Marjorie Morningstar (50 page)

“Noel, you maniac, it’s after four. I can’t put one leg in front of another. And my
eyes, they’re absolutely red. Take me home. Harlem, indeed, at this hour!” But she
would laugh.

“What the devil, Marge, I have to be in an office at nine. You don’t. I tell you this
joint only gets going at four, and this Ken Watt and his Kilowatts make the greatest
jazz in the United States. Benny Goodman’s a fraud next to them.”

“Well, for one drink. Then we go home. Promise?”

“Of course—Taxi! Ah, Margie, money’s the only thing.”

She often slept till noon. She read
Variety
and
Billboard
regularly, and spent a lot of time at the Broadway drugstore where young actors and
actresses gathered. She was pursued quite a bit by the actors, especially when her
indifference to them became noticed. But their good profiles, large eyes, long hair,
and knowing manners were wasted on her. There was only one male human in the world,
and his name was Noel Airman. Indefatigably she made the rounds of the producers’
offices, when she wasn’t with Noel; and indefatigably, like all the other young actresses,
she was turned away by yawning office boys. But she was not discouraged. Life bubbled
with promise.

Marjorie’s parents were extraordinarily tolerant of the life she was leading. There
were no questions, no objections, not even worried hints or looks. She surmised after
a while that they had been talking with the Ehrmanns, and that both sets of parents
had decided to keep hands off and pray for a happy outcome. Mr. Morgenstern, while
continuing to exhibit fretful gloom, seemed resigned; when he met Noel he tried hard
to be pleasantly paternal.

It was the most intoxicating time in Marjorie’s life; sweeter and gayer even than
her first weeks with Noel at South Wind, because now there was nothing surprising
or scaring about him. Above all, the gradual pressing out to the limits of sex, which
had so excited and terrorized her before, was absent. They joked about it. Noel said
he didn’t mind, and he really seemed not to care. “You’re growing up,” he said once.
“That’s fine. It was you who were doing all that, really, you know. I was a helpless
bystander.” And when she hooted, he said earnestly. “It’s true. And it’s true most
of the time, for that matter, with nearly every couple. Of course the guy makes the
first pass. It’s the code. It’s like tipping his hat, or holding the door open. The
girl takes it from there, and sets exactly the pace she pleases, but
exactly
, unless she’s been dumb enough to get involved with some gutter brute. Why, hell’s
bells, that’s what you’re doing right now. I’ve kissed you good night forty times
lately. Why hasn’t it gone into one of our old necking sessions? Simply because you
haven’t started swarming over me like an octopus.”

Marjorie tried to look annoyed; but she couldn’t help it, she burst out laughing.
They were riding around the park in a hansom cab on a frigid sunny March afternoon,
their cheeks red and frostbitten, their hands warmly clinging under a huge mangy fur
lap robe. Noel was hatless, and his hair was rumpled by the wind. He looked like a
boy. His joy of life was infectious. One glance of his laughing brilliant blue eyes
could make Marjorie as dizzy and happy as if she were on a roller coaster.

That was the day he persuaded her to eat a lobster. They went from the hansom cab
to the Plaza and drank martinis, and all at once it was dinnertime, although they
hadn’t planned to dine together. He said, “We’re both going to have broiled lobster,
with a very delicate white burgundy. It’s the only thing, when two people are feeling
so good and so foolish.”

“Oh no, Noel—not lobster, sorry—”

“Come, it’s the twentieth century.”

“Oh, I know, it’s a ridiculous prejudice. Conditioning. I just don’t think I could
go it, dear.”

“Sure, honey. Have something else. Although from what little I know of those queer
laws, isn’t it just as bad to eat anything at all here? Nothing’s kosher.”

“Well, you’re right, at that. I couldn’t be less consistent. Does it—is lobster really
good?”

“Why, it’s the most exquisite food there is.”

Marjorie said, “Somehow it doesn’t seem as bad as ham, does it? I don’t think I could
eat ham if you put a pistol to my head.”

“Well, ham’s the symbol, the universal joke about Jews. Pride makes you take a stand
on that point, and actually I think you’re right. I’m just a sybarite. Next to lobster,
there’s nothing I love like good Polish ham. Anyhow, what’ll it be—want to try the
chicken curry? They have a marvelous Indian sauce here—”

“Oh, what the devil. You’re perfectly right, even the chicken isn’t kosher. What’s
the difference? I’ll try a lobster.”

But when it came she gazed askance as its scarlet feelers and hairs, its numerous
jointed legs, its dead eyes on stalks, its ragged pincers. “Noel, it’s—doesn’t it
look like a big red dead bug?”

“Why sure. Crustaceans and arachnids are about the same thing, as a matter of fact.”
He was expertly lifting out the tail meat with a fork. “Good, though. Sweeter than
the roses in May.”

She took up her fork gingerly, watching how he went at it. “Well, I never thought
I’d live to eat a big old water bug.”

“Why, honey, there’s all kinds of Biblical precedent for that. Didn’t the prophets
all live on locusts, or something?”

“I guess so. I wonder if locusts turn this ghastly red when you cook them. These things
are so
red
.” The tail was coming out of the shell easily. She cut it, and, following his example,
dipped a piece in the little bowl of melted butter, sighed, and put it in her mouth.
It tasted very much like ordinary fresh fish, except that it was sweetish, and took
more chewing. Not wanting to spoil the occasion, she widened her eyes and said, “Mm,
exquisite.”

Noel said, “Observe that no forked lightnings have come through the window to destroy
you.”

“Well, I didn’t expect that, really. Those Bible laws were just for hot countries
in the old days.” She took another bite. It was quite pleasant, especially with all
the butter on it. “I wonder, though, if it would taste so good if there were no law
against it.”

He laughed, pouring the wine. “Very likely not. They say hunger is the best cook,
but they’re wrong. Prohibition is. There isn’t a living Christian who can enjoy ham
and eggs the way a renegade Jew like me does.”

“Don’t call yourself that.”

“I’m kidding, you know. It’s all a question of upbringing. I’ve had nothing to renege
from. In my home we always ate everything—pork, oysters—”

“Really? That’s a little surprising.”

“Why?”

“Your folks are so active in Jewish causes.”

“Marjorie, my father’s a politician. He’d be active in Moslem causes, if his district
had enough Arabs in it.”

Marjorie had finished the three or four bites of white fishy meat that made up the
lobster’s tail. Still very hungry, she stared at the creature, wondering what else
there was to eat on it. It seemed quite whole and impregnable. She said, eying Noel’s
lobster, “What is that part you’re eating now? It looks perfectly revolting.”

“This green soft stuff? Why, that’s the liver of the beast. It’s the best part of
it.”

“Is it edible, really? I’d say it was poisonous.”

“Well, a lot of people are fool enough not to eat it because of its looks. But I assure
you it’s marvelous. Try it.”

Marjorie dug her fork into the green mass. It squashily yielded, oozing a thin fluid.
“No, no.” She dropped the fork. “I’m not that sophisticated, not yet.” She hurriedly
drank off her wine; then, following his example, she applied a little device like
a nutcracker to one of the lobster’s claws. It did not yield. She squeezed with both
hands. There was an echoing crack, and the claw flew across the table into Noel’s
lap.

“I’ll crack them for you,” Noel said to the blushing girl.

“Honestly, the damned creatures are like a Chinese puzzle, Noel. They’re not worth
the bother.”

“Practice and patience, my dear.” He deftly extracted two morsels of meat from the
claws, laid them on her plate, and poured more wine. “What do you think of this wine?
Isn’t it good?”

“Lovely, as always.”

“Let’s go see the new French movie at the Fifty-fifth after this.”

“Sure. Aren’t you writing any songs, or anything? You seem to have nothing but free
time these days.”

“Ah, well, I can always write songs when I’m a little creakier. As a matter of fact
I did a new first-act finale for
Princess Jones
the other night, and I like it. Have to play it for you.”

“How are you getting along at Paramount?”

“Oh, fine, fine. Not rising as meteorically as I’d hoped. But then, what fair prospect
ever looks so fair once you’re in it? It’s all right.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Sam and I not seeing eye to eye again, the old thing.”

“Well, you’d better stop disagreeing with him. He’s the boss.”

Noel looked annoyed. “Suppose he’s wrong and I’m right, just once? It’s conceivable.
I’d match IQ’s with him for a thousand dollars.”

“He has the experience, Noel, don’t forget that.”

“Darling, experience nine times out of ten is merely stupidity hardened into habit.—Well,
the hell with Sam. Let’s enjoy ourselves. I like his money, I’ll say that for him….
What’s the trouble now?”

Marjorie was glaring and poking at the lobster. “I’m famished. And I don’t know how
to get at this miserable thing.”

“Look, you haven’t even touched the legs. They’re loaded with meat.” He held the body
of his lobster, and pulled a leg out with a little twist. A chunk of white meat clung
to the scarlet stump. “See?” He gnawed the meat.

“Well, that seems simple.” Marjorie did exactly the same thing, she thought. But instead
of the leg pulling loose, the whole center of the lobster came lifting out of the
shell, and there she was, holding an oval white thing with many trembling red legs,
for all the world like a spider six inches across, warm and horridly alive. With a
grunt of disgust she threw it splashing into the melted butter.

“I quit,” Marjorie said. “I’ll order ham next time. Damn red bug.”

Noel choked with laughter over his wine.

His dissatisfaction with the Paramount job was the one discordant note of this happy
time. She heard it again in the weeks that followed, more frequently and louder. Sometimes
Noel would be deep in gloom when they met, and it would take an hour or more of drinking
and banter to bring him to his usual gaiety.

In his first weeks at Paramount Noel had shrugged off his work as a trivial necessary
evil, and had refused to talk about it with Marjorie, but by the end of March he was
discussing it freely and at length. It relieved him to set Marjorie laughing with
his caricature of Rothmore. He marvelously simulated a stooped heavy old man with
half-closed eyes, talking through thick tired lips while biting on a cigar. There
were two main sources of trouble. Sam Rothmore thought Noel’s taste in stories for
the screen was too literary and high-flown, and he was displeased by his irregular
hours, though the disapproval took no stronger form than crude sarcasm. It seemed
to Marjorie, even though Noel was describing the arguments, that Sam Rothmore was
right at least part of the time. Noel looked black when she ventured to say so. On
the whole, naturally, she sided with Noel. There seemed little doubt that Sam Rothmore,
beneath his surface of weary benevolence, was just a brutal businessman, and that
his taste in movies reflected the juvenile vulgarity of Hollywood at its worst. All
the more, then, did she want to give him his due in the petty instances when he seemed
right.

But Noel, usually so graceful and so amusingly self-critical, was peculiarly obdurate
in this. He persisted in coming late to the office and leaving early, and would not
admit there was anything wrong in it. “I’m beginning to regard myself as a test case,”
he said to Marjorie, “a milestone in the education of Sam Rothmore, and the whole
Hollywood machine.”

“Don’t try to change the world, Noel. Paramount’s a business. Businesses have to run
on a system.”

“True, dear, and exceedingly profound, but this is a unique business. It employs creative
talent and original insight. Therefore, time and motion studies become slightly absurd.
As for instance, working in the office with me is one Morris Mead, also an assistant
story editor, a good fellow, a drudge, been there fifteen years. I’ve been there a
month. I’m reading four stories to his one, and writing four reports to his one, and
Sam concedes that my reports are clearer, better, and more useful. Morris arrives
at nine and leaves at five. So much for system.”

One rainy evening late in March Noel took her to the opening night of a musical comedy.
When they came into the lobby for a smoke after the first act, Marjorie saw familiar
signs of depression in Noel; he was avoiding her glance, and repeatedly rubbing one
hand over his eyes. His tone remained level and light. “It’s a sure hit. I know the
boys who wrote it. They’ve been doing the summer shows at Camp Paradise for years.
Maybe one of these decades I’ll write a show.”

“You’ll have a show on Broadway one of these months, and it’ll be a lot better than
this one.”

He smiled at her. “Keep saying those things.”

A woman at his elbow said, “Noel! Of course it’s Noel! Isn’t it?”

Surprise came over his face, then he smiled. “Why, hello, Muriel. How are you? You
look wonderful, as always.”

The woman said, “Good Lord, how many years is it now?” Her dress was a billowing swath
of rust-colored taffeta and she wore many diamonds. She had a tiny nose, a sharp chin,
and pinched cheeks, and her black hair seemed varnished in place. She held a cigarette
high in two straight fingers.

“Don’t start reckoning them up,” Noel said. “You won’t enjoy the second act. How are
you? And the kids, and the hubby?”