by John Gardner
All Louis Passau could do was let out a low sigh. His knees seemed to be intent on buckling, and his stomach dropped into his shoes.
“You mean it!” Stefan sounded brighter now. “You really mean it! I couldn’t be happier for you.”
“Then come and be our witness, Stefan,” Rita said, in the low sexy voice she had used for Stella French in Autumn Glory.
“Why not? I get to kiss the bride?”
“You even get to kiss the bridegroom if you’re unlucky.” Rita gave him a cheeky grin. They drove out to Santa Barbara, and found a justice who was very willing to perform the ceremony—“A kind of Frank Morgan guy. His wife would’ve been Binnie Barnes.”
By this time Stefan was becoming obsessed with the concern that they might have planned a long honeymoon and would not be available for preproduction on Blood of a Nation.
“Strictly a couple of days, Mr. Greif,” Louis kept telling him, but he still wound himself up, so they took him back to the house and fed him champagne until he felt no more pain. In the end they called a cab to drive him home, tucking a note into his pocket to remind him of what had taken place. The note also asked him to leave them alone for three days.
On that warm evening of their wedding day, they drove out along the coast, eventually reaching a hotel which looked suitably plush.
As the bellboy took the cases and they walked towards the front desk, Rita whispered, “Just you wait and see what I’m not wearing under this dress.”
They remained in their suite for three days, seeing only the room-service waiters and shooing the maids away whenever they attempted to make up the room.
“Three days, Herb. Never did I have a honeymoon like it. No, that’s not quite true. There was another occasion. When my memory gets fouled up with the bad things about that marriage, I always try to think of the good times.” Kruger nodded his large head. “Is the best way, Lou. I have a similar problem. Is what I do also.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“No, I want to talk about you, and what happened with Rita.”
“On the three-day honeymoon?”
“No, that I can guess at. I want to hear about when it fell apart. That’s if it really has got anything to do with what we’re chasing here. What the books only hint at. Great love story, leading to great tragedy. That true, Lou? Is it—what’s the word?—pertinent?”
“Yes, it’s pertinent, and it was certainly a great and tragic love story. Definitely. What can I say? The first months were unimaginable. Like a fucking poem. How best can I describe it to you? We shared so much, Herb. So bloody much. And there was always laughter.”
He paused and looked up, again not into Kruger’s eyes, but towards that point on the wall behind Herbie’s head. Kruger had the strange, but distinct, impression that Passau was making some of it up as he went on; busking it; vamping until ready. That he would not tell the complete truth, because it would hurt him: like the stories he told about Sophia Giarre and their last days in Chicago. Passau had been deeply emotional about Sophie, and there was more to come, of that Herbie was certain. Now, talking of Rita Crest, his wife, there seemed to be no depth of feeling in what he said. No reality, yet there was truth.
So, Herbie thought, you do not really mourn Rita. She gave you a push, if the books come anywhere near to telling the truth. She gave you a push into the stratosphere, yet you have no truly fond, emotional memories. Rita, Maestro Passau, was a means to an end. There might not even have been love. Then, Louis almost changed Kruger’s mind—
“Possibly, Herbie, because you love Gustav Mahler so much, something simple might convey it to you. You know the Rückert poems he set to music?”
“The Rückert Lieder, ja, of course.”
Passau began to quote. His voice was thick, and the poem sounded almost banal. Behind the words, Herbie heard Mahler’s music:
“Ich atmet’ einen linden Duft,” Passau began.
“I breathed a gentle fragrance.
In the room there was a branch of a lime tree, a gift of a dear hand.
How lovely was the lime fragrance.”
“You see, it means nothing without the music. Verstanden?”
Herbie sniffed. Of course he understood. It was not the poem and its mawkishness, but Mahler’s setting that gave it the twist and the depth.
“For lime, read lemon, Lou? I am right, yes?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” The old man turned his face away so that Kruger could not see his eyes. Herbie remembered the scent of lemons in the dressing room at Lincoln Center, and again on Passau’s wife, Angela.
He tried to break the mood. “To begin with it was all light, fire, and air, yes?”
“Of course.”
“She made movies. You personally scored them. You met the famous names now legends.”
“We lived life up to the hilt. Sure, we met everybody. From the old silent days as well as that present when anything seemed possible.”
“Tell me about the people, Lou.”
This launched him into a festival of anecdotes, some of which Herbie already knew, others he had never heard. It was impossible to gauge whether the Maestro was repeating things he had heard from the people involved, or if he were simply embellishing the tales, told second or third hand.
It was strange, back then, Passau told him. Everyone was conscious that they were at the beginning of a new era. They still thought of the silent films as being the greatest.
“Thalberg, the great Irving Thalberg, actually said ‘Talking pictures are just a fad.’ And Harry Warner, who laughed at himself later, remarked, ‘Who wants to hear actors talk?’ There was one story about how Clara Bow came dashing out of an office when a fire alarm went off, at Paramount. She was yelling, ‘Pray God it’s the sound stages.’ They were full of stories like that.”
“So, Lou, you had a great time, but when did it start to go wrong?”
“In a minute,” Passau seemed to be dismissing Kruger’s question. “First, I have to tell you about how I made a little further progress. When we got back from that three-day honeymoon there was a letter for me. On headed notepaper: the Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra. From the resident conductor, Artur Rodzinski—he was followed by the great Klemperer, you know. They had tried to get Rachmaninov as their principal conductor but he wouldn’t do it, so they ended up with dear Maestro Rodzinski.” He paused, savoring some memory. Then, with a smile, “The letter was to ask me if I would have time to be deputy conductor.”
“And you jumped at that?”
“Of course I jumped at it. Rodzinski was an exciting young man—around thirty at the time, I think. Went on to do wonderful things. A great Wagnerian. Artur was a good friend. You know, when it happened for me with the Manhattan Symphony Orchestra—when some people were against what occurred—Artur stood by me.”
“What did happen, Lou?”
Passau waved his hand in front of his face, as though trying to get rid of an insect. “That is later. After …”
“After Rita’s death?”
Silence, with Passau biting his upper lip. He seemed in no way moved. Then he nodded. “Yes. Yes, after Rita died.”
“But you took on the job as assistant conductor? You had the time?”
“I made the time. Max Ebius didn’t like it much, but he couldn’t do anything about it. I suppose I conducted concerts about once a month, and sometime deputized if there was a problem.”
“Like the problem with Maestro Androv?”
“What problem?”
“Lou, there was talk. Just like there was talk about Rita.”
“Boris Androv was a pompous old fart.”
“He was also very famous.”
Passau’s head made a quick, jerky movement. “Who’s telling this story, Herb? You or me?”
“As long as you tell the truth.”
“You think I don’t tell you the truth?”
“There would be no point in you lying, Lou.” Kruger gave
a silent chuckle, and in his thickest accent mouthed, “Ve haf vays of making you tell the truth.”
Passau did not laugh. Instead, he sat cloaked in his own silence, staring over Herbie’s head to the door to his past.
“What about the movie, Lou? What about Blood of a Nation?”
“Oh, God. One of my best scores, and some lovely work by Rita, but it was a disaster. Too long, too many confusions.”
They were on location for weeks. Greener areas of southern California became the battlefields, with extras sweating under Confederate and Union uniforms. “There were six deaths when we shot Bull Run One, Herbie. Explosives went off accidentally. Six bodies spread over a square half mile. A shambles and chaos. There was huge waste. Five hundred thousand dollars for a southern plantation house on the back-lot. I tell you, it looked just like Tara from Gone with the Wind. Later people, I heard, said when they did Gone with the Wind some of the designs were stolen from Blood of a Nation. But Rita was wonderful. She spent hours on a southern accent. I know. I worked with her on it. Me. I did that.” He thumped his chest in rhythm.
“And after?”
“After? Oh, a couple of nice, quiet comedies. Dulcimer—Max didn’t like the title and I don’t blame him. Then …”
“Nights of Lightning?” It was the picture Rita was working on when she died, and Herbie knew it.
“Yes. Yes, of course. It was Nights. They never finished it.” He took a huge breath, then sagged. “What you want me to say, Kruger? You want a written confession?”
“Just the truth.”
“Okay. Okay.” Passau became edgy, voice rising, fingers picking at his trousers. Then a deep breath. “You want to hear about Rita’s death? You want all the details. The details people have only speculated about?”
“I think I have to know, Lou.” Kruger looked directly into the old man’s eyes. “You said that I had to know everything if I was to understand.” He waited. From faraway, above them, came the sound of a jet aircraft. “You’d rather be on that plane, Lou?”
Slowly Passau shook his head. “I loved her, Herb—truly I loved her—my first sin was being so tied up in my work that I noticed nothing … even after a hard day at the studios she seemed bright and active—always full of life, and fun … We’d spend days together, when we were both off. … She came to a couple of my concerts, she took an interest in my music, and I would coach her with her lines. … There was always … fun. … Her energy seemed—well—it seemed boundless.” The words did not come out in one long steady flow. He hesitated, as though his speech was somehow punctuated by a defect in his memory. There were no tears or sobs; no self-indulgence. Just an old man trying to find the right words. “Truly, Herbie, I had no idea, but they say the husband or wife is the last to know. … We seemed close … read each other like open books.”
“So when did you find out?”
“A party. We were at Pickfair. Lots of people there. A house full of stars, you might say. I remember it particularly. The one and only time I met John Wayne. In his youth he looked wonderful. A powerhouse. When he walked into a room he owned it, so full of confidence he was. Everyone was there. Cooper, Wayne, Astor, Harlow …
“Crystabelle Challis came up. I was talking to Chaplin. Yes, the great clown himself. He told me some story about turning down a screen test where he would have to speak. He refused and turned down a fortune. I remember he said, ‘At least my integrity has stayed intact.’ Then Crys came up, and Chaplin snubbed her.
“What was that all about, Crys?”
“Charlie? Oh, Charlie and I didn’t see eye to eye about something.”
“Money?”
“No, Lou, not money. Legs. We didn’t agree about whether I should have my legs open or closed. I wanted them closed; he wanted them open. I won, so we don’t speak anymore.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. Where’s the millionaire playgirl?”
“Who?”
“Rita.”
Louis laughed, “Crys, you have the funniest sayings. Why call her that?”
“Call her what?”
“The millionaire playgirl.”
“Why not, Lou? That’s what she is, or hadn’t you noticed?”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Oh, Christ!” She put a hand to her cheek, then covered her eyes. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
She gave a long sigh. “My big mouth. Of course you don’t know. I guess that’s why she married you. Because you were obviously in love with her and knew nothing. Look, Lou, don’t ever let her even suspect I told you. A couple of years back, just before you two met, her old man died. Left her twenty million. Oil. A cool twenty million.”
“Dollars?”
“Well, I’m not talking about china dogs, honey. Of course dollars. Her salary from the studios just about keeps her in the booze and …”
Lou went suddenly cold. “And what?” Freezing.
“Heroin, honey. Don’t say you haven’t noticed that she’s smashed half the time?”
“No, Crys. No, I hadn’t noticed, and what’s this about heroin? Surely, Rita doesn’t …”
To Big Herbie, he said, “The kids today think they discovered drugs, and in a way they did—or their fathers did, in the sixties. But back then it happened. I knew some people used heroin, or coke a little, but I’d never seen it. Not openly. People talked about ‘drug fiends’ then. They were depicted as depraved, deranged people, lower scum than the winos on skid row. I never thought for a minute that Rita. … I don’t think I want to talk anymore today.”
“Lou, if you don’t do it now …”
“Sure, yes. I know. If I don’t do it now, I’ll never do it. Okay. Rita was on heroin and booze. I couldn’t see it. Just could not see where all the energy and fun came from. How she was able to do a day’s work, come home, and go to a party yet still be ready to make love, and laugh. Even after Crys told me, I didn’t believe it. You understand that? I didn’t really believe.”
He had never asked her about the money, and he said nothing about the drugs and the drink. Over the next few weeks, all Louis Passau did was watch and try to make up his mind. Part of him said that Crystabelle Challis was simply stirring up trouble; slandering her friend. But the other half of him started to notice little things. How Rita looked tired and seemed down when she arrived back from work. He now tried to make a point of being at home when she arrived back. The fatigue appeared to dissipate within a short time of her going to “freshen up” on her return.
Once, he wakened in the night and found her, lying beside him, freezing cold and shivering. “Must have a chill,” she said. Yet the shivering stopped after a short visit to the bathroom.
Lou Passau began to search for other clues. He was still not completely convinced that Crys Challis was telling the truth. He sought her out and pummeled her with questions.
“Lou, sweetheart, you’re looking at her through tinted glasses. Everyone knows she has problems. She’s cheating on you. Doesn’t deserve you. She’s cheating, not with other men, but with booze and the white powder. I think only you can save her. Confront her with it because, if you don’t, she’ll kill herself.”
So Passau looked again. He searched the house while she was out. “Herb, I started to feel betrayed, you know what I mean?”
“Oh, yes, Lou. Yes, I know exactly. Betrayal is a part of life that never goes away.” He thought again of the little, neat apartment in what used to be East Berlin. The Dürer and the ruby glasses, and Ursula, slim and adorable, making dinner, humming a tune. She liked Weill and Brecht. Used to go to the Berliner Ensemble. Towards the end she was always humming “Mack the Knife” from The Threepenny Opera—“Oh, the shark has pretty teeth, dear. And he keeps them pearly white.” He could hear her clear sweet voice from over the years, and could feel her warmth, smell her smell.
“I love you, Herbie. To the end of time, I love you. Promise you’ll never leave.” When t
he Office pulled on his string, it cracked his heart to leave. So much that he broke all the rules to go back, and she caught him. Snap! The trap baited all those years. Baited with stories of love, and promises.
For some reason he heard the voice of Shakespeare’s Lear howling. Why should he think of that?
“Okay, I tell you what happened.” Passau looked at him, as though he had been talking all the time while Herbie had ridden his mind back to the act of his betrayal.
“First, I confronted her. I suppose it was the dumbest thing I ever did, and it certainly was the first cause of her death.”
Below them a door slammed, and faraway Pucky’s voice called out.
“Shit!” Herbie said loudly, realizing that the room was turning red and dark with the sunset. Shit and double shit, he thought. He had brought Passau to a difficult point. For, love her or not, the death of Rita Crest had to have been traumatic for him. Now, the moment was all but gone. “Lou, you listen to music, eh? I go down and see Pucky. We all had a hard day. What you want to hear?”
Passau let out a sigh, knowing that he had been let off the hook, at least for today.
“Give me Lenny’s last recording of Mahler Six. It has great drive.”
Also great emotion, Kruger thought, as the rattling march began to rip from the speakers. He went out on the landing and realized that he also had been let off the hook, for his head spun with thoughts of those days and nights with Ursula Zunder, his lover-spy-betrayer from years ago. His head was a whirlpool and his heart was an icemaker full of mixed emotions.
Down in the conservatory, Pucky had drawn the drapes and the lights were on. Once more she was shaking out her golden hair, and Herbie Kruger faltered on the turning of the stair.
“Is not sunlight, Pucky,” he said. “But seeing you there, it reminds me of a poem.”
“Poems yet, Herbie?”
“Ja, and I get it right. Old Naldo taught me a long time ago, and I always wanted to say it to a beautiful woman.”