Youngblood hawke, p.100
Youngblood Hawke, page 100
And Hawke—physically and mentally unwell, his powers drained by the drive on Boone County and on top of it the ordeal of his gamble on a Broadway farce; his nights, long lonely vigils of desperate writing under an electric lamp; his days a plague of theatre fretting—Hawke was drifting into daydreams that Honor Hauptmann not only would lend him all the money he needed, but might be his millionairess, after all. Why, look at Shaw! Shaw had taken a millionairess to himself in a sterile marriage, and the great author had done his work thereafter without ever having to think about money. And he had piled up a grand fortune of his own with his pen.
Hawke had these thoughts with Jeanne at his side, as the actors chirruped through his farce in the nearly empty theatre. And he thought that, far from hurting or jilting Jeanne, he might be planning exactly the course she herself ardently desired: some decent and final way to break off their romance so that she might find happiness with the man most suited for her, the cool commanding intelligence who never slipped into wild follies, old Triple-A Adam, the red-faced human rock.
8
The company left New York by train for Philadelphia at ten in the morning, the day before the premiere, and Hawke went with them. Nobody seemed aware that it was the Fourth of July, and the national holiday had made no change in the schedule. A theatre venture about to open knows neither calendar nor clock; there is only one date, that of the opening, and there is only one time, curtain time. Jeanne, following her new policy of not dogging Hawke's every move, had suggested that she come down the following day with Adam, in time for the performance. With a distant smile, Hawke had agreed that was very sensible. His manner disturbed her. She offered to come with him instead, if he preferred. "Of course not," Hawke said. "You'd only be bored. Just more dress rehearsals and line rehearsals." He changed the subject. It was an unsatisfactory little scene, but Jeanne was afraid to press him, and let the decision go that way.
The actors were in wonderful spirits on the train, joking, playing pranks, passing Scotch around in paper cups. The excitement and tension of the trip to Philadelphia reminded Hawke of bus rides with the basketball team of Hovey High on the way to a big game, and of the nervous joking of a ship's crew bringing his Seabee group to a beach under fire. The theatre people might be all the things Jeanne and Gus said they were, but they were gallant, Hawke thought, they laughed going into battle and they were charming. Jeanne lacked tolerance. Here was Randy Sissell, for instance, the fat-faced, white-headed mountebank who played the tax collector in the farce, sitting beside Hawke and shouting over the train rumbles a long account of his acting triumphs. The man was a stupid, preposterous egotist, and he was committing adultery with one of the young married actresses in the cast. But Randy was one of the best minor comic actors on Broadway, he read lines cleanly, he used no cheap tricks, and audiences loved him. He was perfect for the part, and Hawke could not help liking the bawdy old fool. Jeanne abhorred him.
This strictness of Jeanne's, her unwillingness to suffer fools or sinners, the blue pencil with which she kept slashing at life and people, was her own peculiar weakness, he thought. Anyway, she would find nothing to condemn or blue-pencil in Augustus A. Adam! They were a well-matched pair of austere and high-minded souls. So all his thoughts kept meandering back to his obsession.
Jeanne arrived in Philadelphia next day early in the afternoon. She rapped at his door and there she was, in a black flat hat and a black suit with a white collar, looking beautiful, and saying with a puckish grin, "Well? Is there any hope?"
He stood in his shirtsleeves holding the door open, the writing pad under his arm, and he said, or rather stammered, "Wha—where's Gus?"
"Coming on the last possible train. I decided I couldn't wait."
The lovely sight of her there in the doorway, the look in her eyes, her coming without the lawyer, shook Hawke out of his sickly frame of mind. He pulled her inside, took off her hat and threw it across the room, and embraced her passionately. She responded with unmistakable eagerness, and so they kissed and kissed. She leaned back in his arms. "Well! I was beginning to think you were mad at me or something. I've been trying for days to figure what I've done wrong."
"You haven't done anything wrong. You can't. I love you." Hawke could no more have told her now of his suspicions about Adam than he could have struck her. His morbid imaginings were too shameful and baseless, when she was in his arms, to be dignified with words. What was the matter with him? He said, "Today's July fifth. Ten days ought to be enough time. Will you arrange for us to get married on July fifteenth, my beloved, while I finish up this miserable book?"
"All right," she said cautiously. She still planned to have him undergo a medical check-up first. He looked very ill, and his endearments, though sweet and pleasing to her, had frightened her a little. He had been shockingly rough and coarse at first, though he had quieted down, and he had never stopped shaking as though he had a fever. "How are you feeling, Arthur, with the great night at hand?"
"To hell with the great night. The main thing is the book, Jeanne, I don't think I have more than three solid sessions left. I'm doing the burying and the marrying, that's all."
"Well, you bury and marry away. I haven't even registered yet. I came straight up, I was so anxious to see you."
"Why register at all? Stay here with me."
Jeanne cocked her head at him. Her eyes dropped half-shut and she slowly smiled. "Is that what you want?"
He gathered her to him again, with tenderness and great strength, and laughed. "Don't misunderstand me, you're the world's most appetizing woman, but I'm damned if after all these years my honeymoon is going to be interrupted by that baboon Maas pounding at the door, or Feydal on the telephone. He calls forty times a day. God knows we've waited long enough. Half the cast is happily fornicating somewhere in this hotel at the moment, the five o'clock tumble, and let's leave it to them. Go get yourself unpacked. We eat at half-past six. The curtain's at eight-fifteen."
9
The premiere in Philadelphia started weakly. The auditorium was a huge one, unsuited to comedy, and the audience was full of starchily dressed old Philadelphians, strong for culture and slow to lose their gravity. But the laughs began at last, and mounted to roars at the first act curtain. Hawke stayed backstage, he was too conspicuous a figure to wander around in the lobby and listen to comments, but Jeanne did, and came back to report.
"Mostly what they talk about is whether or not it'll be a hit on Broadway. They all seem afraid to commit themselves. I must have heard twenty people say, 'Well, I like it, but you know those New York critics-' "
At the end of the last act she posted herself at the main exit, eavesdropping on the departing audience. Mostly they talked about their transportation or where they were going next, with an occasional remark that the play was fun, or a good laugh, and now and then a comment of wonder that Youngblood Hawke had written such a light comic piece. Backstage the actors were subdued and nervous as they took off their grease paint. Maas prowled here and there, his face tight in a congealed grin. Feydal was gone. Hawke seemed more cheerful than anybody. "Well," he said to Jeanne, "we've put in the quarter and pulled the handle. Tomorrow we'll know whether it's to be cherries or lemons."
Ferdie Lax, who was standing with him, said, "Three bars. The whole goddamn jackpot, I tell you. No contest."
Lax had the best suite in the hotel, and the next day at noon Hawke, Jeanne and Adam were there for the fateful telephone call to Travis Jablock. Jeanne and Adam sat together on a sofa, Lax was at the telephone with the notices spread out before him on a coffee table, and Hawke stood in the bedroom doorway holding the other telephone. Lax said, glancing at his watch, "Trav's always in the office by nine. Here goes." He put the call through.
Jablock's reedy voice was full of energy and good spirits. "Hi, Ferdie. How did it come off?"
"Trav, it was real good. A million laughs. You'd think they'd been playing it for years. Irene was miraculous. The people were falling out of their chairs. I've never seen such an audience show. They loved it."
"Really? That's marvellous!"
"It's a bloody big hit, Trav. It's going to run two, three years on Broadway. You've got yourself one hell of a bargain."
"Terrific! How were the notices, Ferdie?"
"Very good, Trav. Solid money notices, every one."
"Do you have them there?"
"I've got a few, yes. Just a second."
Lax put his hand over the mouthpiece, and said to Hawke, "Trav's playing games. He's got the notices off the teletype, right on his desk . . . Hello, Trav? Now I said these were money notices. I didn't say they were raves. I'm levelling with you here. They don't understand farce in Philadelphia, you know, unless it's Charley's Aunt. Anyway, listen to these. I'll just give you the highlights." He read the best paragraphs from the notices, all of which said in one way or another that the audience had laughed a lot. But one critic had excoriated Hawke, Feydal, and Irene Perry for wasting their time on such vapid stuff; one had guessed that Youngblood Hawke had dashed off this frail piece to pay the income taxes on his novels; a third had treated the enterprise forgivingly, and said that if a ticket buyer didn't look at the author's name, he might have a gay enough evening at The Lady from Letchworth.
Travis Jablock punctuated Lax's readings of the good morsels with exclamations of delight. "Marvellous . . . wonderful . . . couldn't ask for anything better . . . Great!" When Lax finished, he said, "The only thing is, Ferdie, I had a quick look at the teletype sheets on the way in and, as I recall, they sort of expressed some reservations, too."
"They did, Trav. I said these notices are not raves. They report the truth, that the audience laughed like maniacs for two solid hours. What else matters? It's a comedy."
Jablock said, "I have the Hollywood Reporter here." He read the entire notice. It declared in movie argot that the enterprise was a disaster which should be closed at once to spare the reputations of the eminent people involved, and added that this ridiculous failure, coming on top of Evelyn Biggers, indicated that Youngblood Hawke, one of America's best writers, was cracking up badly.
Lax said, "Trav, I don't have to remind you how many times the Reporter has muffed, especially out of town."
"Well, sure, Ferdie. I have no doubt they're all wrong. The thing is—what town do you play next, and when?"
"They jump to Pittsburgh, Trav, in three weeks."
"Pittsburgh, eh? Well, let's let the thing hang till then, okay? I'll only get a turn-down from the bank, Ferdie, at this point. Those ignorant bastards believe the Hollywood Reporter more than the New York Times."
Lax glanced toward Hawke, whose face was expressionless. "Now, none of that, Trav. We had a deal, at a fire-sale price. You don't grab it now I'm taking this property down the street, and I mean this afternoon. What's more I'll sell it."
"Of course you will, Ferdie. I urge you to do just that. I'll withdraw here and now. It's a damned funny little script. I personally couldn't care less about Philadelphia critics and the Reporter. It's these bank vice-presidents. All they go by is the goddamn printed word, they have no show business instincts."
"Just a second, Trav." Lax said to Hawke, covering the telephone, "He's stone cold. That bank talk is an out. Got any ideas?"
Hawke said hoarsely, "Think you can peddle it elsewhere?"
"Not unless you build up some raves on the road. The Reporter notice is fatal."
"I'll talk to him . . . Hello, Trav? This is Hawke."
"Hey! Youngblood! How's America's finest novelist? Got that big new book ready for me to read yet? I lie awake nights thinking about it."
"It's all but finished, Trav. I guess Ferdie's told you I'm in a bind for seventy-five thousand dollars. I need it right away."
"Well, no, he didn't." Jablock dropped his voice as though discussing a death. "Tax foul-up, Youngblood?"
"Among other things. Trav, will you buy the movie rights to my new novel sight unseen for seventy-five thousand?"
Lax at once spoke into the phone, "Wait a second, Trav. I didn't authorize that offer and it's absurd, this is Art's biggest work, it'll be worth half a million when it's done—"
"Shut up, Ferdie," Hawke said. "This is a distress offer, Travis. It's a better book than Chain of Command and will make a bigger movie."
Jablock said, "I believe you," and there was a brisk new note in his voice, "Seventy-five, hey? That's rough, sight unseen, Youngblood. Isn't there anything you can let me read? An outline or something?"
"There's no outline."
"Would you fly out here and tell the story to me?"
Hawke looked around at the long faces in the room. Lax sat in a defeated slump, the telephone to his ear, and he shrugged at Hawke. "Jeanne, he wants me to fly to Hollywood and tell him the story of Boone County."
"Don't you dare. Let him come here."
Adam said, "Arthur, I'd wait before taking such a step. It's an important work. I'm sure it's worth far more money than that."
Hawke said, "That may be, Gus, but I'm in default on a note, you know . . . Hello, Travis? Will you give me seventy-five thousand dollars at once if you like what you hear?"
Jablock paused before saying, "Well, all this is kind of sudden, Youngblood. I think I could promise you twenty-five now against seventy-five down when I read the script. I think for taking such a long chance I ought to get an exclusive first reading of your next book too."
Lax said angrily, "Trav, go to hell. Get off the line, Art. You're talking about the biggest property in sight. Trav, do you want the play or not?"
"I sure want to hear Hawke tell that new book, Ferdie. I really do. I'll pay a substantial price for the privilege and I call twenty-five substantial. Not seventy-five. Not for a story conference. I can't justify that."
Hawke said, "I'll take any screenplay assignment that's available, Travis."
"Youngblood, we're at a standstill here. I'm sorry, I'd be proud to have you on a screenplay, you know that."
Lax said, "How about The Lady from Letchworth, Travis?"
"Ferdie, feel free to offer it anywhere you please. I have to withdraw."
Lax and Hawke hung up, and in a long moment of silent gloom the four people looked at each other. Hawke sat down on the floor in the middle of the room, folded his long legs Buddha-fashion and grinned like a tired boy. "Well, so much for The Lady from Letchworth. It was a nice try." He turned to the lawyer. "What happens now?"
"I can't say, Arthur. If Newton isn't bluffing, and I don't think he is, he'll take us to court at once. The process will consume some time. Till then we can hang on and hope. The sooner you finish your book the better."
"Yes, indeed." Hawke's voice had a faraway sound.
Lax sighed. "It's just too goddamn bad, coming right on top of that tax jolt, Art. It's a hell of a time for your luck to go sour. That goddamn Hollywood Reporter—"
Hawke smiled sadly. "The jeopardy assessment? I paid that off a year ago. I don't even think of it any more."
Lax said, "No, I don't mean my Chain of Command deal, though that was horrible enough. I mean this slug you got on your Long Island real estate deal—you know, the play contract . . ." The agent's voice faltered, and he glanced at Adam and Jeanne, both of whom appeared stricken. "Look, I heard about this weeks ago, Gus, from the same stupid son of a bitch who wrote the Chain of Command contract for me. He's been working with your office on the appeal, and someone there told him about this big new assessment—I'm sorry if I've got it all wrong, I hope I have—"
Hawke said, "It's news to me." He turned on Jeanne and Adam sitting side by side on the sofa. "Is it true, Gus?"
The lawyer said hesitantly, "We got an adverse ruling, yes. I've appealed it. I saw no point in worrying you with it meantime, since—"
Hawke broke in, "Jeanne, did you know about this?"
Jeanne, who would have given much for the power to carry off a lie said, "Yes, I knew. I told Gus he was right not to tell you. Arthur, you've been under a killing strain and—"
Hawke said to Adam, "How much is it this time?"
The lawyer compressed his lips and hesitated. "Ninety-three thousand dollars."
Hawke uttered a jolly laugh.
Adam went on, "Arthur, I beg you to remember that this ruling can be reversed, that we can still win our appeal on the other assessment too, and that Paumanok Plaza may pay off. The picture is far from black. In fact I have a letter from Scotty in my room, that I wanted to show you, it's highly encouraging—"
"Scotty!" Hawke said. "The original source of good and reliable tidings." He got off the floor and confronted Adam and Jeanne, his face stern. "I'm just wondering, is there any other bad news you two are withholding from the poor overburdened artist? Where can I get the truth if not from you two? Whom can I trust? Where do I stand? What comes next? If you're taking over my affairs and don't think I'm competent to face them, why don't you have me put in an institution?"
Jeanne tried to speak, but he raised his voice in anger, and she put her hands over her face.
"Jesus Christ! Don't you think I'm a man? Have I flinched from anything that's happened yet? Tell me whatever you've got to tell me, both of you! Either of you! Talk! See if I turn a hair! Just don't lie to me! Don't treat me like an infant or a lunatic! I'm Youngblood Hawke, do you recognize the name? I came to New York alone, I got to the top of the writing heap, I made a fortune, I lost it, and I'll make another fortune, do you hear? This is what I needed, by the living God, this is hitting bottom. I don't mean losing the gamble on my stupid farce, that couldn't matter less. I mean being treated by you two as a child. Now watch me come back, alone! Without either of you! Just watch me!"
Adam stood and put his hand on Hawke's shirtsleeve. The author flung it away. Jeanne sat staring at Hawke, tears running down her face. Adam said, "Arthur, nobody on earth has more confidence in you than Jeanne and I. I'm sorry this disclosure came in an awkward way. I thought it would serve no useful purpose to add to your worries."
