American Dreams (63 page)

'Fine, sir, thank you.'

She embraced lisa, who was tearful again. The General stood apart, stiff as some petrified tree when she kissed his cheek.

'I'm sorry if my visit upset you, Papa. About last night--'

'We won't speak of that.'

But we'll remember it, won't we? she thought bitterly.

'If you ever choose to see one of my pictures, please write and tell me what you think.'

'It won't be possible. I'm extremely busy these days. Goodbye, Fritzi.'

She hated the damnable war suddenly, the hardening of attitudes it caused. She'd come home to heal the breach with her father and only made it worse. She left the house in despair.

'Truth or Nothing'

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71 'Truth or Nothing'

The screen went blank, glaring white. Lord Yorke snapped his fingers.

Recessed lights came on in the ceiling of the paneled projection room, part of the proprietor's suite of offices on the top floor of the building.

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Paul and his employer had watched the bayoneting twice. Paul buried his cigar in one of the brass sand urns placed between leather armchairs.

Gray ash dusted his vest. His throat was dry. He was edgy, because of an earlier conversation with Michael Radcliffe.

'Remarkable,7 said his lordship. 'Harrowing stuff. Tell me, who else has seen the film?'

'Other than lab people who processed it, no one.' He carefully did not refer to labs in the plural.

'You can be proud of work like that, my boy.'

'Thank you, sir. I'll take it back to the editing department for the weekly reel.'

Lord Yorke eased himself from his armchair. 'That won't be necessary.'

'I'm afraid I don't understand.'

'The pictures can't be shown in Britain. The government feels that material of such a negative and graphic nature will adversely affect civilian morale and reduce enlistments. Until further notice the war office will not permit reporters, still photographers, and cinematograph operators to visit the war zone or travel with our tommies.'

'Michael warned me about new rules. What if someone chooses to ignore them?'

, 'The penalty is severe. Death before a firing squad.'

'Good God. That I didn't know.'

Velvet drapes shrouded the windows, but the sounds of Fleet Street still came up: horns hooting, cab horses clop-clopping, vendors shouting the latest headlines. 'Your lordship, with respect - how can you go along with such a policy? The words people see when they walk into this building stand for something.' The motto of the Hartstein publishing empire was chiseled in foot-high letters over great bronze doors on the ground floor. VERITAS, AUT

NIHIL. Truth, or nothing.

Lord Yorke blinked his frog's eyes and stuck his thumbs in the arm holes of his vest, in wartime we must all compromise.'

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'Most especially not in wartime, sir. Sounds to me as though most of the so-called patriots in Whitehall are principally dedicated to protecting their rear ends.'

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'You talk like my son-in-law.'

'Blame it on my teachers. The man who first showed me how to use a still camera, an old Irishman named Rooney, hammered one lesson into me. Pictures can lie, but they must not.'

'In this matter there is no question of lying or not lying,' his lordship said, growing testy. 'The pictures will simply vanish, as if they never existed.'

'I risked my life and Sammy's to get them.'

'My boy, let's not quarrel. The disgusting truths of this war will surface soon enough. It will not be over by Christmas, or for many months thereafter.

The minister of war said as much privately when I dined with him last night.'

Paul yanked a new cigar from an inside pocket, bit off the end, raked a match on his shoe sole. 'Is that your final word?'

'Yes, Paul, it is. Don't be angry.'

i am. I want my film.'

i'm afraid that won't be possible.' He turned his dumpy little body to draw Paul's eye to the slot window of the projection booth. The light had been turned off. 'The reel is on its way down to the vault. The negative will be sent for and similarly stored.'

'You have no right--'

'Kindly don't raise your voice to me, sir. The film is my property. Your employment contract is explicit about that.'

"I don't give a damn, 1 want it.'

'That is not in the best interests of the government and the war effort. I am a citizen of this country before I am a businessman. I might not have said that when I was poor and hungry, but now I can afford to be a patriot.

A patriot criminal, to put a fine point on it. At least once a day I must condone deception -- conceal the truth. Down in the streets our vendors are braying that the Central Powers have fallen back at the Marne. The temporary victory cost our side a quarter of a million dead and wounded.'

'That many.' Paul shuddered. 'I had no idea.'

'Nor will the public. Paul, you are a talented man and a brave one. I value you highly. You have been through an ordeal. That takes a toll. I urge you to rest for a week. Take your wife and kiddies to the country. With a clearer head you'll see we are doing what we must. You'll have to excuse me now. The editorial board of the Light meets in ten minutes.'

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He rolled toward the leather-padded door with his listing gait. Paul took the cigar from his teeth.

'Sir?'

'Yes?'

'I resign. Effective immediately.'

Slowly his lordship came away from the door. His pudgy little fingers played with thick gold links of the watch chain strung across his paunch.

'No quixotic gestures, I beg you.'

'Either put that footage on the weekly reel for theaters--'

'So we can all be arrested?'

'You've taken unpopular stands in the past. Stood up to Whitehall.'

'This time I will not. There is a dagger poised at the heart of England.'

A melodramatic way of saying it, though Paul didn't doubt the man's passion or conviction. The whole country was in a state of nerves, fearful of a German invasion.

'Then it's my duty to get the truth out some other way.'

'My boy, it isn't useful to posture and--'

'Posture?' The word exploded. 'Did you really look at that film? Six innocent people were put to death, and not cleanly. They were butchered.

The goddamn German officer in charge enjoyed it. That's the enemy we're fighting. That must be told.'

'Not by this organization. I'm afraid you try my patience. You will follow orders, or you will call at the payroll office in the morning for your final settlement.'

'I'll be there first thing.'

Lord Yorke flung the door open. 'Your family will suffer unnecessary hardship, you realize that.'

'We've discussed it. Julie stands by me.'

, 'You fail to understand the power of the men you're opposing. They'll
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grind you up for bangers and serve you for breakfast.'

'Maybe not. They're only men. Cowards too, apparently. Afraid of the truth.'

'You poor fool,' he sighed, turning away. 'I thought you were made of better stuff.'

Lord Yorke's raised heels carried him down a marble hall, click-clack.

Paul's hand shook as he lit another match for his cigar. He followed a labyrinthine corridor to a public reception hall three times the size of his 398

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living room. Sammy scrambled up from a bench, tossed aside a copy of the Light. He saw Paul's expression.

'Gov, what'n hell happened in there?' Briefly, Paul told him. Sammy was stunned, then furious. 'Jesus, that's a bleeding crime.'

'Apparently it's a worse crime to show pictures like ours.'

'Going to do anything about it?'

'I already did. 1 quit.'

Sammy's eyes popped. 'Wham, like that?'

'Like that. I'll have to clean out my office in Cecil Court. His lordship will hire someone else, so Miss Epsom will be all right. You too.'

'The hell. I'm givin' notice too.'

'You can't afford it, Sammy. Let me take the responsibility.'

'But it's wrong, gov. Start to finish, it's wrong.'

Paul responded with a weary shrug. 'We live in an imperfect world.'

He rang a bell that jangled and echoed down the lift shaft. A filigreed cage piloted by an elderly attendant rose into sight. 'The street, sir?'

'Fourth floor.' To Sammy he said, 'Michael's waiting to join us for a pint.'

They stepped from the lift into a vast, harshly lit room filled with desks and the clatter of black iron typewriters. Copy boys snatched foolscap
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pages from the reporters and ran with the speed of smash-and-grab thieves to a central horseshoe station. There editors slashed at the copy with thick lead pencils. They threw the marked manuscripts into wire baskets that rode a web of trolleys to openings in the wall where they disappeared en route to the composing room. Over all hung the smell of cuspidors and a blue fog of tobacco smoke.

Paul strode down an aisle to Michael Radcliffe's desk. Most of the Light1?, reporters affected a bohemian style of dress out of financial necessity.

Not Michael. His white pique waistcoat was buttoned over a starched shirt and brown four-in-hand cravat. The jacket of his handsome tan walking suit hung over his chair. Under a tin-shaded electric light, he typed with two fingers, a cigarette screwed in one corner of his mouth.

'Michael, I've been sacked.'

'Oh, Christ. The Belgian pictures?'

'Yes.'

'And you took it?'

'Actually, I quit before he could do the deed.'

Michael squinted through rising smoke, i don't know whether to give you a medal for valor or a kick in the bum for stupidity.' He typed another

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couple of words, ripped the paper from the platen. 'Boy!' He was already strolling up the aisle with Paul when the breathless runner arrived at his desk.

Outside, the three men discovered fog, regular Sherlock Holmes pea soup. It softened the ugliness and grime of urban London. Paul didn't turn around to look at the motto above the doors. If he did he might choke.

They walked west. Michael tapped the pavement with his stick, a jaunty rhythm. On the corner one of the paper's captive news vendors hawked the evening Light with a kind of guttural chirp no one understood.

The man relied on his handwritten notice board to attract customers.

HUNS HURLED BACK AT MARNE.

Paris Taxis Rush Troops

to Forward Areas.

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ENORMOUS LOSSES STUN ENEMY.

Marshal Joffre

'Savior of France'.

Two blocks along, they stepped inside a smoky pub called the Hare and Hounds. The place was packed with men laughing and slugging down pints and congratulating one another on the German withdrawal. As though they had something to do with it. A dwarf played 'Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag' on a concertina.

They found a table near the bar. Michael flashed three fingers at the publipan.

Paul scooted his chair around so he didn't have to look at the big poster on the greasy wall. Lord Kitchener, hero of the Sudan and South Africa, and newly appointed war minister, pointed a blunt finger at the viewer and silently cried britons! join your country's army! god swe the king.

Michael peeled off his smart gloves. 'I am ready for the precis of the drama.'

'He confiscated the film. I had no choice but to quit.'

'He's the one should be shot,' Sammy growled.

'Samuel,' Michael said with a sigh, 'you cannot imagine how many times I've had that very thought.' To Paul: 'How do you feel about this?

Rattled?'

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'Damn right. Martyrdom may be attractive in some high-minded way, but it isn't restful or comforting.'

'The old boy should have stood with you. Fought. Unfortunately, we're dealing with stupidity at the highest levels. The balmy bunch running things can't see the obvious.'

'Which is?'

Sammy said, 'They drive us straight to the arms of the bloody Hun.'

'Quite correct,' Michael agreed. 'The German high command welcomes reporters.' Looking around for eavesdroppers, he lowered his voice.

'Two days ago I bought a forged Italian passport in Dean Street. I'll get to the front if I have to wear twenty Iron Crosses.' He drank some stout.

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'You'll handle this setback, won't you?'

'No question,' Paul said. 'One of the other companies will hire me eventually. Until then I'll shoot film freelance and peddle it the same way.'

'I'm goin' with him,' Sammy declared. 'He don't want me to do it, but my mind's made up.' He saluted the smoky air with his empty pint. 'Up your arse, your lordship.'

Sammy was adamant about quitting. After making a strong effort to dissuade him, Paul was secretly grateful; the pains in his lower back had eased up considerably since he'd hired Sammy.

A few minutes later they said good night. Michael hailed a taxi cruising slowly through the murk. Sammy turned in the direction of St. Paul's, whistling. Paul felt better. There was something he hadn't told either of his friends.

He walked west, up the Strand and on to Piccadilly Circus, where the fog gentled the garish electric signs to pleasant pastels, almost pretty.

upton's. bovril. j. LYONS. He bought a dozen blue and white China asters from an old woman with a bent back and no teeth. 'Bless you, sir.'

It was a long hike to Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, but the autumn night was warm despite the dampness. Michael's slashing cynicism inspired him. He could travel through the German lines to the front on his American passport.

He could use Michael's source to buy Sammy a forged one. He didn't have to like the Huns to photograph them.

He reached the flat overlooking the Thames about half past nine. He let himself in, tossed his straw skimmer on the rack, calling into the silence:

'Hallo? I'm home.'

Betsy, nine, bounded down the stairs from the first floor, the hem of her nightdress flying. She had her mother's dark eyes, and the promise of