by John Gardner
“You see,” she went on, drawing closer to him, “I don’t usually do this.”
“I understand.”
“No, I don’t think you do, Louis. Sure, I’ve never been a saint. I’m not trying to claim that I was a virgin, or …”
“I understand,” he repeated, almost whispering: pulling her very close and thinking, “What have I ever done to deserve a night with such a woman?”
“I usually have to know somebody really well. I only met you properly last night, and … this sounds stupid … I feel I’ve known you forever.”
“Like we grew up together?”
“Yes, Lou. Yes, like we grew up together. Do you believe in reincarnation?”
“I don’t know. Never thought much about it.”
“I feel that I’ve known you from some other time. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a nut. I’ve never believed I had any past life before, it’s only … Oh, heck, Lou, I know you so damned well. It’s as though I was in love with you.”
“It can happen that quick.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“I love you, Louis.”
“Rita, I think I …”
She stopped his mouth with a kiss. Then—
“Go now, Lou. Call me tomorrow. I have a free day tomorrow.”
In the present, old Lou Passau raked his fingers through his hair. “It was strange, suddenly being loved by such a celebrity. I remember I said I had to work the next day. I called her though.”
“And it all blossomed …”
“Sort of. I mean we were both busy. I finished scoring West with the Wind. You have to remember that the companies just forming themselves into studios were going through a great transition. Before talkies, they’d shoot a picture in a couple of weeks. Now, it took longer. Six, seven weeks. And we worked. My God, we worked. It was three months before either of us got a proper rest. Rita shot Autumn Glory and The Running of the Deer. I scored both of them. It was a great challenge. I was well paid and—better still—I got to work with musicians. I had an orchestra. I was conducting.”
“And you were seeing Rita?”
“Oh, sure. Three, four times a week I saw her. We’d sneak back to her place. I tell you, within two weeks I was in love with her.” For once, Passau’s smile seemed genuine. Then he laughed. “You know, we thought we’d been so damned clever. We thought nobody knew. Also, it was as though we had invented sex. Personally.”
Herbie thought he knew the feeling, but it was not recent.
Louis was sitting having lunch in the commissary. Alone, working on the manuscript score for The Running of the Deer, oblivious to the costumed stars and extras chattering around him. A hand squeezed his shoulder. “You old dog, Louis Passau. Who’d have thought it?”
Crys Challis was grinning down at him. “Can I sit with you?”
“Sure. Why am I a dog?”
She leaned across the table and spoke very low. “Woof-Woof, Lou, I’ve never seen Rita like this. She denied there was anything between you, but I know better. You were seen leaving her place at some incredibly unlikely hour.”
“I was? Who by?”
“By whom, Lou. You don’t fool me.”
“By whom, then; and why don’t I fool you?”
“Because you both go around with that look. Cat-who-got-the-cream look.”
“How’s Stefan, Crys?”
“He’s fine. We just do it, Lou. We don’t care anymore. We just act naturally.” She pulled a face, like a child pretending to be an ogre on Halloween. “Like beasts in the jungle, Mr. Passau. We deny nothing, and we deny ourselves nothing. Loved the music for Autumn Glory. People’re saying you might get the first award ever for music.”
“Really.”
“And I think Rita’s already given you an award for other services.”
“Gee, Crys, I love it when you talk dirty.”
“You shouldn’t hide your light under Rita’s bush … el. Give some of the other girls a whirl.”
“Come on, Crys. Don’t get foolish.”
Suddenly, Crystabelle Challis’ face became serious. It was a first for Lou. “I mean it,” she said. “Truly I mean it, Lou. Rita can only bring you trouble. Don’t hang around too long.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Ask around. Ask about Mike Morrisey.”
“What about Mike … who?”
“Had a real future as an actor. I mean real. He was always up with the crowd at Pickfair. This town’s aristocracy, Mr. and Mrs. Fairbanks, and all the hangers-on.”
“If he was so good, why haven’t I heard of him?”
“Because Rita sucked him dry, my dear. She’s a lovely, talented girl, but … well, ask around.”
“And you asked around?” In the comfortable room, with the books, CDs and stereo equipment, Kruger leaned forward, as though vastly interested in the answer. “You asked around about this actor, this Mike Morrisey?”
“Sure, I asked. Casual. Not aggressive. People who knew the business.”
“You got answers?” Herb really wanted to press on. The bottom line was thirty, forty, fifty years away, and he would like to get there before the old boy died.
“Not really. People said, what a shame. Yes, it was sad about Mike Morrisey. A great talent wasted. But I got no real truth.”
One of the publicity people let him know that, as far as Metrobius Studios was concerned, it was not a good idea to ask about Michael Morrisey. So, in the end, he asked Rita. they were in bed. Sunday afternoon. Her lovely Spanish house near Laurel Canyon.
“Someone mentioned an actor called Michael Morrisey,” he began, turning his head on the pillow and finding himself looking into the big gray eyes, which opened wide, fear leaping from its hiding place behind the irises.
“Jesus Christ, Lou? What’ve they been telling you?”
Louis Passau had been around long enough to recognize real fear.
“What have the bastards been saying?”
“Nobody’s told me anything, honey.” He had also been around long enough to recognize the rising scale of her voice. The pitch of fear. “Someone mentioned this actor, Morrisey. Told me he was brilliant. Asked if I’d seen any movies he was in. Then another guy, one of the musicians, said you’d known him. Also the same person said he had great talent, and his story was a tragedy.”
“And that’s all? That’s all they said?”
“Everything. You’re upset, Rita. What’s wrong?” He slid an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close under the sheet which covered them.
“It’s unpleasant, Lou.” Her eyes flicked away from his, and then back, and away again. Wary, uncertain. “He was my lover—oh, what? Two years before I even met you.” The eyes sliding away from him again. “A brilliant actor. That was obvious to everybody. He had a presence which lit up the screen. If he had been around when talkies came in, he’d have made every other man in this business look like a midget. Mike’s voice … he had, how can I describe it? A distinctive voice, and he knew how to use it.”
“So what happened, hon?”
“He wanted to marry me. I said no. I really didn’t want to make that commitment.” She bit her lip and stared at the ceiling. The rest of it came out in a rush. “He asked me over and over again. Eventually I had to end the relationship. He had started drinking. Then, one night, he turned up here. Drunk, shouting at me. I was heartless. I had led him on. He couldn’t live without me. I tried to reason with him, but it did no good. He shot himself. In the bathroom.” She nodded towards the door.
“Herbie.” Maestro Passau’s face had assumed the nearest Herb had yet seen to grief. “Herb, I asked her, there and then, if she would marry me.”
“Oh, Lou. Lou, do you mean it? Really mean it?”
“Of course I mean it. I love you with everything I have. I’m not much of a catch, Rita, but I’d give anything, what little talent I have, to make you my wife. You’ll marry me?”
“Of course, darling Lou
. Of course, I’ll marry you.”
Louis Passau shifted in his chair. “Herb, I didn’t ask her what was so different about me? Why would she marry me and not this actor, Mike Morrisey? Many times I’ve thought why didn’t I ask? If she had been honest, and answered truthfully … well, it was only after we married that I found out, that I discovered the real Rita Crest.” He stopped speaking, as though he had dried up and there was no more to say.
“You wish me to get lunch, Lou?”
“Why not? It’s twelve noon.” A long silence. Then, as Herbie reached the door, “I’ll tell you about the wedding this afternoon. The wedding and my memories of some of the famous I knew and loathed in Hollywood.”
“Whenever you feel like it, Lou.” Herbie went down to the kitchen. He glanced at his watch. Passau was a good timekeeper. It was one minute past noon.
IN ENGLAND IT was one minute past five in the afternoon, and Arthur Railton was just wheeling his Rover through the gates and up the drive to the house the Office kept near Warminster.
They were waiting for him: the confessors as they liked to call themselves. The inquisitors as others called them. Two of them, contented-looking men in slacks and sports coats. One had a pipe clamped between his teeth.
“Hallo, Gus,” Art greeted the pipe-smoker. Gus Keene was the Lord High Inquisitor. A fellow of infinite jest, if you liked his kind of humor which tended to be on the grave side. “How is she?”
“Difficult to tell, Art. Maybe I’m losing my touch. Getting long in the tooth.”
“You, Gus? With that pretty young wife? Never.” Keene said nothing as they walked across the scrunching gravel. “Like to see her on my own first, if I may.”
“Of course. We haven’t started anything. Go right ahead. She’s in the guest wing.”
Art went down to the elaborate area called the guest wing. It was pleasant and relaxing, like a first-class hotel suite. Only it was below ground and there were security locks on the doors and round-the-clock surveillance cameras and mikes.
She was sitting in an easy chair, and the first thing Art noticed was her hair. Snow white and she really couldn’t be much more than forty-nine years old.
“Electra,” he said. “I bring greetings from an old friend. Schnitzer himself asked me to say hallo.”
Her face seemed to become instantly younger. The eyes, in particular, began to sparkle.
“What a helluva way to make a living,” Art Railton thought. “You lie until you believe it yourself.”
“He did?” Her English was very good. Almost too perfect. “Herbie’s forgiven me?”
“Everything’s changing, Fraulein Zunder. What happened between you and Herbie’s in the past. It’s time to forgive and forget. Reconstruction, it’s called.”
*Crest of the Wave. Carlton S. Greenbriar (Phantom Books, 1940. Rev. Ed. 1956).
(4)
“SO YOU GOT MARRIED, and lived unhappily ever after, eh?”
They had lunched on shepherds’ pie, which Pucky had made and left to be finished off in the oven. Passau covered his with tomato ketchup—“I got all the worst American vices, and I hate that revolting pseudo haute cuisine.”
It was after the shepherds’ pie that Herbie had to kick-start Passau again.
“So you got married, and lived unhappily ever after, eh?”
The Maestro’s head whipped up, and there was a brief flare of fire in his eyes. But he did not shout. “No, we did not live unhappily. For the first year—almost our whole time together—it was good and very happy. I mean happy. I tell you, Herbie, we were in love, and doing nicely, thank you very much. But you know this really, don’t you? All the books tell it as it was.”
“Not quite, Lou. They say that Rita became difficult to live with, and that led to tragedy.”
“To begin with, it wasn’t difficult. Yes, I was difficult and so was she. Herb, we were artists, what do you expect? Yet our combined artistic temperaments canceled each other out. We were difficult people, but that didn’t make our lives together much of a problem. We were each other’s morning and evening stars. Know what I mean?”
Kruger nodded. Ah, yes, he knew exactly what Louis Passau meant, because spies are like artists—artists and priests. “A clash of touchy egos that brought harmony? That right?”
“You got it. We managed because we enjoyed each other’s work. We were never in competition. Not for the first year anyway.”
The first time they tried to get married “It didn’t take,” as Passau put it, with a gruff laugh.
They had driven off one weekend, heading towards San Diego, but they could not find a judge.
They waited for another couple of months. Already, since their first meeting, Rita had made Autumn Glory, and had almost wrapped The Running of the Deer. Now, they were both starting on what Stefan called the studio’s answer to The Birth of a Nation.
Max Ebius had found what he said was the right story: a book called The Hollow Heart, by an unknown author, Peggy Reed. He put his two best scriptwriters on it, and changed the title to Blood of a Nation—“Max was never one to worry about plagiarism,” Passau said. He then sent for Stefan who read the book and declared it was unfilmable, which meant nothing to Ebius who showed him the script a couple of weeks later. There was a part tailor-made for Rita, though you could never have found it in the book. Stefan agreed, Rita agreed, and Passau began to research music of the War Between the States.
“We had two weeks off when we were supposed to be working on pre-production stuff—or, at least Rita, Stefan and the others were supposed to be hard at it. I gave it out that I was researching the score. One Saturday afternoon, I went over to Rita’s place and found Stefan there. He was going on and on about the movie. …”
“It’s never going to work.” Stefan sounded at the end of his rope. “Max is all enthusiasm, but he doesn’t have to make the picture—not with the budget he’s given me.” He paced up and down in the big front hall of Rita’s Spanish house, which he always, rather scathingly, called “Old Mother Crest’s Hacienda.” One look at Rita and Louis knew Stefan was making her nervous. She sat in the window seat, at the far end of the hall, with her legs twisted up and her arms wrapped around her.
“Stefan used to do that kind of thing, Herbie. He didn’t mean it, but it used to happen. He’d get in a state about a movie and pour it all out. Naturally, he made other people concerned with the project very edgy.”
Passau saw the signs of tension, so he stepped in—
“Hey, Stefan. You got your problems, we got ours, let’s not share until you start shooting, huh?”
“Rita’s my star, Lou. She’s got to know how I feel.”
“Then you tell her when we get to first rehearsal which, with you, means first day of shooting, right? You spoke like this to your leading man?”
“Danton Buck? You’re kidding. Danton only sees the problems when he tries to do his first scene.”
Danton Buck had a short career in Hollywood. Short, but full of drama. Nobody had any idea that Blood of a Nation would be his last film.
“You know about Danton, Herbie?”
“Only what I read in books.”
“Well, it was worse in real life. He was the precursor of guys like Errol Flynn. He was a lousy actor, but a pretty face and very athletic, in all senses. Drank like there was no tomorrow, and quite often there wasn’t with Danton. He was also into drugs, but I didn’t know about that until later. That was what really killed him.”
And others, Herbie thought.
In the past, standing in the hall of Old Mother Crest’s Hacienda, Louis Passau knew he had to change the subject, fast, or Old Mother Crest was going to throw a tantrum.
So, Lou Passau moved in to divert the approaching squall. “Hey, Stefan, you want to do us a real favor?”
“How real? You know, in this business reality isn’t the name of the game.”
“Very real. Come and be a witness for Rita and me.”
Rita gave a little squeal o
f delight, and her mouth went back to normal.
“Witness? Witness what? I wouldn’t mind being a witness at Max Ebius’ murder trial.”
“Witness for our wedding.”
“Wedding?”
“As in marriage, nuptials, taking of oaths, tying the knot, Stefan.”
“You and Rita?”
“Male and female. It’s usual in a marriage.”
“You’re getting married?”
“That was the idea, Stefan.”
“But the picture …”
“Marriage will not stop us doing the picture.”
“Marriage is time-consuming—as in consuming the time when we’re working on the picture.”
Rita had disappeared, so Louis reckoned he had done the right thing.
“And where are you getting married, Lou?”
“We thought we’d just drive out, say to Santa Barbara or somewhere and find a judge to marry us. That’s why we need you as a witness.”
Stefan then began to argue about something else. Lou had got him off the picture, and onto another problem. “You think it’s wise, with Rita’s history of … well, the outbursts?”
“She rarely bursts out with me, Stefan.”
“Maybe you’re right. Perhaps it’ll do her a lot of good. She does seem very happy around you.” He went on and on, still pacing the floor, but the spring in him unwound without causing any dramas. By the time Rita came back, Stefan Greif had almost convinced himself that the whole thing had been his idea in the first place.
“We tried a few weeks ago.” Rita stood in the doorway leading to the rest of the house. When Lou arrived she had been wearing an old skirt and some kind of checked shirt. Now she stood in all her glory, a crisp white dress—almost certainly an original, and probably a steal at a thousand bucks.
Rita, as everyone in the business knew, was a slow dresser, but that afternoon she had done the equivalent of the four-minute mile, complete with matching shoes, a wide-brimmed hat and long, very fashionable gloves. “I bought the tout ensemble after our abortive attempt, Lou. I’ve had it ready for the last month.” She was all glow and excitement. Passau noticed and remembered all his life that the big gray eyes sparkled as though filled with diamond dust.
