When Weber’s name was announced as the winner of the best director award, Arlen put her fingers together and whistled like a doorman. Before going down to accept it, he pulled her up out of her seat and hugged her a long time. She was crying when he let go. Clapping madly, she didn’t sit down again until he started his speech, thanking everyone, but her most of all.
It would have been perfect if she’d won for best actress, but she didn’t. Instead, some old woman who should have won years before for much better performances wobbled up and thanked the Academy with a wink and a measured smile that said, All of us know I shouldn’t be up here for this but—”
Crying, I turned to Arlen and said, “It’s wrong. You deserve it and everyone here knows that. The whole world knows it, Arlen.”
She squeezed my hand and said, “Everything you want in life has teeth.”
A week later she moved to Austria for good.
Part Two
WYATT
“Holy cow, it’s Finky Linky! May I have your autograph?”
I love giving autographs, love the fact someone thinks my signature is important enough to want to keep. What astonished me was that people still asked for it years after I’d disappeared from the almighty television eye. It had been so long since I was a celebrity that it seemed like life on another planet. So now when someone came up and recognized me for the being I once was, it was like a phone call from Saturn or Pluto. But a welcome call certainly, one that I was glad to receive.
The only problem was that Sophie and I had just finished a horrendous trip from Los Angeles, one of those flights from hell the modern traveler is subjected to more and more. The ordeal began when our flight was delayed for an hour and we were stuck in the hot packed plane, our freshly pressed clothes and spirits already sinking into wilt. Then, in evil stereo, two unhappy babies traded off shifts of howling around us throughout most of the flight. Round the ride off with a pack of stewardesses so lacking in kindness and professional concern that you were afraid to ask for a glass of water for fear of annoying them.
Twelve hours to Europe, then a three-hour layover, where our jet-lagged and shell-shocked burning eyes watched the frenetic race and flutter of that giant airport. Finally back onto another plane for the flight to Vienna. On arriving we were supposed to have been met by Sophie’s sister-in-law Caitlin, but she didn’t show up, and we had to figure out how to get from the airport to town in a language that neither of us understood beyond my high school German.
Welcome to Europe. We took a bus to the Hilton, and as I wrestled our bags from here to there, I heard that normally welcome request. I was so tired, stressed, and confused by the rush of what was going on and where we were that I didn’t think it strange to be asked for an autograph in Vienna, Austria, where there couldn’t have been a whole lot of people who’d seen The Finky Linky Show, much less recognized me long after it was off the air.
When I turned to see who was asking, I laughed for the first time in twenty hours. One of the most beautiful and, until a few years before, famous women in the world held out a cheap pen and a scrap of paper for me to sign.
“I’m your biggest fan, Mr. Linky.”
“Arlen! My God, how long has it been?”
We embraced. “Too long, Wyatt. Too damned long.”
“I completely forgot that you live here. How great! Arlen, this is my friend Sophie.” The two women shook hands. Sophie said hello but her face didn’t, which was strange because normally she’s very open and pleased to meet new people. But it was plain she didn’t take to Arlen, who, despite her fame, happened to be one of the nicer people I knew. The Arlen Ford too, the one who had had the colossal nerve and courage to walk away from her movie star career at its peak. Weber Gregston had introduced us years before, and for a while we saw quite a bit of each other. She was smart and sensitive and great company. Also she had been generous enough to come on my show a couple of times and be silly with us. Judging from the mail we received afterward, she was a big hit with the kids.
We stood around chatting for a while until a man came up behind her and touched her shoulder. She whirled around and, on seeing him, Arlen simply blasted out love and joy. Whoever this fellow was, he owned most of the real estate in her heart; nothing could have been plainer. She took his hand and gestured toward us. “Wyatt and Sophie, this is Leland Zivic.”
“Hello, Leland. Tell me again how you say your last name.”
A warm and friendly smile broke across his face, revealing big white teeth with an interesting gap between the front two. “Ziv-itch. I know, it’s a funny one. Part of me is Yugoslavian.”
They were on their way to Italy. When I’d known Arlen in California, she was cool and sophisticated and didn’t suffer fools gladly. The same woman now reminded me of a teenager in the first throes of love. She couldn’t take her eyes off Leland. In Hollywood she’d had the reputation for living close to men who worked out too much or fought too much and wore sunglasses after dark. But from his looks, Zivic was definitely not one of those. Quite tall, he had longish brown hair and a pleasant round face that appeared open and friendly. I think his eyes were a bit small, but it was hard to tell because he wore wire-rimmed glasses with gray-tinted lenses. He had on a brown leather jacket, corduroy pants about the same color, and scruffy white sneakers. Comfortable clothes. That’s all. Everything about him looked comfortable, even his face. As if he were a living, breathing easy chair you loved to sink into whenever you had the chance. All this took place in no more than five or six minutes, but I came away with the impression that Arlen was madly in love with a plain nice man. I didn’t know if I was more delighted or surprised.
She gave me her telephone number and said to be sure to call in a few days so that we could get together for a meal. She made a point of including Sophie in her invitation, but again my friend was merely pleasant in her thanks. The happy couple got onto an airport bus and we went looking for a taxi.
When we’d found one and were in it, Sophie dug her brother’s address out of her purse and slowly tried to pronounce the endless German name to the driver. He shook his head, turned in his seat, and gestured for the paper.
“Laimgrubengasse. Okay!”
She sat back and turned to me. “How come every word in German sounds like a command?”
“They’ve had a lot of practice. Why did you give Arlen the cold shoulder? That’s not like you.”
“Did I? I guess I’m tired. No, that’s not the reason. It’s because I never liked her. Every film I saw her in, she gave the feeling she was so very pleased with her performance. Like Meryl Streep, another of my least favorite actresses. Gangway for Her Majesty, Queen Drama. Start polishing the Oscars.”
“Oh, come on! Did you see her in Wonderful? You’ve got to admit that was a great film.”
“Great film, but she wasn’t great in it. I clapped when she didn’t win the Oscar.”
I wasn’t in the mood to argue. Sophie was as fixed in her opinions as any stubborn, self-assured person is. Once in a while it was fun trying to argue her out of them, but most of the time it was useless and I had long ago stopped trying. Right at the moment the only thing I wanted to do was sit in a chair larger than an airplane seat, hold a drink in my hand, and feel grateful I didn’t have to move for a while.
Out the window, Vienna looked much as I had expected it would. Most of the large European cities I’ve visited have a solid dignity and timelessness; the buildings have been around long enough to see a good bit of history. I know things over here are as trendy and impermanent as they are anywhere else, but one constantly gets the feeling that these places will stay as they are now, as they have been, for centuries. The impressive streets, wide as airport runways, will be the same when people float down them in hover cars or spaceships or whatever the future invents. Where America is all fresh and flux, Europe is like old wealth: no matter what happens, it will always be there.
When we passed what we later found out was the State Opera House
, the driver languidly lifted an arm in its direction and said, “Opern.” When this information didn’t register on either of us, he shook his head at our stupidity and put mad Arabic music on the car stereo, top volume.
“Is this Cairo or Vienna?”
“Should we offer him a big tip if he turns it down?”
Since we would have had to scream to be heard over the snaking and screeching of the music, neither of us said another word for the rest of the ride. Also, it seemed every time I happened to look into the rearview mirror, his eyes were there checking me out.
Laimgrubengasse is a very narrow, short street that slants up sharply and then angles into another small street. A few doors down from the Chapmans’ building was a restaurant called Ludwig Van. A plaque on the façade said Beethoven had lived in the house when he was in Vienna.
The cab left us and drove away, music still attacking. I trudged our bags over to the door, where Sophie was already pressing the intercom button. No answer. We looked at each other, clearly the same thought crossing our minds: What now? What do we do if no one’s home?
“Is Caitlin dependable?”
“Extremely. Something important or bad must have come up for her not to meet us at the airport. It worries me.” Sophie scowled and pressed the button again for several seconds. “I’ve got to talk to her and find out—”
“Hello?” A small voice came out of the intercom, a woman’s, sounding very far away.
“Hello, Caitlin? It’s Sophie. Wyatt and I are here!”
“Hi, Sophie, Um. Um.”
“What’s the matter? Let us in, willya? We’ve got all these bags.”
“I… Sophie, I can’t. There’s a big problem here. Look, um, go down the street, Laimgrubengasse, till it meets with Gum-pen-dor-fer-strasse. On Gumpendorf go left and you’ll see a café; it’s called the Sperl. Go in and wait for me. I’ll come in ten minutes.”
Sophie exploded into the speaker. “Are you crazy? We’re not going to any café! We just flew a million miles and you’re not going to let us in?”
Caitlin’s voice came back loud and just as angry. “Please do what I tell you! I’ll be at the Sperl in ten minutes. Yes, I know you came all this way, Sophie, but you’ll understand why I’m asking. Believe me, it’s important.” The connection broke with a definite electric click. The two of us were left looking at the nondescript apartment building and a black pile of suitcases at our feet that now needed to be lugged again.
I slowly began pulling one up onto my shoulder. “This is the strangest welcome I’ve ever had to a new city. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not complaining. I only wish I were twenty years old and could appreciate it more.”
Cross as she was, Sophie came and put her arms around my tired neck. “Do you want to kill me? I want to kill my sister-in-law, so you have every right.”
“No, but I do have to sit down soon. I’m very tired and need to take a pill, or there’ll be problems.”
“Oh, Wyatt, I completely forgot… Here, let me take those bags.”
“No, I can handle them. Let’s find this café and have some beer. Is the beer in Austria as good as it is in Germany?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been here before. What did she call it, Gumperstorstrada? Laimgrubengasse. How come every street here sounds like a Hungarian recipe?”
The Sperl was not hard to find. Imagine a European café, dust it with age and romance, and there you are. Men played billiards quietly and seriously in a corner, waiters in tuxedoes with white napkins draped over their arms moved gracefully from the kitchen to the tables, where, with dramatic swoops of the arm and little murmurs as to what they were serving, they laid white cups or plates of pastry on the marble tables. Old men and women read newspapers in half a dozen languages, lovers huddled and cuddled in corners. Because it was midafternoon, the café was only half filled. We found room for us and our bags and settled into the pleasant drowsiness of the place. Our beers were finished in no time, and a pair of sausages with golden rolls and bright yellow mustard being served to someone nearby looked so delicious that we ordered some and more beer and went on waiting for Part Two of The Vienna Affair to unfold. Neither of us said much, not even when the original ten minutes turned into twenty and then half an hour. When I got up to go to the bathroom, Sophie rose with me. “Maybe I should call her. What do you think?”
“I think you should wait a while longer and then do it. If she’s as dependable as you say, there’s a reason that she’s not here yet. Let her do it her way.”
“You’re right. Oh, shit.” She sat back down. “I don’t want any more beer or hot dogs and I don’t want to be in this café. And why don’t I just shut up? Go to the bathroom, Wyatt. I’ll be okay.”
When I was done, I spent quite a while at the sink washing my face and hands, trying with cold water to splash life back into my body and mind.
On my way out, I collided with a woman who was in a hurry to get into the ladies’ room. Those quick jarring moments of bump, oops, excuse me were doubly disorienting because I was tired anyway. Rounding the corner thus muddled, I saw someone at the table with Sophie, but it didn’t register that it must be Caitlin Chapman. Perhaps because for a woman in the midst of the chaos of a missing husband, she looked fine. In fact, she looked better than when I’d last seen her in Los Angeles. She was speaking animatedly, one arm extended across the table, holding Sophie’s wrist. She wore a black sweatshirt and jeans, a silver bracelet high up on her left arm, and her hair was combed in place. I watched them a few seconds. Both were bent forward; both appeared to be talking at once. Two nice-looking women in early middle age chatting it up in a Viennese café.
Why did I feel I would be trespassing if I interrupted them? Sophie had forced me to come with her here. Didn’t that make me as much a part of the strange adventure as either of them? No. Because my blood and love weren’t involved. I was doing Sophie a favor, and grudgingly at that. I was in Vienna because of a best friend. As my part of a long-forgotten deal struck on a mountaintop in Switzerland. I was here not because I was concerned or felt compelled to be here, so I hesitated to go forward and make my presence known. But what were they talking about so animatedly? What new thing had come up since we boarded the plane in L.A. that forced us to be meeting her here rather than in her apartment?
Trespasser or not, I couldn’t stand not knowing what was up, and I walked over. Caitlin turned and saw me. Springing up, she raced over and hugged me. I knew for a fact that Caitlin Chapman was not a hugger. Normally she was a kind, albeit reserved and quiet woman who spent most of her life in the shadow of her outgoing and aggressive husband. Another thing that took me by surprise was her embrace. It went on so long that I started looking over her shoulder at Sophie, who gestured with her hands for me to put up with it and let the poor woman squeeze as long as she liked.
“Wyatt, it’s good of you to come! So generous.”
“Caitlin, what’s happening? What’s the problem? Is it something new about Jesse? Have you heard anything?”
“Yes, I was just telling Sophie. Can we go back to the table so that she can hear too? Jesse’s back! He came home this morning.”
After hitting me with that left hook out of nowhere, she took my hand, and as we walked back to the table I looked at Sophie and mouthed the words “He’s back?” She nodded.
“Sit down, Wyatt. You have to hear all this because you’re important to it now.”
I was in the middle of sitting, but stopped halfway after a line as ominous as that. “More than before?” The women looked at each other. I got the hint. “Obviously more. Go ahead, start from the beginning.”
Caitlin was sitting opposite Sophie and me. I still couldn’t get over how neat and ordered she looked. Nothing frazzled or frizzy, not one hair out of place. I know people deal with their problems in different ways, but how could she go days missing her partner, terrified every minute that he might be seriously hurt or dead, yet still look as if she’d just come from the hairdre
sser’s?
“Wyatt, you know my husband pretty well—”
“No, he doesn’t,” Sophie interrupted. “They’ve met only a few times. You were there when they had that stupid fight. Jesse doesn’t like Wyatt because he’s gay.”
Caitlin’s eyes widened as she snatched a quick embarrassed look at me to see how I responded to that. Sophie waved it away impatiently. “Look, there’s no time for decorum now. My brother Jesse is a decent man. Too much of the time he’s a stiff tightass who refuses to accept that he could be wrong about things, but that’s his failing. We all have ours. What you’re going to hear now you have to put in that context. What I mean is, here’s a guy—Wyatt—who is the original skeptic. He believes a deal is real only when the contract is put in front of him to sign. He doesn’t like French restaurants because he can’t understand the menu. You get the drift. Seeing is believing. Go ahead, Cait.”
Her friend looked at me and began again hesitantly. “About a week ago, Jesse got up one morning and went into the bathroom—to wash up and brush his teeth, I thought. He’s almost always up before me and starts making breakfast for the two of us. This time—I don’t know how long it was, but I’d guess half an hour later—I got up and went in there. He was sitting on the toilet with his head in his hands, not moving. I thought he was sick to his stomach and had been throwing up, but then I saw that the seat cover was down. I went over to ask if he was all right but the moment I touched him, he pulled back as if he’d been stabbed. And his eyes were as wild as a horse’s in a fire. The only other time I’d seen him that way in our whole marriage was once when we were in a bad car accident. Jesse’s the ultimate Mr. Dependable; nothing rattles him. But he was badly rattled that morning.
From the Teeth of Angels Page 8
