The Laughter of Carthage (20 page)

Beginning in the dressing-room we both got rather drunk, as we had on the
Rio Cruz
so long ago, singing the Cockney songs which were her real favourites but most of which were never appreciated in America. She revealed she had been ‘almost sorry’ when Lenin died, ‘I wosn’t surprised ‘e croaked so sudden. ‘E wos a maniac fer work.’ She laughed. ‘Anyfink ter stop worryin’ abart real people. I must admit, my Leon’s ther same, but I fink e’ll do a better job, if they give ‘im ther chance. Not likely though, is it, ‘im being’ a yid?’ Her prediction was surprisingly accurate. Within ten years, Stalin had cleansed his ruling committee of every single Jew. A Georgian returns always to his simple roots. We cannot be seduced as easily as your Moscow intellectual. I reminded Mrs Cornelius I had no personal or sentimental attachments to Bolsheviks. They were all bloody handed mass murderers. Drug-besotted lunatics. She nodded her acquiescence, as if this was a fact everyone took for granted. ‘Yeah.’ She seemed to wait for me to enlarge on my theme, but I had said all there was to say. ‘Oh, they’re that orl right,’ she said.

She sprawled against her tiny dressing-table, still in khaki and jackboots, nostalgically remembering how she and I first met in an Odessan dentist’s surgery. Because of the drink she could not recall when she had next seen me. She was with Trotski’s Red Army, I said. She had saved my life in Kiev. Put me on the train which, by chance, led me to Esmé. She smiled and patted my cheek. ‘Wot a funny ol’ pair’ of bedfellows we are, eh?’

‘Never quite,’ I said.

This made her laugh.

Die Rosen wachsen nicht in den Himmel. Esmé, mayn fli umgenoyenist. Bu vest komen. Hob nisht moyre. Vifl a zeyger fort op der shif keyn Nyu-York? Vifl is der zeyger? S’iz heys. ikh red nit keyn Yiddish!
ikh red nit keyn Yiddish
! Blaybn lebn . . . Mayn snop likht in beyn-hashmoshes . . . Es tut mir leyd. Esmé! Es tut mir leyd!

Nekhtn in ovnt . . .
Next day I once again gave my best as a performer. In our own eyes at least we had become a perfect stage union, the kind of romantic duet one now saw regularly on the screen.
White Knight and Red Queen
was almost real to us. The illusion was shared by our audience (ordinary people can, whatever cynics say, appreciate serious emotional drama) and it also served to decrease my by now habitual worrying about Esmé. I became, as a result, almost addicted to the part: looking forward to our shows as I never had before. A telegram from Tivoli told me the choice of ship was unimportant. The only problem was the fare. She loved me and was eager to see me again. Was I sure I wanted her there?
Ikh farshtey nit. Firt mikh tsu, ikh bet aykh. tsu di Heim. Khazart iber, zayt azoy gut.
I don’t understand. I replied by return that the fare was on its way and I counted the hours until we were reunited.

It was at that evening show I noticed with dismay John ‘Mucker’ Hever back in his usual seat close to the stage, all but drooling in his infatuation for Mrs Cornelius. Yet I was in a way comforted to see him. Our performance was perfect. He must have given himself blisters on his palms, he clapped so hard. Like clockwork, Mr Hever arrived at the stage door in time to be blocked by me. Ritually, I accepted his expensive red and white roses and his ivory card. He was an eager, dewy-eyed boy, keener than ever, promising anything for an introduction to my co-star. She had never acted more brilliantly. She was an English Bernhardt. She was perfection itself. ‘Please understand, sir, that I have never done this sort of thing before. I’m no stagedoor johnny. I’m in love, sir.’ A thought came to him (rather late, in my view) ‘My God! You’re not her husband?’

I ran my thumb over the card’s embossed lettering. ‘Mrs Cornelius is a widow.’ She was a little hazy on this herself.

I remembered how we had spent most of our time together talking about the cinema. He had shown great familiarity with Continental films. He was speaking with tearful enthusiasm of how she was fated to be recognised by the world of the silver screen. I told him I would pass on the wishes and the roses. He apologised for missing our earlier shows. ‘I have just acquired an interest in a movie business. If it is of any use to you, I will put everything at your disposal.’ It was ironic that this was the ‘angel’ I had prayed for only a few weeks earlier. Now, in that City of Angels, not one engineering firm had answered my letters. It came into my mind that I should easily demand a bribe for taking him to Mrs Cornelius’s dressing-room. How else, short of direct theft, was I to keep my word to Esmé? But only a fool would carry the price of a first-class boat ticket on his person. I had the impression that, no matter how besotted he was, Mr Hever possessed a profound sense of the value of money. I brightened, however, for it had been bothering me how Mrs Cornelius would survive without my management. I did not know if his interest was a share in the local flea pit or fifty percent of Fox, but I was not impolite as I turned him away. I could feel a certain sympathy for a man in the grip of an obsession. I told him to return after our matinee tomorrow, when I hoped to have an answer for him. He was disgusting in his gratitude.

This time I gave Mrs Cornelius his card, ‘I think I’ve made you a useful contact. He could be the help you need getting a job in pictures.’

She shook her head. ‘Never ‘eard of ‘im.’ By now she had a mental list of all the important Hollywood names.

‘You shouldn’t discount Hever completely. He’s only just come to the business. I do know he’s keen. He might be prepared to underwrite a more elaborate show, at any rate. We could make some substantial money for once.’

She winked at me. ‘Somefink in it for you. Ivan?’ She would bear what I said in mind. ‘But you know me rule: “Don’t sell cheap what don’t cost yer nuffink” and “Keep yer ‘and on yer investments.’”

I was offended. ‘I’m merely suggesting you agree to see him. He’s a pleasant enough fellow. I’m not asking you to prostitute yourself!’

‘It’s me I don’t trust, prob’bly.’ she said. ‘Ther smell o’ gelt does funny fings ter me insides.’

I had decided I must raise what I could on my Georgian flintlocks. They were all I had left of any real value and the
nouveaux riches
of Los Angeles were rumoured to pay exaggerated prices for what were now being called ‘genuine’ antiques. I mentioned this to Mrs Cornelius. She shrugged. ‘Seems a waste. Yore fond o’ them in yer fashion. Sort o’ mascots, in’t they? I bet they bin up a few Jew’s arses over ther years. Do wot yer like, I s’pose.’ She remained unhelpful. My other alternative was to go to a loan company and see if I could raise money with the show as security. There would be no need for anyone else to know about it, since, according to the scrap of paper we had signed, my $500 had bought me ‘exclusive rights’. I was now in a state of mixed panic, anger, disappointment and sheer misery. I longed for my Esmé. It would be virtual suicide to let her down and lose her as a result. It would be like murdering a child.
Wie heisst dieses Lied?

* * * *

TWENTY-ONE

MY ACTING CONTINUED to improve almost in direct proportion to my sadness and desperation. During that brief period of my life I was greater than any Barrymore. Before long we would have been snapped up. I was grateful, however, for every show we did which lacked the approving presence of the Klan! It would take only one man to recognise me and I might easily find myself invited to a night ride. I had seen what happened to traitors. They stapled your testicles to a tree, lit a fire under them and handed you a knife with the command to ‘Cut or burn’. I had felt as sick only in the Ukraine, where similar brutes had passed their leisure skinning youths alive or roasting babies on sheets of corrugated iron. They were the guards in Auschwitz, moreover. There is a kind of Ukrainian the rest of us disown.

As usual, late that afternoon, I discovered Mr Hever trembling and red-faced, almost drowning in his own seat, waiting for a word. I told him Mrs Cornelius valued her privacy more than anything, ‘I can understand,’ he said several times. Partly from curiosity, partly because I still had some notion I could borrow part of Esmé’s fare from him, I drew him out on a variety of subjects. Did he travel much? Did he live permanently in California? Where did he live in the State? Did he have views on the political situation? It was odd to witness so much awkwardness in so large a man. With his prematurely greying hair and rather thin, stammering voice, his expression of furious despair almost demanded kindness. He had renounced travelling in favour of the telephone. He lived up in ‘the hills’ but still took the double-decker downtown to work every day. He was ‘solid Republican’, he said, as his father had been. He had spent most of his adult life in the State and in his view it was best served by the Republican Party. I found this, given his interest of only a couple of years before, the most illuminating thing he had said. It seemed to me he, like me, wished to be completely free of this new,
ersatz-Klann.
which had abandoned oratory in favour of the blackjack, the boot and the bullwhip. I was sympathetic. Nonetheless I could not resist the unworthy thought that if he one day remembered me from Atlanta, he might be even more embarrassed than I. Living here so long, I said, one must automatically become interested in the movie business. He shrugged, pointing out that movies were only ‘a kind of hobby’. His real job had nothing at all to do with them. He was an engineer. I knew this, of course, ‘In what field?’ I was curious to see if he answered truthfully. ‘Oil,’ he said.

‘You’re employed by one of the big companies?’

‘I guess so.’ He was impatient to change the subject, to return to that of Mrs Cornelius. From a casual angler, however, I had suddenly become a game-fisherman. Here was someone who very likely could introduce me to an important executive! If I was careful, I might help Mrs Cornelius and at the same time help myself. It was regrettable I could no longer claim Klan connections, since we both were saying nothing of them. I had noticed, however, that he had been anxious to avoid the topic of politics. I wondered why. I considered what I should do next. It was all I could do to restrain myself from opening my document case under his nose. I longed to show him my plans. I knew that a professional engineer would be impressed by what many had been kind to call my genius. How could he expect a play-actor to be a brilliant scientist? It did not make sense. Why should a scientist choose to become a strolling thespian? There again, I thought, was it usual for oil-company engineers to squander their earnings on the movies? Perhaps he would understand. For all my optimism about his response, I decided to hang on to my secret a little longer. Instead I asked if there was some message I could take (with his hideous black and red carnations) to the object of his desire.

‘If she would grant me my dearest wish,’ he murmured without much hope, ‘it would be that she accept my invitation for dinner tonight at the Hollywood Hotel.’

I kept a straight face and said I would see what I could do.

‘Assure her my intentions are honourable!’ He had grown more anxious by the second.

‘She would take that for granted, Mr Hever.’ I carried his blooms to the great actress’s chamber. She began to interest herself in the flowers rather than what I had to say. ’‘Ow ther bloody ‘ell do they git ‘em that colour, Ivan?’

I insisted she listen. He was a man of means, with excellent social connections. Some kind of silent partner in a movie studio, ‘I advise you strongly, for both our sakes, to accept his invitation. The Hollywood Hotel is where all the important people dine. You’ve read the magazines. Aren’t you curious? God, I wish he was in love with me. I would jump at the chance!’

She laughed at this and her dawning anger dissipated. ‘Ivan, I still fink your sellin’ my body like any flashy littel pimp.’

‘He insisted he had honourable intentions.’

‘It’s not the bloody fuckin’. Ivan,’ she said wearily, ‘It’s the bleedin’ boredom I can’t stand. Orl right, I’ll go. This ain’t normal, Ivan. If I even think o’ goin’ art ter supper wiv a chap yore usually poutin’ orl over yer bleedin’ face.’

‘I’m thinking of your career.’

She sighed. ‘I’ve got a feelin’ I’ll on’y find art wot yore up ter by seein’ wot ‘e ‘as ter say! Wheel ‘im in, an ‘urry up abart it.’ She primly arranged her kimono, picking at her Marcel waves with pink fingers. She had begun, quite unconsciously, to exude sexuality with such force it was as much as I could do to pull myself from the room, close the door, straighten my shoulders and walk slowly back towards the daylight and the looming, untidy, cow-eyed creature silhouetted in the exit.

‘Mrs Cornelius presents her compliments,’ I said. ‘She would be glad to see you for five minutes, to discuss the possibility of her dining with you tonight.’

I all but carried the poor monster into the presence of his adored madonna. Mrs Cornelius was happy to let me remain during the interview. She plainly found Hever endearing and most of her grand manner had gone by the time she dismissed him. She said, with an affectionate smile, that she would meet him at the exit after our evening performance. He lurched away, almost taking the door frame with him. ‘He’s sweet,’ she said. ‘Wot d’yer want me ter do tonight? Pick ‘is pocket?’