Authors: Irwin Shaw
“Only it won’t be a sixteen-millimeter movie camera,” Billy said bitterly.
“You’re learning,” Monika said.
“Will you for Christ’s sake stop combing your hair?” Billy said.
“You will take the camera and when you go into the Festival Hall that evening you will open it and take out what you find in it and hide it in an inconspicuous place. It will be timed to go off at nine forty-five.” Monika finally put the comb down and pushed at her hair with her hands, twisting her body so that she could look at her reflection from the side.
“You must be out of your mind,” Billy said, still with the blankets pulled up under his chin. “At nine forty-five they’ll be running my mother’s picture.”
“Exactly,” Monika said. “No one will suspect you. There will be dozens of photographers with all sorts of cameras. You can wander all over the building without anyone questioning you. That’s why you were chosen for the job. Don’t worry. Nobody’s going to be hurt.”
“You mean it’s going to be a nice, harmless, friendly type of bomb?”
“You should know enough by now not to be sarcastic with me.” Monika turned away from the mirror and faced him. “The police will be called at nine o’clock and told there is a bomb somewhere in the building. They’ll clear the place in five minutes. We’re not out to kill anybody. This time.”
“What
are
you out to do?” Billy was ashamed of the quaver in his voice.
“A demonstration,” Monika said evenly, “a demonstration which will have the greatest kind of publicity, with newspapermen, television crews all over the place and internationally famous people falling all over themselves to get out of there. If anything represents the rot of the whole system better than this disgusting fat circus, we haven’t heard of it.”
“What if I say no, I won’t do it?”
“You will be dealt with,” Monika said quietly. “When it is done to our satisfaction, I believe I’ll remember what hotel your cousin is at. In the meanwhile I trust
you’ll
remember—the Voile Vert, the two magazines, six
P.M.
Good night, laddy.” She picked up her bag, threw her raincoat over her shoulders and went out the door.
« »
As Billy went up the steps of the Festival Hall for the morning showing of
Restoration Comedy
with Gretchen and Donnelly and Rudolph, he said, “I think I’d like to sit downstairs in the orchestra with the peasants.” The others had reserved seats in the balcony. He kissed his mother and whispered,
“Merde.”
“What’s that?” Gretchen asked, surprised.
“It’s French show-business for good luck,” he said.
Gretchen smiled and gave him another quick kiss. “I hope you like the picture,” she said.
“I hope so, too,” he said gravely. He showed his ticket to the man at the door and went into the auditorium. It was already crowded, although the picture was not scheduled to start for another ten minutes. An inconspicuous place, he thought, an inconspicuous place. Everywhere he looked seemed like a highly conspicuous place to him. He went to the men’s room. At the moment it was empty. There was a trash basket for paper towels. It would be possible, given thirty seconds alone, to open the back of the camera, take out the bomb and hide it. If he could manage thirty seconds alone.
The door to the men’s room opened and a man in a flowered shirt came in and went over to the urinals. Billy ostentatiously washed his hands, pulled out a paper towel and dried them. Then he went out and found a seat near the front of the auditorium, where there were still a few vacant places. In the state he was in he didn’t know whether or not he would be able to sit through the picture, which was another reason for not sitting beside his mother for the showing. But when the picture started he found himself immediately engrossed and even laughed with the rest of the audience at the humorous scenes. And Wesley’s performance astonished him. It was Wesley all right, but a Wesley who had somehow blended someone else’s character with his own, to become a boy hidden and besieged, revealing bits and pieces of himself at rare, emotional moments, by a glance, a movement of his head, a mumbled monosyllable, and through it all looking brutally handsome while suggesting sweetness and vulnerable sensitivity, even when the script demanded violence and cynical behavior from him.
After the final fade-out, the applause was loud and sustained, greater than that at any of the other movies Billy had heard about since the festival opened. Then people began turning around and applauding, and he saw that they were applauding his mother, who was standing, smiling tremulously, at the railing of the balcony. Billy, near tears himself, clapped with the heartiest of the people around him. As he filed out of the hall, moved by his mother’s accomplishment, he wondered what had driven him to be such a bastard with his mother for all those years.
Outside, on the Croisette, he saw a cluster of young people getting autographs from a man who was standing with his back toward him. Whoever it was, he was almost obscured by a tall, bulky boy in blue jeans. Curiously, Billy went toward the group. Then he stopped. The man who was autographing programs and notebooks and scraps of paper was Wesley. Billy grinned. The ham, he thought, I should have known he couldn’t resist seeing himself. He pushed his way, as politely as possible, through the little crowd around Wesley, who was bending over, signing a notebook held out to him by a short girl in a gypsy skirt. “Mr. Jordan,” Billy said, lisping in a high, feminine voice, “will you sign my program for me? I think you’re just wonderful.”
Wesley looked up from the notebook. “Go fuck yourself, Billy,” he said. But there was a pleased smile on his face.
Billy took Wesley’s arm firmly. “That’s all for the moment, boys and girls,” he said loudly. “Mr. Jordan has to go upstairs for the press conference. Come with me, sir.” He started off, still holding Wesley’s arm. Wesley held back for a moment, then walked beside him. “You’re just what my mother needs today,” Billy said, “and you can’t let her down.”
“Yeah,” Wesley said. “Jesus, she’s a wonder, isn’t she?”
“A wonder,” said Billy. “And you’re going to tell her so. You were pretty wonderful yourself in there, too, you know.”
“Not too bad,” Wesley said complacently, the smile now permanently glued on his face.
As they waited for the elevator to take them up to the conference room, Billy said in a low voice, “Any luck in finding the man?”
Wesley shook his head.
“Don’t you think it’s about time you forgot all about it?”
Finally, Wesley stopped smiling. “No, it’s not time.”
“Movie stars don’t go around murdering people,” Billy said.
“I’m not a movie star,” Wesley said shortly.
“Everybody in Cannes knows your face by now,” said Billy. “You won’t be by yourself long enough to swat a fly without witnesses, let alone kill a man.” Then he had to keep quiet because two other people joined them waiting for the elevator.
Gretchen was just beginning to speak in the conference room, crowded with journalists and cameramen, as Billy and Wesley came in. She saw them immediately and broke off what she was saying. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, her voice not under full control, “I have just had a most pleasant surprise. One of the most promising young actors I have ever seen has just walked into the room. Wesley, will you come up here, please.”
“Oh, Christ,” Wesley muttered under his breath.
“Get up there, idiot.” Billy pushed him toward the raised platform where Gretchen was standing. Slowly, Wesley made his way through the crowd and stepped onto the platform. Gretchen kissed him and then, addressing the room, said, “I have the honor to introduce Wesley Jordan.”
There was hearty applause and flashbulbs going off everywhere and the smile, now a little glassy, reappeared on Wesley’s face. Billy slipped out of the room. He could hear the applause continuing as he walked quickly toward the elevators.
Outside, he left the Croisette and went into a café and ordered a beer, took a sip, asked for a token for the telephone, then went downstairs where the booth was located. He looked in the directory for the
préfecture de police,
found the number and dialed it. A man’s voice said,
“Allo.”
“This evening at six o’clock at a café called the Voile Vert, on the rue d’Antibes,” Billy said in French, with a harsh Midi accent, which he had only used before to amuse people at parties, “you will find a man sitting at a table with a copy of
L’Express
in his hands and a copy of
Le Nouvel Observateur
on the table in front of him …”
“One moment.” The policeman’s voice was excited and he stumbled over the words. “Who is this? What do you want?”
“On the floor under the table,” Billy went on, “you will find a bomb.”
“A bomb!” the man shouted. “What are you saying? A bomb for what?”
“It will be timed to go off at nine forty-five tonight,” Billy said. “Six this evening, the Voile Vert.”
“Wait a minute. I must …” the policeman shouted more loudly.
Billy hung up the phone and went up to the bar and finished his beer.
« »
They were in Gretchen’s salon after the evening showing of the picture, drinking champagne, and Simpson, the publicity man, was saying, “We’re going to take home everything—best picture, best actress, best supporting actor. I guarantee it.” He was a tall gaunt man, with a mournful, seamed face and he waved his hands as he talked. “I usually have a tendency to look at the worst side of things, but this time …” He shook his head wonderingly, as though the immensity of the treasure entrusted to him was beyond his comprehension. “I’ve been coming to Cannes for fifteen years and I tell you that was one of the most enthusiastic audiences I’ve ever seen down here. As for you, young man,” he turned to Wesley, who was sitting next to Billy on a small sofa, dressed in a dinner jacket that was too tight and too short that the publicity man had borrowed for him for the evening, “as for you, I’d bet my left nut that you’re going home with a prize.”
Wesley just sat there, a glass of champagne in his hand, the permanent glassy smile on his face. Billy got up and poured himself his fifth glass of champagne. He had sat through the beginning of the picture staring blankly at the screen. The images had made no sense to him and the dialogue had seemed to come out of the actors’ mouths in spurts of nonsense syllables. He had kept looking at his watch until nine forty-five and then had slumped in his seat and closed his eyes.
Gretchen looked pale and drawn, nervously pulling a ring on and off her finger. The champagne that Billy had poured for her lay untouched in the glass on the end table beside her. She had said hardly a word all night. From time to time Rudolph, who was sitting next to her on the sofa, reached out and patted her arm soothingly. Donnelly, standing leaning against the fireplace, tugged at his beard and seemed annoyed at the publicity man’s effusions.
“Tomorrow,” Simpson said, “is going to be a full day for you, Gretchen, and for Wesley. Everybody, but
everybody,
will be wanting to talk to you and take photos. I’ll give you the schedule at nine in the morning and …”
Rudolph and Donnelly exchanged glances and Rudolph stood up and broke in on Simpson. “If it’s going to be a big day I think Gretchen had better get some rest. We all ought to leave her alone now.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” Donnelly said.
“Of course,” said Simpson. “It’s just that I’m so excited with what we have here that …”
“We understand, old man,” Rudolph said. He bent and kissed Gretchen. “Good night, Sister,” he said.
She smiled wanly up at him. As they all prepared to leave she stood up and went over to Donnelly and took his hand. “David,” she said, “could you stay on for a little while?”
“Of course,” Donnelly said. He stared sternly at Billy.
Billy tried to smile, then kissed Gretchen’s cheek. “Thanks, Mother,” he said, “for a marvelous day.”
Gretchen gripped his arm, briefly, then broke into a sob. “Forgive me,” she said. “It’s just that it’s—well—it’s all too much for me. I’ll be all right in the morning.” Wesley opened the door and was about to go out when Gretchen called to him. “Wesley, you’re not going to disappear again, are you?”
“No, ma’am,” Wesley said. “I’m just two floors down if you need me.” Rudolph had tried to put him in the same room with Billy, but Billy had said he was afraid of sleeping in the bed next to Wesley’s, there was no telling what that crazy boy might do, even on a night like this. He hadn’t told Rudolph what he really was afraid of and with any luck Rudolph would never find out.
As the door closed behind the four men and they went down the corridor, Rudolph said, “I’m not sleepy. I have a bottle of champagne in my room, too. Would you like to help me with it?”
“I have some people to see about tomorrow,” Simpson said, “but you boys drink hearty.” He stood against the back of the elevator wall, gaunt and mournful, doomed to praise other people and never himself all his life, as he raised an eloquent hand in a parting salute to the uncle and two nephews who were going to continue the evening’s celebration with a bottle of champagne while he prepared the morning.
As Rudolph wrestled with the cork of the champagne bottle, he noticed Wesley eyeing the locked bag on the chair near the window. “I bet,” Wesley said, as the cork popped and Rudolph began to pour, “I bet it’s right in there.”
“What’s right in there?” Rudolph said.
“You know what I’m talking about,” Wesley said.
“Drink your champagne.” Rudolph raised his glass.
Wesley put his glass down deliberately and reached into the pocket of the borrowed dinner jacket and brought out a small pistol. “I don’t need it anymore,” he said evenly. “Keep it as a souvenir.”
“Crazy as ever,” Billy said.
“I’ll drink to that,” Wesley said.
They drank.
Wesley put the pistol back in his pocket.
“So,” Rudolph said, “you were sitting there in the hall watching yourself act and taking bows with that thing on you all night.”
“Yep,” Wesley said. “You never know when a target might show up.”