no make-up. "And it's my fault, isn't it?" she said tone-
lessly.
^'Nonsense!" I wheeled around. Of course it was her fault. But could I prove it to her? "What a ridiculous idea! How could it possibly be your fault?"
"Because I told Jack Warner that the picture was terrible.''
"Nonsense!" T said again. I was still watching the dogs. They were digging a wide hole in the rosebed. "It has nothing to do with that."
"But it does. Believe me, Roy. I know it does. Dore is a personal friend of Jack Warner's. That's how he got the contract to rewrite your script." She got up and began to pace up and down. Her Ions robe got in her way and she stumbled once or twice. "Of course. That's what did it. Dore went to Warner and started all this. Because you're too talented."
"I am not talented."
"You're a thousand times more talented than Dore.** ^ **No, Margaret, I'm not."
**You are! You are! Dore is afraid of you. He knows you can write rings around him and that's why he wants to get rid of you."
I went to her and laid my hands on her shoulders. "Now listen to me, Margaret. I am not a better writer than Dore Thompson. I am a very average writer and I've told you that often enough and now I beg you urgently to start believing it"
"Wait! I know if one is ambitious it would be much more exciting to be married to Paul Osbom or John Steinbeck. But I am not Paul Osborn, and I am not John Steinbeck, and I insist that you finally resign yourself to the fact."
"I shall not resign myself to the fact," she cried excitedly. '1 shall not resign myself to the fact because it isn't true! You underestimate yourself."
"I do not underestimate myself; you overestimate me. And that's got to stop."
"Why?"
"Because it's robbing me of my chance to get wort Because I am losing my friends, my connections. ..."
"And your contract with Warners," she said slowly. Her eyes were boring holes into me. I met her gaze silently. All right, I thought, if you must hear it. . . "and my contract with Warners."
"So it is my fault."
I didn't want to say it but I did. "Yes, Margaret.'*
"So..."
"I'm sorry, but the answer is yes. What you said at the preview was unpardonable. I love you, you are my wife, but I can't excuse it."
"So ... you can't excuse it."
"No."
"It was unpardonable."
"Yes."
"You were ashamed of me.'*
"Yes, Margaret."
"And because of me, because of this incident at the preview, Mr. Warner didn't renew your contract."
I didn't want to speak but I did. "It isn't such a disaster," I said, "although of course it isn't exactly pleasant. But I must make one thing absolutely clear to you— you've simply got to control yourself. In the future things are going to have to be different. Otherwise . . •"
She jumped to her feet. "Otherwise?"
"Otherwise I'll be out of work."
She laughed harshly. "So I'm the cause of your unemployment. I. I of all people. That's great! That's just great!" She began to stumble around the room again.
"Sit down, Margaret. Think of the child."
"Now I'm to think of the child. All of a sudden I'm to think of the child "
"Margaret, please!"
"Leave me alone. Who do you think you are? You
have the nerve to reproach me. I try to help you, to further you, and you reproach me. . . ."
"All I'm begging you is to ..."
"I'm loyal. I stand up for you. I tell Jack Warner the truth—and you reproach me. So what the hell do you want? Some Uttle whore who doesn't stand up for you when people are treating you unfairly? Who smiles and makes up to Dore Thompson? Are you dissatisfied with me? Am I a bad wife? Does it embarrass you that I'm loyal to you? Would you prefer it if I played along with aJl those phonies? 'Yes, Mr. Warner . . . Wonderful, Miss McGuire . . . You're a genius, Mr. Thompson. . . .' Is that what you want?"
She stopped in front of me. She was panting. "So tell me what you want! Tell me!"
"I want peace and quiet," I screamed, *1 want peace and quiet to work in."
"And I'm a disturbing element.''
I didn't want to say it. As God is my witness, T didn't want to say it, but I did. "Yes. You are a disturbing element."
She looked at me. The tears welled up in her eyes. "And that's your thanks," she said. "Your thanks for everything Fve done for you."
She turned around and stumbled to the door. "Margaret, please!"
The door fell shut. I could hear her heels click-clacking in the passage. Before I got there I heard her scream. It was a terrible scream, like the scream of an animal. There was nothing human about it. "Margaret!" I cried.
She lay in the hall below, her body curled up, deathly fear in her face, her hands pressed against her stomach. She looked at me with horror-filled eyes as I ran down the stairs to her. Her wide robe was spread around her like a fan. "Get the doctor," she groaned. "Quick."
She had fallen down the entire flight of stairs.
Dear God, don't let anything happen to her, let it turn out all right, dear God, Please, please, please. It was my fault, I upset her. Because she was excited she ran to the stairs.. .. Please, dear God, don't let anything happen to her. Don't let anything happen to the baby, I won't ever want to write a good script, dear God, if you'll just let her pull through, I swear. I don't even want to be happy again, but please, please, please, let her live. And let the baby live. Amen.
It was three hours later. I was standing in one of the countless white halls of Beverly Glen Hospital, waiting. My hands were wet, my shirt was sweaty. I was sweating with fear.
The doctor had come and called an. ambulance. Margaret had started to bleed. Then she had lost consciousness. I sat at her side as the ambulance tore through the streets, sirens waihng, and I could see the doctor watching me with a side-glance of disgust.
They took her straight to the operating room; they had already given her the necessary injections in the ambulance. The doctor pushed me back when I wanted to follow him. "You stay here," he said coldly. He hated me. I hated myself. I stayed behind. The light above the door to the operating room went on. "No admittance," said the lettering on the light.
I sat on a bench and prayed. For Margaret. For her life. For the life of the baby. I prayed for three-quarters of an hour. Then the doors opened and- they roUed Margaret out. She was unconscious and looked dead.
"How did it go?" I asked the doctor,
"It's too early to tell."
"And the baby?"
"Dead."
"And she,.."
"It's too early to teH," he repeated. "Come back in an hour," and he left me standing there. He knew it was my fault
I left. I found a bar that was open and drank whiskey. The bar was near the hospital. The bartender nodded, smiled. "Gotta wait?"
"Yes."
"They all have to wait," he said.
I said nothing. After a while he came back to me and without another word put a second whiskey in front of me. He did this several times. Then I went back to the hospital. The nurse outside Margaret's room said it was still too early to tell. I should come back in an hour.
The bartender nodded when he saw me. He put a mug of coffee in front of me. "Still waiting?"
"Yes."
"Drink it. They aU drink it when they have to go on waiting."
I drank the black coffee. It was bitter and very strong. Then I drank whiskey again. After a while another man came in. He was sweating and he ordered a beer. The bartender shook his head and gave him a double whiskey.
"You're kept busy here," I said.
"Not bad," he replied. "In the evening things ease off."
At last the hour was up and I went back to the hospital. It was a warm day, warm for March. The nurse said it would take a few minutes and I could wait in the hall.
I waited.
I had drunk a lot, but I didn't feel it. The wh
iskey had tasted like water. I prayed some more. Then the doctor came. He lighted a cigarette and looked at me inimically. "May I Ro in?"
"Yes."
"Were you able to save her?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"She will never have another chfld," he said and left me standing there. Now I hated him.
I went to Margaret. She was lying in a stark, light room and looked twenty years older. She was smiling her madonna smile which looked especially good in profile, and she said, "Don't be upset, darling."
I went to her and knelt down beside the bed and laid my head on her breast. "Forgive me," I whispered.
"I forgive you," she said quietly.
I looked up.
She was smiling.
10
Tve been reading this through and I see I have said nothing about the mood I was in during that first day in the hospital, about my thoughts and my attitude toward the possibility that I might have a tumor on the brain which would have to be operated. I imagine this can be explaifaed by the fact that as a result of all the visitors I had and the many facts I had to absorb, there simply hadn't been time, until evening, to come to grips with my mysterious illness. The first opportunity came after night had fallen. I had of course experienced moments of depression and a rising irritation in connection with my inability to say certain words, but until then what was actually going on around me had distracted me completely. Only as the examination progressed did I lose interest increasingly in external matters and begin to shut
myself up more and more in brooding thoughts of the future and my fate.
After Margaret's call, my headache was worse. The whiskey I had drunk with Joe probably had something to do with it. I rang because I wanted to ask the nurse for something to alleviate the pain but for some reason or other my ring, and the one that followed it, remained unanswered. I turned on the bedside lamp and got up to go out into the hall. It was the first time I had stood up, and I felt as if I were walking on clouds, as if all objects were far removed from me, as if they were faUing back before me, and the floor was in motion as on a ship in a high sea. I was dizzy, and when I finally reached the door, I clung to the knob. Another few steps and I would have fallen flat on my face. What was it? Only weakness? How sick was I really? What was wrong with me? When would they tell me? When would my doctors finally put in an appearance? For the first time I panicked. I broke out in a sweat. I breathed deep in the hope that this would relieve the dizziness. But it didn't. Only the floor swayed less. My right arm hurt. Dear God, where were the doctors?
Just then the door handle was pushed down from outside. I stepped back from the door which opened, and Dr. Eulenglas appeared. He was accompanied by a short fat man in a white coat. He looked like a boolde—sly, unscrupulous and cynical. Only his hands betrayed the fact that he was a surgeon. It was Professor Vogt.
Eulenglas introduced us and went to get me something as soon as I told him why I was up. Professor Vogt helped me back to bed.
"It would be better for you not to move around too much right now," he said. He had the voice of a eunuch, high-pitched, melodious, feminine. A most extraordinary doctor. He sat down beside me and took a stethoscope out of his pocket. "Would you please take off your jacket, Mr. Chandler." I did, and he began to examine me. His fingers were hot and beat a hard tattoo on my chest
"Take a deep breath," he said. "Now stop ... now a deep breath again, yes...." He examined me thoroughly and quickly. He looked down my throat, felt my glands, tested my reflexes with a little silver hammer. Then he looked into my eyes, told me to roll them. "A thorough check-up will be all to the good, Mr. Chandler," he said. "I promised your wife we'd give you one. Early tomorrow morning we'll start with an eye examination."
"Do you think that I . . . that I . . ."
"Yes?" He was looking at me calmly out of his sly little eyes.
"... that I have a tumor?"
He smiled genially. "My dear friend, do you think you could write a book about my life?"
"I don't know, Professor. I'd have to know a lot more about you."
"There you are," he said. "And I know too little about your body to know whether you have a tumor. For that you are going to have to give me a httle more time."
Eulenglas came with a capsule and I took it while continuing to describe my symptoms to Professor Vogt.
"Aha," he said, as I told him about my occasional difll-culty in expressing certain words. "So some words don't come to you."
"Yes."
"What words? Certain definite words?"
"No. Just all of a sudden—any word."
He took a pencil out of his pocket. "What is this?" I told him. He pointed to a picture on the wall and asked again. After the fourth question he must have noticed a change in my expression because he asked me what was wrong. "Nothing," I said. "I'm just a little confused."
"Why?"
"Because . . . because of your questions. They give me the impression that you think I'm insane."
"That's ridiculous, Mr. Chandler," he said sternly, in his squeaky voice, which made me want to laugh. "Now pull yourself together. There is no reason at all for you to
get any impression like that." He looked at me, his face suddenly authoritative and cold. My desire to laugh fled.
"Certainly, Hen* Professor."
He went on asking me to define objects and at last caught his fish. He took a pair of scissors from a tray. "What is that?"
"A sci . . . sci . . . sci . . . sci ..." I sweated. My temples throbbed crazily. I was near tears, gasping. I tried again. I could not say the word 'scissors.'
"But you know what one does with it."
"Yes, Herr Professor."
"What does one do with it?"
"One cu . . . cu . . . cu . . ." I could see Eulenglas write something on a pad which he then put in his pocket.
"One cu . . . cu . . . cu . . ." The tears shot to my eyes in my frustration. "I can't say it but I know what to do with it."
"Would you please show us, Mr. Chandler," Vogt said amiably. I took the scissors and went through the motion of cutting.
"Thank you," he said. "That was very good. Yes, one cuts with a scissor."
"One cuts with a scissor," I said, and was at once immensely relieved. I could even smile. "I knew it, Herr Professor, but I couldn't say it."
"Are you hungry?"
"No."
"Has the capsule begun to take effect."
"A little."
Vogt rose. "Have a good night's sleep so that you're fresh in the morning. And don't worry. There is absolutely no reason to worry until we find something." He gave me his dry hot hand. "Goodnight, Mr. Chandler."
"Goodnight, gentlemen," I said. Eulenglas bade his fareweU and followed Professor Vogt. I was alone again.
Literal paraphasia, I thought. It sounded impressive. I would add the words to my vocabulary and kid my friends with them once I got out of here. "CoUins was my
successor for Cry in the Dark, He wrote a literal paraphasia. . . ." It sounded sharp and sarcastic. Especially if no one knew what it meant. Tomorrow the eye doctor would see me. Why the eye doctor? What did all this have to do with my eyes? And if it did have something to do with my eyes, could it be damaging? Was I in danger of going blind? Or crazy? Or bUnd and crazy?
Thus began the first night. I didn't think I'd live to see the end. I couldn't grant Professor Vogt his request to get a good night's sleep. I didn't even sleep badly; I didn't sleep at all! I lay there and thought about my illness about which nobody as yet seemed to kno>y anything. I imagined its consequences. I could think of plenty. I had a good imagination.
I always had a good imagination. That was why I could feel sorry for people Uke myself. When somebody has too much imagination, there are a lot of attributes he can't have: for instance, courage. Imagination and courage are irreconcilable. The one excludes the other. Anyone who can see a possibility totally, with all its ramifications, is no longer equal to it. Courag
eous are those who have no imagination. They don't know everything that might happen to them and they can't imagine it. The great heroes are always simple men, and the greatest cowards therefore are probably the intellectuals. I envied the simple man. He had it easier. And he was more popular. It wasn't really fair, looking at it that way.
It was five o'clock when I finally fell into a confused and joyless dream. In the garden outside the birds were already chirping. Barely two hours later a nurse woke me. She was colorless, young and stupid.
"Breakfast, Mr. Chandler." She put the tray, down in front of me. I sat up. I wasn't dizzy any more and my head hardly hurt at all. "Couldn't you have let me sleep?"
"Sorry, Mr. Chandler. Dr. Eulenglas' orders. Your examination starts at eight."
"Ah so. ..."
"Did the second capsule help?"
I Stared at her uncomprehendingly. **What second capsule?"
"The one I gave you."
"When?"
"Two hours ago, Mr. Chandler."
It turned out that in the twilight of dawn I had rung and asked for a second capsule for my headache. For the life of me I couldn't remember doing it. It was all highly disturbing, I decided as I drank the hot coffee. Now I was forgetting things that had happened.
"Maybe you weren't fully awake, Mr. Chandler," said the nurse. "You were very restless. I sat with you for a while."
"Oh."
"You cried out and talked in your sleep."
"I did? What did I say?"
"You kept talking about a man." The girl must have come from Bavaria. She had a strong Bavarian accent.
"What was the man's name?"
"Job... I think."
She was a stupid nurse.
11
•At 7:45 T was shaved, washed and dressed. I felt quite well. The floor no longer moved under me, the dizziness was gone, my headache minimal. At eight Margaret called and said she'd be by in the afternoon. Fidelio had been divine. The Baxters sent greetings. At ten minutes past eight Eulenglas appeared with Vogt. Vogt wasn't wearing a white coat. For psychological reasons? I was to get the impression of an easy-going casual examination?
I Confess Page 6
