobbing. Her lip was bleeding and she kept dabbing at it with a piece of pink Kleenex. Two of her friends were standing in front of her, looking grave and trying to shield her from the eyes of the guests arriving and departing. Politely, Jack avoided looking at her after the first moment, and it was only the next day that he heard that she’d been in a bedroom with one of the young Italians, Count Something, who had thrown her on the bed and had bit her lip when she tried to keep him from kissing her. It took two stitches to sew the wound.