by Peter Rimmer
“I trust you, Mr Rosenzweig.”
“Of course you do. I am the one lending the money. You are the one who has to pay it back.”
“Robin Hood is hugely successful.”
“The public are fickle. Just be a good chap and make a good film. You have your money, Mr Hollingsworth. Have a nice day. My secretary will show you out.”
Only when Gerry Hollingsworth left the office did Jacob realise that at the end they had both been speaking in the clipped accents of the English public schools. However hard either of them tried to be otherwise, they were Englishmen, of whatever religion. It made Jacob nostalgic. Not for his children living in England but for the country where he was born and raised. Then he thought of Rebecca in Rhodesia and wondered where his grandchildren would give their allegiance: to the British Empire, or the government of Southern Rhodesia? He even wondered if anyone would tell them they were half Jewish.
Feeling old, Jacob stood up stiffly from behind his desk where he had been sitting still for too long, went downstairs into the street, and caught a cab to Abercrombie Place and his lonely flat. He had once shared it with Rebecca when he brought her to America away from her love for Ralph Madgwick, the boy who was now father to three of his grandchildren, their blood and history mingled forever.
“You all have a good life,” he said to his silent flat as he lifted his glass of whisky, wondering not for the first time what life was all about. So there they were, the Jews. Doing business together. Jacob Rosenzweig, Max Pearl and Louis Casimir.
“He could chop wood with that pecker,” Gerry Hollingsworth had mumbled when he got into the cab outside the building that housed the bank.
“Where you going?”
“I have no bloody idea.”
“You English?”
“No, American.”
“Don’t sound it.”
“Do you know a nice place to get drunk?” he had said, adjusting his speech to sound more American.
“Of course I do. Despite popular opinion, the bars don’t pay us cab drivers commission. What is it? A celebration or drowning your sorrows?”
“I think it’s drowning my sorrows. Getting money out of that old man is worse than getting your teeth pulled. Makes you suffer right to the end. The old bastard enjoyed every minute of it watching me squirm.”
“Why’d you need money?” asked the driver, pulling the cab neatly out into the flow of traffic where people were driving home at the end of their day.
“To make a film.”
“Now I heard everything.”
“I produced Robin Hood and his Merry Men.”
“You kidding? Saw it last night. That Genevieve is quite something.”
“She’s going to be in the one I just borrowed money for. You ever read a book by Robert St Clair called Keeper of the Legend?”
“Cab drivers have times we just sit and wait. Then I read books to pass the time. I read that one and Holy Knight. Buddy, I’m already looking forward to your film. Here we are. No point in driving you ten times round the block. They call it Harry B’s. Harry was a baseball legend, someone led me to believe. Never met Harry nor has anyone else. Nice pretty girls behind the bar serving customers. Nice class of girl. What’s she like?”
“Who?”
“Genevieve.”
“The most beautiful woman I ever saw. Keep the change.”
“This is a fifty!”
“Just borrowed two million. It sounded you meant it about my new film.”
“Better still with Genevieve. She’s every man’s dream when the lights go out and we’re all on our own feeling lonely. After seeing her film you feel you know her. Have a nice day.”
By the time Jacob Rosenzweig lifted his first glass of whisky, Gerry Hollingsworth had drunk three beers in Harry B’s and had ordered himself a Scotch. The girls serving drinks in the bar were pretty but little to write home about when compared to Genevieve. They were all good-looking girls that would find a young man so they could stop showing their tits and legs to drunken old men like himself.
What Gerry wanted more than anything was to go round to the Independence Hotel and see Genevieve. It was good for the business to have Carmel in New York when people who made decisions had old wives like himself. At the smart society dinners that went with promoting his films, a wife dripping in diamonds gave his business a solid look, disguising, he hoped, the gamble inherent in every new film.
Max Pearl had been at more than one of the dinners. Now Gerry’s apparent wealth and stability had paid off. Looking rich made people doing business with you comfortable, something Gerry had known all his working life. It was appearances that counted, what they could see in front of their nose, even if every nose was not the size of Jacob Rosenzweig’s pecker, which was why he could not visit Genevieve for anything other than business; with a wife in tow it was all about appearances and not, as Gerry liked to say, pissing in his own rice bowl.
This time when he thought of the hooked nose and the hawk eyes he smiled instead of frowning, the beers and whisky softening his mood. Soon the girls would look real pretty, he told himself, the thought of going home to Carmel far from his mind. After twenty-seven years of marriage they had grown bored with each other, having nothing left to say now the children were out of the house, off on their own with more important things to think of than their parents. And with no other option, Carmel had decided to join Gerry in America.
When he and Carmel reached Hollywood to make the new film he was going to rent a big house with a swimming pool and throw parties to impress the local people. A big house so he could get away from Carmel when the guests went home.
When he reached the hotel off Fifth Avenue where they were staying, he was drunk and his wife was asleep. Deliberately, Gerry had made a lot of noise opening their room with the key. Likely his wife was feigning sleep. His last thought as he sank into oblivion next to her but separate in the twin bed was, ‘who cares’. So far as they were concerned they had had their lives together breeding and bringing up three children, finding they were strangers to each other after so much effort.
Gerry had phoned her the next day at the Independence with the good news but it made no difference to her mood. She was homesick. Gerry Hollingsworth’s phoney American accent had made her irritated.
“You don’t have to be American with me, Mr Hollingsworth. When do we leave for Hollywood?”
“Tomorrow at noon. I’m going to rent a large house. You are welcome to stay.”
“No thank you, even though socially Carmel is more fun than you. She doesn’t stare at me like some old dog with sad eyes that its master doesn’t love anymore.”
“Oh, I love you, Genevieve.”
“Of course you do. The papers say half of America loves me but it doesn’t help.”
“Are you all right, Genevieve? I was going to come round last night.”
“You stay away. I’ll meet you at the airport. Leave the flight details at reception.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m homesick. I’m lonely. I don’t know a bloody soul in this great big city. Big cities make me lonely, they are so impersonal.”
The phone had clicked off, and her world was once more reduced to the confines of the hotel room where she now ate her meals. Everyone used to stare at her when she ate alone in the dining room, and a constant flow of notes, all wanting the same, would arrive with the head waiter from men sitting at other tables; her face was all over New York, from the billboards for her film to the back jacket of her book. All she had was strangers asking her out, wanting to talk, wanting to boast to their friends they knew Genevieve. At least now, she told herself, they were going to make a film, giving her something to do other than being seen.
She had eaten supper alone on Tuesday night, hoping to get some sleep now she knew she was flying the next day which always kept her awake, when a knock came at the door to her room. Expecting the waiter who collected the meal trolley, she called for the man
to come in. Nothing happened other than another knock on her door. If it was some fan looking for an autograph there was no way she was going to be polite, as she flung open the door to find a sheepish William Smythe standing in the corridor. Impulsively, overjoyed with happiness, Genevieve flung her arms round his neck, pushing the man behind him who had come for the trolley out of the way.
“They were reluctant to give me your room number. What’s going on?”
“It’s so wonderful to see someone from home.”
“That’s it?”
“Of course not, William. Why didn’t you phone? Why are you here? When did you get in? I’m so damn lonely I could scream.”
“But you’re famous, Genevieve. You’re all over the place. I was frightened some big bodyguard would throw me out on my neck.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Not a morsel. Are we going out?”
“Bring another supper, like the one I just had,” she said to the man still standing behind William. “What do you drink, William?”
“Scotch. Any Scotch.”
“What is your name?” she said to the waiter.
“Simon.”
“There you have it, Simon. A bottle of Scotch and a meal fit for a king. William, have you booked into a hotel?”
“Not yet.”
“Forget it. This suite has two rooms. Simon, don’t look like that. We are very old friends. Out you go for the whisky and bring that first. Soda siphon. Ice in a bucket and two glasses. I can never sleep the night before I fly unless I drink and a girl can’t drink on her own… William! This is just so wonderful you have no idea. How’s Janet? How’s Horatio? How’s young Harry?”
“Slow down or you are going to burst. It’s only me.”
“Come in, you old reprobate, and tell me again just how much you love me.”
By the time his supper came on a fresh trolley, William would have sworn the girl was coming on to him. They were both tiddly from the whisky and something else that had never been between them before, putting William on his guard. Genevieve had rejected his advances so many times before, he was wary of again being put in his place; him, a man, as she had once said, old enough to be her father, which William knew was not quite true. To add to his consternation, on the trolley with his food came an open bottle of good Californian red wine with two inviting glasses which Genevieve swooped upon before the waiter was out of the door. No one asked him for money; there was not even the intimation that a tip was in order.
She looked ravishing in simple clothes. In William’s mind the girl could wear a sackcloth and still have sex appeal to spare. As always, the power was in her eyes. As always, William felt like a lovesick fool in the presence of a woman he would never know; one-sided love from a distance.
“Now look at that, William. The hotel manager’s put a bottle of wine on the trolley for the two of us. Well, I have been here a while and never entertained in my room, but this is beyond the call of looking after guests. Maybe for once a little fame is on my side. You will have a glass of wine with me, William? We’ll finish these whiskies and while you eat I’ll join you with your glass of wine. It’s so marvellous to see a real friend. What are you doing here, William? No, don’t tell me if it’s boring old work. It’s just the two of us cut adrift. We can be ourselves. No need to show off and impress each other. Did you know the new film is based on Uncle Robert’s second book? The story of the St Clairs at the time they arrived in England with William the Conqueror. Just one generation, of course. The knights of old treated their women with such chivalry. Putting them on a pedestal would be putting it mildly. Wouldn’t you like to put me on a pedestal, William? Even just for this one wonderful night. You can be my knight in shining armour who has come to rescue his love from a den of heathens.”
“You don’t think Americans are heathens!”
“Of course not. Just men in general the way they look at me. They all make me feel naked the way they stare. Carnal. No love. No beauty. Lust with a capital L. All they want is to take me to bed and as soon as possible as if they own me already, just because they’ve seen my film and paid money at the little window going into the cinema. For a few shillings they think they own me. You’ve always looked at me in a way that says I’m too precious to touch.”
“You are,” said William huskily, taking from her his glass of wine which she had filled right up to the top.
“Oh, William, I’m not a virgin. Everyone knows that. You can’t get where I’ve got without passing out favours. Well, not always favours. A girl likes sex just as much as a man. Do you like sex, William? Looking at you now I think you’d be very good to a lonely girl in bed. In my position it’s so difficult to find someone who is genuine like you, William. Finish your food and sit with me on the couch. They are going to swallow me up tomorrow. Once they get you on a film that’s it. You belong to the film. One gulp and you’re gone, but that’s not till tomorrow when I get on that horrible plane. I’m frightened of flying so you’ll have to hold my hand on the couch. Would it matter to our friendship if we make love? Tonight I want to be close to someone. Being alone is horrible. You will look after me won’t you? We don’t have to tell anyone. It’ll be something wonderful between the two of us that only we know. Something to remember with a smile when we are old.”
“Are you being serious, Genevieve?”
“Never more serious in my life. It’s not just the booze, William. Just promise me one thing forever; you never tell Tinus. Now promise me that and we’ll stop all this drinking and go next door to my bedroom.”
“I promise.”
“Come along then. I want you to make love to me and hold me in your arms all night. Tonight, I want to feel safe. Please, William. It’s not very much to ask from an old friend.”
A week later, when William Smythe arrived in Denver, Colorado to see Glen Hamilton of the Denver Telegraph, the man who over the years had syndicated his articles across America, he felt so sad he did not care what Glen thought of the three articles he had written in New York. Even the title of the first one, Why America wants to end the British Empire, meant nothing anymore. William had experienced the most life-changing one night stand in his life; never again could he ever be the same. For one-night he had owned the world the way he wanted.
Just before they had met the obnoxious Gerry Hollingsworth with his put-on American accent at the airport the following morning, where William had gone in the taxi with Genevieve and her piles of luggage to see her off, she had put her right index finger on his mouth, the last time he knew she was ever going to touch him. Then she had flowed towards her entourage, the consummate actress, the smile flashing at the people waiting for her to arrive before they all flew off to California. Waiting, hoping, she never looked back as the film crew and hangers-on flowed through the gate to board the aircraft.
It was William’s turn to feel more lonely than ever in his life. His turn to feel suicidal. Miserable. They were lovers but only for the once, his promise never to tell Tinus Oosthuizen clear in his mind. If, he thought, standing rooted to the spot as passengers milled around him, she had just used him he might have shrugged and walked off happy with his luck, another conquest under his belt, another day searching for enjoyment. William didn’t even feel sorry for himself or sorry for his loss, just miserable with an intensity he had never experienced. Then he had picked up his one small suitcase and gone back to Manhattan in a cab to find his own hotel and to try and forget the only woman he would ever love in his life.
Glen Hamilton, across the desk at the newspaper with the three unread articles in front of him, looked a picture of good humour which William suspected would evaporate the moment he read the articles.
“Had an invitation to Harry Brigandshaw’s party. Very expensive invitation card like something you’d expect from a king.”
“It’s his wife,” said William, trying to concentrate on Glen Hamilton and forget his problems. “She likes to think of herself as a society lady.”
“Save reading the articles for later. You went to make sure the Allies were able to pay back America what we owed you. You’re not going to like these articles. They tell the truth. Are you going to Hastings Court?”
“To travel that far to a party is insane. I have to clean out a log cabin this weekend an hour’s drive from Denver. Why don’t you drive with me?”
“You want me to clean out someone else’s mess?”
“She was my personal assistant for ten years before she married Robert St Clair. Robert wrote most of Holy Knight at the cabin that overlooks the ski slopes. They are coming back for Robert to keep an eye on the filming of the Legend. They bought the cabin and three hundred surrounding acres of pine trees with the money Robert made in America from the book. Thought it nice to put back into America what he took out in royalty payments. Freya’s mother has a key. So do I. Most weekends one of us or our friends stay at the cabin. It’s good for a man after the rough and tumble of city life. You look terrible, William, but I won’t ask why.”
“Is the cabin empty during the week?”
“Nearly always except in the ski season which is over.”
“If I help clean, may I stay a few days on my own? I have some things to think about. If you don’t like those articles throw them in the bin.”
“We’ll go after work on Friday. Why are you in America, William?”
“To assess the mood. See what you are going to do. Try and give the British a better perspective of America. In England we have the silly idea we are cousins, the same family with the same interests at heart. After a week in New York I find we British are very wrong about America. America is a competitor with very different interests. Once America breaks up the British Empire they’ll move in on our traditional markets. The mighty dollar as an alternative to the mighty empire which for all intents and purposes amounts to the same thing; hegemony, control, colonisation, call it what you will. I think America is only dictated to by money, the moral claptrap about equality for everyone their way to muscle in on our markets. That all the rhetoric is governed by greed with little to do with freedom. ‘Freedom from what?’, I ask in those articles. Freedom from colonisation? Freedom from poverty? Freedom to live an average of thirty-six years, which was the lifespan in Africa before British colonialism? None of us are moral, Glen. It’s not in human nature. The next three articles will be a rebuttal. The American point of view. Why American-style democracy and freedom is right and empire is wrong. I want to make people argue with each other. To try and understand what we are all up to and realise America and the British Empire have the same imperative in common; stopping the spread of communism and fascism before the whole damn world goes up in flames.”