The lawgiver, p.12
The Lawgiver, page 12
What happened to me in the garden this afternoon was a stab of perception about Aaron’s Diary. As Margo has doggedly used her storytelling craft to grind out her Lawgiver, haven’t I doggedly fallen back on my sense of humor to do my Moses? Writing jokes for radio comedians was the way I first made my living. Isn’t Aaron’s Diary, after all, just a gagman’s Moses?
My enigmatic BSW likes it so far. Up to a point, that’s reassuring. I call to mind one rainy afternoon some sixty years ago, when I paced amid dripping trees in Kings Point, despairing of the Mutiny as just a litany of petty gripes about a lousy captain I had at sea, just one more postwar “revenge book,” trivial and best-sellerish. In my thirties, that was a dismal low point, and she cheered me out of it. In my latter nineties—well—let’s hear what BSW has to say about Margo’s Moses, anyway. Meanwhile let’s do another page or two of Aaron’s confounded diary.
(LETTER)
James C. Bearing
Barrister
77 BOND STREET
LONDON, W1, ENGLAND
Mr. Timothy Warshaw
WarshaWorks
Century City, California 90067
Dear Tim:
Re: Smallweed
Attached is a witnessed copy of Geoffrey Smallweed’s release of Perry Pines. He arrived early, and Orly handed him a photocopy of the rain-blurred contract, with a smooth copy which I had red-inked paragraph by paragraph. After a while he came into my office with those papers in hand. The release was on my desk beside a stack of British pounds. This was, you will recall, the original settlement he’d accepted, then tried to renege on it. He kept glancing at the currency as we talked. (To quote the poet Byron, “Ready money is Aladdin’s lamp.”) Our conversation was not long, it soon became clear that my red-ink notes had quite disarmed him. He signed the release, pocketed the £5,000, and departed. The settlement payment advanced by our office will be billed to you in due course.
Faithfully,
James Bearing
Enclosure
(HANDWRITTEN NOTE IN IN-BOX, ATTACHED TO SOLOVEI SCRIPT)
BETTY SARAH WOUK
Hi, I hear you typing away, I hope on Aaron’s Diary, so I won’t interrupt you. Here are my stenopad notes on Solovei’s scenario. They don’t amount to much, no point discussing them. I can’t judge a screenplay. If I’d been asked for an opinion on the DeMille screenplay for The Ten Commandments, I’d have voted against it, for idiotic inaccuracy and a bogus main character Nefretiri, or whatever. It’s considered one of the greatest films of all time, so there you are. When you’re through working I do have one question we should discuss.
(HW FILM MEMO)
Moses Film Memo No. 20
I went to get coffee, found the above note in my box, and called her into the office. “What’s the question?”
“Let’s talk about it tonight.”
“No, we talk about it now.”
“Very well.” She takes the Eames chair. Between us on the desk, framed, is the small picture she sent me in a love letter that came by sea mail off Okinawa. Silence, then she comes out with it. “Are you capable of saying no?”
Just the kind of question that girl in the picture would spring on me. Hence seven decades later she sits in that armchair. (One of the reasons.) I take my time before responding. “It’s not that bad, surely?”
“And if it is? With everything that’s at stake—aborting a project that’s already cost millions—giving Solovei a black eye she’ll never live down—possibly throwing WarshaWorks into bankruptcy without Gluck’s ‘stimulus’—with all that, you’re really capable of saying no?”
Pinned to the wall, not the first time in nigh seventy years. “Well, your opinion matters a lot—”
She wrinkles her mouth, with a slight headshake. “Okay, okay. You’ve painted yourself into a corner and you know it. You’ve done no work on this film, just wasted a lot of time. Solovei tried to consult you on the Golden Calf scene, but luckily you ducked it—”
“Your doing—”
“Yes, that time you listened. Your name on this film as consultant, no! For your time consumed, you’re entitled to the fee. Give it to Rabbi Heber’s day school, he got you into this thing in the first place. Or keep the fee. What you give away you haven’t got. As usual, you’ll do as you please. All right?”
“All right. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. I have to feed Candy,” and she’s gone.
(LETTER)
GRANIT PRODUCTIONS
10 CENTURY PLAZA
CENTURY CITY, CA 90067
Margolit Solovei
Hotel Catalina
Cottage 4
Avalon, CA 90704
Margo—
Do you know how radiant you looked coming out of the Falcon? Not a trace of fatigue, transfigured by triumph! You looked twenty years old. We all talked about it. You’re dead right to hole up for a week and catch your breath, but let me at least send you the Production Book. It’s a tome. If you like, Bronko can fly out and discuss the Book. I’ve never had a production manager to equal him, he’s like an army chief of staff. Dearest Margo, all my old-fogey pique at you was stupid. Wouk won’t turn down your marvelous script. It’s Zuleika days again, only on a grand scale. We’ll have a blast, you and I, and put Cecil B. DeMille in the shade!
Love,
Arnie
P.S. You know, you never did explain why Aaron and Moses were punished for Rock II, as you promised! Just curious.
A.
(LETTER)
Herman Wouk
Mr. Louis Gluck
Gluck Metals
Melbourne—Houston
Dear Mr. Gluck:
I have read Margolit Solovei’s screenplay, The Lawgiver. It is a workmanlike job, faithful to the subject matter. As I told you at the outset, the art of film is not my forte, but so far as my judgment matters, I approve the screenplay for production.
Since I was not consulted in the writing, nor will I be during the production, my name will not appear on the screen. For the time I did put in, Mrs. Wouk will negotiate a fee which will go to Rabbi Heber’s local day school. He arranged our first meeting through Mr. Jacobs, you may remember.
My wife and I hope the film will be a box office success, rewarding you as backer and Mr. Warshaw as producer.
Sincerely,
Herman Wouk
cc: Timothy Warshaw
(E-MAIL)
From:
Louis Gluck
To:
Herman Wouk
Subject:
Solovei screenplay
Mr. Wouk:
At your wife’s curry party I talked to Pearl Nightingale for ten minutes and was sure she could do the job, providing she had to earn your approval. I will proceed with WarshaWorks. My respects to your wife. She is a great woman, and that is why you are a great author.
Ad maya v’esrim,1
Louis Gluck
1. Hebrew. Literally, “To a hundred and twenty” (the age of Moses). “Best wishes” to one my age.—HW
(E-MAIL)
From:
Louis Gluck
To:
Hezzie Jacobs
Subject:
Lawgiver loans, Nullarbor investment
Smodar is sending you the balance due on your loans to WarshaWorks, plus interest. It is a lot of money. I will match you dollar for dollar on the new investment you propose for the extraction system at Nullarbor Ponds. Avoid those movie drayers hereafter, Hezzie, you were a fool, just lucky this time.
Louis Gluck
(E-MAIL REPLY FROM JACOBS TO GLUCK)
Louie,
Movie investments and root canal jobs have too much in common. Never again. Dr. Gillespie laughed and cried at the news of your go-ahead for the extraction system! A thousand thanks!
Hezzie
(PHONE CONVERSATION, RECORDED IN WARSHAW’S OFFICE)
WARSHAW: Shayna? Are you there?
DANIELS: For heaven’s sake, Tim, you and your two a.m. calls!
WARSHAW: Sorry, sorry, this won’t take long. Guess what, Shayna? Gluck is in.
DANIELS: He is? Bless the Lord, O my soul!
WARSHAW: Amen. Skin of our teeth. You’re the first to know. Cancel all arrangements to freeze Aeneas. Go ahead full steam; you have your budget. So has Arnie Granit. Looks like two big ones coming down the pike, partner, for the summer of 2014!
DANIELS: Perry Pines set, then?
WARSHAW: Not a problem, question of money, that’s all. Amazing media interest just goes on and on—
DANIELS: So. No more Mr. Penis . . .
WARSHAW: No more, on your life! It’s Moishe Rabenu, hear? Go back to bed, pleasant dreams. Now I call the bank.
(E-MAIL FROM MARGO TO GRANIT)
Arnie!
I’m mad about Bronko! He just left on the helo. We got through the entire production book. I made a ton of notes. He says he’s got the whole film in his head, shot by shot, and I believe him. Turns out his father was a Holocaust survivor, and he’s passionate about this project, sort of like old Mr. Gluck. Let’s meet, the three of us, first thing Monday and hit the ground running.
And thanks for your sweet note about how I looked coming off the Falcon. Fact is, I checked in the restroom mirror an hour out. Horrors. Death warmed over. I spent the hour working on my battered self, maybe that helped. And scrub that old-fogey stuff, Arnie dear, you know better. Remember the night out here when we got the giggles over Perry’s “cold wet nose,” and talked about your wife? That’s our bond. Once a year my father dances with the Torah, and that was my mood almost straight through the job, thanks to you. When I had lapses into despair at my inadequacy, I told myself, “Arnie is waiting for more pages,” and I wrote.
See you Monday.
Love,
Margo
(LETTER, DEBBIE TO MARGO)
Margo, my dearest,
Read, God yes! Burn, not yet. Not yet! I keep reading your Ayers Rock letter over and over. You’ll never write another letter like that. You’ll never have another such night. Few people know such joy in a whole lifetime. Those hours will weigh against whatever happens in the rest of your life, ad maya v’esrim (if you remember, you far-drifted rebel).
A drop to the mundane. Kiamesha Lake, ever heard of it? Formerly the heart of the Borscht Belt, it’s now a Hasidic enclave. Cy’s parents run a little family hotel there, Kiamesha Lodge. His grandparents started it long before the Borscht Belt erupted all over the Catskill Mountains, then died off, and the Hasidim came. The lodge survives, a quaint relic of forgotten days, hidden among tall pines and oaks, and still open for business. Early on Cy brought me there to meet his folks, and in fact he proposed to me out on the lake, in the lodge’s one leaky rowboat. Gorgeous sunset over autumn trees, unsteady kisses in a rocking boat, and wet feet, such was our betrothal! Cy loves Kiamesha, grew up there, and we’ll be married there. Just family, Cy and I decided on that last Sunday when I visited him. I suspect my parents will be relieved. I know I will be. A New York Jewish wedding is a pricey whoop-de-do, especially for a father of the bride who’s a Hebrew school principal. So, dear, no maid of honor, no schlep for you across America and into the Catskills. You’re off the hook.
Now then. If you’re standing, sit down, if you’re sitting, hang on to your chair. From the hospital I went to Maxim’s and ordered up a steak, with bourbon on the rocks to calm my beating heart. Marrying in Kiamesha! The die is cast! My mind drifts back to that autumn sunset, the rocky rowboat, the wet feet, I’m in a sweet reverie when who walks in but AVRAM SCHARF, with Shirley clinging to his arm like a new bride, both of them in a lovey-dovey glow! They see me and greet me with small grins as they pass my table. Not a trace, not a ghost, of embarrassment, either one. I’m almost too dumbfounded to eat. There they sit, joking with the waiter as he takes their orders. Shirley catches my eye, gives me a bright smile, and twiddles her fingers. Soon she comes over and plops down in my booth. “Hearty appetite!” she says. “Know what? We’re going to the Galápagos!! Second honeymoon, on a kosher windjammer! How about that?”
“Kosher windjammer?” I blurt.
“Oh, it’s the newest thing. Cruise ships are so boring, aren’t they, and so crowded! Eat, eat, eat! Well, there are these beautiful tall sailing ships, and now this special one, the Moby Dick, with an all-kosher cuisine. Rabbi Hoffenstein sailed on the Moby Dick last year, and couldn’t praise it enough, especially the sautéed flying fish. It was a question whether flying fish were kosher, so he checked by texting Rabbi Krantz in Caracas. They’re okay! Say, how’s Cy? So nice to see you. Regards to Margo, if you keep in touch. Has her movie died? I just read some foolishness about an Australian nobody playing Moses. Crazy! Well, nice to see you.”
Solid gold truth, Margo! I shouldn’t be running on like this, but we do share a guilty taste for roast Shirley. Whether it’s kosher, I may text Rabbi Hoffenstein.
One more thing, love. In your night at the Rock, did the Book of Ruth ever cross your mind?
Love,
Debbie
(LETTER, MARGO TO DEBBIE)
Dearest Debbie:
Your keen Bais Yaakov brain would zero in like a guided missile on the Book of Ruth.
Okay, keep the letter another day or two, then burn it, on your honor! I rolled around laughing at Shirley and the windjammer. Kiamesha—even the name—sounds like paradise lost. I envy your waterborne betrothal, wet feet and all. So different from my own state! Neither maid, wife, divorced, widowed, betrothed, nothing, just deliriously happy when I think about it. That’s mostly when I wake up or go to bed. Otherwise all is the roar of a giant film under way: models of sets, costume designs, storyboard arguments, casting, a new Arnold Granit epic charging ahead full steam.
About the Book of Ruth, of course I thought of it. The two Bible books I know like the back of my hand are the Song of Songs and Ruth. Not for any pious reason. On the contrary! When I was about twelve, my hormones started percolating, curiosity about sex was getting to me, and those two books were my secret hot reading. The public library was forbidden. I lived Ruth in my daydreams, especially that passage about her crawling under Boaz’s blanket, while the intense poetic pictures in the Song of Songs plagued me with frustrated longings. Very early on Tatti explained to me—on Pesach, I guess, when the Song of Songs is read in the synagogue—that it’s all an allegory for the love between God and the Jewish people. Right, right, I thought! HA! My present “rebellion,” as you choose to put it, was seeded then and there. Mind you, I was then the most religious girl in Bais Yaakov, sleeves down to here, skirt down to there, Tatti’s pride and joy, doing spectacular memory feats in the Torah, even as X-rated phantom delights were bedeviling my soul.
But if the blanket scene is your clue to my night at Uluru, your guided missile splashes. The parallel goes deeper. Out of all the fields in the Bethlehem wheat harvest, the poor Moabitess convert, destined to be King David’s great-grandmother, all unknowingly gleans in the field of a rich relative, Boaz. How come? “Vayikra mikreh,” says the Bible, two difficult Hebrew words. As a teenager I ransacked the public library for translations. A modern Jewish Bible gave “as luck would have it,” not bad but rather flat. Most versions are longer and clumsier. The best by far is still King James: “her hap was to light on . . . ” Her HAP! What a clear strong Anglo-Saxon monosyllable! Well, my hap, against astronomic odds, was to fly to Australia on a film project and light at Ayers Rock in Josh Lewin’s tent. Chance? Destiny? Vayikra mikrehah . . . !
I do have a few second thoughts—thoughts that I can tell only you. I wrote you what my father said when I moved out at seventeen, remember? Ah, Debbie, even by his lights I almost made it, didn’t I? But that was only because no guy was Joshua, no other reason. In great confidence, I did have one pretty close call with the Broadway composer Biff Getz (Savonarola: The Musical) when I was filming Barnard Blues in New York. We met at Sardi’s, became a twosome for lunch and late supper, all very much on the up-and-up. Not prepossessing, Biff, but lots of fun. Safe, you know? Yet I was beginning to like him a lot, and he sensed it. We went to a musical opening together, came out arguing about the show, and went on arguing into his SoHo flat, first time for me. A cozy pad, framed posters of his hit shows and the like. The Chardonnay flowed freely, the dispute continued warmly, and all at once, flashing a wicked Savonarola grin, Biff outs with, “Let’s go to bed.” Just like that. No pass, no foreplay. Shock and awe! No doubt this put many a suggestible gal flat on her back in that pad. I responded, cool as a Popsicle, “Thanks, Biff, but no.” My! How my pudgy little Savonarola did wilt, and pout, and sulk, and berate me! I’m almost out the door when he hurls a last poisoned zinger, “Good riddance, Marjorie Morningstar!” Little did he know.
So anyway, right now I’d have some trouble looking Tatti in the eye. Not guilt, not a bit of it! Strong conditioned reflex, nothing else. A few months from now it won’t matter—Shucks, my cell phone’s acting up like mad, Arnie Granit’s Xenophon theme. More very soon. No Robert Louis Stevenson this time, I promise. Just what happens next!
Love,
Margo (not quite Marjorie)
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TATTI
(TELEPHONE CALL, MARGO TO GRANIT, RECORDED IN HIS OFFICE)
Margo:
Arnie, what’s up?
Granit:
Is your father’s name Moishe Solovei?
Margo:
Why do you ask?
Granit:
He’s here.
Margo:
Here? Where, here?
Granit:
Here in my office. Tall man all in black, big black hat, graying beard? (Silence.) Want to talk to him? (Very long silence.) Margo, he’s carrying a Lawgiver script.
