Postscripts

by Claire Rayner

‘So what’s your rush? I was just going through the options for you. What sort of a businessman would I be if I didn’t look at all the options and spell ’em out, hey? And call me Monty, for God’s sake. Everyone does. All through the industry, you just say Monty and everyone knows who you mean. So, you’ve set your mind on this subject, this title. Hmm.’ And he pursed his lips and sat staring down at the sheet of paper he had picked up from his rosewood desk, looking for all the world like an elderly and evilly disposed baby. ‘You’ve got a good track record, I’ll grant you, but in the wrong places, if you know what I mean — ’

  Abner stared at him and thought — he’s a great deal smarter than he looks or sounds. He’s not going to let go of a possible earner, even if he’s not sure yet I can make him a couple more of these godawful leather sofas; and he let his shoulders relax. He was used to men like this agent. LA and New York were littered with his carbon copies.

  ‘I know,’ he said wearily. ‘Of course I know! Art houses, public service television, who’s interested? In the States, no one wants to put money in my sort of stuff. That’s why I’m here. To hell with using people who are now in the States for research for the movie. I’ll use people here in Europe. Why not? It doesn’t matter where the survivors ended up, does it? Their stories’ll be much the same — So that’s why I’m here. I thought I’d do better. You’ve got a long tradition of art house movies. You’ve got the BBC, you’ve got your Channel Four, you’ve got — ’

  ‘And much good they do any of us,’ Monty said gloomily. ‘Awards, sure. Long fancy reviews in the Guardian and Look and Listen, big deal. But money? Fourpence and if you’re lucky another tuppence abroad. But real money, you need to be popular for that — and let’s face it, Wiseman, you’re not what you could call popular. Classy, yes. But money-maker, no.’

  ‘I’m as interested in money as most people,’ Abner said. ‘But let’s get one thing clear, Mr Nagel — Monty. I don’t want to make money more than I want to make my own movies. A living I’m interested in, sure. But I can’t eat more than I eat now, and who needs more than one car or — ’

  ‘I’ve heard that sort of talk before,’ Monty said, more gloomily than ever.

  ‘Well, I mean it,’ Abner said. ‘I want to make a reasonable living from my work but I’m not into putting the cash before the credit. If I only cared about that, I’d make porn, for Christ’s sake!’

  Monty shook his head with great seriousness. ‘You wouldn’t. You’d be surprised how little there is in that. Sure, the videos sell and there’s a black market for the really ugly stuff, but it don’t make what I call money. For that you need your Crocodile Dundees, your Batmans, your Dick Tracys — ’

  Abner waved that away with some impatience. ‘I want it clear. If you want to represent me here, fine. But on my terms. I’m not going to make the sort of big money some of your other people do — ’ And he swept a slightly scornful glance round the framed photographs. ‘But if you get me the backing I need, help me set up a package with a bit of backing, there’ll be enough to be worth your efforts. Yesterday’s Babies and Wall of Silence kept me going for a long time, all through till I got U.D. — Uptown Downtown — on the floor. I had no complaints and you won’t either — ’

  ‘But you’re not exactly flush now, are you?’ Monty said shrewdly. ‘You ain’t in no suite at Claridges! And you said to me you’re going to be wanting some work while you’re here, to keep you going.’

  Abner reddened. ‘So, I’m not one of your savers. When I earn I spend. Right now, I’m not earning, so there isn’t much slack I can take up. But there it is. That isn’t what I’m in the business for — and if you are, I’d better go now and stop wasting time for both of us.’

  ‘So high minded,’ Monty sighed. ‘Well, I could get me a bit of class, at that. I’d like to sit there at the Oscars, watch you walk up and get another. And maybe a BAFTA. Wouldn’t be bad, that. Though I still wish it was a different subject. This one — ’ He gave a sudden shiver and now he didn’t look at all like a baby. There was a bleakness about his eyes and mouth and Abner looked at him sharply. He was learning to recognise that look.

  ‘You got some personal reason for not liking it?’

  Monty shook his head, sliding his eyes up to look at Abner and then flicking his gaze away to the window. ‘Me? This is business I’m talking here — ’

  ‘But you don’t like the subject for personal reasons,’ Abner said, pushing at him, actually leaning forwards in his chair to get closer to the fat little man on the other side of his ornate desk. Monty Nagel reacted by leaning back, pushing his chair back a little so that he could put his feet in their chocolate pumps on the blotter in front of him, so restoring the space between them.

  ‘Who does like it?’ he said. ‘You’re a Jew, you should understand these things.’

  ‘So, I’m a Jew. What’s that got to do with it? I could have been a Gypsy. Or gay. Or whatever. A lot of people went into those camps, not only Jews.’

  ‘Mostly it was Jews,’ Monty said flatly. ‘And in this business that means there’ll be people who won’t want to be involved with this film of yours. Look what happened in the States over Playing for Time — an uproar. People didn’t like it.’

  ‘They didn’t like Vanessa Redgrave cast as Fania Fenelon. The woman’s anti-Zionist so the fuss was political. But the picture was great. It got great notices and — ’

  ‘ — and made no money and upset a lot of people. There’s a lot who won’t ever watch this sort of stuff. They see it’s going to be about the Holocaust, and they say, who needs such misery? It’s over, already — they switch off, they don’t buy no tickets.’

  ‘Not all of them,’ Abner said. ‘This one they’ll watch. They’ll have to — ’ And he stared at the fat man who stared back at him and then rubbed his face a little awkwardly.

  ‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘All right, I’ve agreed, haven’t I? I’ll consider taking you on, find you a bit of work, see if I can put you in touch with some people who might help. But don’t expect me to like it — ’

  ‘Because you’ve got some connection with it all,’ Abner said, coming back like a terrier to the thought that had come with the man’s uneasiness. ‘Your own family, perhaps?’

  Monty shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Hasn’t everyone? Listen, let me give you some people you can talk to about money. Tell them I sent you — you’ve got a notebook? Good.’ And he reached for his intercom button and shouted, ‘Tania? Put up the B seventeen lists will you? I got the wrong disc in here.’

  There was a little fussing as the secretary came in and set floppy disc into the gleaming computer that sat on its own table alongside the rosewood desk, and then Monty sat there, flicking at his keyboard and staring at the screen. Abner hitched his chair closer and leaned forwards so that he could read it too. It was easy to see the screen and he watched as Monty stared at columns of names with letter and number clues alongside. This was clearly, he told himself as yet another key was hit and a different list appeared, one hell of a well-run organisation. With contact lists like these, surely Nagel was worth being with? Abner hadn’t warmed to the man on a personal level, which was a pity in an agent, but the important thing was to find someone who could deliver. So what if he couldn’t be a bosom buddy? That he’d have to find someone else. And he refused to think at all about Oxford, even though his legs and feet still carried the ghost of an ache from yesterday’s walking.

  ‘Try Simmy. Yeah. Simmy’ll be good news — here, can you see? This one.’ He pointed at the screen with a stubby finger and leaned back to light another cigarette as Abner wrote in his notebook. Simmy Gentle, with an address in Wardour Street Where else? Everyone in movies seemed to be in this knot of streets around him. Monty’s office was in the area, too, tucked into an unprepossessing building in D’Arblay Street that belied its internal opulence; no doubt this man, Gentle, would be in the same sort of accommodation.

  ‘And try that one bottom of the list, see? Jo Rossily. Good new
s, Jo — well worth a visit.’ Abner scribbled again, and then Monty returned to the keyboard and again punched it. More and more names flashed up, and he sat and studied them as Abner stared over his shoulder. At length he said, ‘Yeah, this might be worth a minute or two of your time. He’s a real wide boy, you know? But all the same.’

  ‘Alexander Venables,’ wrote Abner, and this time the address was very different. ‘The City? Isn’t that the financial district?’ And he looked at Monty with his brows up. ‘Not a movie man then?’

  ‘You’re fast, aren’t you?’ Monty grinned and seemed suddenly a nicer guy to Abner. ‘Not here five minutes and already you understand about addresses, hey? You’re right. He’s a banker - well, kind of banker. Got access to cash that’s mostly Arab, but he might have a few bob from other sources. In fact, I know he does. A smart fella. And he’s got an interest in — ’ He stopped then. ‘Well, let him tell you himself. If he wants to.’

  ‘Tell me what?’ Abner was alert at once. There were messages here if he could understand them.

  ‘I told you, ask him yourself.’ Monty’s voice had sharpened but then he relaxed and it seemed to Abner he had made a conscious effort to do it. Odd. ‘Now there’s just one other possibility here — Barney Milner. You’ll like Barney. Good fun, and there ain’t anyone he doesn’t know and who don’t know him. You can’t even begin to think films in this town without him. Here you are — ’

  ‘Another banker?’ Abner asked, writing hard. ‘Where’s this place? Not round here. It’s a different zip code altogether.’

  ‘Out in the suburbs. Way over the river. He’s the gear man. Cameras, lighting, equipment, the lot. And he’s a studio owner, too. One of the best. Not the cheapest but good. And he dabbles in funding now and again. “To keep his gear out of the warehouse,” he says, but it’s more than that. He’s crazy about the business, he is. Crazy. He’d work for nothing, if he had to, I swear, as long as it was films.’

  ‘I like him already,’ Abner said. ‘My sort of guy. Great, Monty. I’ll get on to all of them.’ He finished scribbling, and snapped the notebook shut with its rubber band. ‘Tell me, who’s Matthew Mayer?’

  Monty gaped at him. ‘How the hell do you know about him? Don’t tell me he’s got to the States as well?’

  Abner jerked his head at the computer screen. ‘He keeps coming up there. I saw most of the names you’ve got there only once, but that one keeps turning up after other people’s names. Like he was in partnership with them or something of that sort.’

  ‘Oh,’ Monty looked oddly wooden. ‘Something of the sort. Nothing that’d help you there though. Now, you’ve got four names there, right? That’ll do for openers. If you can’t crack something with one of those, I’ll be surprised. Mind you, it could mean I’m right and there isn’t going to be any backing for you. But I’ll be glad to be wrong — let me know how you get on. Maybe I’ll make a bob or two out of you yet. What do you say?’

  Abner said, ‘No contract then?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Monty said and stood up. He was surprisingly tall, Abner thought. Sitting there he’d seemed to be a stocky sort of man, but he had long legs under his heavy body that gave him a slightly unbalanced look. ‘You take that stuff as a present from me, OK? You seem a decent sort of a chap — wouldn’t cheat me. If you make it start to work with one or two of those, begin to get somewhere, come back, we’ll talk again. But I don’t make contracts till I know the sort of people I’m dealing with. Only been wrong twice. That singer, the French one, calls himself Rousseau, you know the one I mean?’

  ‘I ought to,’ Abner said dryly. ‘Biggest thing since Presley as far as I can tell. Can’t escape him anywhere.’

  ‘Came to me as a raw kid from Dagenham, about as French as my arsehole, and nothing to look at. But he had a bit of a spark and I thought, maybe, maybe. Sent him for a start off to one of the best voice people we got, and a stylist, and told him to come back and let me have another look at him and I’d talk contracts. And what does the little bugger do? Takes himself off to the Charter lot, signs on with them and makes ’em a bleedin’ fortune. May his bollocks fall off. But me, I still take risks. You won’t go and do nothing so crooked, will you? You look an honest enough man.’

  Abner grinned. ‘That’s not what makes you so easy on me,’ he said. ‘You just don’t reckon I’m a money maker, that’s what it is.’

  Monty laughed. ‘Well, I don’t think I’m sending the next Gone With the Wind out of the door, that’s for sure. But like I said, it’s time I got a bit of class around the place. You get fed up with the Rousseaus, believe me. Good luck.’

  He held out a hand and Abner shook it and turned to go. The outer office, which was about half as opulent as Monty’s own room but still highly over-decorated, was quiet, but one man was sitting waiting, and Abner looked at him casually but then more sharply, because he was puzzled. He looked harmless enough, a small man, rather wizened, as though he’d shrunk since he’d first bought the suit he was wearing, and with a dull flat face that bore little expression. Yet at the sight of him Monty at his side had stiffened, and in the big bronze mirror that had been faked to look antique and which covered the wall facing Monty’s office door, Abner had seen the reflection of the fat man’s face. Monty had looked at the man sitting in the corner armchair and had been alarmed; had first frowned and then very slightly, but definitely, had glanced sideways at Abner and then shaken his head and made a warning moue with his rather full lips. It had been an unmistakable reaction and Abner was intrigued by it. It was none of his business, but his was an eye that missed nothing and a mind that stored memories of all it saw. And he needed a lot of information about the way the film industry worked in this town and who was involved in it. There was no reason that he could think of that one man, whom he had met for the first time this morning, albeit after bringing him a very warm letter of introduction from an important Hollywood contact, should be alarmed because another total stranger appeared while he was with Abner. Yet alarmed he had been.

  ‘Oh, Mr Nagel,’ the girl behind the desk said brightly. ‘Here’s Mr Heller to see you and — ’

  ‘I’ve got eyes in my head!’ Nagel growled, and the girl flushed and subsided, clearly put out, and bent her head over a pile of papers. Monty slapped Abner amiably on the back then, and said loudly, ‘Well, then, Abner, I’ll be seeing you. It’s been a good meeting. Keep up the good work.’

  ‘I will,’ Abner said, carefully ignoring the man in the armchair, and nodding affably at the secretary at her desk as though the little scene with her boss hadn’t happened. ‘You’ll be hearing from me.’ And went out into the shabbiness of the outer stairwell and down to the street.

  It had been, he decided, a productive morning so far. To have a list of four more contacts with a firm introduction from a powerful agent was a beginning, and having that agent probably willing to take him on was even more than a beginning. Now, what next?

  He stood in D’Arblay Street and looked round at the mid-morning hubbub, which was considerable, and pondered. Start at once by going to some of these people Monty had suggested? Or just continue with his own list of possibles? Monty had been the best of them — Kass had been right with his assurance that this was the guy to see — but all the same, the rest might add up to something. He had appointments with three or so of them, but not till the next day; Monty Nagel had been the only one available this morning. But then Abner brightened. He had his list from Newark, the fax that Frieda had sent, and he reached into his document case and pulled it out.

  Four names there and all of them attached to addresses. All in London or nearby. And he peered at it and made up his mind. To hell with phone calls. It was worth taking a chance and just going to see if any of these people were right for his movie. Maybe by the end of the day he’d have more than an agent, and a list of possible money people; he’d also have some people to use as material for the movie.

  And that, he thought illogically, should show Miss Miriam Hin
chelsea a thing or two, if nothing did.

  Seven

  That London was big he knew, but he hadn’t understood quite how big, until now. The girl in the coffee shop where he had stopped to collect his thoughts, as well as to rest his aching legs, had advised the tube, and he’d liked the thought of that. The first time he’d used the subway in New York, after arriving at City University, he’d felt like a real New Yorker; there was something so very domestic about being rattled along underneath the city cheek by jowl with people who pretended you weren’t there at all, so jealously did they guard their own space; and though such a journey now wouldn’t make him into a Londoner, it would at least mean he wasn’t just another tourist. The town seemed to be crawling with them; he’d heard every sort of American accent — from the flat of the mid-west to the fluting of California via New York’s nasal jabber — and had shrunk a little from the stereotypical behaviour of some of their owners. What was it about Americans abroad that made them so very embarrassing? But it wouldn’t be like that in the tube. There he could sit and watch the stations run by the window and watch his fellow passengers ignore him and feel comfortable.

  But it was such a distance and took so long that when at last he emerged from Burnt Oak station, where the coffee shop girl had assured him he needed to go, he felt uneasy. To have come so far on impulse without calling first had been crazy. The guy probably wouldn’t be there. At work, possibly. Though perhaps not, he thought then. He could be old, too old to be anything but retired. He reviewed the club in Newark, trying to squint back down the years at the people there. He hadn’t gone there often, but often enough to have been aware of the sort of people who belonged and to his young eyes then they had been really old. Perhaps in their fifties, even sixties, he told himself now as he looked round at the street in which he found himself in Burnt Oak — another sixteen years or so and that’ll be me — and he was caught with a sudden sense of desolation as he contemplated the shortness of his life. So little time lived, and so little left to live. And then, irritated at his own melancholy, Abner reached into his document case for the list of addresses and the book he’d bought in a newspaper shop after he left Monty Nagel’s office. It was going to be his bible, he thought now, as he leafed through the index looking for the address. A London street map — how do they manage ever to get round without one in this town of snaking roads and tiny streets?