Shadows in Paradise

  I listened to the wind. I was.afraid to fall asleep, I shooed away the past and looked at Natasha's face. A slight crease had appeared in the forehead. I stared at it, and for a short while it seemed to me that I was on the point of discovering something I had never before suspected. I was conscious of a peace so deep as to be almost ecstatic, a feeling of infinite space. And the ultimate revelation was like a secret compartment, so close to me that I had only to stretch out my hand to open it. Cautiously, with bated breath, I moved toward it, I moved, and then I knew nothing: I had fallen asleep.

  XXIV

  The Garden of Allah had a swimming pool. The living quarters consisted of one-, two-, and three-room cabins. I was assigned to a two-room cabin with an actor; we each had our own bedroom and shared the bathroom. The general effect of the place was that of a gypsy encampment with modern comfort This came as a surprise to me, and I took to it from the start. The first evening, the actor invited me to his room for a drink. There was whisky and California wine. Some of his friends dropped in. The atmosphere was quite free and easy. If anyone felt like a swim, he jumped into the green-and-blue swimming pool and cooled off. I represented myself as a former assistant curator of the Louvre; suspecting that gossip got around rather quickly in this community, I thought it best to stick to the role I would have to play in my work for Silvers.

  The first few days I had nothing to do. The paintings Silvers had shipped from New York hadn't arrived yet. I hung around the Garden of Allah or drove to the beach with John Scott, the actor, and questioned him about life in Hollywood. Even in New York it had amazed me, and given me a strange sense of unreality, that though the country was at war one saw no sign of it. Here in Hollywood the war was a purely literary conception.

  "There's one thing you've got to understand here in California," said Scott. "The first land beyond the horizon is Japan."

  We were sitting on the Santa Monica beach, looking out over the gray-green waves of the Pacific. All around us children were screaming. In a wooden shack behind us lobsters were being cooked. Unemployed extras were strutting about, hoping to be discovered by a talent scout. The waitresses in the restaurants and snack bars were all waiting for the great moment, meanwhile consuming lavish quantities of make-up, tight-fitting pants, and short skirts. The whole place was one giant lottery: who would pick the winning number? Who would be discovered for the movies?

  "Can it be Tannenbaum?" I asked incredulously, gaping at an apparition in an incredible sports jacket, who suddenly formed a dark spot against the sun.

  "In person," said the Gruppenführer with dignity. "I hear you're staying at the Garden of Allah."

  "How did you know?" "It's the refugee actors' haven."

  "Curses. I was hoping to get away from all that. Do you live there, too?"

  "Moved in after lunch."

  "After lunch? And barely two hours later you're running around on the beach in that ghastly getup. My compliments."

  "A man's got to move fast around here. I see you're with Scott."

  "You already know Scott?"

  "Of course. I've been here twice before. Started out as a Scharführer. Then I was promoted to Sturmführer."

  "And now you're a Gruppenführer. You're getting ahead fast."

  "Obergruppenführer."

  "Have you started shooting?" Scott asked. "Not yet We're starting next week. Now we're trying on costumes."

  Trying on costumes, I thought. What I hadn't dared to think of and had tried to banish from my dreams had here been reduced to a pageant. For a moment I stood dumbfounded; then I had a feeling of wonderful release. I looked at the silvery-gray ocean, the vast surge of quicksilver and lead crowding against the horizon, and in front of this ridiculous little man for whom the catastrophes of the world had already reduced themselves to a matter of make-up and costumes, and I felt as though a ceiling of black clouds had parted. Maybe it's possible, I thought Maybe a'time comes when one stops taking it seriously. Even if I never get to the movie-actor stage, maybe a time will come when the nightmare stops hanging over me like a glacier waiting to bury me in ice.

  "Tannenbaum," I said, "when did you leave Germany?"

  "Thirty-four."

  I should have liked to ask him some more questions. I was curious to know if he had suffered personal losses, if any of his relatives or close friends had been murdered or sent to concentration camps. Probably, almost certainly, but those were questions one couldn't ask. What I really wanted to know was whether he had put all that far enough behind him to be able to play such parts—the parts of men who had murdered his friends and relatives—without an acute inner crisis. But there was no need to ask. He did play them, and that was answer enough.

  "It's been a pleasure running into you, Tannenbaum," I said.

  He squinted at me suspiciously. "I wasn't expecting any compliments from you," he said.

  "I meant it," I assured him.

  His face lit up. "We must see more of each other," he said. "I'll have plenty of time in the next few days."

  "I'll be glad to see you, Tannenbaum. Really glad."

  Silvers called up producers and directors he had met in New York, and invited them to come and look at his paintings. But the usual thing happened: people who in New York had begged him almost with tears in their eyes to drop in on them if he ever came to Los Angeles had just about forgotten his existence; at all events, they were too busy to look at bis pictures.

  "Barbarians!" he growled. "If this keeps on, well just have to go back to New York. What kind of people are staying at the Garden of Allah?"

  "No customers," I said. "In a pinch you might sell them a small drawing or lithograph. Nothing bigger."

  "Little fish are also welcome. We've got two small Degas drawings and two Picasso charcoal sketches. Take them home and hang them up in your room. And throw a cocktail party."

  "Out of my own pocket?"

  "On me, of course. Do you ever think about anything but money?"

  "If I had any, I wouldn't have to think about it."

  Silvers made a disparaging gesture. He was in no mood for jokes. "Give it a try. If there are no salmon to be had, maybe we'll catch a sardine."

  I invited Scott, Tannenbaum, and a few of their friends. The Garden of Allah was famous for its cocktail parties. Scott told me they often lasted till noon the next day. To be on the safe side, but also because of the irony of it appealed to me, I invited Silvers. He declined with good-humored condescension; it was beneath bis dignity to attend a party for small fry.

  It started out promisingly. By nine o'clock there were ten more people than had been invited; by ten there were dozens. My liquor gave out, and we moved to one of the other bungalows, belonging to a white-haired, red-faced man, who proceeded to order sandwiches, hamburgers, and tons of hot dogs. By eleven half of these total strangers were my bosom friends. Around midnight a few of the company fell into the swimming pool and others were pushed in. This was thought to be very funny. In the blue-green light I could see girls swimming around in panties and bras. They were young and pretty, and it all seemed very innocent. Much later we stood around the piano singing sentimental cowboy songs.

  Little by little I lost track of what was going on. The world began to reel, and I made no attempt to straighten it out; what was the use of being sober? I hated those nights when I woke up alone and didn't know where I was; they were dense with dreams that were impossible to shake off. I sank into a deep, not unpleasant stupor, punctuated here and there by brown and golden lights. In the morning I couldn't recollect where I had been or how I had got back to my room.

  Scott filled me in. "Remember those two drawings you had hanging here?" he said. "Well, you sold them. Did they belong to you?"

  I looked around. I had a splitting headache. The two Degas drawings were gone. "Who did I sell them to?" I asked.

  "Holt, I think. The director of Tannenbaume picture."

  "Holt? Never heard of him. I must have been pretty far gone"

&nbs
p; "So was everybody else. Wonderful party! You were great, Bob."

  I looked at him suspiciously. "Did I make an ass of myself?"

  "No, that was Jimmy. He always cries his heart out when he's drunk. You were okay. Then you were drunk when you sold the drawings? You didn't look it."

  "I must have been. I don't remember a thing."

  "Not even the check?"

  "What check?"

  "Holt gave you a check on the spot"

  I stood up, rummaged through my pockets, and actually found a neatly folded check. I stared at it "Holt was stewed to the gills," said Scott. "You talked about art. You were brilliant. Holt was so impressed that he took the pictures right with him."

  I held the check up to the light. Then I laughed. I had sold the drawings for five hundred dollars more than the price set by Silvers. "Hell!" I said to Scott "I sold them too cheap."

  "Really? Say, that's too bad. I don't think Holt will want to part with them."

  "It doesn't matter," I said. 'It serves me right."

  "Does it make a big difference to you?"

  "Forget it It's my punishment. Did I sell the Picassos, too?"

  "The what?"

  "The two other pictures."

  "I don't know. How about jumping into the pool? Best thing for a hangover."

  "I haven't any trunks."

  Scott produced four pairs from his room. "Take your pick. Do you want to eat breakfast or lunch? It's one o'clock."

  I stood up. A vision of peace awaited me outside. The water sparkled; a few girls were swimming about; comfortably dressed men were sitting in deck chairs reading the papers, drinking orange juice or whisky, and chatting lazily. I recognized the white-haired man in whose bungalow we had been the night before. He waved at me. Three others, whom I did not remember, waved, too. I seemed to have friends all over—if only I knew who they were. Liquor was a more effective social catalyst than ideas: life seemed to be without problems, the sky was cloudless, and this was a privileged spot, a paradise far removed from the realities of the world and the black night of Europe. That was the illusion of a first impression; this, too, undoubtedly was a world of snakes and not of butterflies. But the mere illusion was a miracle. It was as though I had suddenly been wafted away to a South Sea idyll in Tahiti. Here I would be able to forget the past and my acquired guilt-ridden self, and revert to an original, primordial self, preceding all experience and unpolluted by the years. Perhaps, I thought, as I emerged from the artificially blue-green water, perhaps this time no memory will pursue me, perhaps I shall be able to start afresh and cast off the obligation to vengeance that I had been carrying about with me like a knapsack full of lead.

  Silvers' irritation evaporated when I handed him the check. "You should have asked a thousand more," he said.

  "I asked and received five hundred more than you told me. If you like, I can return the check and get the pictures back."

  "That's not my style. A sale is a sale. Even at a loss."

  He was sprawled out oh a light-blue leather chaise longue by a window overlooking the hotel swimming pool. "I had some offers for the Picasso sketches," I said. "But I thought I'd better let you sell them yourself. I wouldn't want to bankrupt you by misinterpreting your figures."

  Suddenly a smile lit up his face. "Ross," he said, "you have no sense of humor. Go ahead and sell them. Can't you see that I'm eaten by professional jealousy? You've sold something—I haven't."

  I looked at him. His attire was already more Californian than Tannenbaum's, which was no small order. Silvers, of course, was wearing a tailor-made English sports jacket, while Tannenbaum's was ready-to-wear. But Silvers' shoes were too yellow, his silk ascot scarf was too wide and too outrageously turkey red. I knew what he was getting at; he didn't want to pay me a commission on my sale. Actually, I hadn't expected one, and I wasn't at all surprised when he asked me to bring him the bill for the cocktail party as soon as possible.

  In the afternoon Tannenbaum called for me. "You promised Holt to drop in at the studio," he said.

  "I did? What else did I say?"

  "You were in top form. You sold Holt two drawings and you promised to tell him how to frame them."

  "But they're already framed."

  "You told him those were shop frames. You advised him to get eighteenth-century frames, said they'd make the pictures three times as valuable. Come on. The studio is worth seeing."

  "All right."

  My head was still in pretty bad shape. Tannenbaum led me to an ancient Chevrolet "Where did you learn to drive?" I asked.

  "In California. You need a car here. The distances are too great You can buy a used car for peanuts."

  We drove through a Moorish gate guarded by policemen. "Is this a prison?" I asked when we were stopped.

  "Good God, no. That's the studio police. Without them the whole place would be flooded with sight-seers and job hunters."

  We drove past a gold miners' village. Then down a street lined with Wild West saloons. It was strange to see these sets against the blue sky. Since most of them consisted of house fronts, they looked as if they had been shelled and bombed in a neat methodical war.

  "This is where they shoot the ouI'door scenes," Tannenbaum explained. "Hundreds of Westerns have been made here, all with the same plots. Sometimes they don't even change the actors. Nobody seems to mind."

  We stopped outside an enormous shed, divided into several studios. The red light over the door of Studio 5 was on.

  "Well have to wait a moment" said Tannenbaum. "They're shooting. What do you think of all this?"

  "I love it" I said. "It makes me think of a circus or a gypsy camp."

  Outside Studio 4 I saw a few cowboys standing around and some men and women dressed like early settlers, the women in long skirts, the men in frock coats, beards, and slouch hats. They were almost all made up, which looked weird in the sunlight. There were also horses and a sheriff who was drinking Coca-Cola.

  The red light over the door of Studio 5 went out Blinded by the glare outside, I could see nothing for a moment. Then I froze. Some twenty S.S. men were coming toward me. Automatically, I turned to run and bumped into Tannenbaum. "Look pretty good, don't they,'" he said.

  "What!"

  "I mean authentic. Good job, I mean."

  "Yes," I mumbled. For a moment I didn't know if I was going to smack him in the jaw or not Looking past the S.S. men I saw a watchtower and at the foot of it a barbed-wire fence. I noticed that my breath was coming in a high wheeze.

  "What's the matter?" Tannenbaum asked. "Did they scare you? Didn't you know I was in an anti-Nazi picture?"

  I nodded and tried to calm myself. "I'd forgotten," I said. "After last night. My head isn't quite clear yet."

  "Of course. I should have reminded you."

  "What for?" I said, still falteringly. "I know I'm in California. It was only the first moment."

  "Sure. I understand. It was the same with me the first time. Now, of course, I'm used to it."

  "What?"

  "I mean you get used to it," said Tannenbaum.

  "Really?"

  "Sure."

  I turned around and looked at the detested uniforms. I was very close to vomiting. I was choking with rage, but there was nothing to vent it on. These S.S. men were chatting peacefully in English. "But I was still in a state of shock. My fear and rage evaporated, but they left me aching in every muscle.

  "There's Holt," said Tannenbaum.

  "Yes," I said, staring at the barbed-wire fence.

  "Hi, Bob." Holt was wearing a hunter's cap and leggings. I wouldn't have been surprised if he had had a swastika on his chest or a Star of David.

  "I didn't know you'd started shooting," said Tannenbaum.

  "Only a couple of hours this afternoon. We're through now. What do you say to a drink, Bob?"

  I raised my hand. "Not just yet. After last night."

  "That's just when you need it most."

  "Really?" I asked absently.

&n
bsp; "It's an old recipe! Fighting fire with firewater, we call it." Holt slapped me on the back.

  "Maybe," I said. "Okay, in fact."

  "That's the stuff."

  We went out past a group of chattering S.S. men. Costumed actors, I thought but still I didn't fully believe it I gave myself a jolt. "That man's cap isn't right" I said, pointing at a Scharführer.

  "Really?" said Holt with dismay. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes, I regret to say, I'm sure."

  "Well have to look into it," said Holt to a young man in green sunglasses. "Where's the costume consultant?"

  "I'll get him."