Bettye, Casper’s secretary, had done the place cards. Neither Jules nor Pauline mentioned to the person sitting next to them that their last name had been spelled incorrectly on the place cards, with two
d
’s instead of one in Mendelson, but the error seemed in keeping with the inappropriateness of the evening. Pauline minded that her difficult situation with her husband prevented her from catching his eye and smiling over the misspelling of their names, the sort of husband-wife togetherness that had marked the twenty-two years of their marriage. Or catching his eye and smiling across the table over the black napkins and black dishes. Jules knew how much Pauline hated black napkins and black dishes, but they could not exchange looks over that either, or over the several times the hired waiters from a catering service served the guests from the wrong
side, or over the wine, an indifferent Italian Soave in long tapered bottles that had the price tag of $8.00 stamped on them, which Pauline knew would drive Jules mad. Jules was aware that there was a point to the evening and that the point had to do with Arnie Zwillman, and he waited for the other man to make the first move.
Almost everyone at the table deferred to Jules Mendelson in the forced conversation, even Marty Lesky, who was accustomed to dominating the conversation at the tables where he dined. Jules possessed a kind of power in his presence that made the ordinary conversation that people in the industry were used to talking about at dinner—films and grosses and casting and who was up and who was down in the studio hierarchy—seem trite, and he was asked questions about the presidency, about the economy, and, finally, about a senatorial confirmation hearing then going on in Washington for a presidential nominee for a vacancy on the Supreme Court, about whom embarrassing personal revelations concerning women and liquor had come to light.
“I have no firsthand knowledge, but apparently there are things in John’s past,” said Jules cautiously, not wanting to get into such a conversation with these people whom he did not know and who would certainly quote him the following day, especially the gossip columnist Cyril Rathbone. In fact, Jules knew a great deal about the confirmation hearing. He was not unmindful that certain aspects of the nominee’s behavior mirrored his own and could be used against him when the time came for his own senatorial confirmation, should the news of his affair with Flo March leak out. A chill passed through him. He looked across the table at his beautiful and elegant wife and realized, not for the first time, what a necessary treasure she was to him. Jules, who never gulped wine, took a gulp of Casper Stieglitz’s cheap wine and grimaced.
“But all public people have discreditable secrets,” said Pearl Silver, who was known to be able to keep any conversation going. “Don’t you think so, Jules? Even Roosevelt, in his wheelchair. He had that whatshername, Lucy
quelquechose
, who was supposed to be such a good friend of Eleanor’s. I mean, they all have secrets.”
“I suppose everyone has something in his past he doesn’t want to come out,” said Sylvia Lesky.
“Not me,” said Casper Stieglitz, although almost everyone in the room knew that he had been secretly arrested for
the possession of drugs while on a foreign location for a picture and that Marty Lesky, the head of his studio, had had to appeal to a Washington figure to keep him from being sent to jail in that country.
“You are an exception then, Casper,” said Pearl Silver, catching Sylvia Lesky’s eye while she said it.
There was a silence. Then Philip Quennell spoke up, although it was the custom that conversation at such parties was carried on by the important figures at the table, while the others listened. “I always figure if you’ve got something hidden in your past, it’s going to come out at some time or other,” he said. He looked across the table at Jules, but Jules turned to reply to a question asked him by Pepper Belcanto.
“You do?” asked Pauline. She too looked across the table at Jules.
Philip, having caught the attention of the table, continued. “But, believe me, Mrs. Mendelson, some way is always found for people in high places, and people close to people in high places, to beat the rap. As night follows day, this is the truth. It is part of the fabric of power.”
There was an awkward silence in the room, and Philip could feel the dark look that was coming in his direction from Jules Mendelson.
“Who’s this guy?” asked Arnie Zwillman, leaning over Adrienne Basquette to speak to Casper Stieglitz.
“He wrote a book,” replied Casper, explaining Philip.
“Big fucking deal,” said Arnie.
Then Casper excused himself and left the table. Philip could see that Casper’s frequent trips to the bathroom were beginning to have their effect. He ate almost nothing, and he blew his nose frequently, feigning a cold. Joel Zircon, who had not spoken a word during the meal, followed Casper out of the room, hoping to be invited to participate in what he called a few lines.
Conversations of this type did not usually take place at Casper’s house. There had been a time when he had been a popular figure in the social life of the film community, but it had been several years since he had produced a film that in any way approximated the films of his dazzling early successes, and movie people, aware of his questionable habits, had stopped asking him to their parties and had long since declined going to his. The kind of talk he had grown to prefer
in the year since his divorce was the kind of talk he had with Ina Rae and the sort of people she brought to his house.
Throughout the meal Hortense Madden sat in angry silence. Her evening had been spoiled by the unexpected arrival of Cyril Rathbone, whom everyone seemed to know, while none of the guests knew who she was when she was introduced to them. Any dreams she had nurtured of being taken up by Pauline Mendelson, as one of the interesting people she invited to her parties, were squashed when Cyril monopolized Pauline before dinner and she did not get to meet her. Philip Quennell was seated next to Hortense, but he gave his full attention to Pauline Mendelson on his other side during most of the meal. On the several occasions she attempted to open a conversation with Arnie Zwillman, her table companion on her other side, he replied only with a yes or a no and then returned his attention to Adrienne Basquette on his other side. Arnie Zwillman never had time for girls who weren’t pretty. After Casper left the table, the conversation became less general, and Philip turned to her.
“You’re the literary critic for
Mulholland
, Casper tells me,” he said.
“I am,” she replied importantly. It was her first recognition of the evening.
“I was bruised by the review you wrote of my book,” he said.
“Which book was that?” she asked, although she knew which book it was.
“
Takeover
, it was called,” answered Philip. “About Reza Bulbenkian, the Wall Street financier.”
“Oh, that, yes,” she said dismissively. “Not my sort of book at all.”
“I gathered as much,” said Philip. Then he added, “But it was popular.”
“As if that matters.” She laughed a laugh that was nearly a snort. “That’s all you people care about, isn’t it?”
“And you don’t care about recognition?”
“Of course not.”
“Or applause?”
“No.” She shook her head. There was something about her that was familiar to Philip.
She picked up his place card and looked at his name, as if she could not remember it. She squinted her eyes and pursed
her lips over her protruding teeth as she read his name. “Do you make your living as a writer, Mr. Quennell?”
“I do, yes,” he said.
“Hmmm,” she replied. She nodded her head.
Philip watched her. “I know that you don’t make your living as a nightclub singer,” he said.
She looked at him in a startled way. “What in the world do you mean by that?”
“As Pearl Silver just observed to Jules Mendelson, all public people have discreditable secrets,” said Philip.
“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” said Hortense.
Philip began to sing quietly in Hortense’s direction, so quietly that even Pauline Mendelson, on the other side of him, could not hear.
“
You are not my first love, I’ve known other charms, but I’ve just been rehearsing, in those other arms
,” he sang.
Hortense looked at him, terrified of exposure.
“Marvene McQueen? The chanteuse? Of Miss Garbo’s? Speaking of bad reviews, has your cohort Cyril Rathbone down the table reviewed your act yet? I’d be very interested in seeing that review,” said Philip. He started to sing again, a little louder: “
You better go now, because I like you much too much, you better go now
.”
“What do you want?” she asked.
“I have a manuscript I want you to read.”
“By you?”
“No, not by me.”
“By whom?”
“That’s what I’m not going to tell you. I want you to read it and tell me who you think wrote it.”
“What is this, a game?”
The Marty Leskys left immediately after dinner, explaining that they had run the same film the night before at their house. Pearl Silver, pleading a headache, left with the Leskys. Dom Belcanto, his duty to Arnie Zwillman accomplished, also left, saying he and Pepper were driving back to Palm Springs that night. And Amos Swank and his new wife made a tiptoe-out-of-the-room departure, without giving any excuse at all, or even saying good-bye.
Fifteen minutes into the film in the darkened projection
room, Arnie Zwillman tapped Jules on his knee and then rose and walked toward the door and left the room.
“If you’re not crazy about this film, we can switch to another one,” said Casper in the darkness.
“Oh, no, I’m enjoying it immensely,” said Adrienne Basquette. “I love the costumes.”
“Picture won’t make a nickel,” said Casper.
Several minutes after Arnie’s withdrawal, Jules whispered into Pauline’s ear. “I’ll be back shortly. I have to make a call to Sims Lord.”
He rose from his seat. For an instant he blocked the light ray from the projector in the booth, and his massive shadow nearly obliterated the screen.
“Down in front,” came the voice of Hortense Madden, who was no longer impressed with the impressive Mendelsons, as neither had seemed to recognize her name and each had resisted conversation with her during coffee.
As Jules left the room by the same door that Arnie Zwillman had used, Pauline watched him. The evening had been an evening she had never understood since the idea had been introduced to her. She felt that the early departure of Arnie Zwillman from the darkened room had somehow triggered Jules’s own departure. She could not understand the connection the two men could have together and hoped it did not have anything to do with Kippie.
“Isn’t she divine?” whispered Cyril Rathbone, leaning forward from the seat behind Pauline’s. Cyril Rathbone was not a man who gave up easily.
“Who?” asked Pauline.
Cyril named the actress on the screen, who was very beautiful. Pauline nodded agreement without turning. Although she never interfered in Jules’s business, she had an urge to follow him.
“See this actor?” said Casper, talking about an actor in close-up on the screen. “He’s had seven flops in a row. Nothing for him after this but a sitcom. He was sleeping with the director.”
When Jules reentered Casper’s house, he stood for a moment in the living room, not sure which way to go. The predinner drinks had been cleared away. From the kitchen he could hear the sounds of the caterers cleaning up the dinner dishes and running a vacuum cleaner in the dining room.
“Mr. Zwillman said to tell you he’s in the den,” said a voice behind him. Jules turned. The butler, Willard, was standing there.
“The den is where?” asked Jules.
“Through that hall. First door to the left,” said Willard.
“Thank you,” said Jules.
Jules felt uncomfortable with the situation he was in, but he proceeded to the den and opened the door. Arnie Zwillman was seated with a drink in his hand. The two men looked at each other.
“Shut the door behind you,” said Zwillman.
Jules closed the door.
“Drink?” asked Zwillman.
“No, thank you,” said Jules.
“Sure, have a drink. Clears the air.”
“I never drink after dinner,” said Jules.
“Except tonight,” said Zwillman. He made up a scotch and soda from a drink table and handed it to Jules.
“Your wife always so quiet, or she didn’t think the crowd was up to her usual standards?” asked Arnie.
“My wife is not feeling well tonight,” said Jules.
“Does she know your grandfather was the bookkeeper for Al Capone and did time for income tax evasion?” asked Arnie.
“No, she doesn’t,” answered Jules, unperturbed. “But what happened fifty-five years ago is not of much concern to any of us today.”
“Don’t pull your upper-class bullshit on me, Julie,” said Arnie.
“It’s Jules, never Julie,” said Jules.
“Oh, I beg your pardon.
Jules
,” said Arnie, with mock solemnity.
“Look, Zwillman, what is this? I don’t need this aggravation from a two-bit arsonist and card cheat,” said Jules. He made no attempt to conceal the derision in his voice.
Arnie Zwillman stared at Jules. When he spoke, he spoke quietly. “Does your society-lady wife know about the girl with the broken arm who went off the balcony of the Roosevelt Hotel in Chicago in nineteen fifty-three?” he asked.
Jules blanched.
Arnie Zwillman smiled. “Nor does your friend the President, who’s going to appoint you to the economic conference in Brussels, I suppose.”
Jules felt a tightness in his chest. His heart was pounding. He put his hand to it.
“That was an accident,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Siddown,” said Arnie. He spoke as if he were talking to hired help.
Jules, breathing heavily, lowered his large body into an Eames chair and stared at Arnie Zwillman.
“Over here,” said Arnie, tapping the cushion next to where he was seated on a corduroy-upholstered sofa. “I got a polyp on my vocal cord, and I don’t like to have to raise my voice.”