Evening In Byzantium Part 18
Gail flicked off the machine. "Remember, Ian," she said, "this is for American listeners. You'd better explain, don't you think?"
"Yeah, you're right," Wadleigh said. He took a gulp of the fresh whisky the waiter had put down in front of him.
"I'll ask you the question," Gail said. She started the machine again. "Would you like to describe that theory for us, Mr. Wadleigh?"
"The auteurist theory of film making," he said, "is very simple. It rests on the conviction that a film is the work of one man-the director. That in the final a.n.a.lysis the man behind the camera is the real author of the work, that the film, in essence, is written with the camera."
"Do you agree with that theory?"
It's like a charade, Craig thought, little girl wearing Mummy's dress, or in this case, Mummy's bikini, and going down to Daddy's office and sitting at his desk and talking into the intercom.
"No," Wadleigh said. "Of course, there are directors who are in fact the authors of their films, but all that means is that as well as being directors, they are also writers. If they deserve a prize for their work, they deserve two prizes-one for the script and one for the direction. But the truth is that in America, at any rate, there are only five or six men who are really both. Of course, directors being the self-deluding beasts they are, there are plenty of them who think they are writers and impose their written efforts on the audience."
The same old whine, Craig thought.
"We are fortunate enough," Gail said calmly into the microphone, "to have Mr. Jesse Craig, the eminent film producer with us here on the beach in Cannes. I wonder if I could ask you, Mr. Craig, if you agree with Mr. Wadleigh. Or if you disagree, why?"
Craig's hand tightened on his gla.s.s. "Cut out the jokes, Gail," he said.
"Oh, Daddy," Anne said, "go ahead. You were talking to me for half an hour about the movies in the car. Don't be sticky."
"Shut the d.a.m.n machine off, Gail," Craig said.
Gail didn't move. "There's no harm done. I splice together what I want later and throw out the junk. Maybe," she said, smiling agreeably, "if I can't have you, I'll put Anne on the air. The confidences of the daughter of the abdicated king, the Life and Loves of the one after the last Tyc.o.o.n, as seen through the clear young eyes of his nearest and dearest."
"Any time you say," Anne said.
"I'm sure your listeners in Peoria," Craig said, making an effort to keep his temper and sound offhand at the same time, "are waiting with bated breath for just that program." I'm going to wipe that dancing smile off your face, lady, he thought. For the first time in his life he understood those writers who regarded the p.e.n.i.s as an instrument of revenge.
"We'll just keep it in mind, Anne," Gail said. "Won't we? And now Mr. Wadleigh-" She resumed her professional voice. "In a conversation with Mr. Craig some days ago on the same subject, when I asked him why he had not directed any of the films he had produced, he replied that he didn't think he was good enough, that there were perhaps fifty men in Hollywood who were better at the job than he thought he could be. Similarly," she went on, staring coolly at Craig as she spoke so that it was evident to him, if not to the others, that she was maliciously playing with him, using their presence to ensure that he suffered in silence, "similarly, is it an equally admirable modesty on your part that prevents you from working behind the camera?"
"s.h.i.t," Craig said. "s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t. Send that out to the homes of America."
"Daddy!" Anne said, shocked. "What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing. I don't like to be trapped, that's all. When I want to give an interview, I'll give it. Not before." He remembered the t.i.tle Gail had said she was going to use on the piece about him, "The Once and Future Has Been," but he couldn't tell that to Anne. He also couldn't tell Anne that he had slept with that cool, smiling girl in the pink bathing suit the night before and that if he could, he would sleep with her in the night to come.
"If you recall my question, Mr. Wadleigh," Gail said, "has it been due to modesty, as in the case of Mr. Craig, that you have not directed any of the scripts you have written for films?"
"h.e.l.l, no," Wadleigh said. "If I couldn't do better than ninety-nine per cent of those b.u.ms out there, I'd shoot myself. It's just that the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in the front offices won't hire me."
"I think that brings us to the end of this program," Gail said into the microphone. "Thank you very much, Mr. Wadleigh, for your frank and enlightening discussion of the problems of the writer for the motion pictures. I am sorry that Mr. Craig was unexpectedly called away so that we were denied the benefits of his long experience in the field. Perhaps we shall be lucky enough in the near future to have Mr. Craig, who is an extremely busy man, with us at greater length. This is Gail McKinnon, broadcasting from the Cannes Film Festival."
She flipped off the machine, smiled brightly and innocently. "Another day, another dollar." She started to pack away the machine. "Isn't Daddy the funny one?" she said to Anne.
"I don't understand you, Daddy," Anne said. "I thought you and she were friends."
There's a description, Craig thought.
"I don't see what harm it would do to say a few words," Anne persisted.
"What you don't say can't hurt you," Craig said. "You'll find that out eventually, too. Ian, what the h.e.l.l good do you think you did yourself just now? Can you figure out why you did it?'"
"Sure," Ian said. "Vanity. A trait not to be taken lightly. Of course, I know you're above such human failings."
"I'm not above anything," Craig said. He wasn't arguing for himself but for Anne, for Anne's education. He didn't want her to be taken in by the American craze for publicity, for self-congratulation, for flattery, for the random, glib chatter on television whose real, dead serious purpose was to sell automobiles, deodorants, detergents, politicians, remedies for indigestion and insomnia. "Ian," he said, "I know why Gail goes through all this nonsense-"
"Careful, careful," Gail said mockingly.
"She makes her living out of it, and maybe it's no more discreditable than the way you and I make our living ..."
"Blessings on you, Daddy," Gail said.
I'm going to lock the door tonight, Craig thought, and stuff cotton in my ears. With a wrench he made himself look away from the lovely, teasing face and talk to Wadleigh. "What possible good did babbling away here this afternoon do you? I'm serious. I want to know. Maybe you can convince me."
"Well," Ian said, "first of all, before you came, good old Gail plugged my books. Gallant little liar, she had a good word to say for all of them. Maybe her program'll get one person to go into a bookstore to buy one of them or two or all of them. Or since they're out of print, maybe it'll get a publisher to bring out my collected works in paperback. Don't be holy, Jess. When you make a picture, you want people to see it, don't you?"
"Yes," Craig admitted.
"Well, how does that make you different from me?"
"Do you want me to use the machine, Jesse?" Gail said. "It'll only take a minute. We can start the interview right now."
"I'm not selling any pictures at the moment," Craig said. "Leave the machine alone."
"Or some producer or director might happen to tune in on the program," Wadleigh continued, "and say, 'Hey, I thought that guy was dead. If he isn't dead, he might be just the guy to write my next picture.' We all depend on luck, you, I, Gail, even this beautiful young girl who has turned out to be your daughter. A switch of the dial on the radio might mean the difference in life or death for somebody like me."
"Do you really believe that?" Craig asked.
"What do you think I believe in?" Wadleigh said bitterly. "Merit? Don't make me laugh."
"I'm remembering all this," Gail said. "I'm sure it's going to be useful for something. For the piece I'm doing about you, Jesse, for example. The public figure who refuses the public role. Is it for real, I'll ask my readers, or is it a clever play to t.i.tillate, to invite while seeming to reject? Is the veil more revealing than the face behind it?"
"Mr. Wadleigh is right," Anne broke in. "He's written these wonderful books, and he's being neglected. And I listened to the whole interview. He said a lot of things that people ought to hear."
"I've told Anne," Gail said, "that you're being difficult about cooperating."
"You two girls seem to have managed to cover a lot of ground in two hours," Craig said sourly.
"There was an instant bond of sympathy," Gail said. "We bridged the generation gap between twenty and twenty-two in a flash."
"People your age, Daddy," Anne said, "are constantly complaining the young don't understand you. Well, here you have a perfect chance to get whatever it is you want to say to hordes of people of all ages, and you turn the chance down."
"My medium is film," Craig said, "not indecent public exposure."
"Sometimes, Mr. Craig," Gail said with a straight face, "I get the feeling that you don't approve of me."
Craig stood up. "I'm going in," he said. He pulled some bills out of his pocket. "How many drinks did you have, Anne?"
"Forget it." Wadleigh waved grandly. "I have it."
"Thanks," Craig said. On my three hundred dollars for Spain, he thought. "Coming, Anne?"
"I'm going to have one last swim."
"Me, too," Gail said. "It's been hot work this afternoon."
"I'll join you girls," Wadleigh said. "You can save me from drowning. Oh, by the way, Jesse," he said as he finished his whisky and stood up, "I suggested we all have dinner tonight. Shall we say eight o'clock at the bar?"
Craig saw Anne looking appealingly at him. Anything, he thought, rather than have dinner alone with Dad. "Don't you have to see the picture tonight for your article?" he asked Wadleigh.
"I read the synopsis," Wadleigh said. "It's something about raising hawks in Hungary. I think I can skip it. My fairies in London aren't mad about Hungarian hawks. If it's any good, I can quote from Le Monde. See you at eight?"
"I'll see what my schedule is," Craig said.
"We'll be there," Anne said. "Come on, let's. .h.i.t the water."
He watched the two girls, one tall, one short, both swift and young, silhouetted against the evening light, run down the beach and dive into the water. He was surprised that Wadleigh could run so fast as he followed and plunged into the sea in a huge splash of foam.
He climbed up from the beach slowly. As he stepped off the curb of the Croisette, a car nearly ran him down. There was a squeal of brakes, and a policeman shouted at him. He smiled politely at the policeman, apologizing for almost having been killed.
In the lobby, when he picked up his key, he asked for messages. There were none. Klein hadn't called. Of course, he told himself, it's too early. In the old days when Jesse Craig sent anybody a script, there was a call within three hours.
Going toward the elevator, he met Reynolds. Reynolds had a big fresh bandage on his forehead, a huge lump, yellow and green, over one eye, and his cheek had jagged scabs on it as though he had been dragged through broken gla.s.s.
"I'm looking for Gail," Reynolds said without saying h.e.l.lo. "Have you seen her?"
"She's swimming in the direction of Tunis," Craig said. "How do you feel?"
"About the way I look," Reynolds said.
"You can't be too careful in the movie business," Craig said, and went into the elevator.
IN every group, however small, there is one person who is its center of gravity, its reason for existence as an ent.i.ty and not merely a collection of unconnected egos. For this night, Craig thought, it was Gail McKinnon. Anne was clearly fascinated by her, reacting openly to every word she spoke, addressing herself more often to Gail than to any of the others, and even when talking to Craig or Wadleigh, looking for approval or criticism in Gail's direction. On the way over from the hotel to the restaurant Craig had been half-amused, half-irritated when he noticed that Anne was subtly imitating, consciously or unconsciously, Gail's striding, brusque manner of walking. Still, it was an improvement on Anne's habitual, over-modest, childish slouch.
For Wadleigh, Gail represented an audience. In recent years he had had no surfeit of audiences, and he was making the most of it.
As for Craig, he would not have been there tonight had it not been for Gail. It was as simple as that. Watching her across the table, he knew that the movies were not the only thing he was hooked on. I am here, he thought, to unhook.
He let the others talk most of the time. When Gail spoke, he listened secretly for a hint, a signal from her, a guarded promise for the night, a tacit refusal. He found neither.
I will forget her tomorrow, he told himself, in Constance's arms.
Wadleigh insisted on acting the host, ordering the wine and suggesting what dishes the girls should choose. They were in the restaurant on the old port in which Craig had seen Pica.s.so at dinner. If Wadleigh was going to pay the bill tonight, Craig thought, he'd be lucky to get as far as Toulon, let alone Madrid.
Wadleigh was drinking too much but up to now wasn't showing it. For once he was dressed well, in a gray suit and oxford shirt with a collar that was b.u.t.toned neatly below the heavy throat and a new striped tie.
Gail was wearing rose-colored, tight-fitting shantung slacks and a soft silk blouse. She had swept her hair up for the evening, and it made her head seem charmingly and incongruously mature over the slender youthful column of her neck.
Anne, poor girl, was wearing a disastrous billowing yellow organdy dress, too short for her long legs, making her look gawky, like a high school junior dressed for her first prom.
The restaurant was not yet full, but Craig could see by the little signs on the vacant tables that the room would be crowded before long. He hoped, for Anne's sake, that one of the tables was being kept for Pica.s.so.
Two young men, one with a lion cub, the other with a Polaroid camera, whom Craig recognized as one of the teams that worked the Croisette and the cafes, came into the restaurant. As they approached the table, Craig tried to wave them away. "At these prices," he said, "we ought to be protected from lions."
But Wadleigh took the cub from the man who was holding him and put him on the table between Gail and Anne. "I want a picture of them with the king of the beasts," he said. "I've always had a weakness for lady lion-tamers. One of my fantasies is making love to a woman in tights and spangles, with a chair, inside a cage."
Depend on Wadleigh, Craig thought, to make you uncomfortable with your daughter.
The photographer, using a flash, which made the cub snarl, snapped one picture after another. Gail laughed at the show of infant ferocity, stroked the animal. "Come around when you've grown up, Sonny," she said.
"I heard someplace," Craig said, "that most of them die in a month or so. They can't stand the handling."
"Who can?" Wadleigh asked.
"Oh, Daddy," Anne said, "don't spoil the fun."
"I'm devoted to ecology," Craig said. "I want to keep the population of lions in France in balance. So many lions eating so many Frenchmen a season."
The cameraman developed the photographs swiftly. They were in color. Anne's bright hair and Gail's dark pile made an effective composition with the tawny cub snarling among the winegla.s.ses. On the shiny print, except for the blonde hair, Anne looked disturbingly like her mother.
The cameraman's helper picked up the lion, and Wadleigh paid, extravagantly. He gave one of the photographs to Gail, the other to Anne. "When I am old and gray and full of sleep," he said, "and having a bad day, I will summon one or the other of you to my rocking chair and order you to produce this picture. To remind me of a happy night when I was young. Did you ask for the wine, Father?"
Wadleigh was pouring when Craig saw Natalie Sorel come through the door of the restaurant with a tall, beautifully dressed man with silvery hair. Fifty-five, sixty, Craig thought, with everything that a barber and a ma.s.seur and the best tailors could do to make it seem like less. Natalie, in a dress that was designed to show off her slender waist, her graceful hips, looked fragile and dependent beside him.
The woman who owned the restaurant was leading the couple toward the rear, and they would have to pa.s.s Craig's table. Craig saw Natalie glance at him quickly, look away, hesitate for a moment as though she meant to go by without stopping, then decide differently.
"Jesse," she said, halting at the table and putting her hand on her escort's arm. "How nice to see you."
Craig stood up, and Wadleigh followed. "This is my fiance, Philip Robinson," Natalie said. Only Craig, he hoped, heard the warning clarity of the "fiance." "Mr. Jesse Craig."
Craig shook hands with the man and introduced the others. Anne stood up. Gail remained seated. Craig wished Anne were wearing another dress. The man's hand was dry and smooth. He had a slow, warm, Texas smile, an outdoor complexion. He didn't look like a man who manufactured things, as Natalie had described him.
"It seems as though Natalie knows everybody in this town," Robinson said, touching Natalie's arm affectionately. "I'm having trouble keeping all the names straight. I've seen your pictures, haven't I, Mr. Craig?"
"I hope you have," Craig said.
"Two Steps to Home," Natalie said quickly. "That was his last one." She was protecting everybody.
"Of course," Robinson said. He had a deep, self-a.s.sured voice. "I liked it very much."
"Thank you," Craig said.
"And did I hear correctly?" Robinson said to Wadleigh. "You're the writer?"
"Once upon a time," Wadleigh said.
"I really admired your book, sir," Robinson said. "Immensely."