And leave they did, all through the second act, clusters of them slipping off to the Hate Concert for fast peeks. But perhaps to the credit of the new, brisk, and fast-paced peppy little family musical, they all came back to the theatre and were on hand to give the cast three curtain calls—two of them unmistakably sincere. (A third was somewhat forced on them by the assistant stage manager, who raised the curtain as the audience, obviously sick of applauding, was filing out of the theatre.)
Hartog stood anonymously in the back of the theatre so that no one would hound him for his autograph. His summary of the performance was enigmatic.
“I’m not saying we ever had ’em,” he said to Gurney, “but at least we didn’t lose ’em.”
Undertag and Toileau, who had flown in for the Holliman opening, were on hand, checking reactions in the rear of the theatre.
Generally a fashion plate, Toileau was wearing a fedora with a feather in it and a suit that was several sizes too small. Gurney guessed that the outfit was a deferential homage to the people of small-town Holliman.
“Special thanks to you, Paul,” said Toileau, “for your gracious ‘doody’ cut.
“I think we would have lost ’em,” he added, turning to Hartog, “if we had kept it in.”
“I don’t,” said Hartog, stiffly. “But you might be right. I just don’t know anymore.
“Does anyone?” he asked aggressively, thrusting his chin in Toileau’s face.
“If we come in a hit,” said Undertag cheerfully, “I’m buying everyone an interest in a hockey team.”
Gurney was caught up in the general enthusiasm and only half-listening. In spite of himself, he felt a current of excitement flash across his shoulders. He had no idea why excitement always hit him in the shoulders.
Gurney pictured himself with brooding, knitted eyebrows, sitting grandly in important East Coast theatrical hangouts, wearing a cloak, casually tossing off interviews, his dialogue shot through with enigma, and being hailed as the season’s most fascinating playwright. He was particularly pleased when several theatregoers, who recognized him from the program, asked him for his autograph.
“I’ll take one, too, if you don’t mind,” said a jowly young chap, pushing his way past the others. Gurney saw that it was Norbert Tiomkins, his old classmate who had been so bitterly offended in Winslow.
“And I mean that about the autograph, Paul,” said Tiomkins. “I followed you all the way to Holliman and I just want to say that you’ve pulled off the impossible. Hats off to you, Paul, and I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive that remark I made.”
“Which one was that?”
“About not wanting to shit on the best part of you and your wife. It was said in the heat of anger.”
“Oh well, in that case…,” said Gurney, with a gracious wave.
Backstage, there was tremendous exhilaration, with several of the male chorus fellows whom Gurney had assumed were gay saying they were so convinced Violencia was a hit that they had gone ahead and told their wives to order complete dinette sets for their apartments.
Gurney felt proud of his contribution to the show at this point, and also a heavy responsibility to continue making improvements until its success was assured. A pair of older female singers, cast in the roles of tough desk sergeants, grabbed Gurney and took turns forcing their tongues down his throat, stopping to say “Brilliant” and then continuing on with even deeper thrusts. The young delicious chorus kids, including Holly, his favorite, yanked at Clement Hartog’s clothes. In a totally shameless manner they stroked his pelvis as they squealed happily and thanked him for directing them to theatrical glory. Gurney was a bit annoyed and jealous. He would not have minded having his pelvis stroked as well. But then he decided that his collaborator was entitled to a special treat. Especially since Essie had always kept such a strict eye on him and seen to it that he hadn’t run off and slept with anyone.
The high spirits continued right along to the Broadway Grotto, a traditional hangout for traveling show folk, where Undertag had arranged to throw a victory party for the cast. When the celebration was under way, Holly took Gurney aside momentarily. Her body was soaked, as if she had been dipped in oil.
“What about those great times you were going to show me in Holliman, Mr. Scribe?”
Before Gurney could respond, one of Han Nihsu’s assistants yanked her away, after giving the ex-homicider a wide-toothed grin. Gurney could not understand what she saw in the fellow. His guess was she liked him because he knew exactly how to handle her tricky little body and had quite a bit of trickiness of his own to match hers.
Gurney got drunk that night, on both high spirits and good Scotch. But he could remember only going to bed alone, after being confident he would somehow end up with one of the hot young chorus kids or, at the very minimum, with a tongue-thrusting older female singer. He had a momentary pang of loneliness, feeling foolish about having four beds in the suite and only himself to fill them. But ultimately it was tolerable. He also had the glad, secure feeling that Violencia, for all of its woes, was going to be a smash after all.
Scene 12
The next morning, he was awakened by a call from his ex-wife.
“How do you feel? I mean, God, you must be sick to your stomach, you poor thing.”
“What do you mean?” asked Gurney, still not sure whether he was in Winslow or Holliman or at Angela’s apartment.
“Oh, my God, that’s right,” she said. “I just realized that you don’t know. Not if you just got up. I should have known that would happen. Oh well, so long as I woke you up, I might as well tell you that the reviews are awful. They’re so bad that frankly I feel a little funny about saying who I was once married to. I can’t help it, Paul. I’ve got to be honest. You know that was the one thing you could always count on with me.”
Gurney wondered why she would have gone to all that trouble to get the Holliman papers—not an easy assignment on the East Coast—but then he chalked it up to simple curiosity. Oh well, he thought, at least I’ve gotten the bad news short and sweet and don’t have to have the whole process dragged out.
“Look, go back to bed and try to get some sleep,” she said, “and I’m sorry I got you up. I probably never should have made this call.”
Gurney allowed himself a moment of self-pity.
“You won’t have to worry about an opening-night gown now, Gilda.”
“No,” she said. “Some other time. But listen, would you have taken me?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then fuck you, buster,” she said, and hung up.
Behind the anger, Gurney realized, there had been plenty of hurt as well. He ordered a giant breakfast, considering himself quite brave for doing so. When it arrived, he took one bite of his omelette and pushed it aside. Dipping into the morning paper, he read a bit of the review, but found he couldn’t take much of that, either.
SHOULD HAVE KEPT IT THE WAY IT WAS IN WINSLOW
“Several years ago, this critic sat through an infuriatingly witless little trifle called Hats Ahoy, which he promptly labeled the single worst load of tripe ever to be slung together in the history of the modern theatre as we know it. Well, all I can say is, move over, Hats Ahoy. Triumphant new recipient of the World’s Worst Dog is the aptly titled Violencia, a musical which creaked open last night at the Holliman and did such violence to the eyes, ears, nose, and overall sanity of this reviewer, it just about drove him out of his beloved business.”
Gurney laid the the paper aside and received a call from Undertag.
“How were the others?” he asked the producer.
“Let’s just say that the one you read was a rave. You’d better come up to my suite.”
* * *
“I’m out of the business, fellas,” said Norman Welles, pacing up and down in front of the three producers and Clement Hartog. “This just about does it for me. Name one person who’ll work with me after this. I’ve never gotten notices like that in my life and all
I can say is it’s a lucky thing I’ve got a few bucks put away. I’m just going to scoop up Tippy, whom I’m pleased to say I’m in love with again, and go off to Mexico for a while. Both of us will lie around, enjoy the quiet down there, and figure out what my next move is—or whether I even have a next move.”
“Norman has graciously consented to let us use his songs,” said Undertag, “even though he personally is getting out.”
“We’re very disturbed,” said Toileau. “I thought taking out ‘doody’ would do a lot more for us than it did.”
“I thought you fellows liked the show,” said Hartog with great calm.
The director had evidently decided to make a fight of it. His remark caught the producing team off guard.
“We did,” said Undertag.
“Then what changed your mind?”
“We slept on it and sort of thought it over,” said Undertag.
“I don’t believe that,” said Hartog. “I think you’ve been rattled by the notices. I have been too, frankly, but I’m still in the ball game. And may I remind you, gentlemen, that you are sitting in a hotel in Holliman and that the good gray New York Times hasn’t said a word about Violencia.”
“You’ve got to admit, Clement,” said Toileau, “that we’re losing ’em.”
“Assuming we ever had ’em,” said Undertag in a sly, stand-up-comedian style.
“Who, exactly, are we losing?” said Hartog, showing his teeth.
Whether it was for the love of Violencia or to save his mom’s career, Gurney didn’t particularly care.
“Clement’s right,” said Gurney. “In Winslow, we drove close to two thousand people out of the theatre. Last night, in Holliman, we didn’t drive anyone out.”
“Keeping them in is one thing,” Mandarin interjected.
“Making them happy is another.”
Gurney was aware there was considerable friction between Hartog and Mandarin.
“How do you know they weren’t happy?” said Hartog, raising his voice this time. He had more than an inkling that Mandarin was after his job, and he was probably dead right. “Did you sit down and ask them? How the fuck do you know, you little fart?”
“I’m no little fart,” said Mandarin. “Say what you will, but that is not a fair and accurate description of me.”
“All right, all right,” said Undertag, patting the air with his palms in a peacemaking gesture. Gurney was beginning to see that the man could not bear confrontation. “Clement, you’d probably never speak to me again if I locked up the show right now, is that right? And you’d probably bad-mouth me on both coasts, am I correct? Tell everyone that I deserve my turkeys?”
“Knock it off, Philip,” said Hartog. “I don’t feel well.”
“Tell you what,” said the producer. “We’ll give you a week. You boys deserve a chance to pull this show off. Toileau and I will fly back to Holliman next weekend. If we like what we see, we’ll bring it in. If not, we bury the body.”
“I still don’t get it,” said Hartog. “You loved the show before the notices came in.”
“We did love it,” said Toileau. “But we decided we didn’t love it as much as we thought we did. It sort of fooled us.”
Norman Welles shot out of Holliman like a thief in the night, without even saying good-bye.
“Cocksucker,” said Hartog.
“Motherfucker,” said Gurney.
The two sere sitting around in Gurney’s suite.
“He certainly does take care of his own ass,” said the director. “Well, maybe he knows something that we don’t.”
“Oh hell, Clement,” said Gurney, “the poor bastard’s got nothing left in the tank.”
“He had nothing much to start with,” said Hartog. “Why, oh why, did I ever get involved with that asshole? And I let him get away with those ridiculous French love songs, too. In a show about homicide. I may have to see a shrink about this.”
“We’re both at fault, Clement.”
“I think we can turn it around,” said Hartog. “I still believe in this goddamned show. There’s just too much that’s good there for us not to fight for it down to the wire. And don’t forget, Paul, that if the show dies in Holliman, your column, ‘Ask Gurney,’ and those wonderful issues of The Homicider will never see the light of day on the stage as long as you live.”
Gurney thought Hartog’s argument in this case was ill-chosen, one of the few times the director was wildly off target. Perhaps it was presumptuous, but Gurney felt that no matter what the theatrical fate of Violencia, nothing could tarnish his popular advice column and his achievements at the helm of the monthly Homicider. What if some film company made a farcical and preposterous movie of Anna Karenina? he asked himself. Would it tarnish the great Russian classic one bit? Not on your life. So Hartog’s argument that a theatrical bomb could alter the standing of his “Ask Gurney” column and of his magazines (which he’d had bound in leather, incidentally) was no way to reach Gurney.
He had been shaken by the rough notices himself, but he had no intention of pulling a Norman Welles and checking out. For one thing, he had no place in particular to go, no one to go back to but Angela—and he could always bring her to Holliman. And there might still be some fun to be had in sticking around. Holly, for example, seemed to be tiring of the four Balinese assistant choreographers and was probably about ready to drop into his lap.
And, of course, the main reason he couldn’t bring himself to leave was that he had no heart to desert Clement Hartog.
“I honestly feel we can pull it off,” said Hartog, with a plea in his eyes. “Don’t you, Paul?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then how?” said the director. “Tell me how on God’s earth we can do it. And then I’ll know.”
Clement Hartog got a bad case of the shakes then. He hugged himself and began to cry.
Gurney thought it best to walk out to the terrace and look down on the suddenly quiet streets of Holliman—and pretend he hadn’t seen any of this.
Hartog’s loss of confidence was only temporary, however. Shaky, but determined, the two collaborators rolled up their sleeves and tore into the show once again. Treating Violencia as if it were a seriously ill patient instructed to go on a crash diet, Hartog suggested they cut away everything—everything—that displeased them in the slightest way. That meant most of the songs and almost all of the second act. The team nevertheless proceeded with the surgery, feeling giddy as they slashed away at all of the doubtful material. But when they were finished they realized they were down to three songs in the entire show—and a six-minute second act.
When the cast performed the show in its new whittled-down condition, Holliman playgoers began to boo and then to file out in droves, feeling they’d been had.
“I didn’t pay good money to see a sketch,” said one disgruntled subscriber.
“That’s all right,” said Hartog. “I’m not worried about them. This is Holliman, and our target is New York. I’ll admit we don’t have much, but what we’ve got is gold, and we can always build from it.”
But building from gold meant the insertion of new songs, and the team suddenly realized they didn’t have a composer. Certainly neither Gurney nor Hartog was about to start writing music. Most of the established composers were at work on shows of their own, but there was one—a certain Hilton Numero—who was reported to be at large, having had a show of his own turn out to be a disaster. Yet Hartog was somewhat reluctant to contact the talented music man.
“He once called me down to Philadelphia for an opinion on a show he was doing that was struggling. I hated it and didn’t even pay him the courtesy of going backstage to see him and tell him my feelings. But I’m not denying that it would be great if we could get him.”
Hartog decided to swallow his pride and call Numero.
“So this is Hartog, is it?” said Numero. “I’ve been waiting for this call for a long, long time. Will I do your show? Of course I won’t, you no-talent, ill-mannered sl
ob fuck. Nyah, nyah, nyah,” he shouted into the receiver, and then hung up.
“Figures,” said Hartog, not in the least surprised.
Mandarin finally pitched in and came up with a two-woman composer-lyricist team that was responsible for many new rock favorites and reportedly capable of delivering an entirely fresh score in two days. Talking to them over drinks, Gurney realized something awful about himself: He had reached the point where he really didn’t care whether they came up with anything or not.
A piano was wheeled into the suite of the two women, who stayed up all night, during which time they wrote four new songs. Hartog, in an adjoining suite, had remained awake, crouching, his ear to the paper-thin walls. He called Gurney first thing in the morning.
“Don’t even get out of bed, Paul. They’re awful.”
Evidently the two women, who had been highly critical of Welles’ Paris compositions, had simply stepped up the tempo on them and shifted the settings to downtown Prague … so that now the romantic songs were about star-crossed lovers wandering along Czech viaducts.
“We were better off with Paris,” said Hartog.
One afternoon, Mandarin paid a visit to Gurney in his hotel suite. The associate producer, whose bruised face was covered with adhesive tape, said he had been mistaken for a male hustler and had been beaten up pretty badly by local welders.
“I’m sorry, Mandarin,” said Gurney.
“Can’t take an innocent midnight stroll along the waterfront and even glance at someone,” said Mandarin. “But forget that. I’ll just stop being so trusting from now on. Now look, I’ve been trying to help you guys, am I right? I brought down the two girls. I appealed to Numero to forgive and forget. Was it my fault that neither deal worked out?”
“Not to my knowledge,” said Gurney.
“And I’m still going to keep at it,” said Mandarin, “because, don’t kid yourself, if you guys go down the tubes, I stand to take a financial bath myself. But look, life goes on—would you disagree with that?”
Violencia! Page 18
