Violencia!

by Bruce Jay Friedman

  And then he strolled off to his own table.

  Hartog’s face was flushed with rage. He kept getting up from his seat, then sitting down and glaring at the producer.

  “I wish I could take him on. But he’d only cut me to pieces. I just don’t have the verbal skills to cope with him.”

  Gurney felt that in some remote way Hartog was telling him to challenge the producer on his behalf—since the ex-homicider was allegedly the verbal one—but Gurney could think of no withering rejoinders at the moment; added to which, he had not really felt insulted by the man.

  A noted columnist came by then and whipped out his pad, as if waiting for Hartog to come up with a few anecdotes. Hartog made a few fumbling tries, but they came to nothing and the man finally put away his pencil and pad with a smirk.

  “I can never think of anything to tell that man,” said the director. “It’s probably held back my career, too, since other directors always have a fund of stories ready to pour out on the spot. Imagine how much it would have helped Violencia if I’d had a few juicy tidbits to tell him. But my mind as usual went blank.”

  Gurney saw this as another attractive example of Hartog’s self-effacing manner; but he had to admit it would have been fun to read about Violencia and see his own name in the widely read Broadway column.

  Undertag came over then and congratulated them on the completion of the script. True to his style of only investing when there was someone else in the picture to match him dollar for dollar, he picked up half of the lunch tab.

  Scene 5

  Several days later, Undertag summoned the three collaborators to his office and said that he had read Violencia and felt it wasn’t bad at all, although it could probably profit by having risque jokes peppered throughout the show for surefire laughs.

  “And you could write them, too, you sonofabitch,” he said, poking Gurney in the ribs, “if only you wouldn’t hold out on us.”

  Gurney did not know where the producer had gotten this notion and he wasn’t sure if he should be flattered or insulted by the remark. In any event, Undertag said that he had shown the script to the movie companies and there wasn’t a shred of interest from any of them—which killed off Hollywood as a source of investment funds. Additionally, the record companies, which traditionally backed musical shows, had been burned badly in recent years by flop musicals, many of them turkeys produced by Undertag. Understandably, they weren’t too anxious to toss in any money either. There was one music group, however, a newcomer to the field, that had expressed some interest in the detectivey musical.

  “Would you fellows consider auditioning the show for the kid in charge? He’s got money coming out the kazoo.”

  Welles and Hartog said they would just as soon not—but that under the circumstances they would go along.

  When they were alone, Hartog told Gurney: “I shouldn’t be doing this. They ought to invest simply on the basis of my past performance. Auditioning for some young snotnose is definitely the wrong thing for me to do. And yet here I am again, doing it. When the hell am I ever going to learn?”

  Gurney, of course, had nothing to lose, since the ball would have to be carried by Clement Hartog, who would act out scenes from the libretto, and Norman Welles, who would come in on the songs, accompanied by Tito Passionato.

  The audition was held in Undertag’s office. Also present were Toileau, Mandarin, Miss Hottle, Tippy, and several blueblooded friends of Norman Welles who were there as “clackers,” their function being to hoot and holler and laugh and cry, particularly in response to the songs, and to create a general atmosphere of enthusiasm.

  Toileau, dignified, immaculately barbered, served as host of the proceedings, offering drinks to the assemblage. He introduced the collaborators to the record company head, a young tycoon named Jabby Baranoff, who had made a fortune as a rock guitarist, then eventually taken over the company that produced his records. Baranoff, a bearded and scrappy little bundle of a man, had gotten his major break in a curious manner. One night, early in his career, while on his way to a rock concert engagement, his hands had become mangled in a car door accident. Instead of canceling, Baranoff had taken a bold step: Virtually fainting from the pain, he’d crawled up to the stage and proceeded to snatch at the guitar strings with his teeth, gnawing and sucking at them; the result was a bloody, slobbering, chaotic sound that had pleased the assembled youngsters and started the musician on the road to millions.

  Hartog sketched in a rough overview of the show. Then, with some fervor, he acted out several of the scenes for Baranoff, stopping so that Welles could fill in the song numbers. The sight of the great director performing for some pipsqueak—who could not have been more than twenty-five—was not a cheering one for Gurney. He saw, however, that there was probably no other course to take and, once again, he admired Hartog’s courage and humility. There was a lesson in all of this for Gurney, though he wasn’t entirely sure what it was.

  Welles was much more dramatic in this recital of the scenes. In putting across the light love tunes, Gurney felt, the composer was guilty of overacting, contorting his face and singing with animal passion, only inches from the record company executive’s hairy face.

  This did not seem to bother Baranoff, however; the young tycoon laughed without control at all the right places, wept when it was in order, and, in short, reacted exactly as the collaborators, in their dreams, might have wanted. This gave great heart to Clement Hartog, who built up momentum as he neared the climactic scene of Violencia. Finally, he plunged headlong into it, his delivery bringing Baranoff to his feet, laughing, crying, and applauding all at once.

  “Wait a minute while I catch my breath,” he said, appearing to be more emotionally drained than the hardworking Hartog. “What can I say! I love it. I love it more than my own schvonce. You’ve got an authentic pisser of a show here and of course I want in.”

  “For how much?” Undertag asked, virtually rubbing his hands in anticipation.

  Gurney, for one, was delighted at the producer’s businesslike directness.

  “Just let me get back to my office for a look at the books,” said Baranoff. “That’s all I ask.”

  When the music executive had left, there was much speculation in the room as to how much money his company would invest in the musical. Undertag guessed somewhere around two hundred thousand, in which case he would match the amount—and the show would be more or less financed.

  “It’s probably a stupid move on my part,” said Undertag, “considering the long gray line of stinkers I’ve backed. But if the kid is crazy enough to come in, I’ll jump in with him.”

  When Baranoff called some twenty minutes later, Undertag ceremoniously transferred him to the speakerphone so that his voice could be heard throughout the room.

  “Just got in this second, and true to my word I’m calling. Bottom line, I’m not investing a nickel in the show. But I couldn’t say it right there, right to your face. I had to wait till I got back to the safety of my own office, where I don’t have to meet your eyes. Did I like it? Sure, although most of my reactions were playacting and I didn’t care for it one-tenth as much as I pretended. The trouble is, I can’t express my feelings to anyone who’s standing right in front of me. I admit it’s a problem, although you’ll have to admit it hasn’t held back my career. Am I dealing with it? You bet your ass. Four sessions a week, on the couch and on my back. I wish I could say I’d seen some daylight. Meanwhile, I’m sorry if my behavior has caused you grief.”

  “Sure, fella,” said Undertag with a little smirk, and hung up. “This show has been one big pain in the ass since I took it on.”

  “What have you taken on?” asked Hartog in a flash of anger, the first time he had lashed out so directly at the producer of Violencia. “What have you done? Not a fucking thing.”

  “Easy now,” said Undertag, who seemed frightened by the unexpected outburst. “Whatever the outcome, I don’t want to lose you as a personal friend, Clement. You know how much
I love Essie and how strongly I feel your mom will tear the roof off the theatre if we’re lucky enough to get that far.”

  “For Christ’s sakes,” said Welles, scowling bitterly, “I could finance the show myself if only some of my wealthy friends were in the country and not vacationing in Montecatini.”

  The remark was hollow. Gurney saw through it. It meant nothing.

  “All right,” said Hartog, getting to his feet and dismissing Undertag with a wave, “you’re the producer—produce. And don’t bother me with the details.”

  It was thrilling for Gurney to see the director finally behave with some arrogance. It had some effect on Undertag, too.

  “Okay,” he said, pale and somewhat shaken. “I just don’t want you going around this city and Hollywood, bad-mouthing me and not being my friend.”

  Several days later, Undertag summoned the collaborators and said he hated to ask, but would they do one more audition, this time for the theatre party ladies.

  “If they like Violencia and put it on their subscription lists, we can count on a strong advance sale—and be well on the way to a production.”

  Hartog was not at all pleased by this suggestion, but once again, begrudgingly, he said that he would go along.

  For some unfathomable reason, both he and Welles, this time around, were at the top of their game. As a result, when Hartog orated the scenes and Welles performed his songs, Gurney, for the first time, caught a hint of what the show might be. There was a genuine smell of violence and homicide about it, all of it having an authentic gun-metal gray feel to it. Throughout the modest little audition, Gurney thought he heard the wail of squad car sirens, the hum of excitement in the bullpen when a fresh homicide is posted on the bulletin board, the dull, thick weight of bone-bangers coming down on a perpetrator’s head. It all came back to him … the fear in a suspect’s eyes during the most routine of investigations, the look of vengeance through the bars from a hood who’s been given a stiff sentence, the red-streaked demented condition of a room in which there’s been a stabbing, particularly if it has involved jealous lovers.

  Strangely enough, Welles’ light romantic songs of Paris and young love, far from being a distraction, served to give the show an ironic counterpoint, making the other scenes all the more glum and deadly. Gurney felt new respect for the composer and began to understand what he was trying to achieve. Gurney listened as though in a spell, broken only momentarily during the “Mad Dog Shooting” ballet sequence when one of the theatre party ladies whispered to a companion:

  “It’s just like what goes on in my apartment.”

  Gurney began to feel a drumbeat of excitement over the show’s potential, and was not overly concerned about the ladies’ reaction, which, predictably, was tepid. After some perfunctory applause, they filed out, for the most part without comment. A stout middle-aged woman stopped for a moment to address Gurney.

  “Of course, I’m not going to book Violencia, there are too many things around that are good this season. But would you do one service to yourselves and to the American theatre?”

  “What’s that?” asked Gurney.

  “Listen to Mr. Toileau, and lose ‘doody.’”

  When the ladies had left, Undertag announced that, unfortunately, the audition had not worked out as planned.

  “None of the broads are willing to book the show. The only group that showed any interest was an organization that’s trying to cure hammertoes.”

  “How many members do they have?” asked Welles.

  “Not enough,” said Undertag.

  “That’s your concern,” Hartog said grandly, putting on a black cape that Gurney had never seen him wear before. “I’ve conducted my last audition. Paul and I have work to do.”

  When they were in the street, and Welles had gone off to get a quick suntan at a nearby gym—he belonged to gyms all over the city—Gurney asked the director what he had meant by his last remark.

  “I thought we were all finished.”

  Hartog said yes, they were, in a sense, but while they waited for the financing to kick in, they might as well try a nip here and a tuck there.

  “There’s no end to the improvements you can make.”

  Gurney felt a little sick at the thought of going back to chew on the same bone. He told the director that frankly he had no heart to do so.

  “There’s no money, no theatre,” he said, detecting a grain of self-pity in his tone, “and even though I’m new in this field and have no credits, I’ve got to feel that I’m working toward a real goal.”

  Hartog said he understood and suggested that they tinker with the show at Blandishments, the country estate to which he and Essie often repaired when they needed to escape the madness of the city. But Hartog admitted that quite frankly, although the property had rolling acres and waterfalls and no end of comforts, it was all a fraud in one sense, since he was unable to relax even there.

  “I’m only happy when I’ve got my teeth in a show.”

  The director then suggested that Gurney might feel better about the trip if he brought someone along.

  “If it’s a woman, however, I’m afraid you won’t be able to sleep over with her. Essie just won’t allow it. Even though she worked in waterfront dives for much of her life, she’s prudish about such arrangements.”

  Gurney said the issue was academic.

  “I’m going it alone these days and have no one to bring.”

  The next morning, however, before he set out for Blandishments in his squad, he thought of the lovely though one-armed Angela from whom he had leased his charming apartment. He was a little nervous about dialing her number, sensing a possible rejection, but to his delight—and with no coy hesitation—she accepted the invitation.

  “I’d love to come,” she said, almost as if she’d been waiting months for such a call.

  Driving up to Blandishments, Gurney leaned over from time to time to give Angela a friendly hug, but for the most part spent the time appraising her as a future and perhaps permanent partner. Unlike his ex-wife’s shrill voice, Angela’s was deep and sensual; as though to compensate for her handicap, her other parts were extraordinary—her bosom full-blown, her waist slim, and her legs young, restless, enthusiastic, and most desirable. But the arm, of course, was always in the picture. Though Gurney felt he could handle it with little difficulty, he was, to be honest with himself, worried about what others would think when he showed up with her at parties.

  Nothing ever comes easy to me, he thought. In order to get a delightful and exquisite young girl, intelligent and easy on the nerves, I have to take one with an arm missing.

  Blandishments was all that Hartog had promised, a natural paradise of rich, exotic shrubbery, mysteriously gladed brooks, and delightful little paths and bridges. The interior of the house was messy, however, the tables and chairs sticky and full of crumbs from meals eaten days before. The director was there to greet them, but although his chest was bare and his dress rustic and countrified—Bermuda shorts and open-toed moccasins—he looked exactly as he did in the city: grim, graying, and totally preoccupied.

  “It’s no use,” he said. “With all this luxury—and I’d hate to tell you what it costs me a month—I still can’t relax.”

  Essie appeared then, carrying Feur’s gift dog in her arms, the pup all dressed up as a small child in a sailor suit. It was the first time Gurney had seen the great Viennese actress without her stilts. Although Hartog had been charming to Angela, his mother completely ignored her; taking Gurney aside, she said that she had heard about his divorce and that her heart broke each time she thought about it. She took his head into her bosom and held it there, appearing to be deeply troubled and sympathetic about Gurney’s marital difficulties. Still, Gurney resented Essie’s cold treatment of his friend.

  “Angela’s a terrific kid,” he said, removing his head from the actress’s bosom.

  Whether Essie approved or not, Gurney felt that Angela was his guest, his choice, and that the Ha
rtogs could either accept this or he would be forced to leave. If he and Angela stormed out, it would probably not end the collaboration, but it certainly wouldn’t shore it up.

  Essie explained that the reason she refused to allow Angela and Gurney to stay over was that Gertie, as she’d named Hunt Feur’s gift dog, would probably realize they were sleeping together.

  “What if you change your mind and go back to your wife, Paul? It would totally confuse little Gertie and complicate future relations between all of us.”

  Gurney realized that in a very short time, Essie had begun to conceive of the small thoroughbred puppy as the second child she’d never been able to have.

  Hartog and Gurney took a stab at some scenes, but it soon became clear that they were not going to be able to get much done in the easygoing atmosphere of Blandishments. The day was spent in a relaxed manner, the director giving his visitors complete tours of the house and grounds that were quite frankly more thoroughgoing than Gurney would have wanted.

  After a surprisingly uninspired dinner—small portions of hamburger, sliced bread, and coleslaw—Essie Hartog suggested they all have a nude swim in one of the secluded brooks, which, she said, was lighted artificially in such a way that a dull glaze hung in the air, making it impossible for them to get clinical looks at one another.

  “Sounds good to me,”said Gurney, although, actually, it did not. Clement Hartog would get an unimpeded look at Angela’s almost flawless body, which had to be considered a treat, even in the uncertain light. All that was in it for Gurney was the possibility of seeing the venerable Essie Hartog in the nude. Even though the aging actress had a remarkably well-preserved and stately figure, with high, torpedoing breasts, Gurney, perhaps swinishly, did not contemplate the experience with any pleasure. The thought of Clement Hartog in the nude was equally uninspiring.

  At the edge of the brook, Angela was the first to disrobe, and did not so much take off her clothes as fling them aside with abandon; Gurney’s thought was that either she had gone for countless nude swims, or that she was eager to please him and would do anything at all to do so. In the yellowing, faded light of the brook, the swim became more of a tentative dance than anything else, all of them gliding along like small ships, aware of one another’s presence, tensely nonchalant about it. When they’d had enough of the water, Essie announced that she had changed her mind and that Angela and Gurney could indeed stay over and sleep in the same room.