B00AZRHQKA EBOK (12 page)

“He is, huh?”

Art began to scratch his palm, nervously.

“So he fools around, huh?”

“I didn’t say that, Art.”

Art looked at me.

“Does he?”

“How on earth would
I
know?” I asked.

“You hear things. You’re around. Especially around the company.”

“Yes. I hear things then I forget them. They’re mostly nothing. Gossip. Junk. Who cares? I try not to feed my mind on garbage.”

“Well, if you hear anything along
these
lines, let me know.”

I was about to reply, when Larry caught my eye and winked. I said nothing.

“Yeah,” said Art, more to himself than to us. “Yeah.”

“What?” asked Larry.

“Nothing, nothing,” said Art, making it sound like something, something. He looked at his watch. “I gotta go,” he said, and left abruptly.

“Did you notice?” asked Larry.

“What?”

“He didn’t say goodbye.”

“He seldom does.”

“Come on,” said Larry. “I’ll walk you home.”

“Fine.”

“Have I eaten today?” he asked.

“Not much.”

“Maybe we’ll stop on the way.”

“Fine with me.”

The Russian Tea Room. Blinis with red caviar.

“Well, missy. What do you make of all this? So far. Do you wish you were back in the peace and quiet of Doubleday?”

“Not so peace. Not so quiet. Anyway, no. I don’t miss it. I like this job, if that’s what you mean. Every day I learn something.”

“And we don’t all seem like a bunch of raving maniacs to you?”

“Not the ones with talent, no. If you’re talented, you’re
allowed
to be a little nutty.”

“You’ve got a point.”

“What I object to, though, is the proportion. We’ve got some small talents who are
very
nutty—and some great talents who aren’t as nutty as they could be.”

“Name names.”

“Oh, no. It’s a matter of opinion.”

“Hy?”

“As far as I’m concerned, he can go as ape as he wants to. His music is simply breathtaking.”

“I agree. Isn’t it curious where God sometimes puts talent?”

“Let me
ask
you one. Ivan.”

“He’s the best we’ve got—and yet—sensible and levelheaded and controlled.”

“And Alicia?”

“An enigma. Bright, practical, a pro. But she’s so good—she must have some nuttiness. Keeps it hidden.”

“Yes,” I said.

“About the song. What do
you
think?”

“I don’t know. See, I never even heard of Nora Bayes before this. I guess if I had—and knew that 'Shine On, Harvest Moon’ was her song—I’d want to hear it in the show. As it is, it doesn’t
matter
all that much to me.”

“So the question is—
you
think—what percentage of the audience, or the critics,
will
care?”

“Yes. Also. I think I’ve heard
you
say, several times, that the show has to stand on its own—and not lean on the nostalgic appeal of Nora Bayes.”

“
I
said that?”

“Yes.”

“Brilliant. Of course—it has to work even if the character’s name is Minnie Slipansplitit.”

“Well, then why so much fuss about the song?”

“I don’t know. Instinct. Stubbornness. And I love the song.”

Then he sang it, softly and beautifully. I listened, watching his lips and his eyes. He sang with feeling, the only kind of singing that counts:

“Shine on,

Shine on, Harvest Moon

Up in the sky.

I ain’t had no lovin’

Since January, February

June or July.

Snow time

Ain’t no time to

Stay outdoors and spoon,

So shine on,

Shine on, Harvest Moon

For me and my gal.”

He finished. The customers at the tables to either side of us applauded.

“I’m a hit,” said Larry.

“It
is
a nice song.”

Outside, he said, “Walk me to The Plaza and I’ll buy you a cab home.”

“All right.”

“We walked, slowly.

“Oh, hell,” said Larry.

“What was
that
particular hell about?”

“I wish I could do something else in life.”

“I’m not sure I—”

“Sing or dance or act or write or anything. What I do is an
awful
job.”

“Not the way you do it,” I said. “It’s fascinating. What’s more, it works. I see you make it all come to life.”

“That’s because I know a few secrets—don’t tell anyone—like the best direction is the least direction. You get good people and leave them alone or try to and it comes to life, as you say. And attention to detail. But the rest of it—God! The politicking and the infighting and double-dealing and logrolling and dealmaking—what a waste. And in the end, thankless.”

“Movies?”

“Worse. And TV,
still
worse. No. No use. I’m trapped. But you don’t mind if I complain a little? It feels so good.”

“Complain away.”

“See, if the moment comes when the director loses control of the show—it’s all over. Not only for him, for everyone. Like a bus or a train or a ship. Got to have a driver or an engineer or a captain in charge.
Someone
has to be in charge, otherwise it’s dangerous…I don’t have any
pride
about any of this. Or insecurity. That’s not it. It’s a question of
method
, that’s all. Look, if Art wants to be in charge, that’s all right with me. A relief, in fact. But he can’t do it. He doesn’t know
beans
about this business. Or Hy. Or anyone. The nearest would be Russ. He’s got the talent, but not enough experience. Or Clay—the experience, but not the talent.”

“How about Larry?”

“He’s fine—but trouble with Art. Art wants him to run it all—insists that he run it all—and then won’t let him.”

“How about a simple heart-to-heart?”

“Tried it, but he—Hey! Here we are. Come in a minute.”

We went through the lobby to the desk. He got his key. His box was stuffed with messages.

“Want to come up?” he asked. “I feel like talking.”

“Perfect. I feel like listening.”

“Milk. Or I could get you a drink.”

“Milk’s fine.”

“Maybe even a Carr’s wheatmeal cookie if you play your cards right.”

“I’ll do my best.” In the elevator, I asked, “How come you live
here
? I thought you were a New Yorker.”

“I live on Cape Cod. Barnstable. Between shows. I adore New York, but it frazzles me.”

His rooms were tidy but disorganized.

“Sorry about the mess,” he said. “What this place needs is a woman’s touch.”

“Yes. Or a man’s.”

He seemed not to hear what I said.

“My wife is in London. Know why?”

“No.”

“She always takes off the day I go into rehearsal and comes back in time for the opening—if there is an opening. If I get fired, I usually join her—London or wherever—and we stay stoned for a few weeks.”

“Well, that can’t happen
this
time.”

“It can always happen, Midge. Directors are always getting fired. Stands to reason. Who are they going to fire? The producer isn’t going to can himself, the author can’t be, contractually. The stars? Too costly and dangerous. So it’s usually the director takes the fall…Funny. When I was offered this one, I turned it down. I said to them, 'If you don’t mind I’d just as soon not be the first director on this project.’ And now I am.”

He got a carton of milk out of a small refrigerator and poured two glasses.

“I love this show,” he said. “It’s about things I care about. And I don’t care about much. It’s about morality—real and phony. Nora is a truly moral human being—but according to the rule book, she’s a scarlet woman who eventually subverts the law. It’s about talent—what makes the world go round. Not love, not money. Talent. And it’s about gossip and the crimes of libel and slander.”

“What’s the difference? I’m not sure.”

“Libel, printed. Slander, spoken.”

“Oh. And in this case, it was both.”

“Yes. Curious the differences in laws—France, England, here, Japan. In some countries, you could say publicly and print that, say, I’m a narcotics addict. And I could sue and prove I’m not, but I’d have to prove damages. How did it hurt me materially? In other countries, you could say it about an addict and if even you
proved
it—it would matter how
much
he was damaged. All mixed up with ideas of right and wrong…But what the show is really about is love. Love. Our culture’s sold the idea of love as candy. Something nice and tasty and easy to find and available to anybody who wants it. What a crock! Love is rare. I’ve loved. Been loved. Never been
in
love. Have you?”

“I take the Fifth.”

“My wife. Fine woman. But a wife would be here. Sitting where you’re sitting. Listening to me. I’m stuck on her, I suppose. Not she on me. We manage. Like most. It’s not so bad. My first wife died. Four years and two months ago. We’d been married just over a year—and it was beginning to be real. We were—”

The phone rang.

“Yes?…About twenty minutes ago…Oh, you did?…I may have—I haven’t looked at them.”

He leafed though the little stack of messages on his desk, shrugged, and made a face.

“Oh, yes. Here we are. 'Call Mr. Clune…’ Sorry, Art. I’d’ve got round to it in time…Oh? Like what? Sure, I’m right here.”

He hung up.

“The Lord High Executioner. He’s coming up.”

“I’ll go,” I said.

“No, no. Stay where you are.”

“I don’t think I—”

There was no time to argue. A sharp knock at the door. Larry opened it and Art piled in—a bit high. Not smashed, just flushed. Shirtsleeves. No tie. Velvet slippers. A drink in hand.

“Happy times!” he said. “What’s goin’ on here? A little 'Upstairs, Downstairs’ hanky-panky?”

“Good night,” I said.

He blocked the door.

“No,” he said. “I need you. In a professional capacity. Professional stenographer, I mean. Didn’t you get my messages? Twice.”

“I’ve been busy,” I said.

“I can see that,” he said.

“Settle down, Art,” said Larry.

“You always say that to me. How is that? Do I ever?” He sat down and said, “Sit down. All.”

I sat. Larry sat.

He looked from one of us to the other.

“Come on. A joke. I know this is Plutonic. What the hell? You think
I
didn’t give it a shot? I wouldn’t insult a handsome girl like this by not making a heavy little pass at her. I’m a gentleman.” He took a swig of his drink. “Business. A development. How long before you can get orchestrations on 'Shine On’ and 'Ball Game’?”

“We’ve got them, Art.
You
know that.”

“We
have
?”

“Don’t you remember? We said just in case.”

“When could they go in? Both numbers.”

“God, I don’t know. Depends. Staging. Rehearsal.”

“Get ready and I’ll tell you when to go.”

“It’s squared with Hy?”

“Leave it to me.”

“Don’t get me in the middle, Art. I’ve got a long way to go with this guy and a lot of work, so—”

“Did I tell you leave it to me? What am I around here? Chopped liver? I’m your
producer
and if I tell you go—
go
. There will be no trouble with Mr. Beethoven, I assure you.”

Larry looked troubled and apprehensive, but said, “All right.”

“Tell me again how they work,” ordered Art.

“‘Shine On’ in Act One, Scene Four. Where he comes in and gives her the song as a present. He sings it first. Then She. Instead of 'One Night.’”

“And that’s out?”

“So far.”

“Good. A dreary old dirge anyway.”

“Then we’ll use 'Shine On’ in a lot of underscoring and finally, of course, the finale.”

“Thank God. We’ll have a finish instead of a fart.”

“And then keep it going for the calls, of course.”

“And 'Ball Game’?”

“Also in Act One, Scene Six—where he’s writing it with Von Tilzer—then in the onstage, full production number.”

“But not in the finale?”

“I don’t see how.”

“Would be good.”

“Well, we’ll see. And you’re sure we’re safe on—”

“Knock it off.”

“I’m curious. What’re you going to do? Pay him off? He doesn’t want dough, does he?”

Art put his finger to his lips, smiled, and got up.

“Just go ahead, you two,” he said, “from where you were so rudely interrupted.” He made a sign of benediction. “I now pronounce you man and woman. See y’.”

He was gone. Larry got out his inhalator, used it, looked at me for a time, then asked, “What’s he up to? Any idea at all?”

“No.”

“More milk?”

“No, thanks.”

“Mind if I?”

“God, no.”

He poured himself another glass of milk, slowly, watching it as though it might contain the solution to the present puzzle. He sipped his milk, his brow more and more contracted in thought. He moved about, behaving much like a man alone. Had he forgotten I was there? I supposed he had begun to worry about how to stage those new numbers, now that they were in. Should I leave quietly? He was at the window now, looking over the park. Nice man. Would he make a move at me? Or had all that crude comment from Art spoiled it—at least for tonight? Wait. What if he does make his move anyway? What should I do? What do I want to do—or not do? I like him. I like him as much—maybe more—as anyone else connected with this project. I admire him and respect him and find him attractive and entertaining and I love being with him. Why, then, do I hope to God he’ll keep his distance and not try anything? That one daffy element is missing. That single unmistakable magnetic force that causes all the trouble. Here I am, hoping that this lovely brilliant talented dear man will leave me alone and that the night elevator man in my building will knock at my door when his shift is over and climb into bed with me. I looked and saw Larry poring over a big dictionary on his desk.

“Ha!” he said.

“What?”

“Listen to this: 'pearl: a silvery or bluish-white, hard, smooth, lustrous substance, of a roundish, oval, or pear-shaped form, formed around a parasitic worm or other foreign body within the shell of certain mollusks. The presence of this body sets up an irritant action, resulting in the deposition of gradually increasing layers of nacreous material, over the particle.’ So on so on so on— 'Pearls are used as precious gems.’” He looked up at me. The frown was gone. “Did you get all that? 'Parasitic worm’? 'Setting up an irritant action’? Isn’t that what we have here? Trying to create a pearl, a gem? I guess the irritant action is something you have to have. Creation is painful. Why do we never get used to that idea? Why do we expect it all to go smoothly and simply? It never does. It won’t. It can’t. Have you ever had a baby?”