The Berlin Connection

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  25

  "Four twenty-one. Take twenty-four."

  Wallace and I finished the scene without one mistake.

  "How was it?" asked Kostasch.

  "Okay," said Seaton.

  "Sound okay!"

  The camera man was silent.

  "Well!" said Kostasch to the young man who blushed, got up, and cried despairingly, "It's my fault! Only my fault. I didn't watch the footage!"

  "Do you mean to say," Kostasch almost whispered, "that you ran out of film during the scene?"

  The young man nodded.

  Wallace laughed hysterically.

  I sank down on a box and pressed my hands to my face. Behind me, bets were made and accepted on another failure. But they lost those bets. The twenty-fifth take was perfect.

  One scene of four hundred and thirty-three scenes of a movie miles long. We had used three hundred and thirteen meters of film for a scene hardly thirteen meters long...

  "That's all for today!" yelled the assistant director.

  "It was worth it, Peter boy!" said Kostasch. "I'm happy. Very happy. You were— '*

  I left him standing there. If I did not see Schauberg quickly I would break down in the studio.

  Ten minutes later the man with the beret was sitting next to me in the Mercedes parked behind the old bam. A storm was raging. I had not stopped to change or take off the make-up. Shaking, I sat behind the wheel. Tears of exhaustion messed up my make-up. Schauberg was silent. He pulled off my jacket, pushed up my sleeve, and gave me an injection. Then he said, "I'm giving you what I gave you in the camp. Do you remember?"

  I nodded and wanted to reply but the moment the needle punctured my skin I collapsed and everything went dark. I heard him talk, but did not understand; I heard myself talk unintelligibly. Then I heard no more and an overpowering feeling of peace, warmth, and contentment came over me.

  I opened my eyes. Schauberg was there, smoking. I felt as good and strong as I had when he injected me the first time in his camp.

  "Did I faint?"

  "Just for a second." He smiled. "Nothing of any consequence. Your blood pressure drops easily. After all you are an artist. An artist lives the sensations of his body. August Strindberg made a will every time he had the flu."

  "Did I say anything?"

  "Yes."

  "What? About Shirley? The child? Joan?

  "It was rather confused," said Schauberg. "It had something to do with God. He's tormenting you, is He?"

  "One can't be tormented by an entity one does not believe in."

  "I see," he said in a tone of satisfaction.

  "What do you mean: I see? Do you believe in Him?"

  "You feel fine again, right?"

  "Answer me."

  "I like to give good value for good money. Don't be afraid, we'll pull you through."

  "I want you to answer me!"

  "Well, Mr. Jordan, I believe in nothing at all. I think. Few people think. If they can't think or won't, they have to believe. Or they can't function. God: for all of them, belief is the remedy, as many different concepts as there are different people, without any sense—and naturally animals too. Elephants, for instance, surely have their own elephant God."

  "What makes you think of elephants?"

  "Because I saw one a little while ago."

  "You saw—"

  "An old, huge elephant. What's the matter with you?"

  "Where did you see an elephant? When?"

  "Half an hour ago while I was waiting for you. When I took a stroll on the road over there."

  "Where did he come from?"

  "From the film studios. Why are you so interested? He was in a movie there."

  "TTiat was three weeks ago! The movie has been finished, the circus moved on!"

  "Yes, the keeper told me that too, but some scene with the elephant had to be shot again. So they brought him back for that. The poor animal. Imagine! A three-kilometer walk to the next railroad station. The animal looked exhausted. He was probably anerv with his elephant God. Well, that's the way it is, Mr. Jordan. Even if inanimate

  objects had consciousness, they would prefer believing to thinking. Triangles for instance would imagine their God to be triangular .. "

  26

  The next day passed without any disturbance. All went according to schedule. Schauberg's injection had a long-lasting effect. I played my part easily and without fear. Henry Wallace apologized. "I'm sorry about yesterday. You're all right, old boy."

  Kostasch beamed. "I knew it! All you needed was one day to adjust. Now things will go swimmingly."

  And Seaton, "I wouldn't have thought you could adjust so quickly, Peter!"

  Yes, it was a pleasant day. Such friendliness, such charm!

  After we finished shooting, Kostasch and I went to the screening room to look, at the rushes.

  Walking through the rain to the building which housed the cutting and screening rooms Kostasch took my arm.

  "When are your wife and daughter arriving?"

  "At nine-fifteen."

  "I'll be there."

  "No!"

  "But yes, I'll be there. I want to be the first to congratulate your wife and to tell her how happy we all are about the way the movie is going."

  At a quarter past seven we were in the screening room: Kostasch, Seaton, his blond blue-eyed assistant, the camera man, and I.

  Seeing the scenes we had played the day before was very exciting for me. Kostasch sensed it and patted my shoulder. "There's no business like show business, eh?"

  We saw Henry Wallace murder me with the bronze lamp and Seaton chose the second take.

  "Very clear picture," said Kostasch to the camera man.

  "Yeah."

  We saw several copies of my close-ups.

  "Marvelous," said Kostasch. "Just great, Peter boy. People will cry their eyes out when they see that."

  Seaton nodded agreement and said to his assistant, "We'll print the fifth take."

  "Yes."

  The scene between Wallace and Belinda King and the scene we had played twenty-five times followed. The lights went on. Kostasch and Seaton beamed at me as if they had just won a milHon.

  "Just great," said Kostasch and touched wood. "I've never seen better!"

  "Peter, let me thank you," said Seaton. He rose and shook my hand.

  "Okay, okay."

  "You have no idea how good you really are," said Kostasch now turning to my director. "You know, Thornton, Tve noticed something about BeUnda King I'd like to talk to you about . . ."

  I glanced at my watch.

  "If you don't need me any more I think I'll leave."

  "Sure, Peter boy. I'll see you at the airport!" Kostasch shook my hand. "And thanks a million."

  "Ah, nonsense," I said, feeling very happy indeed.

  I left, closing the soundproof door. The hea7 iron door to the projection room stood open. Light feU through the small windows in front of the massive projector from the room where Seaton and Kostasch were. I climbed three steps and looked through a window. They could not see me. I could see them—and was shocked. A moment ago they had been happy and optimistic. Now I saw two troubled men. Kostasch walked to and fro; Seaton rested his head in his hands. Kostasch said some-

  thing. Seaton raised and dropped his shoulders. What were they talking about? I had to know!

  I was familiar with the standard equipment in projection rooms. I turned a few switches until at the third one I could hear Kostasch's voice clearly. "... a disaster! A first-class catastrophe! Or do you mean to tell me you are going to play even one more scene with this man?"

  "These were the first samples of the first day of shooting," groaned Seaton. "You have to give him more time. He hasn't made a movie in twenty years. He is unsure, inhibited. . ."

  "Inhibited? What about this melodramatic scene where he dies? Straight out of a silent movie! What am I saying? Silent movie! It's nothing, less than nothing! I can do it better! Anybody could!" Breathing heavily he st
ood before Seaton. "Admit it!"

  "Admit what?"

  "That you made a mistake. I admit it too. It's my fault as much as it is yours! Jordan is a dilettante, a joke, a zero!"

  "Oh, stop it," said Seaton. His hands shook visibly as he lit a cigarette. Haltingly he said,^ "I've seen Clark Gable carry on as a strolling player would. They were going to recast Spencer Tracy once. The fools fired Tyrone Power in one of my movies. Kostasch, I have faith in Jordan!"

  "After all that?" cried Kostasch, indicating the empty screen. "Then you are a fool!"

  "Even after that. I warned you of that possibility. And you? You promised, Kostasch, you gave me your word you would inspire the poor man with courage no matter how bad he was!"

  "God Almighty, how could I have known how really bad he would be!"

  I was standing behind the little window hearing all that; and through the night and the rain, somewhere above the

  Atlantic a plane was nearing Hamburg, would soon land, carrying Joan, carrying Shirley . . .

  "I did my best!" Kostasch cried in desperation. "As bad as I felt I slapped his back and congratulated him all day yesterday! And today too—in spite of the fact—you have to admit—that today he was even worse than yesterday!"

  "Let's wait for the next few samples!" Seaton raised his head. He looked tired and defeated. "The man needs time. At least three more days!"

  "And then what?"

  "Then what?"

  "Then he'll act the way we want him to. Then we'll shoot the first days again!"

  "Reshoot five days? Do you know how much that is going to cost? The distributor is not going to give us a nickel! The Wilson Brothers will be furious if we go beyond our budget!"

  "Then what would you suggest?" Seaton asked very calmly. He stepped on his cigarette. "Discontinue the movie? Recast Jordan?"

  "Naturally."

  "Do you have another actor?"

  "There were a few other child stars in your country."

  "But only one as good as he was."

  "I've been thinking of him since yesterday." Seaton said sadly, "Do you think I haven't?"

  "Well, then?"

  "We can't get hhn."

  "Why not?"

  "He got two years. Drugs."

  "He .. . he's in jail?"

  Seaton nodded. Kostasch groaned. He dropped into a chair, stretched out his legs and rubbed his face with both hands. The white-haired, gentle Seaton sat next to him. Kostasch dropped his hands. Quietly he said, "Four million. The distributor. The Wilson Brothers. Thornton, I

  can't sleep any more. If this movie goes phut, I'm ruined."

  With grave dignity Seaton said, "T have directed important movies. I've worked with the most famous actors of my time. I am no fool. I have tested Jordan. I tell you: This man is a good actor." Kostasch laughed mirthlessly. "I promise you: He'll be okay in three days. But we have to encourage him; he has to have confidence in himself. If he finds out how we feel he'll never make it. It would be the finish!"

  "But what about the others? Belinda, Wallace! They've all noticed ..."

  "No one will say anything. They have promised."

  So that's why Wallace had apologized. That's why they were so nice to me. Who had talked to them: Production manager Albrecht, perhaps?

  Kostasch sighed. "And he? What if he notices himself?"

  "He won't. You've seen yourself how pleased he was when we looked at the samples."

  They looked at each other silently. At last Kostasch said, "All right. Three more days. Then I'll have to tell Horwein and the Wilsons the truth." And now came something that gave me a profound shock. He folded his hands, lowered his head, and murmured, "Help us now. Please. Help us." I thought of Schauberg's comment: And if he had been a triangle he would have believed Him to be triangular.

  27

  "Attention please. Pan American announce the arrival of their flight 517 from New York. Passengers will go through customs at Gate 4!"

  "Dear Passengers! Our building has become too small and we have to expand ..."

  I had had a few drinks in the car, still under the shock of what I had overheard before -seeing Schauberg. Now in the airport restaurant I had again ordered whisky. Even the bar was under construction. The place smelled of steel, cement, and wet sand.

  I had been drinking heavily but the injection had prevented me from becoming drunk. I was just slightly confused.

  Now I passed many doors with airline signs. Ahead of me a door opened suddenly and I colhded with a woman in a beige-colored flannel coat just as she was turning around.

  "I beg your—"

  Surprised, I stared at the slanted eyes of the beautiful young woman. A flash of recall—the seagull, the elephant.

  "Good evening," said Dr. Natasha Petrovna.

  28

  "Good evening ..." As I bowed slightly T lost my balance and realized that I was drunk after all. "What . . • what are you doing here?"

  "Fm here about my furniture." Her answer was as calm and friendly as the look she gave me just as if the scene in my hotel had never occurred. "Unfortunately most of the things have already been flown out."

  "I... I thought you were in the Congo!" "I was supposed to be there." She smiled. "It seems the reverse of what we plan always happens. Terrorists have burnt down the hospital in Leopoldville. Didn't yoii read about it in the papers?" "No."

  "It will be at least a year before I can go to Africa. Now Fm stuck in an empty apartment and my furniture is in Rome, Dakar, or God knows where." Natasha laughed.

  "You .. . you are going to be in Hamburg for another year?"

  "Yes, I am." Her eyes narrowed. "You don't look at all well, Mr. Jordan. I read that you started on your movie."

  Before I could answer Kostasch's voice said, "Peter, for heaven's sake, where have you been?"

  Massive shoulders bent forward—a boxer on the offensive—^bouquets of yellow and red roses in his hands, he came hurrying toward us. "The plane has already landed! I've been waiting a half hour for you! Excuse me, ma'am . . ." He pressed the red roses into my hand. "Come on, let's go!" He pulled me along by my arm.

  "Good-by," I stammered, stumbling as I turned around. Natasha looked serious and now I could not see her eyes behind the thick glittering lenses of her glasses.

  Kostasch hurried ahead of me up the stairs at the end of the hallway. "Why did you disappear so quickly after the viewing? We would have liked to have split a bottle of champagne with you! After those samples!"

  You bastard, I thought. You miserable bastard. You poor, poor unhappy bastard.

  The stairs led to Gate 4, a long, freezing room which immediately reminded me of Schauberg's barrack. The wind and rain came through the wooden slats of the temporary walls. The floor was wet and dirty. The room was very crowded. People waved, called, laughed, cried. The long line of passengers inched forward to customs and passport control.

  "Hey, Charley! Over here," Kostasch yeUed at our photographer holding a camera and flash. He looked very angry. "Don't make such a face, I'll pay you overtime!"

  "Peter!" I heard my wife's voice. Now I saw her at the customs. Shirley stood next to her, Joan waved. Shirley did

  not. Joan's face was flushed. Shirley's was very pale. Joan gesticulated and laughed. Shirley stood perfectly still.

  Joan wore a mink coat. Horrified, I saw that she had dyed her hair blonde. It made her look years older. What had made her do that? She probably wanted to look younger. To please me, to be more beautiful, more desirable ...

  "Oh, Peter, Peter!" Her arms were around me and she kissed my lips, my cheeks, my forehead, my lips again. I noticed it right away. She was high. Not embarrassingly so and not without charm. But I could hardly believe it. For the first time since I met her, my wife was tight. My cool, self-controlled, reserved wife.

  Tight.

  29

  The photographer took our pictures, his face grim. I held the giggling and laughing Joan in my arms. She had dropped the red roses and continued
to kiss me. "I'm high, Peter! Just a Uttle. I was so excited! And happy. We had fun in the plane and the champagne tasted so good. Oh, Peter, I'm so very happy!"

  Shirley stood behind Joan and I looked at her over Joan's shoulder. She looked at me over Kostasch's shoulder who, most fatherly, embraced and kissed her.

  "Welcome, darling," I said to Joan.

  "You're not angry I'm tight?"

  "I think it's very becoming."

  "And my hair? Don't you think my hair is too?"

  "It's lovely."

  "I knew you'd like it. Don't I look at least five years younger?"

  "At least."

  She whispered, "I have to look younger for a younger man! Marcel says I don't look a day over thirty-eight."

  "Who is Marcel?" ^

  "My hairdresser. He's a genius! Oh, it's wonderful to

  -he a little high!" Her blonde hair. Her flushed face. The

  smudged lipstick. The wrinkles on her neck. The happy,

  slightly wet eyes. "How come no one ever told me? One

  ought to feel Hke this all the time!"

  Kostasch was making some room. "Excuse me ... just a few photographs . . . this is Peter Jordan, the famous American actor . . . please step back . . . thank you . . . Come on, Charley! Peter, kiss your wife!"

  So I picked up the red roses and we kissed again. Now two more photographers from the airport had arrived.

  "Now kiss your daughter, Peter!"

  I turned. There was Shirley in a white sheepskin coat, black stockings, black shoes, a slim black wool dress, her pony tail pulled forward over her shoulder. Her green eyes were luminous but the hand I held was as cold as ice.

  "So kiss your daughter!" cried Kostasch.

  "Go ahead and kiss," called Joan laughingly.

  I kissed Shirley. She was cold and stiff; unresponsive. Kostasch and Joan insisted we all take one another's arm. We smiled and laughed and the photographers snapped our pictures while Kostasch was talking incessantly. "Your husband is a very talented actor, Mrs. Jordan ... One of the best .. . We're making a movie here they are going to talk about fifty years from now . . . I'm very proud to be the producer of such a movie . . . and of working with Peter!"

  Joan began to kiss me again. "My husband! If he tries he can be the best actor in all the world!"

  "Come on, Joan."