Costume consultant, I thought Over there they're still murdering people and here they've turned into extras. But then, what was Nazism but a revolt of the extras, who wanted to play the parts of heroes for once in their lives and only managed to turn into a gang of vulgar butchers? "Who is the consultant?" I asked. "A real Nazi?"
"I don't really know," said Holt. "Anyway, he's a specialist Christ! If we have to shoot the whole scene over again on account of one lousy cap!"
We went to the bar. Holt ordered whisky and soda. "There's something I want to ask you about those drawings," Holt said after a while. "Don't be offended, but I've been told there are so many forgeries. They are authentic, aren't they?"
"There's nothing to be offended about. You're entitled to know. Those drawings were not signed by the artist; there's only a red stamp with his name. That's what, bothers you, isn't it?"
Holt nodded.
"The stamp is his studio stamp," I explained. "Those drawings were authenticated after Degas' death. Mr. Silvers, my employer, has books containing descriptions and reproductions of all these posthumously authenticated works. He'll be glad to show them to you. Why not drop over to see him now? Are you through here?"
"I'll be through in an hour. But I believe you, Bob."
"Sometimes I don't believe myself, Joe. Let's meet at six at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Then you can convince yourself. Besides, Silvers will want to give you a bill of sale and a guarantee."
"Okay."
Silvers was sprawled on his light-blue chaise longue when we came in, a picture of benign self-satisfaction. No one could have guessed that so far his trip to Hollywood had been a total flop. He had me make out a guarantee, to which he appended photographs of the drawings. "You could almost call those drawings a gift," he said blandly. "Mr. Ross here came to me from the Louvre; he's a scholar; the financial end just isn't his line. He thought he knew the prices. What he failed to realize was that those were the prices I paid for the drawings a year ago. If I wanted to buy them back, they'd cost me at least fifty per cent more."
"Would you like to cancel the sale?" Holt asked.
"I wouldn't dream of it," said Silvers. "A sale is a sale. I only wanted to congratulate you. You've made a good buy. Pictures are the best investment there is. Every year they go up thirty to forty per cent. What do you think of that?"
Silvers grew more and more amiable and ordered coffee and brandy. "I'll make you a proposition," he said. "I'll buy back the drawings for twenty per cent more than you paid. This minute." He reached for his checkbook.
I waited eagerly to see how Holt would react to this booby trap. He reacted as Silvers had expected, saying that he had bought the drawings because he liked them. Not only did he mean to keep them, but he also wished to take up the option I had given him the night before on the two Picassos.
I looked at him in amazement. I had no recollection of any option and I thought I detected a glint in Holt's eye, the look of a man who was on to a good piece of business. He had thought fast.
"An option?" Silvers asked me. "Did you give Mr. Holt an option?"
It was my turn to think fast. I knew nothing of any option; Holt had probably made it up. I only hoped he didn't know too much about the prices. "Yes," I said. "A twenty-four-hour option."
"And the price?"
"Six thousand."
"For one?" Silvers asked.
"For both," said Holt
"Is that right?" Silvers snapped at me.
I hung my head. It was two thousand more than the price Silvers had fixed. "That's right," I said.
"Mr. Ross," said Silvers with surprising gentleness, "you're ruining me."
"I had quite a lot to drink," I said. I'm not used to it."
Holt laughed. "One time when I was drunk," he said, "I lost twelve thousand bucks at backgammon. Taught me a lesson."
At the words "twelve thousand bucks" the same glint as I had seen in Holt's eyes came to Silvers'. "Let this be a lesson to you, too, Ross," he said. "We'll have to face it: you're a scholar, not a businessman."
I put on my best hangdog look. "Maybe you've got something, there," I said, gazing out the window at the last white-clad tennis players disporting themselves under the wide afternoon sky. The swimming pool was deserted, but people were drinking at little round tables, and muffled music could be heard from the bar. Suddenly I felt a yearning for Natasha, for my childhood, and for long-forgotten dreams, a yearning so poignant that I thought it impossible to bear, and I realized to my despair that I would never be free. There was no salvation; the most I could hope for was to enjoy this oasis of calm that had opened up to me while in the world outside the avalanche of catastrophes rolled on unabated, to savor it with all my senses, for it was a brief gift And the irony of it was that my brief moment of peace would be over when the world outside began to breathe again and to celebrate the triumph of peace. For then it would be time for me to embark on the lonely expedition that would lead me to inevitable destruction.
"Well then," said Silvers, pocketing the second check as nonchalantly as the first, "let me congratulate you again. You've laid the foundations of a fine collection. Four drawings by two of the greatest masters! One of these days I'll show you some Degas and Picasso pastels. I haven't time right now; I've been invited out to dinner. My arrival has been bruited about. Or if we don't get around to it while I'm here, perhaps you'll be coming to New York."
I applauded him in silence. I knew he had no dinner date; but I also knew that Holt was expecting him to try to palm off a larger picture. Silvers knew it, too, which is why he did nothing of the sort Now Holt was certain that he had done a good piece of business. He was, as Silvers would have put it, ripe.
"Chin up, Bob," Joe consoled me. "I'll call for the pictures tomorrow."
"Sure thing, Joe."
XXV
A week later Tannenbaum came to see me. "We've checked up on that consultant of ours, Bob, and he's not reliable. He knows a certain amount, but Holt has lost confidence in him. He doesn't trust the guy who wrote the script either. He's never been in Germany. A stinking mess."
I was sitting by the swimming pool, reading the paper. In this blessed country the impending divorce of some movie star was featured on the front page; the war news was tucked away inside. A man could eat his breakfast without choking with impotent rage.
I looked at the palms, at two girls in the water, and then at the agitated Tannenbaum. "It's no skin off my ass," I said and went back to the Hollywood gossip in the paper: who had been seen with whom the night before, who might be having an affair with whom, and who might be playing what part
"Oh, so it's no skin off your ass?" said Tannenbaum grimly. "Hell, the whole thing is your fault. Why did you have to notice that Scharführer's cap? That's what got Holt started."
"I'm sorry. Forget what I said."
"How can I? Our consultant has been fired."
"Find another."
"That's what I'm here for. Holt sent me. He wants to talk to you."
"Nonsense. I'm not a consultant for anti-Nazi movies."
"Oh yes you are. You're the only man in Hollywood who's seen the inside of a concentration camp."
I looked up. "What are you talking about?"
"Everybody knows that. Everybody in New York, I mean. Your friends, to be exact."
"So what?"
"Listen to me, Bob. Holt needs help. He wants to take you on as his consultant."
"Tannenbaum, you're nuts."
"He pays well. And after all, it's an anti-Nazi picture. That ought to interest you."
I saw that the only way I could make myself halfway clear to Tannenbaum was to tell him something about myself, and that I had no desire to do. He wouldn't have understood. He saw the world from a different angle. He was waiting for peace so as to be able to live a quiet life in Germany or America; I was waiting for peace in order to take my revenge. "I am not interested in movies about Nazis," I blurted out. "You don't write film scripts about those pe
ople; you kill them. So don't bother me. Have you seen Carmen?"
"Carmen? You mean Kahn's girl friend?"
"I mean Carmen."
"What do I care about Carmen? I'm thinking of our picture. Won't you at least talk to Holt?"
"No."
That afternoon I received a letter from Kahn. "Dear Robert," he wrote. "First the bad news. Gräfenheim is dead, an overdose of sleeping pills. He had heard via Switzerland that his wife had been killed in Berlin. In an American air raid. That was too much for him. American planes—he couldn't see that such things were inevitable under the circumstances; to him it was a cruel irony. And so he quietly and discreetly put an end to his life. Maybe you remember our last conversation about suicide. Gräfenheim pointed out that suicide was unknown to animals, because no animal was capable of total despair. He also thought that the possibility of suicide was one of God's greatest gifts to man, because it could put an end to hell, as Christians call the torment of the mind. He took bis life. There is nothing more to be said about it. He has it behind him. We are still alive; we still have it ahead of us, regardless of whether we envisage it in the form of old age, natural death, or suicide.
"I have heard nothing from Carmen. She is too lazy to write. I enclose her address. Tell her she had better come back.
"Good-by, Robert. Come back soon. Our hardest time is yet to come. When we find ourselves staring into the void and even our illusions of revenge collapse. Prepare yourself for it gradually or the shock will be too great. We don't stand up very well under shocks, especially shocks that come from an entirely different direction than we expected. The impact of death, like that of happiness, is a question of degree. Sometimes I think of Tannenbaum, the Gruppenführer of the silver screen. Maybe that simpleton is the wisest of us all. Salut, Robert."
I went to the address Kahn had given me. It was a small shabby bungalow in WestWood with a couple of orange trees out in front. In a garden behind the house, surrounded by cackling chickens, Carmen was sleeping in a deck chair. She had on a very brief bathing suit, and it was beyond me how Kahn could think she couldn't get anywhere in Hollywood. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Not an insipid doll, but a tragic figure that made the heart throb.
She showed no surprise at seeing me. "Well, if it isn't Robert! What are you doing here?"
"Selling pictures. And you?"
"Some dope gave me a contract. I don't do a thing. It's lovely."
I asked her out to dinner. She wasn't enthusiastic. Her landlady, she said, was a first-class cook. I had my doubts when I saw the blowsy red-haired landlady. She looked more like hot dogs, hamburgers, and canned vegetables. "Fresh eggs," said Carmen, pointing at the hens. "Marvelous omelets."
Nevertheless, she finally agreed to have dinner with me at the Brown Derby. "They say it's full of movie stars," I said, to arouse her interest
"Even a movie star can't eat more than one meal at a time" was her answer.
Carmen went inside to dress. She walked as if she had carried, baskets on her head all her life, with Biblical dignity and easy grace. I couldn't understand Kahn; anybody in bis right mind would have married her long ago and headed north to sell radios to the Eskimos, who, I had read somewhere, were attracted by a different type of woman.
When the taxi stopped outside the Brown Derby, my conscience began to trouble me. I saw men in raw-silk suits smitten with awe at the sight of Carmen. "Just a minute," I said. "I'll go in and see if they have room for us."
Carmen waited outside. The Brown Derby was full of seducers, but there were still a few free tables. "Not a table to be had," I announced when I came out "I'm sorry. Do you mind if we go to a smaller place?"
"Not at all. To tell the truth, I'd rather."
We went to a restaurant that was small, dark, and empty. "How do you like it in Hollywood?" I asked. "Don't you find it rather tiresome after New York?"
She raised her wonderful eyes. "I haven't thought about it yet," she said.
"I hate it," I lied. "Never been so bored in my life. I can't wait to get back."
"It all depends," she said. "In New York I had no real friends. Here I've got my landlady. We get along beautifully. We talk about everything. And I'm crazy about chickens. They're not as dumb as most people think. I never saw a live chicken in New York, did you? I know their names, and they come when I call them. And the oranges! Isn't it wonderful just to go out and pick them off trees?"
I suddenly understood the reason for Kahn's attachment to her. It was something more than the fascination of her unpredictable stupidity for a man of active, penetrating mind. It was also, though Kahn probably didn't know it, the miracle of such sheer untrammeled innocence in conjunction with such a body.
"How did you get my address?" she asked, picking up a drumstick and nibbling at it.
"I had a letter from Kahn. Hasn't he written you?"
"Oh yes," she said, busily chewing. "I never know what to write him. He's so complicated."
"Write him about the chickens."
"He wouldn't understand."
"Give it a try. Or write about something else. He'd be awfully glad to hear from you."
She shook her head. "I'd know what to write my landlady. But Kahn is so difficult I don't understand him.
"Tell me about your movie career."
"Isn't it marvelous? They pay me my salary and I dont have to do a thing. A hundred a week! Where do they get all that money? At Vriesländer's I only got sixty, and I had to work all day. Besides, he was so mean and nervous, he always yelled at me when I forgot something. And Mrs. Vriesländer hated me. No, I like it here."
"But what about Kahn?" I asked, though I knew I wasn't getting anywhere.
"Kahn? He doesn't need me."
"Maybe he does."
"What for? I never know what to say to him."
"He needs you all the same, Carmen. Don't you want to go back?"
She looked at me out of her tragic eyes. "Back to Vries-länder? He's got a new secretary to bully. I'd be crazy. No, I'll stay here as long as the studio is dumb enough to pay me for doing nothing."
"Who is this director of yours?" I asked her. I was getting suspicious.
"Silvio Coleman. I'd never seen him before I got here. And then it was only for five minutes. Isn't it crazy?"
That reassured me. "I'm told it's the custom out here," I said.
Kahn's letter upset me. I lay awake, expecting my nightmare to drag me under. I had expected it after seeing the SiS. men in the studio, but that night, to my surprise, I had slept like a baby. Perhaps, it occurred to me now, my initial shock had been dispelled by the absurdity of the scene; perhaps my unconscious refused to be set in motion by a group of English-speaking, Coca-Cola-drinking S.S. men. In his letter Kahn had warned me of another, more serious kind of shock—the shock of a new and unexpected reality—and I realized that I had better steel myself against it. A hysterical wreck, who trembled at the sight of a uniform, would never be able to perform the task I had set myself. Why not take advantage of the unusual opportunity that Hollywood offered? It would do me a world of good, I decided, to get used to these comic-opera Nazis.
I got up early and strolled around the swimming pool in my pajamas. The palm trees rustled in the breeze, and the high foreign sky was not unfriendly. My mind was made up: yes, that would be the best solution.
Tannenbaum dropped in before lunch. "Tell me," I said, "how did you feel the first time you played the part of a Nazi?"
"I couldn't sleep at night But then I got used to it. You get used to anything."
"Yes," I said. "I suppose you do."
"A pro-Nazi picture would be different. Naturally I couldn't do it. But who's going to make a pro-Nazi picture?" Tannenbaum fiddled with the corners of his ornate pocket handkerchief. "Holt spoke to Silvers this morning. Silvers has no objection to your taking on another job in the morning. He says he needs you mostly in the afternoon and evening."
"You mean he's already sold me to Holt?" I
asked. "The way they buy and sell stars, or so I'm told."
"Of course not. He only inquired, because he needs you badly. I told you, there's nobody else around here who has actually been in a concentration camp."
"Hm. I bet Holt bought a painting in exchange for Silvers' benevolence."
"I don't know. Holt looked at Silvers' pictures yesterday. He was very enthusiastic."
The little Renoir, I thought. The one he's been trying to unload for three years. The cadaver with the eels. He's palmed it off on him, for sure. That gangster, selling my soul. It's lucky I'd decided to sell it anyway, for my own good.
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