A Lovesong for India (18 page)
Read A Lovesong for India Online
Authors: Ruth Prawer Jhabvala
She was licking flaky crumbs off her fingers when Eileen came home from the gym. ‘Oh please don’t get up,’ Eileen said. Patty had made no move, but Eileen didn’t know what else to say: she was embarrassed, overwhelmed. There was something overwhelming in Patty’s presence. Naturally, she was a star, carrying the admiration of millions. She also exuded a sense of money – not the sort that had been expended on this apartment with the inherited furniture but what had been lavished on Patty herself, by daring young designers, even by dentists who had made her teeth sparkle along with the rest of her. But she carried her load of beauty so lightly that she appeared utterly unaware of it. It was Eileen who was aware of herself, of her gym clothes and her face sweaty from her exercise.
In the course of the afternoon Patty made herself more and more at home, kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet under her. There was a lot of conversation, most of it from Patty, though she fell silent whenever Madame spoke, respectfully listening to what the older actress had to say about parts she had played or had wanted to play.
‘They really knew what they were doing in those days,’ Patty said to Eileen, not leaving her out for a moment. ‘That was real acting, not the sort of monkey thing we have to perform for our bread and butter.’
Madame got up and with appropriate gestures she declaimed Schiller in German.
Patty applauded. ‘Isn’t that marvellous. Brilliant. The worst of it is, there’s no one nowadays to appreciate the real thing. Except Theodore Fabrik, of course. That’s why I don’t care at all when he gives me a bad review. I’m grateful for it. Because I know he’s right.’ She unwound her feet from under her. ‘I’ll creep away before he gets home. He’ll want to be quiet to write his review.’
His mother and his wife said nothing, not wishing to admit that there may have been no screening, or that he had gone on to some other appointment they didn’t really need to know about.
That day there had been such an appointment, and Theo came home long after Patty had left. He found his two women in a state of excitement. Madame Sybille was pacing the passage and declaiming aloud, only interrupting herself to seize her son’s lapels and draw him close to kiss him.
Eileen was in bed, wide awake and eager to tell him about their visitor. He was not pleased. ‘She admires you so much,’ Eileen urged, but this too did not please him. Eileen said, ‘It’s so good for Mother to meet someone who knows about acting.’
‘It’s bad for her,’ Theo said. ‘She’s over-excited. You know what her doctor said about her blood pressure.’
A new friendship had developed, and Patty didn’t let up on it. She called a day or two later, and Madame Sybille accepted an invitation to visit her. Patty lived across the Park in a building that, rising in one long shaft above the earth, seemed unsupported by anything more material than a feat of theoretical engineering. The interior was completely separate from anything going on outside: self-enclosed, self-generating in columns of glass and lights, and at its centre a fountain that rose and then descended in further arcs of light. Everything was mirrored and multiplied, glass within glass, soaring and spiralling right up to the apex where Patty lived.
Her door was opened by a young man in jeans and polo shirt. ‘Hello! I’m Simon.’ Was he a guest, a butler, maybe a lover? He gave no clue. ‘She’s in the butterfly room,’ he said, leading the way. There was also no clue why it was called the butterfly room. Evidently it had been done up by an interior decorator and glittered as much as Patty herself, though today she was dressed like Simon, in jeans and polo shirt. The room was untidy, making it clear that the money spent on it – the silk walls and painted panels – was of no consequence. An interior staircase led up to further floors, there may have been two or three, inhabited by Patty’s large retinue of employees, guests or hangers-on. The telephone rang constantly, but the only call Patty took was from her agent and it made her angry.
She told Madame that all her agent, a woman called Robyn, ever got for her was rubbish, and Patty was tired of playing rubbish. What she really wanted was to get back to the theatre, but Robyn wouldn’t let her because of the money. All she was interested in was the money earned from films, which was a lot, it was true, and Patty needed it because not only did she have an agent, she had a manager too, and a lawyer, and her personal staff, all of whom needed to be paid.
‘And of course there’s the alimony,’ she said, taking it for granted that her visitor read the sort of magazines in which a star’s personal life was displayed. But Madame did not, and she was too tactful to ask any questions.
Later she asked Theo, and although he didn’t care for personal gossip, he did know that Patty had been married to an actor when they were both very young. She had prospered and he had not, and by the time she realised that they were incompatible, he needed an income and considered himself entitled to a share in hers. He clung on through the years, even after she had married again, this time a rock star; that marriage too broke down, under the weight of two stars, in less than a year.
‘She’s too intelligent,’ Madame concluded.
‘Is that what she told you?’
‘Too intelligent for the roles she has to play. Did you know that she wants to leave films and go into the theatre?’
‘I didn’t know but I could have guessed,’ Theo said. ‘Her last film didn’t do well, the big film she was hoping for went to another actress, and that’s usually when they decide that their real talent is for the theatre.’
Madame’s visits to Patty continued. For Patty, Madame was the inspiration she had not had in any of her relationships. If her parents had guided her, she confided, she wouldn’t have married in that stupid way before she had even graduated. But though her parents were professional people, they had cared nothing for Patty’s education or her artistic development. Her mother, now living in Santa Fe with a third husband, was only interested in Patty’s career for the publicity it generated and to be photographed with her on showy occasions. There was no one in Patty’s life with Madame’s background, the talent and training she had been able to transmit to her son.
‘It’s not only that he’s fantastically clever and brilliant,’ Patty said. ‘He also has a sort of European culture that people here just don’t have. I long to do something he could at least approve of. If only someone would write a decent part for me! But I guess nowadays that’s too much to hope for.’
As usual, Patty wanted to send Madame home in her chauffeured limousine, but Madame loved to walk. She strode across the Park, as upright as any of its trees. It was a windy day, she was bareheaded, her white hair flew around. She felt strong as a prophetess and full of an idea that excited her.
Before she could enter the study alone, she had to wait until both Theo and Eileen were out – he maybe at a screening, she certainly at the gym. She knew the place where he kept his plays and his unfinished novel. There was one play she especially remembered from its production in a small theatre club. It was an interesting subject. The hero was a famous conductor whose affair with a young piano student went further than he had intended. He divorced his wife of twenty years, he married the girl, but from there on everything went downhill, and what he had loved – her naivety, her innocent questioning – became a source of intense irritation. But the author – Theo – saw both sides, as did his hero, who realised that, instead of admiring his fame and brilliance, she was now judging him for his daily shortcomings: his temper, his ageing, his sour breath in the morning. The play had been well received by the club members, mostly elderly subscribers, but had not gone anywhere after its week-long run.
Madame carried the play in her large handbag across the Park. She presented it to Patty as a gift and watched her unwrap it. When she saw what it was, Patty said, ‘I don’t believe it,’ and a moment later, looking up from a page, ‘I do believe it.’ She said she knew that Theo was not just a critic – was something more than a critic – much more, she said, leafing through the bound script. She wanted to read it right away, but Madame asked her to wait till she was alone, without the author’s anxious mother there to watch her. Again Madame walked across the Park, her handbag empty now and lighter, and her heart light too and soaring upwards.
‘Give the child time,’ she told herself when no word came from Patty for three days. On the fourth day she asked herself how much time was there – she was seventy-five years old and how much longer did she have to wait for the recognition of her son’s true talent? At last she picked up the phone and dialled Patty’s number – her secret private number that she had entrusted to her. Patty was terribly pleased to hear her: a lovely surprise, she said. She appeared to be in a busy place – in a restaurant, a creative meeting? Madame knew Patty’s days to be full of events, of exciting people. Nevertheless, Patty called across the noise, ‘We have to talk. About the play.’ Madame offered to walk across the Park again, but ‘No,’ Patty said, ‘I’ll come to you. When will he be home?’ It was with Theo, it appeared, she wished to talk.
She arrived unannounced – on the spur of the moment, of
her
moment – carrying flowers and his play. It was a rainy day and the flowers were wet, and so were her cheeks, dewy like her eyes. At her entrance, waves of excitement displaced the air, and the seismic change penetrated the closed door of Theo’s study. He appeared; she held out his play. ‘I love it of course,’ she said without fervour. ‘But there’s a lot we need to discuss.’
her
moment – carrying flowers and his play. It was a rainy day and the flowers were wet, and so were her cheeks, dewy like her eyes. At her entrance, waves of excitement displaced the air, and the seismic change penetrated the closed door of Theo’s study. He appeared; she held out his play. ‘I love it of course,’ she said without fervour. ‘But there’s a lot we need to discuss.’
Taking his play from her, he stood looking puzzled. Madame began to explain; she was embarrassed and too slow for Patty, who took over: ‘I’ve been making Madame’s life a misery till she got it for me. I think she had to steal it.’ She laughed and Theo twisted his lips into a smile.
‘I thought it was so perfect for her,’ Madame apologised. Theo said, ‘You mean, as a starring vehicle.’ He appeared amused not angry, so that Madame lowered her eyes as one who had been unexpectedly forgiven.
‘God, no,’ Patty said. ‘
You
’re the star.’ He pretended to believe she meant it, he put his hand on his heart and bowed his head.
You
’re the star.’ He pretended to believe she meant it, he put his hand on his heart and bowed his head.
‘But these are for you!’ Patty exclaimed, handing over her flowers to Madame, who inhaled them. She said tulips were her favourites; these were particularly gorgeous, tall and upright, scentless, shining like prima donnas.
‘All right.’ Theo spoke as though something had been settled in his mind, a situation accepted. ‘How about some tea,’ he ordered Eileen, who went out into the kitchen. By now Patty was ensconced in a corner of their sofa; her legs were crossed, she was wearing knee-high leather boots.
‘So you like it,’ Theo said. ‘It wasn’t much of a hit, you know. Rather a damp squib, in fact, though that may have been the audience. The subscribers in these theatre clubs are never less than a hundred years old and the seats much too hard for their ancient buttocks.’
‘I’m not thinking of a club,’ Patty said. ‘But it would have to be a different play. I want it to be different. I want it for
me
. You hate me for saying that.’
me
. You hate me for saying that.’
Madame, her arms full of flowers, was watching them. Their presence together was thrilling. He was standing, his elbow propped on the mantelpiece; she looking up at him from the sofa. They were a scene, a play, the eternal duel, man and woman.
‘Shouldn’t you be putting those in water,’ Theo suggested, making his mother exclaim, ‘Poor thirsty darlings!’ She tore herself away and joined Eileen in the kitchen. But once there, she left the flowers lying on the table and herself sank on to a chair, exhausted with hope.
‘Eileen, it may happen. They’ll work together.’
When Eileen carried in the tea, they were as Madame had left them. Eileen had always admired her husband’s personality. Although not very tall, he had the bearing of someone in a position to look down on whatever he chose to notice. However, Patty, looking up at him as he stood above her leaning against the mantelpiece, was not submissive. On the contrary, there was something challenging, even masterful in the way she sat with her legs crossed in leather boots; nor did she seem shy of stating her opinions.
That night, getting into the twin bed next to Eileen’s, Theo stated his opinion of Patty’s opinions. He wished she did not have any. He said he wished it could be as in the past when actresses were discovered working in a laundromat. It had been easier to deal with them then than it was now when they had all been to college and been given ideas about their own intelligence.
Eileen never disputed with him, but she knew he was always ready to listen to her, so she said what Madame had told her – that his play would benefit if the principal role was performed by a star like Patty. He replied that he preferred success on his own merits, not on the meretricious attractions of an actress. ‘You’re right, of course,’ Eileen said, as though she considered the subject closed. She knew it wasn’t – that he would be lying awake for a long time, turning over in his mind whatever had passed between him and Patty. She said goodnight affectionately and lay with her back to him, not wishing to appear to be spying on him in his secret thoughts.
Theo enjoyed his daily routine – the hours spent in the deep plush soothing executive armchairs of a hushed screening room, often alone, sometimes with a producer and his minions seated at a respectful distance behind him. Then afterwards in his study offloading the contents of his mind on to his computer, alone and with the door shut – a door of a solid wood used only in the older apartments, through which no sound could penetrate. He never heard the telephone, and anyway knew that Eileen would be dealing with all his calls, professional ones for invitations he didn’t want to accept, personal ones for lovers he no longer wanted to see.
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