‘Your talk of millions confuses me. I would have accepted five hundred pesetas for the job.’
‘But you would equally accept twelve million?’
‘Are these people mad?’
‘No, they are clever businessmen.’
‘You make fun of me, Don Roberto!’
‘I do not.’
‘Then, at least, you exaggerate? What I want to know is whether this telegram will help me to buy a donkey and re-tile my roof.’
‘I can promise you an avalanche of donkeys!’
Two days later the contract came, addressed to Willie. Its thirty pages covered all possible contingencies of mutual and reciprocal fraud on the part of author and producer, as foreseen by the vigilant Dramatists Guild of the Authors League of America; and dealt with such rich minor topics as Second Class Touring Rights, Tabloid Versions, Concert Tour Versions, Foreign Language Performances, and the sale of dolls or other toys based on characters in the play …
I was leafing through the document on the café terrace that afternoon, when Len entered. ‘There’s a man at my place,’ he gasped excitedly, ‘name of Bill Truscott, who says he’s Willie’s agent! Bill and I were at Columbia together. Nice guy. He seems sort of puzzled to find no Willie … See here: could it be that you weren’t kidding me about his Broadway show the other day?’
‘I never kid. Got no sense of humour.’
‘Is that so? Well, anyhow, I told Bill you might be able to help him. Come along!’
Bill Truscott, a gaunt Bostonian, welcomed us effusively. ‘I sent The Difficult Husband to Samstag’s office ten days ago,’ he said, ‘and a spy I keep there sent word that the old s.o.b. was jumping my claim. Doesn’t like agents, favours the direct approach. But let’s get this straight: is Fedora really dead? My spy swears that he cabled Samstag from this place.’
‘Correct. He’s dead. Yet he promised to meet Samstag and discuss this document’ – I tapped the contract – ‘which maybe you’d better have a look at. Tell me, do you speak Spanish? Jaume Gelabert has no English or French.’
‘Gelabert? Who’s Gelabert? Never heard of him.’
‘Author of The Difficult Husband. Fedora’s only the translator.’
‘Only the translator – are you sure? How extremely tense! That changes everything. I took it for Fedora’s own work … What sort of a guy is this Gelabert? Any previous stage successes?’
‘He made a hit with The Indulgent Mother,’ I said, kicking Len under the table. ‘He’s a simple soul – you might call him a recluse.’
‘Know of any arrangement between Fedora and Gelabert as to the translator’s fee?’
‘I can’t think that they made one. Fedora drank, and did the job by way of a favour to Gelabert, who had been caring for him…. Are you worried about your commission?’
‘Am I worried? However, Gelabert will need an agent, and, after all, Fedora sent the play to my office. Len will vouch for me, won’t you, Len?’
‘I’m sure he will, Mr Truscott,’ I said, ‘and you’ll vouch for him. Len needs some vouching for.’
‘I’m on my knees, Don Roberto,’ Len whined, grovelling gracefully.
I let him grovel awhile, and asked Truscott: ‘But didn’t Fedora acknowledge Gelabert’s authorship in a covering letter?’
‘He did, I remember, mention a local genius who had defended him against some Chinese and was now setting off to fight the Moors, while he himself guarded the lemon grove – and would I please try enclosed play on Samstag; but that’s as far as it went, except for some passages in a crazy foreign language, full of x’s and y’s.’
‘I gather the letter has disappeared?’
Truscott nodded gloomily.
‘In fact, you can’t prove yourself to be Fedora’s agent, let alone Gelabert’s?’
No reply. I pocketed the contract and rolled myself a cigarette, taking an unnecessarily long time about it. At last I said: ‘Maybe Gelabert would appoint you his agent; but he’s a difficult man to handle. Better leave all the talking to me.’
‘That’s very nice of you … I surely appreciate it. I suppose you’ve seen a copy of The Difficult Husband?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Which makes two of us! You see: after reading Fedora’s crazy letter, I tossed the typescript, unexamined, to my secretary Ethel May, who, for all that she was the dumbest operator on Thirty-eighth Street, had beautiful legs and neat habits. Hated to throw away anything, though – even gift appeals. She filed it under “Try Mr Samstag”. Ethel May got married and quit. Then, one day, I came down with the grippe, and that same evening Sam wanted a script in a hurry – some piece by a well-known author of mine. I called Ethel May’s replacement from my sickbed and croaked: “Send off the Samstag script at once! Special messenger.” The poor scared chick didn’t want to confess that she’d no notion what the hell I was talking about. She chirped: “Certainly, Chief!” and went away to search the files. As a matter of fact, said script was still in my brief case – grippe plays hell with a guy’s memory. Scratching around, the chick comes across The Difficult Husband, and sends Sam that. A stroke of genius! – I must give her a raise. But Sam is short on ethics. He bypassed my office and cabled Fedora, hoping he’d sign along the dotted line, and remember too late that he should have got my expert advice on what’s bound to be the trickiest of contracts. If ever there was a thieving dog!’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘if Fedora had been the author, and if you’d been his agent, you’d have a right to complain. But, let’s face it, you’ve no standing at all. So calm down! I suggest we call on Gelabert. He can probably supply supper.’
Night had fallen windily, after a day of unseasonable showers; and the path to Jaume’s cottage is no easy one at the best of times. The ground was clayey and full of puddles; water cascaded from the trees. I lent Truscott a flashlight; but twice he tripped over an olive root and fell. He reached the cottage (kitchen, stable, well, single bedroom) in poor shape. I gave Jaume a brief outline of the situation, and we were soon sharing his pa’mb’oli: which means slices of bread dunked in unrefined olive oil, rubbed with a half tomato and sprinkled with salt. Raw onion, bitter olives, and a glass of red wine greatly improved the dish. Pa’mb’oli was something of a test for Truscott, but he passed it all right, apart from letting oil drip on his muddied trousers.
He asked me to compliment Jaume on ‘this snug little shack. Say that I envy him. Say that we city folk often forget what real dyed-in-the-wool natural life can be!’ Then he talked business. ‘Please tell our host that he’s been sent no more than a basic contract. I’m surprised at the size of the advance, though: three thousand on signature, and two thousand more on the first night! Sam must think he’s on to a good thing. Nevertheless, my long experience as a dramatic agent tells me that we can easily improve these terms, besides demanding a number of special arrangements. Fedora is dead; or we could fiction him into the contract as the author. Unlike Gelabert, he was a non-resident American citizen, and therefore non-liable to any tax at all on the property. Maybe we can still fiction it that way …’
‘What is he saying?’ asked Jaume.
‘He wants to act as your agent in dealing with Señor Samstag, whom he doesn’t trust. The rest of his speech is of no interest.’
‘Why should I trust this gentleman more than he trusts the other?’
‘Because Willie chose Señor Truscott as his agent, and Samstag got the play from him.’
Jaume solemnly held out his hand to Truscott.
‘You were Willie’s friend?’ he asked. I translated.
‘He was a very valued client of mine.’ But when Truscott produced an agency agreement from his brief case, I gave Jaume a warning glance.
Jaume nodded. ‘I sign only what I can read and understand,’ he said. ‘My poor mother lost her share of the La Coma inheritance by trusting a lawyer who threw long words at her. Let us find a reliable notary public in
the capital.’
Truscott protested: ‘I’m not representing Gelabert until I’m sure of my commission.’
‘Quit that!’ I said sharply. ‘You’re dealing with a peasant who can’t be either bullied or coaxed.’
A cable came from Samstag: he was arriving by Swissair next day. Mercurio asked Len, who happened to be in the postman’s house, why so many prodigal telegrams were flying to and fro. Len answered: ‘They mean immense wealth for young Gelabert. His comedy, though rejected by Dom Enrique two years ago, is to be staged in New York.’
‘That moral standards are higher here than in New York does not surprise me,’ Mercurio observed. ‘Yet dollars are dollars, and Jaume can now laugh at us all, whatever the demerits of his play.’
Len brought the cable to my house, where he embarrassed me by paying an old debt of two hundred pesetas (which I had forgotten), in the hope that I might deal him into the Broadway game. ‘I don’t need much … just an itty-bitty part,’ he pleaded.
Why dash his hopes? Pocketing the two hundred pesetas, I said that his friend Bill would surely recommend him to Samstag.
News of Jaume’s good fortune ran through the village two or three times, each time gaining in extravagance. The final version made Samstag a millionaire second cousin from Venezuela who, reading the Baleares account of The Indulgant Mother, had appointed him his heir. I asked Jaume to say no more than that he was considering the American offer: it might yet prove unacceptable.
Truscott and I met Samstag’s plane at Palma airport. Spying Truscott among the crowd, he darted forward with scant respect for the Civil Guard who was shepherding the new arrivals through Customs, and grabbed his hand. ‘By all that’s holy, Bill,’ he cried, ‘I’m glad to see you. This solves our great mystery! So that anonymous package emanated from you, did it?’
‘Yes, it did, Sammy,’ said Truscott, ‘and, like all packages I’ve ever sent you, it was marked all over with my office stamp.’
‘Why, yes, my secretary did guess it might be yours, and called you at once – but you were sick, and I couldn’t get confirm – ’
The Civil Guard then unslung his rifle and used the barrel-end to prod Samstag, a small dark roly-poly of a man, back into line. Finally he emerged with his baggage and guessed that I was Mr William Fedora. When Truscott undeceived him, he grew noticeably colder towards me; but the two were soon as thick as thieves, and no less suspicious of each other. Climbing into our taxi, Samstag lighted a large cigar, and turned away from me; so I asserted myself as a principal in the business. ‘I can use one of those,’ I said, stretching out a finger and thumb.
Startled, Samstag offered me his case. ‘Take a couple,’ he begged.
I took five, smelt and pinched them all, rejected three. ‘Don’t mind me, boys!’ I said through a fragrant cloud of smoke. ‘You haggle about the special arrangements. I’ll manage the rest.’
At this reminder of our compact, Truscott hastily enlarged on the strong hold I had on Señor Gelabert, assuring Samstag that without me he would get nowhere. Samstag gave him a noncommittal ‘Oh yes?’ and then back to his discussion of out-of-town performances prior to a possible London première. Just before we sighted the village round the bend of our road, I tapped Samstag on the arm: ‘Look here, Sam, what told you that The Difficult Husband was God’s gift to Broadway?’
‘Not what but who?’ he answered cheerfully. ‘It was Sharon, of course! Sharon always knows. She said: “ Pappy, believe me, this is going to be the hottest ticket in town.” So I cabled Fedora, and flew. She’s only fourteen, my Sharon, and still studying at Saint Teresa’s. You should see her grades: lousy isn’t the word! And yet she always knows…. Takes a script, sniffs it, reads three lines here, four there; spends a couple of minutes on Act Two; skips to the final curtain…. Then’ – Samstag lowered his voice and ended in a grave whisper – ‘then she goddamwell pronounces!’
‘So you haven’t read the script either? That makes three of us. What about having a look at it after supper? Or, to save time and eyesight, we might have Len Simkin – another Thespian chum of yours, Sam – read it aloud to us?’
‘If you insist. Perhaps Señor Gelabert has a copy. I haven’t brought one myself – came here for business, not to hear a dramatic reading.’
In fact, nobody had a script. But that did not prevent Samstag and Truscott from arguing Special Arrangements together at the village inn all the rest of the day, until everything seemed sewed up. The meeting with Señor Gelabert, they congratulated themselves, would be a mere formality.
Hair slicked, shoes well brushed, Jaume arrived at our rendezvous in his Sunday best, and showed impressive sang-froid. Early cares, ill luck, and the tough barrack life at Melilla had made a man of him. After profuse congratulations, which Jaume shrugged off, Samstag sent for the village taxi and invited us both to dinner in Palma. Len, to his disappointment, was left behind. We chose Aqui Estamos, Majorca’s most select restaurant, where Samstag kept slapping Jaume’s shoulders and crying ‘¡Amigo!’, varied with ‘¡Magnífico!’, and asking me to translate Sharon’s appreciative comments on the play, one of which was: ‘The name part couldn’t be more like you, Pappy!’ (‘¡El papel titular corresponde precisamente contigo, Papaito!’) At this Jaume, now full of crayfish, asparagus, roast turkey, wild strawberries and champagne, smiled for the first time that evening. We wound up around 3 a.m. drinking more and worse champagne to the sound of flamenco in a gipsy night club. Truscott and Samstag, who were flying back together at 8 a.m., had let themselves go properly; their goodbyes could not have been warmer.
However, Jaume had stood by his guns: declining to commit himself until he could read the amended contract and get it approved by a reliable notary. Nor would he anticipate his good fortune by the purchase of so much as a pig, let alone an ass.
When Truscott finally sent me the document, Len offered his expert advice gratis – he knew all about Broadway contracts, and could tell at a glance whether anything were wrong. ‘Maybe Bill and Sammy did a crooked deal together,’ he suggested. ‘Of course, he’s an old friend of mine, but in show business …’
Shaking Len off, I took the contract to Jaume’s cottage. ‘A letter from Señor Samstag is attached,’ I told him. ‘Shall I read it first, or shall I first translate this document?’
‘The document first, if you please.’
I read: ‘Whereas the Author, a member of the Dramatists Guild of the Authors League of America Inc. (hereinafter called the “Guild”) has been preparing the book of a certain play or other literary property now entitled The Difficult Husband. And whereas the Producer etc., etc., desires to produce the said play in the United States and Canada, etc., etc…. Now therefore, in consideration of the premises and the mutual promises and covenants herein contained and other good and valuable considerations, it is agreed:
‘FIRST: The Author hereby (a) warrants that he is the author of the said play and has a right to enter into this agreement – ’
Jaume interrupted: ‘But I am not a member of this Guild!’
‘Never mind you can apply for membership.’
‘And if they won’t accept a foreigner?’
‘Don’t worry! Señor Truscott will fix you up. Let’s get on: “The Author (b) agrees that on compliance with this contract –” ’
‘Maybe, Don Roberto, you should translate the letter first.’
‘Very well, then…. It says here that Señor Samstag greatly enjoyed his visit to Majorca, and is delighted that we all see eye to eye, and that it only remains for you to sign the attached instrument, your agent, Señor Truscott, having agreed with him on the terms.
‘Then, wait a bit … then the tone of the letter changes. While still considering the play to be superb, Señor Samstag suggests certain radical changes in the treatment. It is by no means good theatre yet, he writes. The Difficult Husband, for instance, remains too static a character; his actions are predictabl
e, and so is the eventual victory of his wife. In a sophisticated play, the leading man’s character must develop; and this development must be substantiated by brisk dialogue. Here, the Husband should grow gradually less difficult, more human, as the action advances. Also, he should be granted an occasional small victory over his wife …’
Jaume’s eyes were smouldering. ‘He says that, does he, the imbecile?’
I tried to smooth him down. ‘After all, show-business people are apt to understand the market. They study it year in, year out.’
‘Read on!’
‘He insists that the scene where the couple quarrel about household accounts must be changed. Let the husband, instead, teach his wife how to manage something else, something visible – say, a television set or a garbage disposer. “In the theatre we want to see things,” he writes. “Then, when the wife wins his permission to take a long cruise and pretends that she has gone, but stays ashore to save household money – this is most unconvincing! Let her go for her health, really go, and fall in love with a handsome adventurer on the ship! Her husband can get comically jealous at the beginning of the Third Act –” ’
‘Stop!’ Jaume roared. ‘Why does this fellow first telegraph that my play is magnificent, and now want to change it altogether, though offering me the same immense sum of money?’
‘Patience, Jaume! He cabled “Bravo!” because he hadn’t read your play. Now he writes the reverse because he still hasn’t read it. Knowing you to be inexperienced, he naturally entrusts The Difficult Husband to his assistants, who are expert play-doctors. The suggestions you so dislike emanate from these play-doctors. If you will not rewrite the play, that task necessarily falls to them, or to someone working under their direction.’
‘Then it will no longer be mine?’
‘Oh yes, it will be! You’re protected by the contract. Your name will flash out in red, green, and yellow neon lights from the front of the theatre, and you will get the big money. Play-doctors get no more than their salaries. They can’t write plays; they can only rewrite them.’
The Second Penguin Book of English Short Stories Page 22
