Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

“Yes?” Illar said. He glanced at the man, and at the girl, who was smiling at him, her lips parted slightly.

  “Are you an actor?” the man asked.

  “I’m sorry, no,” Illar said.

  “Don’t be sorry about it. You’re lucky,” the man said. He sounded friendly, despite his apparent boredom and fatigue. “Look, my name is Jeremy Webster. I’m a theatrical producer, which, if you were an actor, is a name toward which you would say your prayers each morning.”

  ILLAR inspected the man’s mind, seeing all sorts of complexes and attitudes, none of which were very interesting. There was pride, egomania, a vast need to be loved, a conviction of persecution, and a desire to wrong others to prevent them from wronging him. Also, there was some warmth and sympathy, a small interest in other people, an awareness of his own insignificance.

  “I’ve never acted professionally,” Illar said. “Only in college.” Why had he said this? he wondered. He knew Tarina was staring at him in amazement, while he, in turn, was staring at the sunny-faced blonde.

  Jeremy Webster laughed. “You know who I am then,” he said.

  “Oh, of course,” Illar said.

  “Look, you’ve got something,” Webster said, in a crisper voice. “I don’t what the hell exactly, but it’s worth checking. The way you hold your head, the line of your features—it’s something. Maybe it’s something good. You want to take a crack at a part in my new play?”

  “Why, I’d love to,” Illar said.

  Tarina glared at him and took a deep breath.

  “Well, fine.” Webster gave Illar a card. “Come down this afternoon. Now, where the hell are my manners? This is Dawn Evans. We’ve been out all night, and she’s ready for a Maypole dance. She’s fabulous. I need alcohol, benzedrine, codeine, and sixteen hours of sleep before I can sign my name. Who’re you people?”

  “My name is Farthington Pembroke,” Illar said.

  Webster winced. “We’ll have to do something about that. And your wife, eh?”

  “No,” Tarina said in an extremely clear voice. “We live together to cut expenses. My husband is in the army.”

  Webster made a strangling sound and popped a white tablet in his mouth. He shook his head. “I’m terribly afraid that I heard you correctly,” he said. “Well, it’s none of my business. Dawn, this is Farthington Pembroke, and some GI’s wife, who shall be nameless.”

  Illar shook the girl’s slim but surprisingly strong hand. “I hope we can all see each other again,” he said.

  “That’s possible,” Webster said. “Dawn is trying out for the show, too.” He looked at her, oblivious to everyone else then, and smiled slowly. “She’s doing it the hard way. Can you imagine that?”

  Dawn Evans looked demure, or as demure as a girl in a gold lame gown can look, and patted Webster’s arm lightly. “We’re the best friends in the world, of course.”

  “Yeah, and ain’t that a helluva note,” Webster said. “Well, I’m off. See you kids at four. Think tall.” He went down the steps and turned toward Fifth Avenue.

  Illar held the door for Dawn and Tarina. They went into the hallway, and stood together for an instant. They were all smiling at each other. “Would you like to have some coffee with me?” Dawn said.

  “In a word, no,” Tarina said, and swept up the stairs.

  Illar followed her, smiling sheepishly.

  Dawn shrugged.

  Inside their room Tarina wheeled about and put her hands on her hips.

  “WHAT was the meaning of all that nonsense?”

  “I want to get closer to these people,” Illar said stiffly. “I wish to work with them for a bit, to understand them, to complete our investigation in a thorough—”

  “Oh, stop babbling,” Tarina said.

  Illar drew himself up and said firmly, “Since this seems to be a moment of bad-tempered criticism, perhaps you would be good enough to explain your churlish behavior to that girl?”

  Tarina laughed and pounded a fist gently against her forehead. “This is the ultimate! That simpleton wouldn’t understand the difference between a curtsy and a kick in the posterior. I have never, in all our investigations, met a more completely primitive type.”

  “You’re completely wrong,” Illar said, with considerable heat. “She’s got very warm impulses. Did you feel her sensibilities? They are beautifully developed.”

  “Is that all you’re interested in?” Tarina said icily. “Her warm beautiful sensibilities? Perhaps you’d like to subject her to the clinical examination you began with me last night.”

  “I began nothing with you,” Illar snapped. “I was interested, scientifically, in certain stimuli.

  You’re deliberately dragging this discussion into the crudest of channels.”

  Tarina fluttered a hand airily. “Oh, it wasn’t I who began drooling about beautiful sensibilities, my dear. That, if my memory serves, was your area of exploration.”

  “You’re quite impossible for some reason,” Illar said.

  “Oh I am, am I? How do you think you looked, my dear, preening yourself under that man’s flattery?”

  “I did not preen.”

  “Well, simper might be a better word.”

  Illar strode to the mirror and stared at himself, turning his head this way and that. “He said it was the way I held my head, that’s all. It wasn’t flattery.”

  “And the line of your features,” Tarina said, laughing softly. “Don’t forget that.”

  “Well, what’s so funny about it?”

  “My dear, this is rather touching. You’re delighted because you’re handsome. How primitive can you get!”

  Illar turned to her, recovering his poise. “Don’t be absurd,” he said. “Physical appearance is the most insignificant characteristic of matter.”

  “Of course. That wart on your chin, for instance. It couldn’t matter less.”

  Illar sprang back to the mirror, and stared at his chin. It was solidly molded, unblemished.

  Tarina threw herself on the bed and buried her face in a pillow. She was laughing so hard that the springs creaked. “Oh, my dear,” she said at last, in a muffled, choking voice. “You thought you had a wart. Physical appearance is the most insignificant—” She couldn’t go on. Her voice dissolved into peals of laughter.

  Illar stared down at her, clenching and unclenching his hands slowly. He looked at the rounded curve of her buttocks, and his right palm itched. This dismayed him slightly, and tempered his anger. He actually wanted to strike her; he could almost feel the passage of his hand through the air, hear the satisfying whack! as it landed on her invitingly vulnerable tail.

  Why, this was terrible!

  What had happened to brutalize his instincts so swiftly?

  Now that he had himself in control, he realized that the impulse had only been cerebral. He had entertained it fleetingly, clinically, but there hadn’t been the slightest chance of its being translated into action.

  Nothing she might do could prompt him to strike her, he knew. Still giggling, Tarina said, “Dear, you’re a ham.”

  Illar spanked her resoundingly on the rump.

  “You go too far,” he said sternly, rubbing her cute posterior.

  She let out a yelp and jerked herself up to a sitting position, but by that time the door was closing on Illar’s stiff, injured back.

  The door slammed, and Tarina put her head down and began to weep.

  JEREMY WEBSTER’S offices were in Rockefeller Center, on the twenty-fifth floor. The reception room was awesomely chaste and silent; gray drapes hung at the windows, matching the walls and carpeting, and the only sound came from the ragged breathing of the half dozen young men and women who were waiting to see Jeremy Webster. A haughty receptionist sat behind a semicircular desk, staring bleakly at the wretches who waited for her to lift a languid hand and say, “Mr. Webster won’t be in until next week. Thank you all so much for waiting . . .”

  Illar presented the card Webster had given him and, after a phone call
, the receptionist gave him a brief smile, and her permission to enter the inner sanctum. Webster was striding about his office when Illar came in, occasionally popping white tablets into his mouth. He wore a black flannel suit with a tattersall vest, and he looked fatigued and despairing. Dawn Evans was present too, seated in a deep armchair, her exquisitely slim legs crossed, and an expression of bland good humor on her face. Two or three other men drifted about the office, scripts in hand, watching Webster with worried frowns.

  Illar waved to Dawn and she gave him a wide smile.

  “It’s nice to see you again,” he said, because it was nice.

  “Well, thanks,” she said.

  “Okay, okay,” Webster said, facing them, hands on hips. “Todd, give ’em scripts. You kids are going to do a scene together. We’ll give you time to run through it first.”

  A young man gave them narrow “sides,” Webster told them what he expected of them, which, his tone indicated wasn’t much, and then he and his staff withdrew. The doors closed, and Illar was alone with Dawn.

  “Well,” he said.

  “This is going to be rough,” she said, shaking her head and frowning. “I mean, this is just a little sliver of the play, and we’re supposed to do something with it. I never understand plays very well anyway.”

  “I shouldn’t worry too much about it,” he said.

  She laughed shakily. “You sound pretty confident.”

  “We shall see,” he murmured. He sat down on a leather couch and looked at the script, memorizing it instantly, and, inferring from this one section the whole of the play, how it began and ended, and what effect it was intended to produce on the audience. It was a strange business, actually. A little story, to be acted out before groups of people. Why? The story held a promise of hope, it hinted that somewhere ahead lay a chance for love, a gentle word, smiles and laughter. These types were the most primitive I’ve met, he thought, slightly touched by their plight. They hoped. They believed in happiness. They lacked the intelligence, apparently, to eliminate these illusions.

  “I don’t understand it,” Dawn said, looking at him appealingly. “Take where I say I never loved any man but my father. And the guy tells me I really hated my father. What’s all that?”

  “COME here, Dawn. We’ll run through it together.”

  Dawn sat beside him, the script in her lap, and sighed. She said humbly, “I’m not very bright, I guess.”

  That was perfectly true, he knew, but she was curiously attractive in spite of it. She was very slender and curvesome, and her skin was fair. Probably very soft to the touch. As soft as Tarina’s? He cleared his throat. The late afternoon sunlight brought out deep lights in her honey-colored hair, and there was a small, placid pulse beat at the base of her slim white throat. Why did these things matter? It was that clumsy, ridiculous mating business, probably. Just how did they—He checked the thought sternly. Nothing could interest him less than studying the details of such monstrous improprieties. He cleared his throat again and crossed his legs.

  With an effort he went back to the play. He explained it to her slowly, carefully, in terms she would perceive emotionally, and as he talked a glimmering of understanding came into her face. It was a sad little story, and when he finished her eyes were damp.

  “Oh, it’s so lovely,” she said.

  “Why? They all lost what they wanted.”

  “But they might have got it, don’t you see?”

  He did see, of course. This was hope and trust, the primordial optimism. But he couldn’t feel it himself. If he felt this emotion he would be close to unhappiness, or happiness; which was impossible.

  Webster came back then, looking even more morose and despairing, and sat on the edge of his desk. Two of his young men drifted in and stood by the walls. They watched Webster, and their expressions were morose and despairing, If he smiled they would smile; their faces were obedient as mirrors.

  “Okay,” Webster said. “Bore me.”

  They went through the scene. Dawn was not very expert; but she hit the right emotional values. Illar, however, cast a magic net over the room, and within it the three men were helplessly imprisoned. They became slaves staring mutely through barred windows at a patch of sunlight. They knew a grand hope, and a grand despair, and when Illar made his last speech, they were spiritually shattered.

  Webster blew his nose. He dabbed at his, eyes. His young men did the same. Then Webster came over and patted Illar’s shoulder. “You’re terrific, kid,” he said. Then he looked at Dawn. “You’ll do. With Pembroke, anybody’d do. Todd, contracts!”

  EVENTS moved rapidly from this point. Illar’s days were taken up in rehearsals and at the costumers. He didn’t need to rehearse, but it was expected of him. After rehearsals he and Dawn usually had a few drinks, and of these Illar was becoming very fond. He was also very fond of Dawn, but their relationship was as ideal as his relationship with Tarina. That is, it was completely cerebral. Which was ideal, he frequently told himself sternly. Tarina, meanwhile, had moved to a hotel suite which overlooked Central Park. She spent her days in reckless buying binges at the swankiest couturiers, and at the beauty shops. She had made a fitful effort to develop the mind of this body she wore, but it was a forced interest. She was only interested in the body. And of this she took excellent care. She had manicures, pedicures, facial massages, hair rinses, and permanents. She wore mud packs, she had her legs waxed, she sat in steam cabinets, she dieted and exercised, until she glowed delicately with health and beauty. Her clothes were fabulous, and she caused an audible ripple of masculine approval as she whisked through the lobby of the hotel. But she knew nothing approaching satisfaction. There was a gnawing hunger inside this body of hers which nothing assuaged. She was restless and impatient, irritable and temperamental.

  It was an affliction which she understood and loathed.

  She longed for the shining silver sphere, the disembodied existence, the tranquil passivity of her life with Illar.

  The play opened and was an immediate hit. The critics loved everything about it, and particularly Illar’s performance.

  “A happy choice . . . A new luminary . . . One of the finest portrayals . . . Mr. Pembroke’s gifts are astounding . . .”

  Thus ran the notices.

  There was a party for the cast after the opening and Illar was inundated with praise and champagne. He returned to his suite early in the morning, his top hat set at a precarious angle on his head, and waving a sheaf of notices in his hand.

  “Dear, I am fabulous,” he said, beaming at Tarina.

  She was dressed for bed, and wore only a peach-colored negligee over her nightgown. “You’re ridiculous,” she said coldly.

  He blinked at her. “Ward Morehouse calls me a new and dynamic force in the theater. George Jean Nathan insists that I am greater—”

  “Oh, stop, stop, stop,” Tarina cried, pressing her hands to her ears. “You believe that drivel. What’s more you think it’s important.”

  “Well, it’s a bit fulsome, perhaps, but—”

  “It makes no difference. You’ve suddenly adopted the values of these primitives. You want to be liked and flattered. You want approval. It’s—it’s disgusting. When are we going back?”

  He frowned now, his benign good humor fading. “But I’ve got a run-of-the-play contract,” he said.

  “What difference does that make? They can replace you.”

  “Oh, I’m not so sure.”

  “You ass!” she said bitterly.

  “All right, we’ll go back as soon as I can get someone to take over,” he shouted, thoroughly angry and hurt now. “Did you think I wanted to stay here?” Tarina breathed easier. She had been afraid of that, even though she knew it was impossible and preposterous. But Illar had been acting oddly . . .

  “Very well, let’s not discuss it any further,” she said. “We’re going back soon, so there’s no point in this undignified acrimony.”

  They would go back, she knew. They never lied to
each other; they couldn’t. Illar was committed to return now; nothing could prevent that. “I’m going to bed. Good night,” she said.

  “Don’t you want to look at these notices? You might find them amusing.”

  “The possibility is remote,” she said drily, and slipped out of her robe. “Good night.”

  “I shall see you tomorrow.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out!” Illar said.

  He went to a bar and drank whisky for several hours, and his capacity caused the bartender’s eyebrows to go up a respectful notch. Then he cabbed across town to Dawn’s hotel, and went up to her room. He wasn’t sure what he planned to do; he didn’t know enough about himself, or of women, to make plans. Let nature take its course, he thought foggily.

  Dawn opened the door, holding a robe together at her waist and blinking with sleep.

  “Why, Pembroke,” she said. “Come on in. Been celebrating, eh?”

  “That’s the year’s understatement,” Illar said. He closed the door and took her in his arms.

  “What’s all this?” she said in a good humored voice.

  She was soft and warm to his touch, and her body snuggled compatibly against his; there was no problem really, he knew.

  “I want you,” he said.

  She raised her eyes and looked at him gravely. “Okay,” she said, after a short pause. “I like you, and I’d be a heel to say no. You’re the only thing keeping me in that show.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with it,” he said irritably.

  “I know. I’m a spoil sport, I guess.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Well, this sounds awfully corny, Pembroke, but I don’t love you.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Are you trying to say that it isn’t good unless the parties love each other?”

  She giggled. “That’s the way a lawyer would put it, I guess. Seriously, Pembroke, I don’t know about other people. But that’s the way it is with me.”

  He dropped his arms, dispirited and discouraged. “Is love that important?”

  “I guess so. My God, look at all the songs they write about it?” She looked up into his moody, troubled face, and sighed. “Well, I’m a real bitch, I guess. I owe it to you, and still I make with all this hearts-and-flowers talk.”