Everything Happened to Susan

by Malzberg, Barry

  “I thought we could just go along this way, couldn’t we? You were the one who said that we had to maintain our freedom of choices. I don’t want to discuss it, really Timothy,” Susan says. “I should be relaxing and trying to concentrate on my roles. I’ve got to prove that I can bring conviction — ”

  “Conviction! I know what kind of conviction you’re bringing! Don’t look at me that way, I’m not naive. I deal with the most dispossessed, demoralized, alienated, dangerous, and asocial segment of the population: I have their case records right in front of me and I read things that would turn you white. I used to go to their homes and try to rehabilitate them! I want you to get out of that film, Susan. Emotional commitment is one thing and the film is another. I won’t have it! You have to get out of that business.”

  “You said it was perfectly all right for me to go. You said that each of us was entitled to lead his separate life.”

  “Well,” Timothy says, “that was before I had to come to terms with the effect of this upon my psyche. It’s shattering. Tell me what you did today. No, I take it back, don’t tell me what you did. It would upset me terribly. Just stop doing it.”

  Susan looks around Timothy’s apartment carefully. She knows it very well; furthermore, every corner of it seems to lurk with sexual memory. There is not a single area of this apartment, it seems, where in one form or another they have not had sex. Say what you will of Timothy, things have been intense in their way. She takes it all in carefully, as if for the last time and then stands. “I’m leaving,” she says.

  “You’re what?”

  “I’m going to leave you, Timothy. I can’t come back to this. You have no idea of what I’ve been through today.”

  “Oh yes I do!”

  “All right, maybe you do. I can’t take this any more. I can’t take any more scenes. Probably I’ll go into the Barbizon for a while. There isn’t that much of my stuff here anyway.”

  “Now listen,” Timothy says, moving over, putting his hands on her shoulders. “There’s no need to be hasty about this. I mean, you can express your hostility in some other fashion, I think; you can channel it more reasonably. No one here is asking you to leave.”

  “I don’t care about that. I can’t be put through any more scenes, Timothy. I don’t have the stamina.”

  “Well, whose fault is that?”

  “I wanted to be an actress,” Susan says. “I still want to. At least I’ve got work. It’s a start and an opportunity. I won’t have you stopping me.” She listens to herself with interest; she sounds passionate and dedicated. “You have no right to interfere in my life that way. Am I stopping you from writing your novel?”

  “My novel is an extension of myself. I’m not selling myself — ”

  “You know something, Timothy?” Susan says. “I’m going to tell you the truth. I can’t read your novel. It just doesn’t make any sense. I may be wrong; I don’t know a thing about writing, but I don’t think that you’re very good. Which is all the more reason why you have no right to tell me what to do.”

  After that things get very bad; it is their worst fight yet, which is saying a good deal, and at the end of it it is not Susan but Timothy who walks out, grabbing his coat and saying that he is leaving on personal business and when he comes back at midnight he does not want to see her there. On the other hand, if she wants to be reasonable she can stay, but, if he finds her, he will assume that she will take the relationship on meaningful terms. He leaves, comes back to remind her that she owes him twenty dollars for a personal loan and that she is not to touch the pages of his novel under any circumstances. Then he walks and returns again, picks the manuscript off the desk, slams it into his attaché case, and closing it with difficulty staggers out, this time not closing the door. Susan decides that she feels sorry for him but then that she is not. She thinks about breaking up his apartment but decides that behavior like this is not worthy of a college graduate. She thinks about leaving instantly after scrawling foul notes to him all over the walls and mirrors but does not have the energy. Happily she is saved from all of this by a sudden call from Frank, the Ph.D. candidate who says that he has, with much difficulty, and a few bribes been able to track her down, is right around the corner, and would be delighted to take her to dinner if she has no other plans. Susan says that she would be happy to do this but ‘sex in their relationship is now completely out of the question because of other circumstances. Frank says this is fine; he never had much luck with girls anyway until he got started in the pornographic film business and now he is unable to conceive of sex apart from certain postures made before cameras, a problem which he hopes a psychiatrist will someday help him alleviate. They arrange for him to meet her outside in five minutes and Susan, throwing her clothing into a suitcase, leaves Timothy’s apartment pretty much as she had found it, the only difference, in fact, being that his novel is not on the desk where it had dominated the room from the first time she had walked in.

  CHAPTER XXXI

  Eventually, Susan returns with Frank to his apartment. He has a massive seven-room, rent-controlled place on upper Central Park West whose primary tenant is his mother; it seems that his family has lived here for generations and that they are paying the lowest authorized rent in New York City. Frank concedes that being thirty-four years old and living with his mother is embarrassing and that it puts a certain dent in his social life but, on the other hand, the old lady is the primary tenant and, if she were to leave, his case before the rent control board would be very weak. He has three and a half of the rooms to himself and scarcely ever sees his mother. They meet occasionally in the vestibule but that is all. Or so he says. They are merely tenants with adjoining apartments and she is a rather senile but gentle old lady who occasionally takes too intimate an interest in his toilet habits. Frank leads Susan to one of the bedrooms, neatly if sparsely furnished in materials that seem to be fifty years old and then leaves her, saying that she is welcome to stay. At the door he gives her a meaningful look, full of trepidation and she sees that in a stumbling fashion he is trying to ask for sex. She pretends not to recognize that. The day has simply been too filled with activity of that sort and other kinds, although in the past, she had gone to bed with men like Frank simply because it was less trouble than to do otherwise. The moment passes, the look shifts, and Frank says that he will wake her at seven so that they can go down to the studio together. Susan gathers that he wants, by taking her in with him, to give the impression to the others that they have had sex and she says that that would be fine. He closes the door, she puts out the light, she falls into bed, still clothed and almost immediately begins to dream.

  The dream is composed of many things: colors and faces and images of the loft but it coalesces around dinner with Frank; once again he is sitting across from her in the restaurant, looking at her with an intensity in which passion and fear seem intermixed. “I like this, you see,” he says to her again, “because in a pornographic film it’s right up front, the message and intent I mean. There’s no dissumulation, no hypocrisy. People are reduced right away to what the hidden conditioners of society say they are: just cocks and cunts driven toward one another. All that it is is a commercial with the clothes off which makes it less obscene because the only thing the pornographic films are selling is jerking off which is a subject on which I happen to be an expert. Any unmarried graduate student learns a good deal about jerking off simply by opportunity but I am happy to say that as a result of my intelligence and diligent application I probably have mastered more of the fundamental techniques and sophistries of jerking off than anyone who ever lived. At least, anyone from my socioeconomic background. “He folds his hands in the dream, regards a glass of club soda before him with an abashed expression, takes a hurried sip and then puts it down, seeming on the verge of saying something, but he is unable to speak.

  In the restaurant Susan had said almost nothing; he had gone on like that for hours, but in the dream she is perfectly articulate as she almost
never is in real life and she says to him, “All you men talk as if you had invented sex. As if it was meant only for you and you were the only people who understood it. Don’t you see that it works two ways? That’s the trouble with this film. The women are in it only as a means to satisfy the men.”

  “That’s an old argument and misses the point,” Frank says. “Of course pornographic films are for men just as cosmetics are for women. All the men in the cosmetics advertisements look and act just the way women do in skin flicks. That doesn’t mean anything more than the nature of the medium. Anyway,” he says, knocking the glass of club soda onto the table, small streams and driblets coming at her in waves, “anyway that’s all nonsense. I want to make love to you right here in this place.” He embraces her, puts his tongue with violence against her lips, and forces it into her; she struggles against him but he is too strong, the situation too compact for flight, and now the restaurant is dissolving. It is coming down upon her in small convulsions of stone and ash; it encircles her and becomes a bed composed of sheets which whip and flail about her as she struggles to avoid Frank but he is insistent, demanding, necessitious. “Get it up!” he screams, “get it up, get it there!” and she fights against him. She does not want to be violated. She has been violated too many times now. “Get it up!” he says, “get up, get up!” and she rises in the bed, her hands flung wildly, to find him standing over her, a puzzled and panicked expression on his face, apology in his eyes. It is seven o’clock, he tells her, and now it is time to go to work. She laughs, laughs with relief and, holding her arms out to him, gathers his confused and joyous form against her. It is not much of a fuck. He assaults her with small circular strokes, quizzicality in his body, a wish not to hurt her, and she can barely feel him coming but can she ever hear him!

  CHAPTER XXXII

  At the loft the director is in an ebullient mood for reasons that he never explains. He has brought in a large overstuffed chair that he now uses instead of the parapet from which to address them. He sits in it comfortably, his legs outstretched, while they kneel at his feet. “Children,” the director says, “children, we were all very short-tempered with one another yesterday and on the first day of production this is understandable, but I want you to know that I looked at rushes later on, after all of you were in bed, and I am happy to say that they are not that bad. There is a certain quality to them, a certain ambience may I say, which portends good things; there is an unprofessional eagerness and lack of pretension, very common to amateurs of course, a certain quality I find most refreshing. It is possible that out of all of this we may get a production. On the other hand, it is possible that we may not. It is hard to tell. In any event, children, I find myself in a more pleasant and patient frame of mind today and hope that you are the same and together I hope that we will be able, as your expression goes, to make music together.” He wheels with difficulty in the chair and stares behind it. Phil emerges from the background and stands next to him, a rather uneasy smile casting shadows on his face as he looks past them toward the walls. “Now another gentleman who most of you know would similarly like to say a few words,” the director says.

  Phil moves forward, leans against the chair with a palm and says, “I don’t have too much to say. I just thought that I’d come down on behalf of the management and try to make a couple things clear to you. I, uh, understand that a few of you think that this is just another dirty film and aren’t taking it so seriously for that reason. This is not a dirty film. I think that I’ve told most of you individually that we have plans to do this in commercial run and possibly at major theatre outlets. This is a very serious piece of work and you’ll find that, if you do the job, you’ll be backed up all the way. I mean,” Phil says, “I just mean to say the pornography market is shot. There isn’t any room for the dirties as such any more. No one’s interested. We got to go out and find some higher horizons if we want to justify ourselves in the business, that’s all. We got to have some vision and some enterprise. You’ll find that we’re not dealing in pornography here, and, if you would give this the same seriousness and respect that you’d give a straight play, we’d all be better off. That’s all I have to say.” Phil retires, aided to some degree by an amazing spatter of handclaps which come from sources which Susan cannot identify; certainly none of the actors are applauding nor is the director who, eyes on the floor, now seems to be considering his professional future. Perhaps it is the technicians who are clapping. The technicians too are much more cheerful today as they perch on the equipment with elan and ease. Phil, completely disconcerted by the applause, goes back to his office. The shooting day begins. They start at eight fifteen which is even earlier than yesterday and it goes on and on, not ending until well after five. Later on Susan is told that eight hours of final film were made that day which, even for this kind of production, is remarkable.

  The scenes blur together and unlike yesterday she does not try to make any sense of the script. For some perverse reason things go much easier this way. It is simpler just to walk through the roles, delivering the lines flatly and performing mechanically without trying to look for motivation or plot. Perhaps on some higher level the script does make sense — Susan wants to believe that all the things the director has said are true and that the film is a serious statement — but scene-by-scene it makes none at all. A group of historical figures, almost always two-by-two, address each other in obscene language and then perform sexual acts. The acts vary. So do the lines. But the scenes all seem pretty much the same. Whoever has written the script seems to believe that a scene has three elements: an initial confrontation, a proposal/refusal, and vigorous sexual activity which usually terminates in anger. Susan does not, despite her affair with Timothy, know too much about writing, but the language strikes her as being rather stilted and the characterizations mediocre. Nevertheless with each moment, she feels she is moving closer to a professional breakthrough.

  In one of the scenes she portrays Joan of Arc being burned alive at the stake. Two actors, playing a priest and a politician kneel in front of her as tricks with lighting are used to give the effect of flames surrounding her body. “Burn witch, burn,” one of them says. “We’ve had enough of this nonsense.”

  “I will burn,” Susan says, delivering the lines flatly, “but a higher judgment awaits you. Anyway, I have led France to a greater destiny than you have and you cannot take this from me.”

  “Heretic,” the priest says. “Maid of Orleans indeed. I call you whore.”

  “I am a virgin. My body has never been entered by a man or by a woman either.”

  “Well,” the politician says, “we’ll have to fix that,” and, tossing off his robes hurls himself upon her, he begins to simulate vigorous sex while the lights wash over them. “This is nonsense,” the actor observes. “How can someone write lines like this?” and with a very slight erection mimes an orgasm and emits a low crooning moan. “So much for your virginity,” the politician says, and backs off from her, making obscene gestures. “What do you have to say for the destiny of France now?”

  “There is nothing that you can do,” Susan says, closing her eyes. She puts her back firmly into the cheap, wooden cross that is being used as a prop, feels splinters press into her flesh. “Consider my religious vision,” she says. “Consider the question of overthrow.”

  “Nonsense,” the actor playing the priest says and cackles, a thin, high, amateurish cackle and carefully lights a stick of wood which has been handed him. He moves the burning wood toward Susan; she tries not to shriek and to accept her fate with equanimity. After an instant, the director considerately cuts the scene and douses the lights. Susan moves away from the cross shaking; the actor hands the wood to a technician who smiles at it and tosses it into a bucket of water. “There was no veracity there,” the director says in the distance. “None whatsoever.”

  “Now he wants veracity,” the actor mumbles. “Am I supposed to burn the place down?”

  “Without veracity, without
conviction, all of this becomes a travesty. We will have to take this scene again.”

  “Can I rest?” Susan says. “We don’t have to do it right now, do we?”

  “Not now,” the director says. “In due course. You are projecting fear. You cannot project fear in this kind of a situation; it destroys the entire sense of the scene. Off the area, please. We must proceed.”

  “Listen,” the actor mumbles to her behind as he leads Susan toward the side, “listen, what would you say if you and I just left this place right now?” He is a short intense man with maniacal eyes; excellent casting, she supposes, for a religious fanatic although his acting is completely amateurish. She has not been able to catch his name. “Surely we don’t need the money that bad, do we?”

  “I’m sorry,” Susan says. “I have to study the script.”

  “You’re dedicated, aren’t you? Insanely dedicated. I saw that right off.”

  “I have no time to talk.”

  “We do need the money then, don’t we?” the actor says and wanders away from her, picks his own script off the floor and incongruously reaches under a chair to find a pair of thick glasses. Susan shuts all of this out and looks over the lines of her next scene with fervor. It is hard to explain, but, no matter what she thinks of the situation, she wants to give a rounded performance.

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  Other shots go better, like the Roman orgy which is one of the major spectacles of the film. The director makes this last scene before lunch so that there will be an edge on their performances. This is a mass spectacle. For the first time, all six of the actors are on the set simultaneously and, in response to bellowed orders by one of the technicians, they arrange themselves in various postures and groupings. Then in response to further orders, they begin to improvise. Susan finds herself in an unspeakable position with Frank who has gravitated toward her, finds equally incredible things being done to her below, but, with several bodies lying across and between her limbs, she cannot localize the source of the disturbance. She can only, in reaction to the suggestions of the director, begin to perform other acts upon Frank. His eyes gleam, his breath comes in rapid gasp, his eyes close, and, in a series of small rolling gestures beneath her, he appears to be going to have an orgasm but the moment of tension goes away. He cannot produce sex on demand he mutters. But Susan remembers that she is constructed differently; on demand or not, strange things are happening inside her and she knows that the camera is picking up all of the details. For the first time she wonders if she really wants to appear in this film — major production or not. Her face is going to be on a lot of movie screens. Was a Roman orgy ever like this? she asks herself as she feels herself impelled from side to side, bodies shuttling around her. If orgies were like this, how did the Romans ever get anything worthwhile done? And what is the point, at this late hour, if reconstructing torrid scenes that didn’t happen after all? Isn’t the Fall of Rome really too far back in the past to have anything to do with the present situation? Or did Rome fall because of orgies like this? She wonders and feels herself being lifted, feels herself being carried to heights, her back straight to the floor, her arms now over her head, her legs high in the air. She feels the shock of quick entrance, burrowing within her, although not accomplished by whoever has lifted her. He, instead, is doing things to the soles of her feet. She seems to be attracting a disproportionate amount of attention. Looming over her she sees two breasts, above the breasts the face of a girl whose mouth is distended into an o of concentration and surprise. Cold and hard the girl stares at her and then bends down deliberately and kisses her on the mouth. Susan does not even know her name. Unlike the men she has not even had a physical awareness of the girls or their names. This girl squirms, moans, works her tongue between Susan’s teeth. Susan thinks lesbianism. The kiss builds up in intensity, while other actors manipulate her thighs. Her female partner begins to mutter tensely and incoherently deep in her throat and Susan feels herself rising; something is happening to her. There are hands on her breasts, fingers pressing onto the nipples, and Susan faints. Everything moves far away from her and then she is in a tube of blankness spiraling downward.