Evening In Byzantium Part 14
In the dining room, where a buffet had been set up, Craig glimpsed Gail McKinnon and Reynolds waiting to be served.
Murray Sloan was standing at the bar, chubby and dapper, staring out at the guests. He was smiling pleasantly, but his eyes were like small, dark computers. "Hi, Jesse," he said. "Join the working press in a free drink."
"h.e.l.lo, Murray," Craig said, and asked for a gla.s.s of champagne.
"This isn't your scene anymore, is it, Jesse?" Sloan said. He was munching contentedly on a small cuc.u.mber sandwich that he had lifted from a tray or hors d'oeuvres.
"It's hard to know just what scene this is," Craig said. "The Tower of Babel, the entrance to the Ark, a Mafia meeting, or a prom at a girl's school."
"I'll tell you what the scene is," Sloan said. "It's the ball at Versailles at the court of Louis the Sixteenth, July thirteenth, 1789, the night before the storming of the Bastille."
Craig chuckled.
"You can laugh," Sloan said. "But mark my words. Did you see that picture Ice they showed in the Director's Quinzaine?"
"Yes," Craig said. The picture had been made by a group of young revolutionaries and was a deadly serious work about the beginning of armed revolt in New York City in the immediate future. It had some chilling scenes of castrations, murders of public officials, street fighting, and bombings, all portrayed in a flat cinema verite style that made it very disturbing.
"What did you think of it?" Sloan asked, challengingly.
"It's hard for a man like me to know if it has any validity or not," Craig said. "I don't know kids like that. It might just be a put-on."
"It's no put-on," Sloan said. "It's what's going to happen in America. Soon." He waved his arm to indicate the crowd of his fellow guests. "And all these fat cats are going to be in the tumbrels."
"And where will you be, Murray?" Craig asked.
"In the tumbrels with them," Sloan said gloomily. "Those kids aren't going to make any fine distinctions."
Walter Klein wandered over to the bar. "Hi, boys," he said. "Having a good time?"
Craig allowed Sloan to answer the question. "Loving every minute of it, Walt," Sloan said, observing the ritual.
"How about you, Jesse?" Klein asked.
"Every minute," Craig said.
"It's not a bad little do," Klein said complacently. "A nice mixture of beauty, talent, and larceny." He laughed. "Look at those two over there." He indicated Hennessy and Thomas, who were talking earnestly near the fire-place. "Bathing in it. On the crest of the wave," he said. "Nice work if you can get it. They're both clients."
"Naturally," Craig said. He took another gla.s.s of champagne from the waiter behind the bar.
"Come on over and say a word to the two geniuses," Klein said. It was his abiding rule to introduce everybody to everybody else. As he told his lieutenants, you never know where the lightning will strike. "You, too, Murray."
"I'll keep the duty here at the bar," Sloan said.
"Don't you want to meet them?" Klein asked, surprised.
"No," Sloan said. "I'm going to pan their pictures, and I don't want to be swayed by any false feeling of friendship."
"Have you seen their pictures?" Klein asked.
"No," Sloan said. "But I know their work."
"Lo and behold," Klein said mockingly, "an honest man. Come on, Jess." He took Craig's arm and led him toward the fireplace.
Craig shook Hennessy's hand and apologized to Thomas for not having called him back. Thomas was a slim, gentle-looking man who had a reputation for being unbendingly stubborn on the set.
"What're you two doing?" Klein demanded. "Comparing your grosses?"
"We're crying in our beer," Hennessy said.
"What about?" Klein asked.
"The corruption of the lower cla.s.ses," Hennessy said. "And how difficult it is to remain pure in an impure world."
"Hennessy's new to the game," Thomas said.
"He can't get over the fact that he had to bribe a sheriff and his deputy when he was shooting in a town in Texas."
"I don't mind a bit of reaming per se," Hennessy said. "But I like it to be a little subtle. At least pay lip service to the notion that the bribery of public officials is somewhat distasteful. But these guys just sat there in my motel room drinking my whisky and saying, 'It's three thousand for each of us or don't bother to take the cover off your camera.'" He shook his head mournfully. "And no nonsense like don't you think a big rich company like yours could make a little contribution to the Policemen's Benevolent Fund, or anything like that. Just put the money on the bed, mister. It's tough on a boy who used to be first in his cla.s.s at Sunday school to sh.e.l.l out six thousand dollars in cash to a couple of cops in a motel room and put it into the budget as incidental expenses."
"You got off cheap," Klein said. He was a practical, empirical man. "Don't complain."
"Then, after that," Hennessy said, "they had the nerve to bust the leading man for smoking pot, and there went another two thousand to get him off. What this country needs, like the vice-president says, is law and order."
"You're in France now," Klein said. "Remember?"
"I'm in the movie business," Hennessy said, "wherever I am. And the thing that drives me crazy in the G.o.dd.a.m.n business is all the dough that flows out that you never see on the screen."
"Easy come, easy go," Klein said. A man who had recently received a check for three and a half million dollars could talk like that.
"I'm teaching a seminar at UCLA next year in the art of the cinema," Hennessy said. He drawled out cinema mockingly. "All this will be in my first lecture. Hey, Craig, how'd you like to be my guest one or two hours and tell the kids how it is in the glamorous world of celluloid?"
"I might discourage them for life," Craig said.
"Great," Hennessy said. "Anything to keep the compet.i.tion down. I mean it, though. Seriously. You could really tell them a thing or two."
"If I'm not busy," Craig said carefully, "and I happen to be in the States, maybe ..."
"Where can I reach you?" Hennessy said.
"Through me," Klein said quickly. "Jess and I've been talking about the possibility of his getting back into production one of these days, and I'll know where I can get hold of him."
Klein wasn't exactly lying, Craig thought. He was just shaping the truth to his and perhaps Craig's benefit.
The two directors had glanced sharply at Craig as Klein spoke. Now Thomas said, "What's the property, Jesse? Or don't you want to say?"
"I'd rather not say for the moment. It's still all in the dreaming stage." Murphy's dreams, he thought.
There was a small commotion at the doorway, and Frank Garland came in with his wife and another couple. Garland was an actor who had starred in one of Craig's early movies. He was several years older than Craig but looked no more than thirty-five, dark-haired, athletically tall, strong-jawed, and handsome. He was a very good actor and an imaginative businessman and had his own company that produced not only his own films but the films of others. He was a bouncingly healthy, jovial, extroverted man with a pretty wife to whom he had been married for more than twenty years. He had been superb in Craig's picture, and they were good friends, but tonight Craig didn't want to be exposed to that glorious health, that sensible intelligence, that flawless luck, that unfaked and all-embracing cordiality.
"See you boys later," he said to Klein and the two directors. "I need a breath of air." He went out to the patio and down the wet gra.s.s of the garden toward the illuminated swimming pool. The band was playing, "On a Clear Day You Can See Forever."
Craig looked down at the bright water. The pool was heated, and a slight mist was rising from the surface. Orgies in the swimming pools, he remembered. Not tonight, Nicole.
"Hi, Jesse," a voice said.
Craig looked up. A man was advancing from the shadows of the shrubbery near the end of the pool. As he came closer, Craig recognized him. It was Sidney Green. The thought occurred to Craig that Green had been driven into the solitude of the cold, wet garden for some of the same reasons as himself. Losers outside, please. Ian Wadleigh would soon appear.
"h.e.l.lo, Sid," Craig said. "What are you doing out here?"
"It got too rich for my blood in there." Green had a mournful, soft voice, the voice of a man who expects to be treated badly at all times. "I came out and p.i.s.sed on the expensive green gra.s.s of Walter Klein. A man takes what satisfactions he can find in this world." He laughed apologetically, breathily. "You won't tell Walt, will you? I don't want to seem ungrateful. It was nice of him to invite me. With all those people in that room. There's a lot of power in that room tonight, a lot of clout." Green shook his head slowly to emphasize his respect for the potency of the company a.s.sembled by Walt Klein that night. "I tell you, Jesse," he went on, "there are men in there who could get a ten-million-dollar production started tomorrow morning just by crooking a finger. They look like me, maybe even worse than me, they're wearing the same kind of tuxedo, maybe we even had our suits made by the same tailor, but G.o.d, what a difference. How about you, Jesse? People've been talking about you, wondering what you're doing here. The guess is you've got a picture ready to go and you're here to make a deal."
"There's nothing definite so far," Craig said. Murphy had been definite enough, but there was nothing to be gained by telling Green about that.
"I saw you talking to David Teichman," Green said. "He was something in his day, wasn't he?"
"He certainly was."
"Finished," Green said.
Craig didn't like the bite of the word. "I wouldn't be too sure," he said.
"He'll never make another picture." Green's judgment was final.
"Maybe he's got some plans he hasn't let you in on, Sid."
"If you're thinking of going into business with him, forget it," Green said. "He's going to be dead before the year's out."
"What're you talking about?" Craig asked sharply.
"I thought everybody knew," Green said. "He's got a tumor of the brain. My cousin operated on him in The Cedars. It's just a wonder he's still walking around."
"Poor old man," Craig said. The wig had taken twenty years off his life, Teichman had said.
"Oh. I wouldn't waste too much pity on him," Green said. "He had it good for a long, long time. I'd settle for his life and his tumor at his age. At least his worries're just about over. How about you, Jesse?" The dead and dying had had their moment in Walter Klein's rented garden. "Are you coming back?"
"The possibility exists."
"Well, if you do decide to move, remember me, will you, Jesse?"
"I will indeed."
"I'm underrated as a director, I'm enormously underrated," Green said earnestly. "And that's not only my opinion. There's a guy in there from Cahiers du Cinema, and he made a point of being introduced to me and telling me that in his opinion my last picture, the one I did for Columbia, was a masterpiece. Did you happen to see it?"
"I'm afraid not," Craig said. "I don't go to the movies much anymore."
"Fanfare for Drums," Green said. "That's what it was called. You sure you didn't see it?"
"Absolutely."
"If you want, I'll introduce you to the guy," Green said. "I mean the Cahiers du Cinema guy. He's real smart. He has nothing but scorn for most of the people in there tonight. Scorn."
"Some other time, maybe, Sid. I'm going to make an early night of it."
"Just give me the word," Green said. "I have his address. Boy," he said sadly, "I thought this was going to be my big year in Cannes. I had a two-picture deal with options with Apex and Eastern. That's one of those big conglomerates. Three months ago they looked as though they had all the money in the world. I thought I was all set. I took a new apartment in the sixteenth, they're still putting in boiserie that cost fifteen thousand bucks that I haven't paid for yet. And my wife and I decided we could afford another kid, and she's going to have it in December. Then everything went kaput. Apex and Eastern is in receivership, and I can't afford orange juice in the morning anymore. If I don't get something down here these two weeks, you can say farewell to Sid Green."
"Something'll turn up," Craig said.
"It better," Green said. "It just better."
Craig left him standing at the side of the pool, his head bent, staring despondently at the mist rising from the heated green water. At least, Craig thought, as he went inside, I don't owe fifteen thousand dollars for boiserie, and my wife isn't pregnant.
He spent the rest of the evening drinking. He talked to a lot of people, but by the time he felt he ought to go back to the hotel, all he could remember was that he had looked for Natalie Sorel to take her home with him and not found her and that he had told Walt Klein that he would show him his script and Klein had said that he'd send one of his boys over to the hotel in the morning to pick it up.
He was standing at the bar having one last drink when he saw Gail McKinnon come hurrying in, a raincoat thrown over her shoulders. He hadn't seen her leave. She stopped for a moment at the doorway, scanning the room, then saw him and came over to him. "I'd hoped you'd still be here," she said.
"Have a nightcap," he said. The evening's drinking had made him mellow.
"I need somebody to drive me and Joe Reynolds home," she said. "He hurt himself. Also he's drunk. He knocked himself out falling down the stairs outside."
"It couldn't happen to a nicer fellow," Craig said, cheered by the news. "Have a drink."
"The policeman out there won't let him get into the car," Gail said.
"Astute," Craig said. "The astute French police. Bloodhounds of the law. Have a drink to the n.o.ble gendarmerie of the Alpes Maritimes."
"Are you drunk, too?" she asked sharply.
"Not really," he said. "Are you? Why don't you drive the critic home?"
"I don't have a license."
"Un-American. Don't tell any congressman who happens to ask you. Have a drink," he said.
"Come on, Jesse," she said pleadingly. It was the first time, he noticed, that she had called him by his first name. "It's late, and I can't handle the pain in the a.s.s myself, and he's howling and threatening the policeman and bleeding all over the place, and he'll wind up in jail if we don't get him out of here fast. I know you think I'm a pest, but this is an act of charity." She looked around the room. It was almost empty. "The party's over. Take us back to Cannes, please."
Craig drained his gla.s.s, smiled. "I will deposit the body safely," he said. He took her arm formally and made her say good night with him to Walter Klein before going out into the drizzly night.
Reynolds had stopped yelling at the policeman. He was sitting on the bottom step of the flagstone staircase down which he had fallen, a nasty gash on his forehead, an eye beginning to swell. He was holding a bloodstained handkerchief to his nose. He looked up blearily as Gail McKinnon and Craig approached him. "G.o.dd.a.m.n Frog cops," he said thickly. "Walter Klein and his thugs."
"It's all right, monsieur," Craig said in French to the policeman who was standing politely next to Reynolds. "I'm his friend. I'll drive him home."
"He is in no state to drive," the policeman said. "That is evident to the naked eye. No matter what the gentleman says."
"I absolutely agree," Craig said. He was careful to keep his distance from the policeman. He didn't want to chance the man's smelling his breath. "Upsydaisy, Joe," he said to Reynolds, grabbing him under the armpit and hauling him up. Reynolds let the handkerchief fall from his nose, and a fresh gush of blood spattered Craig's trousers. Reynolds smelled as though he had been steeped, with all his clothes, in whisky for days.
With Gail helping on the other side, they got Reynolds to Craig's car and pushed him into the back seat where he promptly went to sleep. Craig drove out of the parking lot under the dripping trees with exaggerated care, for the watching policeman's benefit.
Except for the sound of Reynold's wet and bubbling snoring in the back of the car, they drove in silence to Cannes. Craig concentrated at the wheel, driving slowly, conscious that the road seemed to have a tendency to blur somewhat in the beam of the headlights on the curves. He was ashamed of the amount of liquor he had drunk that night and promised himself that in the future he would abstain completely when he knew he had to drive a car after an evening out.