Al’s face looked blank and the boy hastened to explain. “I’m with my mother and father. They just joined your show last night.”
“Oh,” Al said as he understood suddenly. “You’re with Doc Psalter?”
“That’s my father,” Johnny had answered gravely, “but that’s not his real name. He’s really Walter Edge and my mother is Jane Edge.” He turned and pointed. “That’s their wagon over there.”
“Well then,” Al had said, “let’s go over and say hello.”
The boy turned and looked up at him gravely. “You’re Al Santos, aren’t you?”
Al nodded his head and started for the Edge wagon. Suddenly he stopped and looked down. The small boy had taken his hand as they walked toward the wagon together.
He remembered the night Johnny’s parents had been killed in the fire that burned down the big tent. Jane had been caught by the tent just as the center pole came down, and Johnny’s father had gone in after her. When they got to him, he was burned badly. The hair was gone from his head and face, pieces of raw flesh shone redly through the cracked skin.
They took him out and stretched him on the ground. Al knelt on one side of him, Johnny on the other.
Johnny’s father looked up at them. “Jane?” he asked. His voice was so faint they could hardly hear him.
Al shook his head and looked pityingly over at Johnny. Johnny was only ten years old then and his face was dull with shock. He could not understand what had happened so quickly.
Walter Edge reached up and took his son’s hand. With his other hand he brought Al’s hand over to the boy’s. “Look after him for me, Al,” he whispered. “He’s just a tyke an’ he’s got a long way to go.” He gasped for breath and then turned an agonized face to Al. “If the time comes that he ever wants to get out of this business, Al, help him. Don’t let what happened to me ever happen to him.”
That was why Al didn’t try to stop Johnny when he left the carny. He remembered the way Johnny had followed him around the carny until he learned to do everything that Al could do.
Al never had time to get married and raise a family like his brother, Luigi, and after a while it seemed to him just as if Johnny had become his own son. When Johnny decided to go back to Peter, Al said nothing. If that was what the kid wanted, that was what Al wanted for him.
Now that he had retired, he wanted to see Johnny before he went out west. He had gone up to the studio, but found no one there. He called Peter on the phone, but Peter didn’t know where Johnny had gone. He then called Johnny’s home, but there was no answer.
And now, only through accident, he had found him. It was in the saloon on Fourteenth Street where all the carny men hung out that he had come looking for Joe. He hadn’t expected to find Johnny there, but he figured that Joe would know where he was.
Joe finished his story. Al was silent for a second, then he took out a thin black stogie and lit it.
“What’s this-a combine you’re talking about?” he asked.
“They control all the picture patents among them. Without their say-so you can’t make motion pictures.” Joe looked at him curiously. He wondered what Al was getting at.
“You gotta the stuff to make-a this pitch’ with?”
“It’s all layin’ there, up in the studio,” Joe nodded.
Al turned the stogie reflectively in his hand for a moment. “Wake Johnny up,” he said, “I wanna talk to him.”
Joe got up and walked over to the bar. Tiny prickles were jumping around in his skin as they always did when he was excited. “Gimme a pitcher of ice water,” he said to the bartender.
Silently the bartender filled a pitcher under the counter and handed it to him.
Joe walked back to Johnny and held the pitcher over his head and emptied it.
The water splashed over the back of Johnny’s head and dripped down on his clothes. Johnny only stirred.
Joe went back to the bar. “Fill it up again.”
The bartender refilled the pitcher and Joe went back to Johnny and repeated the treatment.
This time Johnny came up with a start. He sat up and shook his head and stared at Joe through blurred eyes. “It’s raining,” he said.
Joe looked at him and then turned back to the bartender. “One more ought to do the trick,” he said.
Johnny tried to focus his eyes on Joe as he came back to him, but his eyes kept blurring. What was that thing Joe was carrying in his hand?
The water hit him like a flood. It was icy cold and bit through to his marrow. Suddenly his head cleared. He stood up. He was still a bit wobbly on his feet. “What the hell are you doing?” he managed to ask Joe through chattering teeth.
Joe grinned at him. “I’m trying to sober you up. We got company,” he said, pointing to Al.
10
Peter couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned on his bed all night, and the sheets were damp with sweat. Quietly Esther lay beside him. She lay awake watching him, a curious hurt within her for his suffering.
“If there were only something I could do for him,” she thought, “something I could say to make him really feel that it doesn’t matter what happens—that the only important thing is that he tried. But there’s nothing.”
Peter looked up through the dark at the ceiling. He knew Esther was awake and he wanted her to sleep. The kids kept her running around all day. It was too much that she should have to spend the night up with him. He lay quiet and tried to simulate the slow breathing of sleep.
“If I had only taken Segale’s offer things would be all right now,” he thought, his mind going over the same ground for the thousandth time. “Johnny wouldn’t have said anything then. He knew there wasn’t anything else I could have done.” He reproached himself silently. “Johnny didn’t have anything to do with it. I wanted to make the picture, he didn’t force me. It was my own fault, I was too stubborn in Segale’s office.” He stirred restlessly. He wanted a cigar, then he remembered he wanted Esther to think he was sleeping, so he lay quiet.
The night wore on and neither of them slept. Each lay as quietly as possible, wanting the other to get some rest, but neither of them succeeded in fooling the other.
At last Peter couldn’t lie still any more. Slowly, carefully, he sat up in bed, listening for a change in Esther’s breathing. She was quiet. He slipped his feet softly into the slippers at the foot of the bed and stood up. He stood there for a second and then silently tiptoed into the kitchen. He shut the door softly behind him so that the light would not shine into the bedroom and waken her.
The bright light hurt his eyes for a moment. As soon as his eyes cleared, he went to the table and picked up a cigar and lit it. He heard the door open behind him. He turned around.
Esther stood there. “Maybe you’d like a cup of coffee?”
He nodded his head silently and watched her as she went over to the stove and lit the flame under the coffee pot. She came over to the table and sat down opposite him.
Her hair was loose and hung over her shoulders in thick, luxuriant waves. He wanted to reach out and touch it, it looked so alive and warm, but he didn’t. He just puffed silently at his cigar.
“When my father used to have troubles,” she said, “he always came into the kitchen and smoked a cigar and drank a cup of coffee. ‘It clears the head,’ he used to say, ‘it helps a man to think.’ It’s funny you should do the same thing.”
He looked down at his cigar. “I’m not as wise a man as your father was. I make too many mistakes.”
She reached across the table and put her hand on his. “My father used to tell me a story that went something like this. There was once a very wise old man known in his village as Yacov the Wise. And people used to come from all the countryside to sit at his feet and thus gain in wisdom from the pearls the Wise One would drop from his lips. One day there came a young, impetuous man who wanted to learn all he could from the master in one sitting. He did not have time to sit, as the others did, for weeks at the feet of the Wise One
. He had to learn everything at once so he could be about his business. ‘O Wise One,’ he said, ‘I am overcome with the wonders of your knowledge and would like to know how I could gain the wisdom so necessary in order to avoid the foolish mistakes of youth.’ The Wise One turned and looked at the brash young man. He looked at him for a long, long time. At last he spoke. ‘Impetuous young seeker after knowledge,’ he said gently, ‘you can learn to avoid the mistakes of youth by living to a ripe old age.’ The young man thought this over and at last he got to his feet and thanked the Wise One for answering his question. For it was the truth the Wise One had spoken. A mistake is not recognized until it has been made and passed. For a mistake recognized before it was made would not be made and therefore would not be a mistake.”
Peter turned his hand over and held her hand in his. He looked at her seriously and spoke softly in Yiddish. “Thy name was not given thee for nought. Thy wisdom is that of the good Queen whose name thou bearest.”
The coffee bubbled over on the stove. Startled, she jumped to her feet and turned off the flame. She looked back at him over her shoulder. “Of what good is the wisdom of Queen Esther in a wife if she can’t make her husband a good cup of coffee?”
They laughed and suddenly began to feel better.
Peter stood up and put out his cigar. He was smiling warmly at her. “Come,” he said, “let’s go to bed. The worries can keep for the morrow.”
“No coffee?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No coffee. That can wait for the morrow too.”
They were sleeping when the telephone began to ring. Esther sat up in bed, frightened. To her, the telephone ringing in the night meant tragedy. She sat there in the dark, her heart pounding; her hand reached out for Peter.
He picked up the phone. “Hello,” he said, “hello.”
Johnny’s voice came excitedly through the receiver. “Peter, are you up?”
Peter answered in a testy voice: “To whom would you be talking if I was asleep?”
“It’s fixed, Peter,” Johnny was shouting. “We can make the picture!”
“You’re drunk,” Peter said flatly. “Go home and go to sleep.”
“I was drunk,” Johnny answered, “but honest, Peter, I’m sober as a judge now. It’s all set. We can make the picture!”
Peter was wide awake. “You mean it?” His voice was incredulous, he couldn’t believe his ears.
“Would I call you up at four o’clock in the morning if it weren’t the truth?” Johnny asked. “Now go back to sleep and be at the studio at eight o’clock and I’ll give you all the dope.” Johnny hung up the phone.
Peter clicked the empty receiver in his hand. “Johnny!” he said. “Johnny!”
There was no answer, the phone was dead.
Peter hung up and turned to Esther, his eyes shining with tears. “Did you hear him? Did you hear that crazy kid?”
She was excited. “I heard him,” she said.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” he cried, putting his arms around her and kissing her.
“Now, Peter,” she laughed happily, “remember. You want the neighbors should think we’re newlyweds?”
11
Johnny was seated at his desk talking excitedly to a short dark man as Peter entered the studio at a quarter to eight. Peter had never seen the man before. Johnny had some sheets of paper in front of him and was just showing them to the stranger when he saw Peter.
He jumped to his feet and came halfway across the office to meet Peter. The little man in the loud plaid suit followed him. Johnny looked at Peter and grinned. “This is Al Santos,” he said.
The two men looked at each other over clasped hands. Peter saw a small man, swarthy from the sun, a thin black stogie held firmly between strong white teeth.
“Al’s going to let us make the picture out at his place,” Johnny explained.
Peter smiled. “I’m sure glad to know you, Mr. Santos.”
Al took the stogie from his mouth and waved it at Peter.
“Al’s the name. Nobody calls me mister.”
Peter’s smile grew broader. This was the kind of man he felt most at home with. Plain, regular, unpretentious. “Right, Al,” he said, taking a cigar from his pocket. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your letting us make the picture at your studio.”
Johnny interrupted. “Who said he’s got a studio?”
Peter almost dropped the lighted match he was holding to his cigar. “He hasn’t got a studio?”
“No,” Johnny answered.
Peter was bewildered. “So where then are we going to make the picture?”
“On his property,” Johnny answered. “He has the space. Just last winter Griffith shot a picture out his way and he says it’s perfect for moving pictures.”
Peter looked at Johnny in dismay. “That picture that Griffith made last year was made in California. We haven’t the money to get out there.”
Johnny grinned. “We have now. Al’s lending us the dough.”
Peter turned to Al; his face was serious. “I appreciate your kindness, Al,” he said slowly, “but you must know that we haven’t any security to offer.”
For a moment Al studied the man in front of him. Having heard from Joe and then from Johnny just how serious the situation was for Peter, he could understand what effort was required for Peter to tell him what he did. Johnny was right. This Kessler was a square shooter. He smiled slowly. “I’ve got all the security I need, Peter. Many years I have known Johnny. Since he was a littla boy. Twice now he’sa leave me to work for you. For Johnny to do this, I figure that the man he’s work for is alla right. Now from the way you talk I know.”
“You’re the man that owned the carnival?” Peter began to understand.
“I used to own the carnival,” Al answered. “Now, I’ma retired.” He turned to Johnny. “Look, Johnny, you get things settled with Peter here. I’m gonna back to the hotel and get some sleep. I’m not young like you fellas any more.” He had been up all night talking to Johnny and now he was tired; weariness began to show in his face.
“All right, Al,” Johnny replied. “We’ll get things squared away and call you.”
Al shook hands with Peter. “I’ma glad to meet you, Peter. Now don’t you worry about a thing. Everythinga will be alla right.”
Peter looked at him gratefully. “Thanks to you it will be,” he said. “I don’t know what we would have done—”
Al didn’t let him finish. “Don’t thanka me, Peter. I spend a longa time in show business. To tell the truth, I didn’t want to retire, but my brother, Luigi, he insist. ‘Al,’ he say, ‘you gotta enough money. Now stoppa work and come out here and enjoy your life. We make a good wine just like in Italy, we gotta oranges and people like at home. Come outta here and live.’ I think it over. He’s a right. I’ma getting old. No use to work like horse no more, so I decide to do what Luigi say. But alla time I think a man shoulda have something to do. Something he’sa interest in, to keep busy. This a good thing. I know show business. With the carnival I go all over the country and see the people going to the movies. Every day it’sa getting bigger. When Johnny talks to me, I say to myself; ‘It’s a good thing.’ So I make up my mind.”
Peter smiled at him. He understood all the man had said; he saw the way Al had looked at Johnny as he spoke. His words did not tell Peter half as much as that glance had; they were just the framework upon which Santos hung the real reason for doing what he did.
Al smiled back at him, he could see that Peter understood, and without saying a word to each other each man was drawn closer to the other because of a common bond they had for Johnny. Al turned and left the office.
The three of them looked at each other after he had gone. Joe went over to Peter and grabbed him by the arm. “What a break!” he exclaimed.
“California,” Peter said dazedly. The import was just beginning to dawn on him. “Why, that’s three thousand miles away.”
“Three thousand or twenty thous
and,” Johnny laughed, “what’s the difference? We can’t make it here.”
“But Esther and the kids,” Peter said, “I can’t leave them here.”
“Who said we’re leaving them here?” Johnny answered. “We’ll take them with us.”
“That’s good,” Peter said, beginning to smile. Suddenly his expression turned to dismay, his face grew long and worried.
“Now what’s the matter?” Johnny asked.
“I was just thinking,” Peter replied, “the danger—”
Johnny was bewildered. He looked askance at Joe. “Danger? What danger?”
Peter’s voice grew serious. “The Indians.”
Joe looked at Johnny and they burst into laughter. The tears began to run down Joe’s cheeks, he held his hands to his sides. “The Indians, he says,” he managed to gasp.
Peter looked at them as if they were crazy. “What’s so funny?”
They went off into another gale of laughter.
***
Arrangements were made for the cameras and equipment to be packed immediately. It would take almost a week for everything to be made ready for shipment.
Later that afternoon, after the excitement had subsided, Johnny went over to Sam Sharpe’s office. With him he had taken the check Sharpe had sent them in the morning mail. He was going to return it and insist that Craig fulfill his share of the bargain.
Jane saw him come into the office. “If it ain’t the vice-president himself!” she wisecracked. “How’s the picture business?”
He stood in front of her desk. There was a hurt look in his eyes. He didn’t speak.
She looked up at him. The light from the ceiling lamp shone brightly on him and for the first time she saw how he looked. She hadn’t seen him since that night he had taken her for a ride in the park and she had felt hurt. But now when she saw him, saw how thin he had become, the newly formed lines etched into his face around his eyes and mouth, she was suddenly contrite. Now all the things that Sam had told her suddenly became real.
Impulsively she reached out and took his hand. Her voice was low. “I’m sorry, Johnny, I didn’t want to be mean.”
The Dream Merchants Page 15
