The Deer Park

by Norman Mailer

  “But where? When?” I cried aloud, as if to learn that was most important of all.

  “In a telephone booth.”

  Saying these words, she became helpless with grief. He had humiliated her, she managed to tell me. “I’ll never be anything good,” she wept into the darkness, for I had turned off the lights and sat beside her, smoking a cigarette by the edge of the bed.

  Next day she left Desert D’Or and went to the capital. She had to be there for her picture, she told me. Her picture was not scheduled to start for another ten days, but it was urgent that she leave. For a week I tried to reach her by telephone, but she never answered the messages and she was always out.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ONE NIGHT while they were lying in bed, Eitel noticed that Elena’s thighs were beginning to show dimpled hollows. It was the only blemish on her skin, and yet it depressed him deeply. Afterward, he could not take his eyes away. He had to let her go, he would tell himself. There was no future with him, and she had left only a few years of youth.

  How he hated himself. He would look for comfort in the thought that he was the only one who would feel such a sense of responsibility for her. But then Eitel was forced to remind himself that it was he who had begun the affair and made it what it had become and therefore he could not escape it. What would become of her? When she loved she kept nothing with which to bargain and so she would always lose. There would be many men after him, many loves, each more impossible than the one before. If she never grew up, there would be drink or, in contrast, dope—no need to become melodramatic, he would tell himself—and yet what would become of her? Once again he was filled with compassion and writhed because the compassion was for the image in his mind. Toward the body sleeping beside him he felt nothing. That body only hindered his limbs, he could not really believe in the painful existence of that body.

  Yet he felt her desperation. She slept restlessly; night after night she would wake in terror from a dream and shudder next to him in the darkness. A robber was trying the door, she would say, or she had heard someone in the kitchen. Every story she read in the newspapers of a rape or a murder was repeated in her fear.

  “A man followed me today,” she would tell him.

  “Of course he did. You’re an attractive woman,” Eitel would say irritably.

  “You didn’t see the look on his face.”

  “I’m sure he wanted to cut off your head and stuff you in a gunny sack.”

  “That’s what you’d like to do to me.” She looked bitterly at him. “You’re a good-time Charley. You only like me when I’m in a good mood.”

  The truth of this piqued him. “You’re the good-time Charley,” he told her. “When I say nice things, then you love me.”

  “You’re so superior,” Elena said. “But you don’t know what goes on in my head.”

  After half an hour, he uncovered her latest secret. She wished to become a nun.

  “Are you crazy?” he asked her. “You’d make a honey of a nun.”

  “A nun is never alone,” Elena said.

  He was put in depression by her words. It was true, he thought, he ruined everything he touched. If someone lived with him and loved him, he provided her with nothing but loneliness. “Nuns always have company,” Elena said in a stubborn voice.

  A few days later she began wondering whether to cut her hair. She returned to the subject over and over. Would he like it? Did he think she would look good in short hair? What did he think? Should she do it? And Eitel, pretending to be interested, ended finally by beginning to think perhaps she should cut her hair. Her hair was one of her best features, but in the course of an evening it became disheveled. It was so difficult for her to be neat.

  “Will you still love me if I cut my hair?” Elena would ask, and then decide, “No, you won’t.”

  “If my love depends on a haircut, you might as well find out now,” he would say, and wonder if she was right.

  “Yes, I ought to find out,” she would repeat.

  Ever since the night he had come back from Bobby’s house, he had known that the effort to free himself of Elena had been premature. So, with a sadness that haunted him, for he had no idea if he was sad for Elena or sad for himself, he would say to her over and over, “I know that I offer you nothing,” as if by saying it often enough, he could beg from the demon he saw judging him, one whisper of grace. “You do try,” the demon might say, “you are not completely dishonest.” But if he was always telling Elena that he offered her nothing, he was attracted to another idea. On those long sleepless nights, he would think that to be fair he must marry her; somebody had to marry her. Otherwise, he could hear the complaint of all her future lovers: “Munshin didn’t want to, and Eitel didn’t want to, so why should I?” The only answer was for them to get married, and he would consider just how he would ask her, and how afterward he would arrange the divorce. He would make it clear to Elena; they would get married in order to get divorced. That way she could probably find somebody else. As the former Mrs. Eitel, the divorced wife of an ex-director, it was better than Miss Esposito. So he would be married a fourth time—how much did that cost him?—and she … she would feel that a man had cared enough to give her his name. How idiotic. But it would have meaning for Elena. If she could play her cards right … only Elena would never be able to do that, she could not play her cards at all. In a fury at her, he would stare at the ceiling and wonder if he would ever be able to make Elena see it the way he saw it. So days passed, and Eitel worked on his script, and found no satisfaction at how well it went.

  One afternoon while he was in the middle of work, there was a phone call from Lulu. Her picture had been postponed a week, and she had decided to visit Desert D’Or for a night. To celebrate, Dorothea was giving her a party. “Charles, you’re the one who’s got to be there,” Lulu said over the phone. “I think I came back just to talk to you.”

  Eitel said, “I hear you’ve broken up with Sergius.”

  “Yes, it was sort of hectic, but now I think the wounds are healed.”

  “I’m sure yours are,” Eitel said.

  “Stinker.”

  “Did you say the party is being given by Dorothea?”

  “Charley, it’s perfectly all right. Dorothea really wants you to come. I can’t say more, but believe me, there are reasons.”

  The party was a party like many others. He was not surprised to find The Hangover decorated for the evening, nor to see fifty people jamming the den with the promise of another fifty to arrive. Lulu happened to be in the foyer and took them directly to Dorothea who was installed on a bar stool to greet her guests.

  “Goddamnit,” said Dorothea, “every time I see poor Charley Eitel at a party, people introduce us.”

  “Once the two of you get to know each other,” Lulu said, ignoring Elena, “it’ll be a romance.”

  “It was a romance,” Dorothea said and gave her heavy chuckle. She squinted at Elena and added, “Have a good time, sweetie.”

  They wandered through the den and spent some time talking to Dorothea’s husband. Martin Pelley was delighted with Elena and kept drawing Eitel aside to inform him what a wonderful girl he had. “She’s a great kid,” Pelley said. He called to her. “Elaine,” Pelley said, “you’re marvelous, you’re sweet.”

  Elena flushed and looked nervously at the press of people in Dorothea’s den. “It’s a very nice party, I think,” she said.

  “You know, I’ve been wondering about the two of you,” Pelley went on. “Everybody’s wondering. When the hell are you going to get married?”

  Elena’s face was without expression. Pelley clapped Eitel on the back. “A nice restful girl like this. You ought to marry her.”

  “She won’t have me,” Eitel said.

  “I’m going to get a drink,” Elena said, and walked away.

  “This is a great night,” Pelley went on, and bent over to whisper with drunken intensity, “You ought to marry Elena.”

  “Yes,” Eite
l said. Pelley annoyed him. He was like every married man.

  At the party they played Ghost, they played charades, a nest of men surrounded the slot machines in the hall between the den and the living room and played them continuously, feeding their quarters under the sign which read: Dorothea O’Faye Retirement Fund. Eitel lost sight of Elena. With gusto, he entered a game of charades and was easily the best man on his team. After an hour or two—he had lost count—he wearied of it, aware suddenly that he was drunk. Across the room he could see Elena standing uncomfortably at the edge of a group, but he had no thought of going to her rescue. Later, he watched Marion Faye talking to her, but it did not bother him. Nothing would come of that.

  A man Eitel recognized immediately came up with Dorothea and said hello. The moment he heard the voice, he had a feeling of dread. It was Congressman Richard Selwyn Crane of the Subversive Committee, and Eitel had dreamed about Crane; often in the middle of a nightmare he could see Crane’s youthful face with its gray hair and ruddy cheeks, hear the Congressman’s soft voice. “I’ll allow you two characters to discover each other,” Dorothea said, and left them alone.

  “Quite a party tonight,” Crane said, “but then Dorothea always gives a good party.”

  In the days when she had her column, it was regular once a week to find a reference to Crane; he was a great Congressman, Dorothea would tell her readers, and add that of all her friendships there was none she treasured more.

  “I’m not familiar with Dorothea’s parties,” Eitel said. He spoke carefully, concerned to control his emotion.

  “You’d like her if you knew her,” Crane said intimately. “Dottie … well, Dottie’s an old trouper. Theater people like you always take to such a girl.” A caterwaul of laughter from the charade players made Crane wince humorously. “Mr. Eitel,” he said, “I’d like to talk to you. Could we go upstairs?”

  Eitel looked at him dumbly. When he could think of no answer to make—there were so many contradictory ones to choose from—he merely nodded, his heart beating, and followed down the hall. They ended in a maid’s room upstairs. There was a bottle on the table, and an unopened pack of cigarettes next to the ash tray.

  The Congressman sat down on the bed and motioned Eitel to the single armchair in the room. Below them, partially muted, they could hear the eager avaricious noise of the party. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a long time,” Crane said.

  “So I see,” Eitel answered with a look at the whisky on the table.

  Crane sat back and studied him thoughtfully. “Mr. Eitel,” he said, “I know you don’t like me, but the curious thing is that the day I questioned you, I had the feeling we could be friends under other circumstances.”

  “Isn’t it unwise for you to be seen with me?” Eitel interrupted, His pulse had calmed, but he felt honor-bound to keep his expression fixed.

  “There’s always danger in politics,” Crane said, “but I don’t believe this would be misunderstood.”

  “In other words the Committee knows you’re seeing me.”

  “They know I’m interested in your case.”

  “Why?”

  “We all feel it’s a shame.”

  “Oh, now really!”

  “Mr. Eitel, you probably have the idea we’re interested in persecuting people. It happens not to be true. I personally can say I’m concerned enormously with the safety of this country, but none of us want to hurt people needlessly. You’d be amazed at the good work we do with some of the witnesses. I might say that it’s always been my belief there’s an uplifting element to all work. My father was a country preacher, you see,” he added intimately, and when Eitel failed to smile, Crane nodded coldly.

  “At the time you appeared,” he went on, “we had information that you were a card-carrying member. Since that time we’ve learned otherwise.”

  “Then why doesn’t the Committee say so?”

  “Is that a reasonable demand?” Crane asked. “You said some pretty potent things.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re interested in me.”

  “We feel you could help us. If we were to go over some of your former associations, it’s possible you’d discover you have information you’re not even aware of.”

  “Are you offering a secret session?”

  “I can’t speak for the Committee, but that’s part of what I see for you.”

  The temptation of a secret session had been in his mind, Eitel knew. Perhaps that was why he could not bring himself to be gracious. “Crane, if I should testify,” he said, “what will you do about the newspapers?”

  “We don’t control them. You may smile, but we feel we’ve been misrepresented by them.” Crane shrugged. “Perhaps you could get your lawyer or your public relations man to give a cocktail party. I understand it’s a fine way to soften up the press. Of course, I’m no expert on these matters.”

  Eitel did smile. “Congressman, it’s hard to think of you as an amateur.”

  “Mr. Eitel,” Crane said, “I don’t know if there’s much point in going on with our talk.”

  “A politician must be used to a few insults,” Eitel said, “particularly at the beginning of his career.”

  Crane chose to laugh. “Why do you resist me?” he said warmly. “I just want to help you.”

  “I much prefer to help myself,” Eitel said, and then looked at him. “You talk to your Committee. It’s barely possible we can make some arrangement. Provided the session is secret of course.”

  “We’ll think about it,” Crane said, “and let you know. I’m flying back to the East tomorrow, but here’s my office number any time you want to phone.” He smiled, patted Eitel on the back, and told a joke about a secret agent who masqueraded as a woman at a banquet. Then they went down to join the party. In the den they separated, and Eitel worked himself into a corner and began to drink again. He hardly knew if he was in a good mood or a savage mood.

  Marion Faye stopped by to talk. “You lost me a girl,” he said.

  “Elena?” Eitel said.

  “Bobby.” Marion sipped at his cigarette. “I set up a deal with Collie Munshin when he was here last week.”

  “What does Collie want with her?”

  Faye shrugged. “He doesn’t. He wants her as a stock girl at Supreme.”

  “The poor kid.”

  “She’ll love it,” Marion said. “A career.” He smiled. “You know, Don Beda is here tonight.”

  “Isn’t he supposed to be in Europe?” Eitel said.

  Marion ignored this. “Don told me he digs Elena. He wants you to meet his wife and see if you dig her.”

  “I thought Beda was divorced,” he said to Faye.

  “He’s married again. Wait till you see his chick. An English model, don’t you know?”

  Beda’s marriages were famous; no one could understand them. He had been married at different times to an actress, a colored singer, a Texas oil heiress with a European title—that had been a particular scandal—and to the madam of what was reported to be the most expensive brothel in South America. With it all, Beda had the reputation of giving the wildest parties in New York. They were legend; they were parties carried to conclusion; of the hard core who remained after the orchestra had gone and the curious and the college boys in for a week end, everybody who stayed got around to everybody. There was even a kind of chic to saying, “I was at one of Beda’s parties. Left early of course.”

  The other fifty people had arrived by now and the press in the den was so great that Faye and Eitel stood breathing in each other’s faces. Somewhere, somebody was trying to sing a ditty, and Eitel wondered how many meetings had been arranged by Dorothea tonight. He hated matchmakers, he thought dizzily, overwhelmed by the crush of people and the liquor he had drunk. “I don’t know,” he said, “I think I’d just as soon not see Beda tonight.”

  That was going to be impossible. Beda was working his way toward him, was shaking his hand. “Charley, you old ham,” he smiled.

  The o
dd thing about Beda was that he looked like a satyr. He was handsome and a little heavy with a small scar on his cheek, a black mustache, and eyes which protruded; he carried himself with the confidence of a man who knows that people talk about him, and it was his boast that he would invite anybody to his parties. “You could never guess some of the long-shots who’ve come in,” he would say with a laugh. “It’s my money brings them,” and then everyone would roar despite the fact that Beda was very wealthy. Eitel had told Elena about him once and she had been fascinated. “What does he do?” she had asked.

  “Nobody knows. He’s a mystery. He’s made a fortune on the stock market, or at least they say so. I’ve heard he owns hotels, or maybe it’s night clubs. And then he seems to have something big to do with something or other in television.”

  “He sounds like he has fifty fingers,” Elena remarked.

  “Yes. He really is hard to figure out.”

  At his elbow, Beda was saying, “Charley, that’s a lovely girl you have.”

  Eitel nodded. “I hear you’re married again.”

  “Inevitably,” Beda said, pointing to a tall woman in a red dress with chiseled features and a blank, haughty expression. “I’ve known them all,” he smiled, “but Zenlia is the most. I had to steal her from a certain fat king.”

  “Very beautiful,” Eitel said. At the moment, drunk, close to being sick, he thought she was as beautiful as any woman he had ever seen, and it was such expensive beauty. To his annoyance he saw that Marion had slipped away.

  “Well, man, do we connect?” Beda said. More and more he had come to talk this way. When Eitel had first known him ten years ago, Beda had been literary and even had a reputation as an essayist on various esoteric subjects. Beda had been living in the capital with his first wife, the actress. He was not so well known in those days and Eitel thought of him as a bit of a maverick, for Beda was using his own money to produce and direct a movie. When it came out it was a failure financially and critically, a movie with too much atmosphere and hints and allusions which no one could follow, all in all a poetic movie. Still, Eitel thought Beda had talent.