Norman’s thoughts turned to Thomas Hale in Canada and he wondered how it looked to him. Hale came over every year like a kafka with office to mark you down either in the book of sales or the book of rejection slips. Again and again he discovered the would-be author of the Great Canadian Novel and shipped him off to London, often at his own expense, only to discover that his hopeful had taken to gin or television writing by the time he got round to him again. But Hale was indefatigable. He didn’t know that the British didn’t care a damn about Canada. That, as far as they were concerned, somewhere out there between lost India and them lay the loyal Dominion of Canada, where Lord Beaverbrook came from. He also didn’t know what it was like to live in London.
The Canadians had come to conquer. They were the prodigal offspring of a stern father. Coming home again, however, they had not counted on the old man having grown feeble while they had prospered overseas. They were surprised that the island was great only in terms of memory or sentiment. The choice of coming to England, where the streets were paved with poets, rather than to the United States, bespoke of a certain spiritual superiority, so they were appalled to discover that this country was infinitely more materialistic than their own, where possessions were functional, naturally yours, and not the prize of single-minded labour. They were surprised to discover that they had arrived too late.
Norman looked at his watch and wondered again where he could go.
I’m a bum, he thought. I have no more friends. Norman laughed at himself. In a few days this will all have blown over, he thought. Everything will be O.K.
He got out of the taxi at Curzon Street and found a girl who pleased him. They went to a small hotel together.
XXI
There was something doing at the Winklemans that evening. Charlie was there, and so was Colin Horton. Horton had just returned from his tour of the People’s Democracies.
“They’re all familiar with the present climate of hysteria in the States,” he said. “People in Budapest were amazed at the way the FBI has been able to hoodwink the American public.”
Bella served hors d’oeuvres.
“Time and again I was asked why people like myself had left. I told them that there was such a drive towards conformity in America these days that not going to church was enough to brand you as a Red. The breadth and success of the witch-hunt astonished them. But when I explained that most of the informers were psychopaths and that one never got a chance to face one’s accuser they began to understand.”
Horton, who had to address the Anglo-Hungarian Friendship Society at nine-thirty, left early. As soon as he was gone the others got down to business.
Boris Jeremy was in trouble.
Tall, affable Boris Jeremy had been considered to be one of those on the way up in Hollywood until he had been called before the committee. At the hearing it had come out that Jeremy had not only contributed to the Spanish Aid Fund, but that his brother-in-law had died at Guadalajara and, what’s more, that Jeremy’s wife was a former Y.C.L. member. So Jeremy had come to England. Here, after much determined work, he had once more been considered to be a man on his way up. But when – after seemingly interminable negotiations – he was supposed to have signed a contract last week to direct his first big-budget film for a British studio, the deal had suddenly, inexplicably, gone ice-cold. This morning his passport had been revoked; he had been given six weeks to return to the United States. There was no doubt that, unless he was willing to become a “friendly witness,” he would not be able to get work there. Boris Jeremy had a wife and three children.
Sonny Winkleman toyed unhappily with his glass. “Tell them what you told me, Charlie,” he said.
Charlie hesitated.
“Come on. Don’t be embarrassed.”
“Karp,” he said, “has told me in so many words that Norman Price is mentally unstable.”
“Come again,” Bob Landis said.
“Do you know how many times they opened up Price’s head in the hospital?” Graves asked.
“No,” Bob said, “do you?”
“Go ahead, Charlie.”
“Karp says that Norman feels he’s wasted his life – as he puts it – getting mixed up in headlines and ephemeral angers. He told Karp that the fight we put up for the Rosenbergs was vitiated by the fact that we shut our eyes to the grosser injustices of the other side.”
“Is he a Trotskyite?”
“How should I know?”
“Hey, what are Norm’s politics?”
“Charlie?”
“I dunno. Not any more.”
“Didn’t he go to Spain recently? I mean a guy who would give Franco dollars.…”
Landis grinned avidly. “Let’s get him down here,” he said, “and make him tell us what his politics are.” But the others didn’t see the joke.
“What else, Charlie?”
Charlie shifted uneasily in his chair.
“Tell them what you told Sonny,” Graves said.
“What I told Sonny was private.”
Winkleman explained. “I bought a story from Charlie here – a real cute comedy – and hired Norman to work on the dialogue here and there. This afternoon Charlie comes roaring in here to tell me that he doesn’t want anything more to do with the picture. All this, mind you, after we’ve set up a production. He tells me that I can have my money back and that Norm can take all the credit for as far as he’s concerned.”
“That was something else,” Charlie protested weakly. “There’s another reason for that.”
“Come on.” Winkleman slapped Charlie on the back. “Stop trying to protect him.” He told the others something of the history of All About Mary. “They’re old friends,” he said.
“That’s not why I want my name off the picture,” Charlie said. “I –”
“There’s loyalty for you.”
“Mr. Chairman,” Bob began drunkenly. “A point of –”
Jeremy slapped the table. “I’ve got it,” he said. “I can easily figure out why Norman didn’t want Charlie to know that he was the other guy on the script. He was afraid that someone with Charlie’s guts never would have agreed to work with an informer.”
Charlie rose swiftly from his chair. “I never once said Norman was an informer,” he shouted.
“A point of order,” Bob insisted loudly.
“What’s with you, Bob?”
“Why isn’t Norman here to defend himself?”
“I never once said that Norman was an informer.”
“But he’s a bit screwy, Charlie, isn’t he?” Graves asked. “How do you know that when he has one of his lapses he doesn’t …” Graves tapped his head and drew quick circles with his finger. “He, you know … You know, like – Ask any psychiatrist.”
“Maybe Bob’s right,” Plotnick said. “Let’s call Norman.”
Winkleman took Bella by the arm. “Tell them why Norm isn’t here,” he said.
“When I told him that Sonny had given up everything he had in Hollywood for a principle he actually asked what that principle was.”
“Really,” Bob said.
“When she insisted on it,” Winkleman added, “he told her that she was a very silly woman.”
“Maybe,” Bob said. “But I don’t like the tone of all this. Norman should be here.”
“Bob’s right,” Charlie said.
“Why,” Graves asked, “so that he can hit somebody again?”
“Or get more information for the FBI,” Jeremy said.
“I never said that Norman was an informer.”
“Here,” Winkleman said, passing Bob the phone, “call him.”
Landis hesitated.
“I guarantee you that he won’t come,” Graves said. “He doesn’t want to have anything more to do with us. We’re mediocre. That’s what he told Karp.”
Charlie scratched his head furiously.
“Look,” Winkleman said, “don’t you think we were fond of him too? But he couldn’t do enough to help that little Nazi
bastard. He –”
“Sure, but –”
“Obviously somebody here has informed on Boris. Was it me?”
“No, but –”
“Maybe I’m an informer,” Graves said.
“No, but –”
“Charlie’s living in his flat. The shelves are crammed with people like Trotsky and Koestler. Do you know what Charlie found in his desk? Three back issues of the Intelligence Digest. That’s a fascist magazine that you can only get by subscription.”
“How do we know,” Landis asked, “that anyone here did inform on Boris in the first place? Maybe the passport people just happened to get around to him.…”
“Yes,” Charlie said hopefully, “that’s it.”
Graves embraced Charlie affectionately. “I know you don’t like this, boy. It’s a shock to you. We understand. I worked with a guy for fifteen years.…”
Graves told him the story of his partner who had testified against him.
“I feel sick,” Charlie said.
“Go home, boy. We understand.”
Charlie rose shakily. As he slipped round-shouldered out of the living room he just had time to hear Jeremy say, “How come there isn’t more work for a guy like Charlie?”
“If things work out for me tomorrow,” Plotnick said, “I’ll be able to use him myself.”
I should go back, Charlie thought, and explain. Explain what? That Norman had cuckolded him? He wasn’t going to be made a laughing-stock for Norman’s sake.
“Well,” Graves asked, “what are we going to do about Norman?”
But with Charlie’s departure they had all been purged of their fury. Everyone except Graves was ashamed.
For an hour they had created the illusion that they were back in Hollywood. For an hour they had been powerful executives once more, for an hour they had been resurrected as creative gamblers, as men with functions and offices. But then Winkleman had looked out of the window, where there was no studio lot below, and Plotnick had leaned on his desk, where there were no buzzers to summon obsequious aides, and Jeremy had walked past the window, which looked out on no swimming pool, and Landis had rested his hand on the phone, which could summon no starlets, even though he was bored. So the illusion had been destroyed.
“I dunno,” Plotnick said.
“Come to think of it,” Jeremy said, “maybe we’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”
Winkleman sighed. “Norman’s coming here tomorrow afternoon. I’m supposed to see him about his contract.”
One by one they said good bye. Nobody paired off. They drove or walked home one by one.
Charlie drifted towards Swiss Cottage. I never once said that he was an informer, he thought. They twisted my words. They drew their own conclusions. But somebody, he thought, must have informed on Jeremy. How do I know that it wasn’t Norman? Could I swear to it? Norman is a bit odd. Then there’s that story about Graves’s partner. Maybe they’re right.
Charlie stopped off at the nearest pub and ordered a double whisky. There he realized for the first time that the post-dated cheque he had come to return still lay on Winkleman’s desk. Nothing had been settled about All About Mary. He was still broke. He still had to see his bank manager in the morning.
Where am I going to get some money, Charlie thought, where?
XXII
Norman came round to see Charlie early the next morning. Charlie came to the door in his dressing gown. He looked shocked. “I thought it was the milkman,” he said, holding the door half-open. “It’s not even nine o’clock yet.…” He gathered up his newspapers anxiously. “Joey is still in bed.”
“I came to see you.”
They sat down together at the kitchen table. Charlie put aside his copies of the Manchester Guardian and the Daily Worker and scanned the headlines of the Daily Express. “What do you want?” he asked sharply.
Norman, who had come directly to Charlie’s flat from the small hotel off Curzon Street, risked a friendly smile. “I’ve had a hard night,” he said.
Joey moaned something inaudible from the bedroom.
“You might as well come in,” Charlie said. “He’s your friend.”
“I’d rather speak to you alone,” Norman said.
Joey came in, yawning, and rubbing the nape of her neck drowsily.
“I’ve come to apologize,” Norman said.
“For what?” Charlie asked.
Norman smiled inanely. “I’m not quite sure.…”
“First you make a shady deal with Rip Van Pinkleman behind my back and then, as if to prove that it wasn’t a fluke, you hop into bed with my wife at the first opportunity.”
Norman took out the cheque Charlie had sent him and laid it on the table. “This is yours,” he said, “no matter how you feel about me.”
“Keep it.”
“You’re upset, Charlie. You have every reason to be angry with me. I shouldn’t have gone ahead with the Winkleman deal without speaking to you first. But nothing happened last night. Joey hasn’t been unfaithful to you.”
“I know that you two went to bed together,” Charlie reached for Joey’s hand. He clasped it warmly. “But it doesn’t really matter any more. You can’t harm us now. We’re going to make a fresh start.” Charlie winked desperately. “Like Abelard and Heloise.”
Norman looked inquiringly at Joey.
“What makes it doubly sad,” Charlie said, “is that I was about to forgive you the Winkleman deal. I thought to myself we’ve been friends for years so what the hell. As a matter of fact,” he added, “I was going to ask you to lend me two hundred pounds. Now it’s out of the question.…”
Norman pushed the cheque towards him again.
“No,” Charlie said, “this cheque I could never take. Borrowing would have been different. But I couldn’t even do that now. I’ll just have to manage as best I can.” Charlie rustled his Daily Worker nervously. “Look at this,” he said, “our old pal Waldman is the latest to sing. Son-of-a-bitch. If I,” he said, watching Norman intently, “had as little integrity as these guys I could be pulling down two grand a week on the coast. No thank you, Daryl.”
“I’ll lend you two hundred pounds.”
“I need it badly. But I couldn’t take it.”
“I’ll mail it to you,” Norman said. “You don’t even have to see me.”
“It’s something I just couldn’t do.”
“Look,” Norman said, “we didn’t make love last night. Or any night. I swear it.”
“I hate saying this,” Charlie said, “but you aren’t well. I wouldn’t blame you for not wanting to remember.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry, Norman, but you’ve been known to suffer from lapses of memory before.”
“Why, that’s absurd,” Norman said, but his voice was slivered with weakness.
“I tried to tell him,” Joey said, “but he wouldn’t believe me.” She looked from Charlie to Norman, her eyes filled with tears, and rushed out of the room and slammed the bedroom door after her.
Charlie smiled helplessly. “Another cup of coffee, huh?”
“No.”
I hate you, Charlie thought. You make me lie. You make me cheat. You’re no better than me any more. I hate you.
“Hey,” Charlie said, “I’ve been offered a picture deal. They’d like me to do a story with a mining background.”
“Oh.”
“Would you like to work on the storyline with me?”
“No.”
Charlie passed his sweaty hand over his forehead.
“I’ll write you a cheque for the two hundred pounds,” Norman said.
“I’d be able to pay you back in a couple of months. But I couldn’t take it. Not now.”
Norman wrote out a cheque. This would mean another overdraft at the bank, but there was nothing he could do about it.
“I couldn’t,” Charlie said. “Really I couldn’t.”
“It would make me feel better.”
“Would
it?” Charlie asked. “Are you being sincere?”
“Yes.”
“O.K.,” Charlie said, “but it’s a loan. Remember that.”
Norman got up. “So long, Charlie,” he said.
“Hey, what do you mean ‘so long’? We’ve known each other for years.” He followed Norman into the hall. “I’ll call you.”
“Sure.”
“You ought to get married. You need someone to take care of you.”
“Yeah.”
Charlie laughed nervously. “See you soon,” he said. Then, on impulse, he chased after Norman. He caught up with him outside. “Wait,” he said. “I’d like to speak to you.”
They went to an espresso bar around the corner. The place was choked with boys in duffle coats and girls with pink polished faces.
“Don’t you think I know deep inside that I’ll never make it?” Charlie asked. “Don’t you think I know?”
“Why don’t you pack it in, then?”
“I’m forty years old, Norman. I haven’t got a trade or a cent in the bank or anything. I haven’t even got a son. Sure, sure. I know. I’m a failure.”
Charlie looked up at Norman hopefully. He seemed to expect praise, a friendly gesture, the gift of a lie.
Help him, Joey had said. Tell him he’s good. Norman felt sympathetic, he wanted to lie whitely, but he couldn’t. Charlie, he felt, had been waiting for Lefty all these years. He was forty. Godot had come instead.
“I’m a failure, O.K., but don’t you think that if I wanted to I could have been a successful executive or lawyer or agency man?” He leaned closer to Norman. “Don’t you think …?”
Norman’s head ached. “I guess so, Charlie,” he said.
Charlie’s laughter spilled out humourlessly, like bile. “Sure I could have,” he said. “Only I decided early that I wasn’t going to get into the rat-race. Maybe I’m a failure, but I never squeezed out a smaller competitor or squirmed to a boss or worried about keeping up with the Joneses. I’ve always been free.” Charlie leaned back; he cleared his throat. “I’m a non-conformist.”