Shadows in Paradise

  "With abducted virgins, tortured movie stars, and wedding bells at the end?"

  "Not exactly. But with pursuits, fighting, and excitement."

  Scott came strolling over. "It sounds like you need some liquor over here."

  He set down a bottle of whisky and two glasses on the rim. of the pool. "We're moving over to my place. If you're hungry, come on over. There's plenty of cold chicken."

  Holt grabbed me by the lapels. "Just ten minutes more, Bob. Just the practical details. We can talk about the rest tomorrow."

  The ten minutes turned out to be an hour. Holt was typical of Hollywood, a man who would have liked to do something good but was willing to settle for less, though not without a soul struggle that he took very seriously. "You've got to help me, Bob," he said. "We can't put our ideas over all at once. Well have to do it gradually, petit à petit."

  His French was all I needed. I left Holt in haste and went to my room. For a time I lay on the bed, wrangling with myself. Then I decided to phone Kahn next day, now that I could afford it. And I'd call Natasha, too; so far I had written her two short letters, and even that had been hard for me. Somehow she wasn't the kind of person you wrote long letters to. Phone calls and telegrams were more her style. When she wasn't actually with me, I could think of very little to say. The feeling was there, but I couldn't put it into words. When she was there^ everything was right; life was full and exciting. When she wasn't, the thought of her seemed as radiant as the northern lights, but also as remote.

  It occurred to me that what with the time interval between California and New York this was a good time to call her. I asked for the number and suddenly noticed that I was tense with excitement.

  She answered. Her voice seemed very far away. "Natasha," I said, "this is Robert."

  "Who?"

  "Robert."

  "Robert? Where are you? In New York?"

  "No, I'm in Hollywood."

  "In Hollywood?"

  "Yes, Natasha. Had you forgotten? What's the matter?"

  "I was asleep."

  "Asleep? At this hour?"

  "It's the middle of the night You woke me up. What is it? Are you coming back?"

  Damn it, I thought. I had reckoned the time difference in reverse. "Go back to sleep, Natasha. Ill call again tomorrow."

  "Okay. Are you coming back?"

  "Not yet. I'll tell you about it tomorrow. Go back to sleep."

  "Okay."

  This was my bad day, I thought. I shouldn't have called her. There were lots of other things I shouldn't have done. I was furious with myself. What had I let myself in for? Why had I got mixed up with Holt? But what harm could it do me? I waited a while, then I rang Kahn. This time I was making no mistake. Kahn was a light sleeper.

  He answered instantly. "What's the matter, Robert? What are you calling for?"

  In our attitude toward the telephone we refugees were still far from being Americans; a long-distance call still evoked the thought of disaster. "Has something happened to Carmen?" he asked.

  "No. I've seen her. She seems to want to stay on."

  He waited a moment. "Maybe she'll change her mind. She hasn't been there very long. Has she got somebody?"

  "I don't think so. She hardly knows a soul. As far as I know, her only friend is her landlady."

  He laughed. "What about you? When are you coming back?"

  "Not for a while."

  "I told him about my work with Holt. "What do you think of it?" I asked.

  "Do it, by all means. You haven't any moral scruples, I hope? That would be too absurd Or could it be your patriotism?"

  "No." I had suddenly forgotten why I had called. 'I've been thinking about your letter," I said.

  "The only thing that matters is to pull through," he said. "How you do it is your business. I'd say it wasn't a bad idea, learning to live with your complex in a situation without any danger. It gives you kind of a dry run. We'll all have to do it later on, but then the chips will be down and you won't have a chance to practice. You can always quit if it gets you down too much. Later on, over there, you won't be able to. Am I right?"

  "That's just what I wanted to hear," I said.

  "Good." He laughed. "Don't let Hollywood confuse you, Robert. In New York you wouldn't have asked me. The answer would have been obvious to you. Hollywood is corrupt; the people know it and for that reason invent ridiculous ethical standards. Don't fall for them. Even in New York it's hard enough to keep your head. Look at Gräfen-heim. His suicide was unnecessary. A moment of weakness. He'd never have been able to live with his wife again."

  "How's Betty?"

  "Fighting. She wants to outlive the war. No doctor could have given her a better prescription. But this call must be costing you a fortune. Have you made a million?"

  "Not yet."

  It was a weird night. A little later Scott came in and insisted on seeing the sanguine drawing. liquor made him stubborn, that was its only visible effect on him. "I never dreamed of owning a Renoir," he admitted. "I never had the money until recently. And now all of a sudden I've got the bug. A Renoir of my own! I want it! I want it right now!"

  I took the drawing down and handed it to him. "Here you are, Scott."

  He handled the picture as if it were a monstrance. "He signed it," he said. "With his own hand. And now it's mine. A poor kid from Iowa, from the wrong side of the tracks. We've got to drink to that Come on, Bob. In my room. With the picture on the walL I'm going to hang it this minute."

  His room was a picture of desolation, Uttered with empty bottles, half-eaten sandwiches, and overturned ash trays. "Man is a swine," Scott observed profoundly. He removed a photograph of Rudolph Valentino as the Sheik from the wall and hung the Renoir in its place. "How does it look up there?" he asked. "Like a whisky ad?"

  I stayed for an hour, and Scott told me the story of his life. He was convinced that his beginnings had been tragic, because he had been very poor and obliged to make his way by selling papers, washing dishes, and similar humiliating occupations. I listened patiently and unsmilingly, drawing no comparisons between his life and mine. In the end he got sleepy and wrote out a check. "Imagine me making out a check for a Renoir!" he sighed. "It's sort of scary."

  I went back to my room. An insect with green transparent wings was buzzing around the light bulb. I watched it for a while; an unfathomable work of art, a creature throbbing with life, yet bent on immolating itself as heedlessly as an Indian widow. I caught it and carried it out into the cool night A minute later it was back again. I realized that the only way to save it was for me to go to bed. I turned out the light and tried to sleep. When I opened my eyes again, I saw a figure in the doorway. I groped for the lamp, meaning to brandish it in self-defense, but switched it on instead. The figure proved to be a young girl in a rather rumpled dress. "Oh, excuse me," she said with a strong accent. "May I come in?"

  She took a step forward. "Are you sure you've got the right room?" I asked.

  She smiled. "It doesnt make much difference at this time of night, does it? I fell asleep outside. I was very tired."

  "Were you at Scott's party?"

  "I don't know the name. Somebody brought me. But they're all gone now. m have to wait till morning. Would you let me sit here? It's so damp outside."

  "You're not an American, are you?" I asked idiotically.

  "Mexican. From Guadalajara. Couldn't I just stay here until the buses start running?"

  "I can give you a pair of pajamas and a blanket," I said. "The couch here is big enough for you. You can change in the bathroom, over there. Your dress is wet Hang it over a chair to dry."

  She looked at me with amusement. "You know all about women, don't you?" .

  "No. I'm just being practical. Take a hot bath if you're cold. You won't be in anybody's way."

  "Thank's a lot, I'll be very quiet."

  She was a pretty little thing, with black hair and delicate feet, and somehow she reminded me of the insect with the transparent wings. Wh
en she had disappeared into the bathroom, I looked to see if it had come back, but I couldn't find it. But another had flown in and made itself at home, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it was. I listened to the gurgling of the bath water and felt strangely moved. The usual, everyday things of life often gave me this feeling. I was so used to the unusual that the usual had become an adventure to me. Nevertheless, or perhaps for that very reason, I hid Scott's check, which was made out to cash, in among my books. Even in a romantic frame of mind I knew better than to tempt fate.

  It was rather late when I woke up. The girl was gone. I saw the marks of her lipstick on one of the towels. I looked for the check. It was still there. Nothing was missing. I wasn't sure whether I had made love with her or not. I only remembered that at some time or other she had stood beside my bed; I seemed to recall the smooth, cool feel of her naked body, but I had no recollection whether anything more had happened.

  I drove to the studio. It was already ten o'clock, but to my way of thinking, I was only making up for the two hours I had spent with Holt the night before. I could hear the S.S. men practicing the Horst Wessel song. Holt's first question was whether I thought they should do it in English or German. I suggested German. He thought that might jar with the ensuing English dialogue. We tried both. The English dialogue was a blessing to me—without it I might have taken the S.S. men seriously.

  In the afternoon I delivered Scott's check to Silvers. "What about the other one?" he asked. "Haven't you sold it?"

  "You know damn well I havent," I said. "The check would be for twice as much."

  "You should have sold them both—a package deal. The sanguine is the better one; I meant it as bait"

  I said nothing. I only looked at him, wondering if ever in all his life he could do anything straight and simple, or whether on his deathbed he wouldn't try to set some snare for the Reaper, knowing full well that it wouldn't get him anywhere—just for the hell of it.

  "We've been invited out tonight," he said finally. "At about ten."

  "For dinner?"

  "After dinner. At the Villa Weller. I said I couldn't make it for dinner."

  "And what is my role to be? Assistant curator or Belgian art historian?"

  "Assistant curator. You're to take the Gauguin over there beforehand—right now would be best. Try and find a place to hang it. A picture on the wall is easier to sell. You can take a cab."

  "I won't need one," I said loftily. "I've got a car."

  "What!"

  "Provided by the studio." I relished the momentary superiority the car gave me over Silvers and didn't tell him it was an old Ford. At half past nine he said condescendingly that I might as well drive him to the Villa Weller. When he saw the car, he groaned and wanted to phone for a Cadillac. I persuaded him that everybody else would be coming in a Cadillac or Rolls-Royce, and that my jalopy would set him off from the common herd.

  We arrived in the middle of a private showing of some movie. It was customary in Hollywood for producers and directors to try out their latest productions on their dinner guests. I was amused at the honeyed smile with which Silvers tried to mask his impatience. He was wearing a silk dinner jacket, I my blue suit Silvers felt "over-dressed." He even thought of going back to the hotel to change. Of course he held me to blame. Why hadn't I told him? It was my job to keep him informed.

  It was almost two hours before the lights went on. To my surprise I found Holt and Tannenbaum among the guests. "How come we're all at the same party?" I asked. "Is it always this way in Los Angeles?"

  "Hell, Bob," said Holt reproachfully. "Weller is our boss. His studio is doing our picture. Didn't you know that?"

  "No. How would I?"

  "Happy man! I'll tell him you're here. He'll want to meet you."

  "I'm here with Silvers. For other purposes."

  "I can imagine. I've seen the old ape. All dolled up, isn't he? Why didn't you come for dinner? We had stuffed turkey. Practicing up for Thanksgiving."

  "My boss couldn't make it for dinner."

  "Your boss wasn't invited to dinner. But you could have come. Mr. Weller knows all about you."

  For a moment I savored the thought that I was one of the boys and Silvers a mere outsider. Then I turned my attention to the guests. What struck me immediately was how young and attractive many of them were. I identified half a dozen screen heroes.

  "I know what you're going to say," said Holt. "You're going to ask why they're not in the Army. A lot of them are 4-F, flat feet, asthma, injuries contracted while playing football or tennis, or even at work."

  "No," I said. "I was going to ask if this was a colonels' congress. I never saw so many colonels in my life."

  Holt laughed. "Those are our Hollywood colonels. None of these majors, colonels, commodores, and admirals has ever gone near an Army camp. The commodore over there has never even seen a warship; and that admiral has a beautiful swivel chair in Washington. The colonels are producers, directors, or agents who've made a nest for themselves in the Army film section. You won't find anything under a major around here."

  "Are you a major?"

  "I have a heart defect. And besides, I make anti-Nazi pictures. Ridiculous, isn't it?"

  "Not at all. It's the same all over the world. In Germany, too. You never see the fighters, only the home-front warriors. That doesn't apply to you, Holt But I'm amazed at how many good-looking people there are."

  He laughed. "Where would you expect to find good-looking people if not in Hollywood? Where looks can be sold at a high price. But here comes Mr. Weller."

  He was a tubby little man in a colonel's uniform. He was all smiles, and his bearing was utterly unmilitary. He immediately drew me off to one side. Silvers couldn't get over it; he was sitting all by himself in an armchair from which he could see the Gauguin, to which no one else was paying the slightest attention. It shone like a patch of southern sunlight over the piano, around which, I feared, the usual chorus would soon form.

  After a brief chat, in which he complimented me on my fine work, Weller started introducing me as a man who had been in a concentration camp: Word got around. Everyone wanted to meet me, including some of the prettiest girls I had ever laid eyes on. All at once I was a social lion—of the most gruesome variety. I broke out in a cold sweat and shot angry looks at Holt, though he was hardly to blame. In the end, Tannenbaum rescued me. All evening he had circled around me as a cat circles around a bowl of milk. Then at the first opportunity he pounced, and led me. off to a corner of the bar. He had a secret to confide. "The twins have arrived," he whispered. He had wangled two small parts in Holt's picture for them. "That's fine," I said. "Now you have all the imaginary troubles you need."

  He shook his head. "No more troubles," he said. "Success!"

  "Really? With both of them? Congratulations."

  "Not both. They wouldn't do that. They're Catholics. With one of them."

  "Bravol I'd never have expected it. With your sensitive, complicated character."

  "Neither would I," he said happily. "The picture did it"

  "You mean because you got them the job?"

  "No, no. I'd already done that twice. Twins can always get small parts. It never did any good'before. This time it was different"

  "Different?"

  "My role as an Obergruppenführer! As you may know, I belong to the Stanislavsky school of acting. I've got to feel my part completely. When I play the part of a murderer, I've got to feel like a murderer. Well, as an Obergruppenführer . . ."

  "I understand. But the twins are always together. That's their strength."

  Tannenbaum smiled. "For Tannenbaum, not for Obergruppenführer. I was in uniform when they arrived. The moment they stepped into my bungalow, I bellowed at them so loud they almost fainted. I had them completely intimidated. I told one of them—I ordered her, in fact—to beat it over to the clothing depot and try on some costumes. Then I locked the door, flung the other one down on the couch, and attacked her li
ke an Obergruppenführer. And you know, what? Instead of scratching my eyes out, she was as meek as Moses. That's the power of a uniform. Would you believe it?"

  I remembered my first afternoon at the studio. "I believe it," I said. "But what will happen when you exchange your uniform for that stunning sports jacket?"

  "I've tried it," said Tannenbaum. "The aura sticks. The charisma."