Face Me When You Walk Away

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘You must already know,’ expanded Josef, ‘that the book is outselling anything that can be remembered in American publishing history. The Presidential reception can only heighten that interest. The success of this book is going to be incredible.’

  ‘You’re telling us nothing we don’t already know,’ said Watts, irritably. He was annoyed at being so easily drawn by Josef.

  The Russian smiled. How wonderful it was not to feel tired. He wondered how long the benzedrine would last. He would have to take another if it became a protracted day. It wouldn’t be at all difficult to become dependent, he thought.

  ‘This property has assured publicity value,’ said Josef. ‘You can guarantee a box-office return before you announce the stars.’

  He stopped, giving Watts the opportunity to challenge the point. The President frowned suspiciously. He needed a script, thought Josef.

  ‘Further,’ continued Josef, ‘my government is prepared to allow the film to be shot entirely on location in the Soviet Union, the first time such a facility has ever been allowed a Western film company. For the scenes involving the Second World War, the Red Army will be made available.’

  He stopped again, allowing the details to settle. In nearly every negotiation in which he had ever been involved, he found people became confused and allowed more concessions than they intended if they were made a series of offers.

  ‘They are interesting suggestions,’ agreed Watts, guardedly.

  ‘I’m still not clear about the degree of control,’ said Burgess.

  ‘Only upon interpretation,’ insisted Josef. ‘And for your protection, I will agree to it being written into the contract that I co-operate with you as technical adviser, able to give decisions on the spot. That might prevent costly production delays …’

  ‘You would be prepared to be technical adviser?’ queried Watts. The promotional value of Josef’s association was registering. An uncertainty went through the men in the room, as if they had all been holding the same terminal when the electricity switch had been turned on.

  ‘There’s a catch,’ insisted Burgess, voicing the common doubt.

  Josef indicated the lawyer. ‘Everything would be put into contractual form,’ he guaranteed. ‘Until Moscow’s formal approval, you would pay nothing, apart from a nominal binding figure.’

  ‘It would put you into the position of a censor,’ insisted the director.

  ‘Don’t you agree the book translates into film terms remarkably easily?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Burgess, warily.

  ‘The dialogue needs little alteration?’

  ‘No,’ conceded Burgess.

  ‘Then what major alteration do you envisage?’

  ‘At the moment, none,’ admitted the director. ‘But I don’t fancy being in the middle of Russia, unable to shoot because we can’t agree a scene or a part in the script.’

  ‘Then why don’t we extend the contract so that you pay nothing and commit yourself to nothing until agreement upon the script is reached?’

  ‘Your terms appear remarkably reasonable,’ queried Wasnet, taking up Burgess’ apprehension. ‘Some people might think too reasonable.’

  Everyone was hunting the flaw, like a child’s party game. And they’d never find it, thought Josef. If the Praesidium decided to purge him, then the precautions he was taking in establishing a connection with the film in Russia would be meaningless. But if the criticism stopped short of that, then it became an insurance policy. A very frail one, he accepted, but a reason nevertheless for him to be allowed continued involvement with the book.

  It would make the production of an epic, prestige film extremely cheap,’ pointed out Josef.

  Watts waved his arms, embracing everyone in the room.

  ‘I’d like to discuss this further,’ he said. Because he was personally involved, nothing could go wrong, decided Josef.

  ‘Of course,’ Josef accepted. He paused, then added, ‘I’m only going to be in America a few days, as you know. I intend establishing an agreement before I return to Russia.’

  ‘I see,’ said Watts. He could not determine how or why he was being pressured.

  ‘So perhaps I can expect an answer by tomorrow afternoon,’ Josef finished. He turned to the lawyer and carefully restated the offer and the terms. Artman already had them listed correctly. Another professional, judged Josef.

  ‘Before we went to Russia, the whole thing would be agreed. There would be no censorship?’ reiterated Burgess, his mind refusing to move beyond the only difficulty he could isolate.

  ‘It will be written in terms we both accept before the contract is signed,’ reassured Josef. And then, he added mentally, altered if the occasion arose. They could always be coerced into agreement, rather than have their entire film seized. Within the Soviet Union, it would be easy to blame a nebulous authority.

  Josef stood. They had gone as far as they could, he knew.

  ‘Tomorrow, then,’ he reminded, shaking hands with Watts and nodding farewells to the others.

  Watts was disconcerted by the encounter, decided Josef, as he returned to his suite. The knowledge pleased him. He had not liked the man. He hesitated, stopped by the attitude. Since when had he allowed personal feelings to intrude in any negotiations? He moved restlessly in the corridor, awaiting the elevator. He had made a mistake in his eagerness to become associated with the film, he decided. They had become suspicious because he was willing to sell it too cheaply. He had been arrogant, almost presenting them with an ultimatum, he told himself. Offered differently, it would have appeared the naivety of someone ignorant of film dealing, which they would have taken advantage of. Instead, irritated by a man he might never see again, he had had to prove himself the stronger. Surely, he thought, his self-confidence wasn’t being eroded to that degree.

  Blyne was waiting impatiently outside his suite, his pacing reminiscent of Josef’s doubt minutes earlier. He stood, holding the lift, as the American hurried towards him.

  ‘Trouble,’ announced Blyne. The publisher was succinct and factual, never once swearing. It had apparently begun well, he said. Matheson had taken them to Jack Dempsey’s and P. J. Clarke’s, and then Nikolai had complained of tiredness, so Endelman had suggested something to make them feel better and Matheson had made the mistake of objecting. By the time they got to Elaine’s, the young editor had become the butt off which the other two bounced their private jokes until finally Matheson became the joke himself, their captive comedian.

  ‘At Elaine’s’, recorded Blyne, ‘there was a group of Endelman’s fag friends. Harvey says they just stood around, taking the piss out of him.’

  ‘So what happened?’ asked Josef. The benzedrine was wearing off now and exhaustion was coming at him as if it had been hiding behind some invisible wall.

  ‘They just waited until he went to the men’s room and when he came back, they’d gone,’ said Blyne as they drove away from the Pierre.

  They stopped at a red light and the publisher looked sideways at Josef.

  ‘Somewhere in this city,’ he said, ‘there’s this year’s Nobel prizewinner, doped to the eyes, running shotgun to a handful of closet queens.’

  The lights changed and Blyne moved off northwards.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Josef, needing the word.

  ‘Somehow,’ judged the publisher, ‘that doesn’t seem enough.’

  Blyne was driving up Second Avenue. He made a left, then two rights, coming up outside the yellow awning of the cafe on 82nd Street. He parked, ignoring the hydrant. Elaine’s was crowded. Just inside the door there was the crowd of ignored tourists, patiently awaiting a table in the back room. The ‘club’ table for Elaine Kaufman’s chosen few was deserted, just inside the door, but the other ten tables were occupied by the grateful. Everywhere was an atmosphere of Italian food and pretension’ Blyne, who was known and therefore unimpressed, went immediately to the bar. Matheson sat there, disregarding the drink before him. He saw them approaching and turned fully and Josef
felt sorry for the man.

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Josef.

  ‘A party,’ said Matheson.

  ‘Where, for fuck’s sake?’ asked Blyne. Josef forgave him the obscenity. The young editor shrugged and Blyne pulled him around on the bar stool, so that he had to face them.

  ‘Okay,’ said the American. ‘So you fucked up …’ he jerked his head towards Josef. ‘If he couldn’t stop Nikolai, how the hell do you think you could? Let’s dump the self-pity.’

  ‘But I let you down,’ insisted Matheson, looking back to the bar. He wasn’t as drunk as he wanted them to believe, decided Josef. But he needed the excuse of drink to make the maudlin apology. Would he never meet a completely honest man, Josef wondered.

  ‘Where did they go?’ demanded Blyne, as impatient as Josef. He and Blyne were remarkably similar, decided the negotiator.

  ‘They talked of a party,’ repeated Blyne. He turned to Josef. •Nikolai is horrible,’ he said. ‘He really is a shit. Why does he treat everyone like that?’

  ‘Because he doesn’t know any better,’ replied Josef, irritably. It had been the worst mistake yet to allow Nikolai loose in the city, he decided. He was amazed at his own stupidity.

  ‘Where’s the party?’ insisted Blyne.

  ‘Riverside, somewhere,’ said Matheson, jerking his shoulders.

  Blyne disappeared among the crowd and Matheson stared into his glass. It was largely melted ice, Josef knew. So he’d been wrong about Matheson, like so many other people. It would take a long time, Josef knew, for him to regain his confidence. Blyne returned within minutes, impatiently gesturing them outside. Sleet had begun to fall in great, shovelling gusts, driving along the street and banking up against every obstruction, collecting against the debris of earlier snowstorms. Their car was still against the hydrant, ice gathering in steps against the windscreen.

  ‘Verdi Square,’ said Blyne, as he began to drive. ‘A model named Sheri Anderson.’

  He was proud at having found out, Josef knew. Beside him, Matheson shivered. The benzedrine had completely left Josef now. It was as if a great gap had been channelled out of his head, so that tiredness had rushed in to occupy it, like water filling a hollow on the seashore. Words were coming to him, but he couldn’t catch them all, like a clumsy conjuror. By the time they arrived, the sleet had become snow. The wind scurried along the street, sowing it into drifts. It was almost as cold as Potma, thought Josef.

  ‘Sheri Anderson’s party,’ said Blyne, to the desk porter as they entered the apartment block.

  The porter looked worried. ‘You cops?’

  ‘No,’ assured Josef, immediately. ‘We’re not police. Please Where’s the party?’

  The man frowned, still unsure. Blyne reached across in an awkward handshake and under the cover of the desk, the man examined what the publisher had given him.

  ‘No,’ he agreed, smiling. ‘You ain’t cops. Twenty twelve. Top floor.’

  ‘I’d like to make it quite clear,’ said Matheson, fuzzily, as the elevator ascended. ‘That I am most sincerely sorry for what has happened.’

  The other two men ignored him. If he were Blyne, decided Josef, he’d fire the younger man.

  The three of them stopped uncertainly outside the apartment. There seemed to be several sources of music, all overlaid with the sound of people. Blyne and Matheson turned to Josef for guidance, so the Russian pushed through the open door. It was very dark. Red and blue shades had been arranged around the lights already brought down to their lowest illumination, but in three places hard, strobe lights had been fixed, with oscillating spheres in front of them, so they kept catching faces in grotesque grimaces. People had learned the trick and were performing to it, flicking in and out of the light, artificially distorting their faces in an obscene magic lantern. They were all women’s faces, Josef saw. One light was arranged so newcomers had to pass through, giving those already there the opportunity of seeing each arrival. Beyond the revolving light, the room opened into a lounge, where other shapes moved to music which seemed to come from every side. To the right was another room, where people also moved, apparently dancing. Couples were isolated around the wall, arms entwined, hands groping buttocks and thighs. There were couches, too, arranged around the outside of the room and there were people on them. Some were copulating, he decided, skirts hoisted waist-high. They were on their backs, Josef saw, in the normal love-making position. He had always thought homosexuals would have to do it differently, animal-like. He stared, curiously, wondering how it were possible. The apartment was very hot and the smells flickered with the light. He recognized the incense and then saw the joss-sticks smouldering in their holders around the room. There was a sweeter smell, too. which he knew must be marijuana. There would be other things, of course. He passed several people standing quite alone, their eyes fogged in some private dream. No wonder, thought Josef, the porter had been so frightened of the police. He moved further into the apartment, dodging the strobe light, edging around the locked, dancing couples, trying at the same time to avoid those who overflowed in their abandon from the couch.

  ‘Fuck me,’ said Blyne, instinctively.

  ‘Anytime, lover,’ echoed back to him, from the left-hand wall.

  There was a giggle and Josef detected a shift of interest. He could see now, providing he avoided looking directly at the revolving light. Many of them were quite beautiful, he thought. Some were quite heavily breasted from what would be silicone injections, but all were slim-waisted and svelte in full-length evening gowns. Most had long, shoulder length hair. Blonde seemed a favourite colour, he thought. Only their faces were a mistake, decided the Russian, harshly painted to draw attention, like old butterflies desperate to mate before they died.

  An enormous shudder went through him. Again, as when he had discovered Endelman and Nikolai together in London, he was engulfed with the feeling of coldness that had permeated his body at Potma, numbing him, until it became almost impossible to think. He began peering closely at couples, trying to locate Nikolai. Once he thought he had found the photographer and actually pulled the figure away from someone in a pink evening-gown, slashed to the navel, before realizing the mistake.

  ‘Later, sweetie,’ encouraged the one in the gown. ‘There’s enough for all.’

  Matheson failed to duck the strobe. It caught him and he tried to shy away, blinking, but the person operating the light followed him, like a searchlight.

  ‘Fresh blood,’ shouted the operator.

  ‘Straights,’ identified another voice. ‘Sheri’s imported some straights.’

  ‘Where? I must see. Where?’ demanded a third.

  ‘What a lovely Christmas present! Oh, she is a sweetie,’ said someone else.

  The light jumped, picking up Blyne, who ducked like someone caught doing something wrong.

  ‘They’re shy,’ accused the first. ‘Pull your skirts down, girls.’

  ‘Oh bollocks,’ erupted Blyne, annoyed at being made to look foolish.

  ‘Learn to live with them,’ someone said on Josef’s right. ‘We all have.’

  Josef saw a hand reach for the switch and the lights were turned up. From several couches there were scuffles of people disengaging and isolated protests.

  Josef jerked around as someone touched his arm. She was extraordinarily attractive, he thought, a black girl, her small-featured face framed in the flared bush of an exaggerated Afro.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m Sheri. Welcome to fun city.’

  ‘I’m looking for Jimmy Endelman, the photographer,’ said Josef. His throat felt closed and dry and the words scraped out, so that he felt ridiculous. ‘Is he here?’

  ‘I guess so,’ said the model, carelessly, nodding her head towards the second room. ‘Last time I saw him, he was balling in there. But it’s party rules that the hostess tastes the new fruit first.’

  She smiled, running her tongue sensually over her teeth and then reached out, to take his hand. Josef snatched away, repelled by the tho
ught of physical contact, an over-reaction that he immediately regretted.

  The model stopped smiling. ‘It’s another party rule that we don’t allow people with bad manners,’ she said.

  Behind him, Josef heard a sound, then a tiny, artificial scream as Blyne slapped somebody’s hand away from him.

  ‘Sheri, darling. What is this?’ protested a brunette who had accosted Matheson. ‘Going rough is fun sometimes, but they’ve got to have some finesse.’

  A frightened look flickered over the model’s face. ‘Who the hell are you?’ she demanded.

  Josef pushed by, making his way into the second room, and Blyne shouldered after him, but the model stopped Matheson, repeating her question.

  It was a bedroom, Josef realized. The divan had been pushed into a corner and several couples lay there. It was darker here, with no probing lights. Couples were dancing in cleared space, looked together and swaying to the music, hands inside each other’s clothing, mouths fluttering.

  Nikolai was in an armchair, wedged near the bed, oblivious of anything around him. He was without jacket or tie and his shirt was open to the waist. Josef stood over the writer, looking down. There were bitemarks on the man’s stomach, he saw, and he smelt, sexually. Now, Josef realized, he had retreated beyond the sensation of sex. There was a lot of noise coming from the main room, Josef heard. The music gasped to a halt and there were shouts and several screams, theatrical and posed.

  ‘Help me,’ he said to the publisher.

  They got the unprotesting writer upright and began searching for his clothing. His tie was caught under one of the seat cushions. Josef had to half roll a couple over on the divan to retrieve the jacket. They moved, then returned to their original position, without interrupting their motion. Josef draped the jacket around the writer’s shoulders and pulled him from the chair. Nikolai stood and smiled at Josef and the publisher.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, distantly.

  ‘He’s blocked out of his mind,’ diagnosed Blyne.