Munshin was so excited he could not sit still. “This story’s got me,” he said as he walked back and forth. “I won’t be able to sleep tonight.”
Eitel laughed. “Collie, you’re a genius.”
“I’m serious, Eitel, we have to do this picture. H.T. will love it.”
“I could never do it.”
“Of course you could.”
“I don’t approve of the Church,” Eitel said.
“You don’t approve of the Church? Baby, when I was a kid in the slums, one cut above a hoodlum, I used to spit on the street when I passed a church. What’s that got to do with it?”
“Well, for one thing, you know and I know the Church might just have a little bit to do with these subversive committees.”
“If they weren’t interested, somebody else would be. Charley, I’ve been a liberal all my life, but for God’s sake keep politics out of this.”
“Let’s leave the story,” Eitel said, “for tonight.”
“For tonight we’ll drop it. All right. But you think about what I said, Charley. I swear, I want to do it with you. This property is a gold mine.” He patted Eitel’s shoulder. “You don’t realize what you have here,” Munshin said again before he left.
Eitel never found out whether Collie could sleep that night, but it was certain he did not. Everything seemed turned on its head. The professional in Eitel lusted for the new story; it was so perfect for a profitable movie, it was so beautifully false. Professional blood thrived on what was excellently dishonest, and Collie had given him the taste of that again.
In the morning when he tried to work, he found that his mind was fertile with ideas for what was already titled Masterpiece-Sub-Two. Had the story to which he had given such pain disappeared already? Was his dislike of the Church unreal, was he himself unreal? He was even wondering what financial terms he could make with Munshin. “I won’t appear before the Committee again,” he found himself thinking, “I’ll do the script black market first, no matter how much I lose that way.” And all the while he was wondering how serious Collie had been.
Munshin did not visit them that day, and when Eitel called the Yacht Club, he learned the producer had taken a plane to one of the gambling resorts. So it was clear enough. Collie could afford to wait twenty-four hours and let him worry. It was an obvious tactic, but Eitel was still uneasy.
Early evening Marion Faye stopped by their house. Eitel and Elena were used to seeing him once or twice a week; the tension which had existed for a time after Elena’s episode with Marion was now less noticeable. Lately, Eitel had even enjoyed Faye’s visits.
Marion had a habit of appearing at odd times; a week might go by without even a telephone call and then he would show up suddenly. It may have been the marijuana, but Faye was capable of sitting in their living room for half an hour without saying a word, sometimes not even answering their few polite questions. Then he would get up and go out the door.
Other times, he would talk a lot, and once in a while he might give them glimpses of his charm. It was extraordinary, Eitel often thought. When Marion was pleasant he seemed more than pleasant; the relief one felt helped to exaggerate his amiability.
Curiously, he was often nice to Elena. He would even flirt. Nights when Faye had been attentive, she would preen a little bit and tease Eitel once Marion was gone. “Oh, would he love to cause trouble between us,” Elena might say.
“I’ve never seen him so interested in a woman.”
Elena would become sullen again. The compliment had been too direct. “He would just like to make me one of his prostitutes.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous. That’s what he thinks of me. I don’t like him,” Elena said.
“Never think too poorly of yourself,” Eitel said angrily.
He was so anxious for Elena to grow. Once, just once, she had a success on one of the evenings at the émigrés. Someone put an alegrias on the phonograph, and Eitel saw her dance her flamenco. Her head was proud, her teeth white, her skin golden, and she danced with a kind of scorn, her skirts flying, her sharp little heels beating out the rhythm with a precision, a fury, and a confidence that had him watching her in admiration. Then she became too drunk and stopped dancing, but the glow he felt at her triumph lasted through the night. In the morning he scolded her for not practicing dancing, and for a few days she began to do exercises, she even talked about trying to find a night-club career again. But in watching her practice he knew she would never be a professional, and he had a picture of how unhappy she must have been in those shoddy engagements her agent had been able to get for her, no more than an excuse for drinks between two strip-teasers. Probably everyone talked while she danced.
No, she could never grasp the first requirement for a professional. No matter one’s mood, there was always a minimum to the performance. One was never terrible. Elena could not be like that. Watching her work, he knew she was gifted, but she had the wild gifts of the amateur. No wonder she took her talents to bed; love was for amateurs. So he knew, although he hated to believe it, that the more he wanted to make of her, the less she would become. She had only her one cry, “Love me, really love me, and maybe I can do what you want.”
Faye told him as much. The night Eitel spent waiting for a phone call from Munshin, Marion stayed for hours. At the beginning of the evening, while Elena was in the kitchen making coffee, Eitel told him about Munshin’s idea for his story, sensing uneasily even as he spoke that he wanted Marion to encourage him.
“It sounds like one of Collie’s contributions,” Marion said.
“I find it so awful that I’m half-intrigued,” Eitel murmured.
“Don’t like being out of things, do you?” Marion said, and was silent until Elena came back into the room. He remained silent, and it made Elena uncomfortable. When, finally, Faye mentioned a new girl he had taken on whose name was Bobby, Elena was eager to hear everything about her. To each detail Faye offered—that Bobby had tried modeling, that she hoped to be an actress, that she had been married and divorced and had two children—Elena would listen with absorption.
“But how did she get started?” Elena interrupted. “I mean what was she doing before?”
“How do I know?” Faye said. “She sold ties at a hatstand, or she took photographs in a night club. What does anybody do?”
“No, I mean, how did she make up her mind to go into it?”
“Do you think it’s complicated? Jay-Jay took her over the bumps, and then I talked to her.”
“But how did she feel?” Elena insisted.
“How would you feel?” Faye said.
Elena giggled for her answer. “It’s terrible,” she said to Eitel. “I guess a girl like her gets started because she can’t have a decent relationship with a man.”
“And you can,” Faye said. Eitel knew the signs. Marion was becoming ugly.
“Yes, I can,” Elena said. “Don’t you think so?”
Faye laughed. “Sure I do, sure. Just find the right man. That’s every girl’s trouble.”
“What do you mean by that?” Elena said.
Eitel smiled. “He means, get rid of me.”
“Marion hates you, Charley.” She made this announcement defiantly as if they both would turn on her. Eitel could only laugh. For years he had protected himself with that laugh. “Is she right, Marion?” he said lightly.
Faye inhaled on his cigarette and then flipped it into the fireplace. “Sure, I hate you,” he said.
“But why?”
“Because you might have been an artist, and you spit on it.”
“And what is an artist?” Eitel asked. He felt a pang at the venom in Faye’s voice.
“Do you want to start a discussion?” Marion jeered. “I thought I wouldn’t have to tell you what it is.”
“I’m sorry you see it this way,” Eitel said. He had a feeling of loss that Marion no longer respected him. “Another protégé gone,” he told himself drily.
<
br /> “If you feel that way about Charley,” Elena said, “why do you come here all the time?”
Faye stared at her as if she were a specimen. “Do you mean that,” he asked, “or do you say it because you think maybe I’m right?”
“I think you’re … Get out of this house!” Elena shouted at him, and like all commands which have no threat, she could only carry it out by leaving the room herself.
“What in the name of heaven did you have to say that for?” Eitel groaned.
“Because,” Faye said, “I see more in that little chick than you do.”
“Ah, well, I expect you’re right,” Eitel said coolly, and went to the bedroom. Elena was in tears; he had known as much. She would not listen to him, she only lay on the bed. “You shouldn’t let anybody talk to you like that,” she sobbed. “And they shouldn’t talk to me that way either.” He reasoned with her; Marion had not meant what he said, his nerves were tense, she should not have asked so many questions. Hopelessly, Eitel continued. All the while he knew that what he was really trying to do was convince her that Marion was wrong; they would not break up, he would always take care of her.
At a given moment, Elena turned on him. “You think so much of your friend out there. You ought to know the kind of friend he is.”
By the way she said it, he knew there was more to follow. “What are you talking about?” Eitel asked.
“Every time your back is turned, Marion says he wants me to go live with him.”
“Did he say that?”
“He even said he loved me.”
If Eitel was startled, he could tell that he was also pleased. Let someone else care for her, and perhaps his own responsibility was less. “Then can’t you understand why Marion was so nasty?” he heard himself asking.
“Aren’t you even angry?”
“Elena, let’s not make too much of it.”
“You’re cold, Charley,” she said.
“Oh, come on back. You can’t really be angry at Marion if he has a crush on you.”
Finally she consented to say good night. Sheepishly, with red-rimmed eyes, she came back for a moment and smiled at Marion. “You’re beautiful, sweetie,” Marion said, and threw her a dry kiss. “What I mean, you’re better than all of us.”
When Elena had gone to bed, and they were alone, Marion’s mood was bad. “Why won’t you believe I love her?” Eitel said to him.
“What do you want me to say? I’ll say it.”
“You see something in her yourself,” Eitel went on. “You said so. She has such a need for dignity,” he exclaimed.
“Dignity!” Marion leaned forward as though to drive himself through an obstruction. “Charley, you know like I know, she’s just a girl who’s been around.”
“That’s not true. That’s not all of it.” And Eitel was offended at the calmness of his voice. “If I loved her, I wouldn’t talk to him now,” he thought.
“You can do anything with Elena,” Faye said almost dreamily. “She’s the kind of girl you could wipe your hands on.” He stared into space. “Provided you lead the way. You got to lead that girl, Charley. That’s what she’s got.”
Eitel made one more attempt. “In certain ways she’s the most honest woman I’ve ever known. My God, her parents brought her up with a meat cleaver.”
“Absolutely,” said Faye. “Do you know why you stay with her?”
“Why?”
“Because you’re scared, Charley. I’ll bet you’ve been faithful.”
“I have.”
“And you’re the one who used to say that faithfulness is an outrage to the human instincts.”
“Perhaps I still believe that.”
“You’re really scared. You’re even scared to take one of my girls.”
“I’ve never been interested in call girls,” Eitel said.
“What are you trying to tell me? That it’s a matter of taste?”
As Faye spoke, Eitel felt again something of the rage he had known during the first weeks at Desert D’Or when he had come to realize that the kind of women he once had known would never enter an affair with him now, certainly not the ambitious ones, nor the young ones, nor the ones he might desire; for him had been left only the wives of the émigrés and those second-rate call girls and downright prostitutes so low in the scale of Desert D’Or that he would still be important to them. Or was Faye right? Was he frightened even of such women? As he thought these things, Eitel had a glimpse of the contempt he felt for Elena. But instead he answered, “If you think so little of my girl, why are you interested in her?”
“I haven’t figured it out yet. It must be the animal in me.” Faye yawned and got up. “Do yourself a favor,” he said as he was about to leave, “ask Elena if she ever did it for money.”
Eitel felt an unmistakable thrill. “What do you know?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Charley. I just got an instinct for this.” And Faye sauntered out the door.
Eitel didn’t have a chance to ask Elena until the following afternoon. She was asleep when he went to bed and awake before him in the morning. No call came through from Munshin, and while Eitel tried to work, desire for Elena teased him powerfully. In the middle of the afternoon they had an exciting half-hour, doubly exciting for Elena, he knew, because his desire seemed so spontaneous. Afterward, it seemed harmless to ask her the question. Had she ever taken money? Well, never exactly, she told him, except for once. Except for once? he had said, and how was that? That was a funny time, Elena reminisced. How had it happened? he asked, his chest frozen. Well, there had been a man, and he had wanted to, and she had refused, and then the man had offered money, twenty dollars he had offered.
“So what did you do?” Eitel asked.
“I took it. It made the man seem exciting to me.”
“You’re a dirty little girl,” Eitel said.
Elena’s eyes were alive. “Well, you know I am,” she said. “You are, too.”
“Yes.” The worst of it was that these stories aroused him so.
“I enjoyed spending the twenty dollars,” Elena went on.
“It didn’t bother you?”
“No.”
“It bothered you,” Eitel insisted.
“Well, I did get hysterical the next night, but I’m so loused up anyway.” Her face became distant for a moment. “Charley, let’s not talk about it. When I was sixteen, I used to worry I would end up a whore.” Then she laughed as if to chase all memory away, and sat on his lap. “You remember when we were talking about two girls?” Eitel nodded. “Well, maybe we can find a girl sometime. It would have to be the right kind of girl though. The kind I wouldn’t be jealous of.” Elena laughed at herself. “Isn’t it terrible talking like this and planning?”
He squeezed her to him, feeling so many things he could never have told her, excitement at the memory of himself with two women, sensuous pain that she had sold herself for twenty dollars, and with it all, concern, a concern for Elena which almost forced the tears to his eyes. What would happen if he didn’t take care of her?
A little later they decided to go for a swim. While they were having a drink he remembered that Collie was still missing. It was so easy to believe anything; equally possible that they would never see Collie again, or instead see him that night. Playfully, Eitel flipped a coin in the air, and it came down tails. “I’ll never see him again,” he told himself, and the thought was not pleasant. Did it mean he had decided to depend on Collie?
What for superstition? The coin was wrong and Munshin came to their house that evening. It took hours before Elena would go to sleep, and not a word was said about movie scripts. When she finally left them, Munshin became reflective. “We’re in a fantastic occupation,” he said.
Eitel had no patience for this. “How’s the head monk?” he asked.
Munshin smiled. “Charley, I hope our little conference the other night was productive.”
“It gave me an idea or two.”
“I’m still w
ild about it,” Munshin said. “I haven’t felt enthusiasm like this in years.” Collie often said such things; he would use them as a way of passing from one subject to another. “ ‘What are you gambling here for?’ I said to myself last night. ‘The real gamble is back with Eitel in Desert D’Or.’ ”
“Where’s the gamble?” Eitel said. “Last time we talked you seemed to think the story couldn’t miss.”
“Charley, let’s not negotiate at arm’s length. We’re each too smart for that. Your story, even with my contribution, is a gamble. It’s straight gamble all the way down the line.”
Eitel made a small performance of mixing a drink. “Maybe we ought to drop the idea then,” he said.
“Cut out the sparring, Charley.” Munshin was nibbling on his upper lip with all the pleasure of a fat little boy. “I’ve given a lot of thought to this. Lover, if you want to go it alone, the suggestion I made is yours, and I hope it helps you to pull down a fortune for the script when you want to sell it.”
Eitel made a bored face. “You know very well, Collie, that nobody in the industry will go near me.”
“All you got to do is clear yourself with the Government.”
“Just that little thing. I have my pride, Collie.”
“Then you ought to work with me.”
“Maybe there are other possibilities.”
“Who are you kidding? If you want to make it in Europe, you got to get a passport.” Munshin beamed. He had a better deal worked out, he said. Eitel would do the script, and he would contribute editorial advice, and when it was done—did Eitel think he could do it in twelve weeks?—Collie would present it to Teppis as his own screenplay. He didn’t have to remind Eitel, he went on, what a Munshin original was worth.
The Deer Park: A Play Page 19
