Youngblood hawke, p.31
Youngblood Hawke, page 31
3
During the next few days the man with the yellow pencil seemed to be coming at him down every corridor and around every corner of The Park Tower, pencil held high and horizontal under his double chin between two plump pink hands, smile unchanging as a rubber mask. "Mr. Thompson hopes you'll be able to see him today . . . Mr. Thompson is counting on you this afternoon . . . Mr. Thompson waited straight through the lunch hour for you . . ." and every now and then, by way of softening the nagging, a few stabs of the pencil at the imaginary cash register, "Ding ding deeng, how goes the new novel, Mr. Hawke? Jingle jingle jeengle!" It was impossible for Hawke to face the unseen ogre Thompson with the facts about the sub-lease, so there was nothing to do but endure this nuisance. Meantime Scotty's check had come. Instead of having no ready money he suddenly had eleven thousand four hundred dollars, so there was no question of any more overdrafts. Hawke was impressed by Scott's speedy return of the money, and a little sorry that he had pulled out of the venture. But it was pleasant to be under no fear of running short of cash.
Ferdie Lax, true to his word, called Hawke three days after the meeting with Prince. "One moment for Hollywood," the long distance operator said, "Is Mr. Lax there, operator? Ready with Mr. Hawke."
Then Lax, his voice clear, chirpy, and familiar across three thousand miles: "Hello, Hawke? When can you come out here?"
"What for?"
"The screenplay of Oblivion. It's all set."
Hawke's momentary excitement faded. "Ferdie, I said no to that six months ago. I've finished with that book. The thought of going back to it depresses me."
"It's all that's available, Hawke. They're having a hell of a retrenchment out here. They have these panics every few years but this one is like the French Revolution, the way heads are rolling. Of course everybody gets hired again after a while, but that's how it goes. The thing is I've been talking to this Hodge fellow and Jay Prince. Hodge Hathaway is the place for you. That Hodge is a business man. But Jay isn't going to budge as long as you're sitting up in that flossy apartment on Central Park South. He knows you're working, what the hell else are you doing? How much time can a man spend in the hay, even a young man fresh out of the hills? You come out here. Get him used to the idea that the new book's actually not getting written and he's not going to see any copy till doomsday."
"What will I get paid if I come out?"
"I've got Luzzatto up to eight hundred a week. Frankly, that's not because of you, your book looks like a dog and so you're a dog. These ignorant bastards out here don't read, they look at best-seller lists. Fortunately Anne Karen has it in her head that you're the man to write the movie. You apparently wowed her. She keeps saying, 'I want the exact movie that young man described in the Waldorf during the blizzard.'"
Hawke was thinking that flight across the continent was the perfect quiet way to break with Frieda. "Ferdie, are you recommending that I come out?"
"I am. Frankly, Hawke, and this is none of my business, you're doing yourself no good in that goddamn Park Tower. You're a young man, a coming major writer, you have new words to sell, you're fresh and exciting. The lady in question is a fascinating woman, I know her well, but there are a lot of women in California too. In fact I'm going to tell you something. Half of the human race is women. There are so goddamn many women that it's frightening to think about. You come out here."
"What's today, Thursday?" Hawke said. "Suppose I come next Monday?"
"Perfect. Wire me your flight number. I'll meet you. We'll put you up at the Beverly Hills Hotel till we figure something out. How are your mother and sister? Enjoying New York?"
"They went home."
"They're smart. New York's a great town if you're a psychoanalyst or a head waiter. Not otherwise. Get on out here."
4
Frieda took the news with astonishing cheerfulness, hardly pausing in the brushing of her hair. She stood half-dressed before the bureau. "Well, you scoundrel. You waited until you'd had your will of me, eh? Instead of telling me like a gentleman when I got here, so we could have had a dignified farewell. Use me and then discard me, hey? Very masculine, very mature."
"Frieda, it's only for a couple of months. I'll be back."
"Ha! I'll bet." She startled him with his mother's phrase and tone. "No, this is it, my love, and decidedly the thing for both of us, before matters get out of hand. Fun's fun, and all that, as they say, but we may as well quit while everything's wonderful. I mean for me, at any rate. What goes on in your mind I've never been able to discern."
So he said some uncouth romantic things, to the effect that he adored her, and that giving her up was the last thing in his mind. She looked at him with fondness and growing amusement, and at last came and sat on the arm of his chair. "In other words, you've never been more relieved in your life. What a head you have, all the same!" She took his face in her hands, one firm cool palm on each jaw, and turned his head up to her, and kissed him coolly. "I think you're going just in time, myself. I could conceivably get to like you. That could become very messy. One favor, and we'll part the best of friends."
"What is it, Frieda?"
"Paul keeps asking for you. He's in bed all day, driving everybody mad—kids are always at their worst convalescing—and he wants to hear the rest of the story about the clown. Will you come and tell it to him?"
"Of course. I love that kid."
"Tomorrow morning about eleven, okay? And then we'll have lunch, and we'll drink a cup of kindness, and you'll be off to your grand destiny."
The boy smiled and held out both hands to Hawke. He looked better. His smile was mischievous instead of wistful, and his eyes were bright. "Hello! What did God do to the clown?" Frieda left them. Hawke spun the story out for about half an hour. The boy listened in an ecstasy of contentment, resting on huge pillows, never taking his gray eyes off Hawke. "Now tell me another story," he said as soon as Hawke had run out of improvisation, and had flattened the clown into the wallpaper to all eternity.
"What about?" Hawke said. "Hansel and Gretel? Jack the Giant Killer?"
"No, none of those old ones. Mama said you make up stories. Make up another one."
"I get paid for making up stories. Will you pay me?"
"Pay you what?"
"Well, how about a kiss?"
The boy looked embarrassed. "That's not paying. I get a dollar for taking my yellow medicine. It's horrible. I'll give you the dollar."
"All right," said Hawke, laughing. He started a story about a kitten who was born invisible, and its attempts to acquire solid form and color so that it could attract its mother's attention. Paul kept pestering Hawke for the creature's name. "Paul, he had no name, don't you understand? His mother couldn't see him to name him. He was the No-cat."
"The No-cat," said Paul. "He was the No-cat. That's the name of the story. The No-cat."
The fat colored maid appeared. "Miz Winter say you to come down to lunch, sah."
"No, no, no fair," the boy cried. "He's in the middle of a story."
"I'll finish it later, Paul."
"No you won't. I'll never know what happened to the No-cat. Never. Did he ever become visible? Did his mother ever see him? Just tell me that."
"Well, that's the whole story, I'm not going to give it away. I'll be back, Paul."
As he went down the stairs he heard the boy excitedly telling the start of the No-cat story to the maid. Hawke had no idea how to end it. Frieda was humming over the small range in the pantry, turning corn fritters and pushing sausages about in bubbling grease. "Hi there," she said, waving a fork at the food. "This is where we came in, isn't it? I'm a sentimental slob, in case you don't know it. One thing though, I'm not a weeper, so don't panic."
"That smells marvellous. Get it on the table."
"Yes, lord and master. Do you suppose champagne goes with sausages and corn fritters? Whether it does or not there's a bottle in that freezing compartment, and we're going to have it. Get it out."
After a while they were on the famous sofa in the living room again, finishing the wine. But it was nothing like Christmas Day. The windows were open, the warmth was open-air warmth fragrant with the smell of green leaves, not dry steam heat, and the park outside was a mottle of green and yellow instead of gray and brown. "Well," she said in a dramatic whisper, her eyes dancing with mockery over the rim of her glass, "what else can I do to entertain you?"
"Something seems to have been left out of the program," Hawke said.
"It sure has, and it's jolly well going to stay left out, Bloody. Ah memories, memories . . ."
He wanted to keep his promise to Paul; but when he went up to the bedroom with Frieda the little boy was fast asleep, his brow beaded with sweat. His mother tenderly wiped his face. "It's good," she said. "He's sweating out that damned virus, whatever it is."
Frieda's resolute cheerfulness broke only at the last moment, as they walked together down the red marble stairway to the foyer. All at once, at the bottom of the stairs, she turned in her curious sinuous way and clung to him. "It's only been eight weeks, do you realize that? Good God. Maybe I shouldn't have wired you when you sent me that book," she said, muffling the words against his chest.
"That's what I was asking for, Frieda," he said.
"I knew that. You looked so funny in that picture on the back of the jacket." She put her fist under her chin and glowered at him. He had to laugh. "Ah, Arthur," she said, clinging to him again. "It's a mess, after all."
He held her. She nestled against him, her hair brushing his face. "Arthur, we'll see each other again, won't we? I mean there's no need to be melodramatic, is there? I like you. You behaved well under the bad notices. I've never said this before, but the way you drag yourself to your desk day after day no matter what is fine. It's the main thing. If I had had that quality I might have been a good pianist. It also helps to be inspired, which I believe you are. I don't think I was. You'll never be wholly civilized, but then an artist shouldn't be. You'll learn the motions." She drew away, and looked up at him, and now he saw her eyes were wet. "You don't really hate me, do you? There's no reason you should. I haven't hurt you. I've tried to be sweet to you. It hasn't been hard."
He pulled her close, and kissed her. She said, "This goddamn house is full of servants," and broke away. "Can I drive you somewhere? I have the car."
"I just want to walk down through the park to the hotel. Then I'm going to pack."
"And you prefer to walk alone."
"Come along, by all means."
She hesitated in the doorway, then shook her head. "No, the hell with that." She held out her hand. "Goodbye, Arthur."
"Goodbye, Frieda." They were shaking hands across the doorstep, exactly as they had done on Christmas Day. She said, "There's no harm in writing a letter once in a while, is there? Write and tell me how Hollywood strikes a hillbilly. I'm curious."
"Of course I will."
They stood looking at each other. "Well, go away," she said. "Take your walk."
"I'm in no hurry," he said. "I always have liked looking at you."
"Well, I'm a busy woman, and so I'm going to close this door. Don't write me any letters. Your last letter led to a hell of a mess, now that I think of it. Run along, I say." The door closed, and he could hear her heels clicking away on the marble floor.
He walked through the park in a high state of well being. Not only was he full of food and champagne, but he thought he had done a masterly job of the parting. Mrs. Winter had given him an instructive and risky adventure. He was out of it, and moving on.
5
Ross Hodge said, next day, leaning back in his swivel chair, taking off his glasses, and chewing one end of them, "Jeanie, there's news about your friend Hawke. He's going to Hollywood, leaving Monday."
"Is he? How nice for him," Jeanne said, with the greatest unconcern.
"Have you talked to Hawke since that day you went on the boat?"
"No. I guess I offended him. I fell asleep."
"On the contrary you must have done very well. I heard from his agent, a Hollywood fellow named Lax, the next day."
"Oh, yes. Sleepy parrot with X-ray eyes."
"That's him. Now this fellow Lax has a head full of movie figures. I want Youngblood Hawke and I'm willing to pay a lot for him, but—much more than anyone else in the business would right now, by the way. Publisher's Weekly just called Alms for Oblivion the disappointment of the year."
"I saw that. Idiots."
"Yes, well, stacks of unsold books are discouraging, Jeanne. However, I've never had any luck except when I was faithful to my own tastes, completely disregarding sales, critics, and all the rest. I was impressed by Hawke when I first met him. I was more impressed by his novel. You say this navy book of his is better."
"There's no comparison. If it isn't a smash hit I'll go into some other kind of work, and so should Hawke."
Hodge leaned forward. "I sort of felt Jay out yesterday at the Commons Room, just a few words as I walked by his table. Lax hasn't told him we're the ones who are interested. But Jay's no fool. He thinks I'm crazy, but he's going to hold me up for a sizable sum to let go of Hawke. Add to that the figures Lax is demanding for an advance, and the thing becomes hard to do. Do you suppose you could persuade Hawke to make our parrot friend talk more reasonably?"
The telephone rang. Hodge said, "Yes, Ruth, she's in my office. Who's calling? Really? Hang on." He turned to Jeanne and held out the telephone. "For you."
The too-casual gesture was not lost on Jeanne. "Oh, yes? Who is it?"
"It seems to be Youngblood Hawke."
"I can't talk to him now. I'll call him back."
Hodge grinned, and laid the telephone softly on the desk beside her. "I'll leave."
"Don't be absurd," she snapped. She put a cigarette in her mouth; Hodge held a flaming lighter to it; she picked up the receiver.
Hawke told her about his Hollywood job. She briskly wished him success. He wanted to have dinner with her. No, sorry, impossible; she was having dinner with Karl. Well, could he see her after dinner? Sorry, they were going out to a Long Island restaurant and wouldn't be back until very late. Hawke pleaded that he had something urgent to discuss with her. She sat silent, red, the receiver to her ear. Hodge lounged in his chair, staring out at the Chrysler Building, blowing smoke rings.
"Look here," she said, "I'll be tired as the devil when I come home. I'm getting a little old for late dates. Can't this wait until you return from the coast? Or can't you write me about it?"
Hawke said, "It's simple enough. I've got about two hundred new pages piled up. I want you to go back to work on them, Jeanne. Really, you must, and let's cut out the nonsense. I don't want to offend you by talking money. You just suggest any arrangement and I'll accept it. There are things in the script I want to discuss with you before I leave."
"Arthur, I thought all that was settled. I can't do it." She glanced at Hodge.
"You told me to try you again when I left The Park Tower. I'm leaving The Park Tower."
"Yes? Who's going with you to the coast?"
"Nobody. I'm leaving everything and everybody behind. When I return it will be as though I were coming here for the first time."
"Wait a minute." She put her hand over the receiver. "He wants me to go back to work on his manuscript."
"Do it!" Hodge said, swivelling around.
"But it'll cut into my work here. I'm all piled up. He's not one of our authors. It makes no sense."
"Jeanne, the best service you can render me is to take on the Hawke manuscript. That's the official word. From there on, and I mean it, suit yourself."
Jeanne hesitated another moment. "Look," she said into the telephone, "I have to go to a sales conference at four o'clock. How would it be if I met you right away, say in fifteen minutes, at The Park Tower? I'm jammed up, I can't stay more than half an hour, and this is about the only time today or tomorrow that I can manage."
"Why, that's absolutely marvellous," Hawke said. "That's perfect. That's great, Jeanne. Get yourself over here."
He let her into the apartment, and she sidled in with suspicious glances all around her, like a cat venturing into a new house. "How do you like it?" he said.
"I hate it. Give me the script and I'll get out of here."
"You sounded queer on the telephone. What was the matter?"
"Ross Hodge was sitting two feet from me. That's why I'm taking on your book. He ordered me to."
Jeanne was producing a dry calm tone with difficulty. She was in a great turmoil, finding herself suddenly in Feydal's luxurious suite, alone with Hawke, haunted by pictures of what had been happening here.
Hawke said, "Well, bless Ross Hodge then," and he began hauling great sheaves of yellow paper out of the desk drawers, and piling them into a red paper portfolio. She sat stiffly on the edge of the silk-covered couch. He talked about the work he had done, the way the story had advanced, certain problems he wanted her to examine. He felt he might have scrawled a whole superfluous section about a shore leave in Australia; also, was he overwriting the battle of Iwo Jima? He wanted to talk to her by telephone from Hollywood early next week.
Jeanne said, looking at the overstuffed portfolio, "Well, you haven't been exactly idle here, anyway, have you? That's something."
"I've never stopped working."
He mixed a couple of highballs, despite her protest that she would have to leave in a few minutes. Jeanne's spirit was soaring, for all her wounded pride and her anger at Hawke, which this rich and perfumed apartment exacerbated. She could not help herself. Being with this man, discussing his work, feeling that she was useful to him, was as close to heaven as she expected to come in this world. She did not delude herself about these feelings. She had all but given up Hawke. She remained extremely wary of daring to hope again. The agony of rejection she had endured was not an experience she intended to repeat, or even to risk repeating.
