‘Your first time in London?’ he asked.
‘I visited, years ago, on a school trip. I remember going to the zoo and laughing at the monkeys. London was quite a – there were a lot of ruined buildings, empty spaces.’
Thanks to the efforts of your air force, dear, mused Nat, who only said, ‘It looked quite shabby after the war.’
‘You had the air raids of course,’ said Sonja, as though she’d overheard his thoughts. ‘But you repaid us.’ Her smile was an ironic twitch.
‘You come from …’
‘Stuttgart. The bombers destroyed the old town in 1944,’ she said levelly.
‘But now we’re all friends,’ Nat said, his palms opened in conciliation. ‘Perhaps I could show you a few places you may have missed as a schoolgirl.’
‘Perhaps you could,’ she said in a playful echo. The slight lisp of her accent and the fleeting image of her as a schoolgirl brought a warmth to his loins.
While the waiter took their orders Nat had the chance to scrutinise Reiner. His face was somewhat pudgy, which the beard partially concealed. Beneath his sailor jacket he wore what looked like a football jersey, proudly blazoned with the team’s crest. What with the clothes and the match trick and the formal politeness he could have been a teenage boy out on a birthday treat. This didn’t sort with the style of any film director he had ever met before. Or any adult, come to that. Reiner was conversing in German with Sonja over some item on the menu when he suddenly caught Nat staring at him.
‘I was, um, just admiring your jersey. A football club?’
Reiner opened his jacket to display the crest. ‘Bayern München. This is a shirt once worn by Franz Beckenbauer. You know him?’
‘Not intimately,’ Nat admitted.
‘Reiner loves Bayern more than anything,’ said Arno down the table. ‘Watches them all the time. I think he’d rather be a footballer than a film-maker.’
Reiner, with a giggle, explained that he used to play as a teenager for his local side, Bad Wörishofen. He was quick and strong, a useful defender, and good enough to be invited for a trial at Bayern, but it didn’t happen. ‘I argued with the manager – a fool – and when the team was picked to play in front of the scouts he kept me on the bench. We were losing 5–0 or something, and still he would not put me on to play. So that was an end to the dream. But I had my revenge.’
Nat leaned forward, inviting him to explain further, but Ronnie Stiles chose this moment to interrupt. ‘I had trials as a kid at West Ham. I wanted to be Geoff Hurst – famous England player, Reiner, he scored a hat-trick –’
Reiner held up a silencing hand. ‘Yes, yes, the World Cup final, I was thinking you would mention that.’
‘Champions!’ Ronnie crowed insufferably.
At that moment the food started to arrive and Berk, clearing his throat, held up his glass to the company. Nat groaned inwardly. Why did Americans always feel it necessary to dominate the table?
‘Friends, if I may, let me make a toast on this vurry special occasion. I am truly blessed to have around me such dynamic and talented people. Excited? Who wouldn’t be excited! Here’s to us, and to the success of this picture. To Eureka!’
They all echoed the name and clinked glasses. Nat took a sip of his Chianti and turned to Reiner. ‘So what made you want to make this? Are you a passionate Jamesian?’
‘Passionate? Maybe. I read James when I was a student, that age at which we are most responsive. I read many of the short stories, some I loved, some I thought “huh”. But “The Figure in the Carpet” was the one that nagged and nagged at me. It is a story about obsessive people. All my films are about that.’
Nat nodded slowly. ‘Yes, of course. The pursuit of meaning becomes –’
‘An obsession!’ Reiner’s eyes suddenly glittered with delight. ‘These two young men, neither of them exceptional, but intelligent and curious, become absorbed in a quest for truth. They both admire the great novels of Vereker, only to learn from the man himself that they contain a secret – are in fact entirely constructed upon this secret – which nobody has ever unlocked. What can it possibly be? For weeks and months they puzzle over it, argue about it, lose sleep because of it. The thing becomes their fantasy, their Holy Grail, until – fateful day – one of them believes he has got it.’
At that, Reiner paused dramatically, with a gesture of a conductor bringing his orchestra to attention. ‘And there is the brilliance of James. He has contrived to make their suspense also the reader’s. We are tantalised, mystified, by the very same thing. What is the figure in the carpet? The difference is, unlike the characters in the story, we have absolutely no clue as to what Vereker’s novels are about! We have not a single sentence, a single word, of his prose on which to judge him. His books are entirely notional.’
‘Does it matter?’ asked Nat.
‘Of course not! Why do we need to know? The tension lies not in the actual secret but in its effect upon the three main characters. It is not the solving of a mystery that excites people; it is the dramatic withholding of it. Think of “Rosebud” in Citizen Kane, the last word on a dying man’s lips. What did he mean by it? It puzzles the audience, this word, it creates a mood of suspense. But then it emerges that Rosebud is simply the name painted on a child’s sled. Is the picture better or worse for this revelation? Well. The human instinct is to investigate, to solve the enigma. But great art defies our urge to know, because it thrives upon what is insoluble, and inexplicable.’
‘I take the point,’ said Nat, ‘but such withholding may alienate your audience. You cannot toy with their feelings indefinitely. How elusive does one dare to be? Take Antonioni, for example. His films are one riddle after another, but I’m not sure they’re wonderful entertainment.’
Reiner nodded as one who had anticipated this argument. ‘The trick, you see, is to engross, but not to explain. Most films have a conventional ending – the boy gets the girl, the soldier makes it home, the detective catches the killer. But the great film’ – he held up a solemn finger – ‘the great film confounds rather than reassures. James wrote, “Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task.” Give the audience a happy ending and they will forget it by the next week. But give them an ambiguous one and they will talk about your film for weeks, maybe for years.’
Nat, somewhat confounded himself, said, ‘An interesting theory. It makes me wonder why you didn’t adapt the story yourself.’
‘I only write in German. For my first British film I wanted a native writer, one who is able to compress those long, long sentences of James into speakable dialogue.’
‘That makes me anxious not to disappoint you.’
Reiner stared at him. ‘How could you disappoint me? You are Nathaniel Fane!’
There was no resisting such flattery; it made Nat want to roll on his back and waggle his paws in the air. He contented himself with a modest chuckle that at once disowned and embraced Reiner’s words. Across the table Berk had been monitoring their conversation.
‘How it’s going, Nat? You got something we can read yet?’
Nat didn’t flinch. ‘It’s coming along. Just needs a bit of tweaking here and there.’
‘You know we start shooting in four weeks. The actors will need a script to look at.’
‘Sonja is a quick study,’ said Reiner, smiling across at her, ‘and I’m sure Mr Stiles here is very capable of learning his lines at short notice.’
‘Meat and drink, Reiner,’ said Ronnie through a mouthful of spaghetti. ‘I learnt me entire part in Mafeking over a weekend. In an officer-class accent an’ all.’ Nat would come to learn that Ronnie flashed his hard-nut Stepney origins on the slightest pretext.
‘So there’s no need to panic,’ said Sonja to Berk. ‘You know that on Casablanca they didn’t have a finished script even while they were shooting. The cast would be handed their lines on the morning they were due in front of the camera.’
‘Ha ha, right, and look what a piece of shit that turned out
to be,’ said Berk, looking around the table. It turned out that they didn’t even have a full cast yet.
‘Which parts?’ asked Penny, suddenly alert.
‘George Corvick. Sellers has dropped out. We’ve got Alec Madden coming in to audition next week.’
‘Oh, Alec’s great,’ Ronnie piped up. ‘We shared a flat once. And a bird, too, I seem to recall.’
‘Charming,’ said Penny.
‘Also, we’re still looking for a Lady Jane.’
‘She’s just plain “Jane” in my screenplay,’ said Nat. ‘It was only James’s Anglophile snobbishness that inclined him to give everyone titles.’
Penny, quick to press her case, said, ‘I know Isabel Duncannon is free at the moment. She was wonderful as Perdita at the Vic.’
‘Per what?’ said Berk.
‘Winter’s Tale, darling. Shakespeare.’
It was agreed that they would look into Miss Duncannon’s availability. In the meantime Berk announced that another backer had just come in, so the rest of the money for Eureka was now secured. Another toast! When someone asked him who it was, Berk replied that the backer probably wouldn’t want his name out there: he was the type who valued his privacy. Nat, intrigued, saw that a little digging would be required.
‘May I ask whether this benefactor is one of your countrymen, Berk?’
‘Matter of fact he’s one of yours,’ replied Berk. ‘He’s a businessman here in London, has pretty good connections, and deep pockets. I’m happy to say he’s pledged nearly a quarter of the budget up front.’
Nat sat up. A quarter? That would be a hefty commitment, and a risky one given the personnel involved. Reiner and Sonja were cultish names in the art-house cinemas of Europe, but they were untried and unknown here. Ronnie, on the way up after his role in the imperial epic Mafeking, was still rough around the edges. And an adaptation of a Henry James story, even with his own name attached as screenwriter, would hardly guarantee a safe return on one’s money. No one else at the table seemed very bothered about who it might be, so Nat carried on the digging himself.
‘When you say “good connections” … has he worked in films before?’
‘Uh-uh. This is his first venture outside his …’
‘Outside his what?’
‘His area of expertise.’
Nat sensed Berk was enjoying this exercise in discretion, and that it might go on indefinitely. It was obvious to him that the more eager he became in his questions the more coy Berk would be in his answers.
He leaned back and sighed. ‘Oh well. If you really can’t tell me …’
Reiner, not interested in the subject, began to talk in German to Arno, and Berk, reluctant to see his purchase on Nat’s attention slip, made an owning-up gesture. ‘Strictly between us, it’s Harold Pulver.’
Nat looked across the table at Penny, who said, ‘Harry Pulver? Isn’t he in prison?’
‘Not when I spoke to him last week,’ said Berk.
Nat only knew Harry Pulver’s name through newspaper stories about his property empire, his volcanic temper and his run-ins with the law. An East End boy made good, he had been in and out of court for years on charges of racketeering, blackmail, fraud and tax evasion; his most recent infraction was an assault on a waiter who had annoyed him at a club in Mayfair.
‘That poor man’s still in hospital,’ said Penny.
‘Is he? According to what I read the guy provoked him.’
Reiner, tuning in again, said, ‘Who is this man Pulver?’
‘What they call a wrong ’un,’ replied Nat. ‘Berk, seriously – are you saying that this picture is being part financed by a gangster?’
‘Whoa! Wait a minute there. The guy’s no saint, granted, but he’s not a …’ He wouldn’t repeat the unholy word. ‘He’s never been in prison, never been convicted of anything worse than speeding. I gather he’s devoted to his mother –’
Nat burst into incredulous laughter. ‘That clinches it! I give you White Heat. His not having a prison record is irrelevant, Berk. All it means is he’s got a good lawyer.’
Berk shrugged. ‘And a fuckin’ great accountant by the sound of it, ’scuse my French. Don’t rush to judgement, Nat. It’s thanks to him we’re gonna get this movie made.’
There was a brief silence as they absorbed this information. Then Arno said, ‘But you did not invite Mr Pulver here, to meet us?’
‘As you can imagine, he’s a busy guy.’
Nat gave a sardonic snort. ‘Probably out there right now crucifying somebody’s granny. I hope you know what you’re doing.’
Berk glared back at him. ‘When you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you learn about people. Who you can trust, who you can’t. Harold Pulver – he’s a mensch.’
‘What’s in it for him? I don’t peg him for a Henry James fan.’
‘Me neither, but I do know he likes movies. Done some acting, in fact, few years back. Who knows, a non-speaking role might suit him.’
‘As a waiter, perhaps?’ said Nat.
Berk shook his head in disapproval, or perhaps it was only disappointment. Pudding arrived at that moment, and the conversation dispersed again. Ronnie began flirting with Sonja, who regarded him with the amused scorn of a queen with her jester. Berk lit a cigar the size of a dynamite stick; Arno swallowed a handful of pills for his indigestion. While they were finishing their coffee, Reiner ordered a glass of sambuca, repeated his match trick and set the clear liquid alight. The others watched as a bluish flame shimmered inside the glass; he stared at it dreamily for a moment, then tossed it down in one.
EXT. STREET – AFTERNOON.
An open-topped sports car is heading down Park Lane. A close-up reveals the driver to be GEORGE, and his passenger, CHAS. They are talking animatedly to one another, occasionally laughing, but we can hear only soundtrack music, not their voices. Camera pulls high over trees and the car shrinks into the distance, though its vivid green colour ensures that we don’t lose sight of it amid the other traffic.
EXT. STREET – AFTERNOON.
Music fades out. The car is now moving down a quiet street in Chelsea. GEORGE finds a parking space, but for a moment they just sit there. Camera faces them through the car windscreen.
GEORGE
But you said you wanted to meet her.
CHAS
I did. I do. Just a bit nervous.
GEORGE
What on earth are you nervous about?
CHAS
Well, she’s this important bluestocking novelist, and I’m just a jobbing hack. She’ll probably despise me.
GEORGE
(laughing)
You nit! Gwen’s not that type. She knows all about you – reads your stuff, as a matter of fact.
GEORGE gets out of the car, and picks up a bottle of wine from the back seat. CHAS leans over to check his face in the rear-view mirror.
EXT. FRONT DOORSTEP – AFTERNOON.
GEORGE has just rung the bell. He looks at CHAS and smirks, handing him the bottle of wine to take in.
GEORGE
And by the way, she wears black stockings, not blue.
He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and CHAS laughs.
INT. DINING ROOM – AFTERNOON.
GWEN has just served lunch to her mother, GEORGE and CHAS, who sits very straight-backed at the table. The room is a throwback to another era, old furniture, hunting prints on the wall and the centrepiece a grand portrait of a lady, possibly MRS ERME in her younger years. GEORGE pours the wine, though GWEN holds a hand over her glass in refusal.
MRS ERME
Well, Gwendolen likes The Times, and I used to read the Telegraph when Gerald was alive … but I do find the newspapers so lowering nowadays.
GEORGE
Oh, I do know what you mean, Mrs Erme. Charles and I only work for the Middle because we can’t think of anything else to do. I suppose that’s the definition of a journalist.
GWEN
That’s rot, George. You love n
ewspapers, and I’m sure Charles does, too.
CHAS
Well, George is a proper editor. I only write for the books pages.
MRS ERME
And do you make a living from that?
CHAS
With difficulty. I do other bits of freelance writing.
GWEN
But you must enjoy it, surely, reading books all day. And you get to meet some interesting people, I’ve heard.
CHAS glances at GEORGE, who waits for a moment before speaking.
GEORGE
I believe Gwendolen is referring to a certain Mr Vereker.
MRS ERME
Vereker? I read one of his a while ago. A little recherché for my taste.
CHAS
You wouldn’t be alone in that view.
GWEN
George told me you had quite a long talk with him.
CHAS
(guardedly)
Yes. I wrote a review of his new one, and we happened to meet at a friend’s that week. He was very affable … I liked him.
GWEN
Even though he was pleased to tell you your review had completely missed the point?
CHAS
Well, me and every other critic. I think George has told you about –
GWEN
Yes, he has. In fact we’ve started a little project together. We’re going to reread the entire Vereker oeuvre, book by book, in chronological order. It’s the only way we’re ever going to discover his ‘little secret’.
CHAS
(surprised)
That’s quite an undertaking. Twelve novels?
GEORGE
Thirteen. Plus two volumes of short stories.
Eureka Page 8
