I Confess (5 page)

At the back there was a review of my last film. It was the cleverest, funniest and most devastating review imaginable. The critic didn't leave me a leg to stand on. I thought for a moment that Margaret had overlooked it but immediately discarded the notion. Margaret never overlooked anything, especially not my reviews. She had known just what she was doing when she had brought me the New Yorker. It was one of her many ways of taking revenge.

Actually this had been her main activity during the last years—^taking revenge. Finding the area where she could wound me most easily and painfully, and then—^ready, aim, fire! Precise, cool, with her madonna smile. I must have been a dreadful disappointment to her. She had put so much faith in me.

I let the New Yorker drop to the floor and thought about Margaret. I met her in 1940. She was one of the innumerable girls that people Hollywood and look exactly alike—^long legs, beautiful bodies, pretty faces. Ambitious and penniless. Always waiting for their chance. You can find them at every cocktail party, in every night club. Sometimes steered by a friend (male) into something like the proximity of an actual production, sometimes even visible on the screen as supers; persevering, holding their

liquor, and with nothing on their minds but a career. I met her at a party Bette Davis was giving. Jerry Wald had her in tow. She looked great, danced well, and I flirted with her. At the time I was the fifth writer working on a crime story for Charles Laughton. She knew about it. We drank a lot and I took her home with me. I had a small apartment in Beverly Hills. She was young, beautiful, and smelled of Palmolive soap, Chanel #5 and Pepsodent. I was pretty drunk, and as far as I could make out, she was very passionate. She said she had been in love with me for a long time and raved about my work. By the time she had got out of her clothes and into bed with me, she was trembling from head to foot and stammering that I must certainly be thinking she was doing all this to get a part, but that wasn't so. She was doing this because she loved me, because she couldn't help it, because I could do with her whatever I wanted. It made a deep impression on me.

Next day she moved in with me, and the day after that I mentioned her to Irving Wallace, our producer. He gave her an audition, they ran a pilot, and she got a small part. Laughton was very nice to her. But none of it helped. She was so woefully untalented that in the end her scenes were cut—in the interest of the picture and on orders from above—to an absolute minimum.

She was brave about it, said she'd warned me that she had really never felt she was an actress. On the day of the first preview, she told me something else. She smiled and cuddled up to me. We were sitting fairly far back in the projection room, and she. waited until we were watching the screen. Then she told me she'd been to a doctor, and there was no doubt about it—she was pregnant.

"Am I disturbing?" It was Joe Clayton. I hadn't heard him knock and he was already in the room, a few illustrated weeklies and a bottle of scotch in his hands.

"Of course not," I said. "Come on in, Joe."

He laughed boisterously and shook my hand vigorously. He looked like a jolly, fat stockbroker.

"First let's have a drink," he said, and rang for the nurse. Then he sat down and opened the bottle with a pocket-knife that included a corkscrew. He took a cigar case out of his pocket. "May I?"

"Sure."

He lit a monstrous cigar and blew huge clouds of smoke into the room. He seemed very pleased with himself.

"You seem very pleased with yourself, Joe," I said. For a reason I couldn't define, I didn't feel right about it. Something was wrong. I couldn't say what, but I felt it unmistakably. He was in just too good spirits.

"I am, I am, my boy." He beamed at me as he folded his short, thick fingers. ''The Cry in the Dark is sold. A month from now we start shooting in the studio." Cry in the Dark was my film. His joviahty made me feel increasingly uneasy.

"What do you mean, in four weeks?" I asked. "You've only got my first draft."

"Your first draft's great, Jimmy!" He slapped me on the back. "Couldn't be better. I mean it. Evepybody's crazy about it, even Taschenstadt. And you know what it means if he's crazy about anything."

"Yes, yes," I said, "but it's still only a first draft. Hell-weg and I were going to change a few scenes, and then • . ." I interrupted myself. "Just a minute . . . Taschen-stadt doesn't speak a word of English."

"I know. Why?"

"So how could he read my script?"

"He didn't read your script, naturally. He read Hell-weg's."

"Oh. But then..." . "But what?"

"That's a different story. Hellweg's dialogue is ready to go. I've still got quite a bit of work to do on mine."

"Of course, of course," he said, sounding absent-minded suddenly. Now I couldn't understand what he was driving at. I was just going to ask when the door opened and a nurse came in. She was fat and ugly.

"Two glasses, please," said Clayton, in English.

"Zwei gldser, bitte/* I translated.

"Right away," said the ugly nurse in English and disappeared.

"You agree then that the dialogue needs work."

"Yes, yes, Jimmy." He licked his cigar which was about to burst open. "There's a little work to be done there, but don't worry about it. Take your time. First you've got to get over this, that's the only thing that matters right now. Health first! There's nothing more important."

"I know, but.. r

"You've done a great job. I'm awfully pleased with you. With Hellweg too, but especially with you, Jimmy, and when I shoot my next picture . .. probably in the fall, in Spain ... then you can count on it, I'll have you in mind."

"What's the matter, Joe? You talk as if you considered my work finished."

"And so it is, Jimmy, haha!" He laughed and slapped me on the back again. The ugly nurse brought in two glasses.

"Thank you," said Clayton and smiled at her.

"You're welcome," she said in English and didn't smile back. She looked at the botde, at me, shook her head and left.

"There you are!" Clayton handed me my glass. "To your health!" We drank. The scotch was warm and strong. I could feel it burning its way down my chest. Then I put the glass down.

"Joe, what do you mean, my work is finished?"

Now I knew without a doubt that something unpleasant had happened. He looked at the floor, avoiding my eyes. He was a decent fellow and a lousy liar. He didn't say anything. "So answer me! How can I be finished when I have dialogue to rewrite?"

"But you can't write dialogue when you're sick in the hospital!"

"I'm only going to be here three or four days."

"Only three or four days?" He looked surprised. He had quite evidently counted on its taking longer. Why? For God's sake, why?

"Yes. Three or four days. Then I'll be back. And what's to prevent me from writing here? Then we won't lose any time. I don't have a thing to do. Yes, that would be best."

He was chewing on his lip. His cigar had gone out; he didn't notice it. In the garden twilight was falling.

"Jimmy," he said, "don't talk nonsense." He raised his head slowly, inch by inch, and finally looked me in the eye with a tortured smile. "How can you think of writing here, in surroundings like this, in your condition...."

"But there's nothing wrong with me!"

"I know. Just the same . . . you don't know what this examination is going to turn up. My God, of course it'll turn out that there's nothing wrong with you, but in the meantime ..."

"Joe," I said slowly. "What are you keeping from me?"

"Nothing, Jimmy. Nothing. Another whiskey?"

"No."

"But I will." He filled his glass and drank it down fast.

"So," I said, "what are you driving at? I can't write the dialogue here. Then who's going to write it?"

"Fortunately ColHns is in Munich," he said, without looking at me. His face was red, poor devil.

"Ah so," I said, and fell back on my pillows. Collins was a very popular writer in the States, visiting right now in Europe. I knew him, admired him, and he didn't think much of me. So Collins was going to write my dialogue. For the first time that day I could feel my temples starting to throb.

"He was good enough to agree to make the few minor changes when I told him what a bind I was in, because of your collapse.. . ."

"Joe," I said. "On the phone you told me it wasn't causing any trouble, no trouble at all, you old har!"

"But I'd already talked to Collins then, Jimmy," he said pleadingly.

"I believe that my collapse, as you call it, didn't cause you any trouble. On the contrary, it must have been a godsend."

"Jimmy, don't talk like that!"

"It was a great way to get rid of me."

"Jimmy, please! You know how I value your work."

"You valued my work! When did you start to be dissatisfied with me?"

"Never! I was never dissatisfied with you!" he cried and jumped to his feet.

"Don't yell!" I screamed. "This is a hospital. And sit down." He sat down. His fat hands were trembhng. "Okay. Tell me who talked you out of it? Who told you my work was no good?"

"Not a soul, Jimmy. I swear it."

"All right. Then listen to me. Collins is not going to rewrite my dialogue."

"But he's working on it already," he panted, almost in tears now. So things were even worse than I had suspected.

"Okay. Then take the script away from him. I have a contract. As long as I have a contract with you, you can't put another writer on my script. I intend to finish it. Or fire me, if that's what you prefer. Then you can hire as many writers as you like."

He was breathing heavily, staring at me wordlessly.

"You get the message?"

He nodded.

"So?"

He got up. "Jimmy. . . /'

"Sit down."

But he shook his head and remained standing.

"Jimmy, I'd hoped you'd spare me this. If you refuse to accept Collins..." Now his eyes were wet

"Then?"

"Then I'll have to fire you," he said softly and sat down again.

We were silent for a while. "Now you can give me another shot," I said finally. He filled our glasses, his hands weren't too steady, some of the amber liquid trickled onto my bed. We drank.

"Thanks," I said.

"You'll accept Coffins?" he asked softly.

"No. If for no other reason, then out of self-respect.**

"Then .. . then . . ."

"Yes, Joe. Of course. YouTl pay out the week?"

"You're not mad?"

^'No. I just fell in love with you."

"My God, what a horrible profession! Honestly, Jimmy, I hate it! Hate it! You're my friend and I have to tell you things like this . . . right now . . . when you're having a rough time anyway."

"You don't have to."

"But I do! What else can I do?"

"Form an opinion of your own for once in your life. Stop believing the last person you talked to."

He shook his head. "It's worse than that. I haven't spoken to anybody here in Munich."

"So where was your decision to fire me made?"

"On the coast." He said it almost in a whisper.

In Hollywood. "Ah so," I said. He was right. This was worse.

"With the cable that said the money was on its way," he went on, "there was a second one that told me I must let Collins rewrite your dialogue. It said must, Jimmy. You can see the cable if you don't beheve me."

"I beheve you."

"After all, I'm only an employee. I have to do what they tell me. I'm responsible to them. They're paying me."

"Who read it over there?"

"Read what?" He was looking dumb.

"My script."

"HaUoran. He gave them his opinion."

Halloran was the company dramaturgist, a very conscientious, honorable and efficient man. Clayton's steel men had confidence in him, so did I. You couldn't bribe him. He was smart and he knew his business.

"And?"

"He said there was nothing wrong with the story, but the dialogue was nix gut.'' He spoke the last two words in German.

I looked out into the twilit garden and could feel the pain approaching again in broad, heavy, sluggish waves. "Did he say the dialogue was very bad?"

"Yes, Jimmy. He did. He said he couldn't understand it. You had always been a good, rehable writer, but this time you hadn't delivered the goods. He said your work was rambUng, sloppy, superficial and shallow." He nodded. Now he was grinning sheepishly. "He said he could not advise shooting the picture in its present form." My head was nodding, my mouth was set in a wide grin of its own vohtion. I felt hke a puppet.

"I'm sorry," poor Clayton said again.

"It's all right, Joe. It's not your fault. Of course all this is terribly upsetting, but you know what's the worst thing

about it? Now Fm completely thrown. Evidently I've lost my judgment. I've written plenty of crap, but then I knew it was crap. But this time . . . this time, Joe . . . you don't have to beheve me . . . this time I thought, I hoped, I'd written a good script. With dialogue that needed some improvement, but not much. Frankly I thought it was damn good just the way it was. I was really talking about revising out of vanity; you know ... to hear a little praise."

"Yes, Jimmy." He sounded embarrassed.

"And along comes Halloran and says the dialogue is rambling, sloppy, superficial, shallow and stupid."

"Not stupid," said Clayton. "He didn't say stupid."

"No," I cried. "He didn't say stupid. And that calls for a celebration, Joe. Give me another shot."

He did.

We drank.

"Jimmy, I really don't know what to say. Fd like to help you. Believe me, it's a lousy, filthy, miserable profession that ruins people and kills the soul in them. Look at poor Lubitsch. Dead at fifty-five."

"For God's sake stop trying to console me."

"You know how I meant it."

"Yes, Joe. I know. Don't you want to go now?"

He got up. "You mean ..."

"I don't mean it unkindly," I said. "I'd just like to be alone."

"I understand." He took his hat. We shook hands. "Don't take it too hard, Jimmy. I meant what I said."