B00AZRHQKA EBOK (37 page)

“Bullshit!” She said. “What kind of sick? I don’t believe it! He’s pissed off, that’s not sick!”

To me, Larry said, “You talked to him, didn’t you, Midge?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say? What kind of sick?”

“He said it’s his lip. It conks out on him once in a while from blowing too hard and he has to rest it.”

“For how long?” She asked.

“A few days, I think he said.”

“A few! I’ll go nuts!” To Larry: “Go talk to him. Tell him the news. Tell him he’s gonna be in big trouble if he tries to pull this on me. Fucking show-off lousy ham.”

“I’ll tell him,” said Larry.

In his room at the Benjamin Franklin, we found Ruby lying on what appeared to be a bed of newspapers and magazines.

“How are you, Ruby?” asked Larry.

“Lip,” Ruby answered, and tapped it with a forefinger.

“Hurt?”

“Stiff. A real mother. Almost ready to crack. I’ve got A and D Ointment all over it. See?”

“Yes. Should you see a doctor?”

“Naw,” said Ruby. “They don’t understand, doctors. Not unless they happen to have been trumpet players. In fact, there was one once—in Chicago—guy blew his way through medical school—good man—he understood. Trouble is, he turned out a proctologist—so even though he understood, he couldn’t help me. Wrong-end specialist, see? In Chicago, this was.”

“Ruby, could I ask you something? You mentioning a proctologist sort of threw me a thought. Does the lip hurt more standing up or sitting down?”

“Oh, sitting down, definitely. It’s unbearable. Standing up, it’s bearable. Barely.”

“I see.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, it’s this new idea struck me—just now, in fact. That standing up for an overture chorus—Hell, that’s cornball. That’s Guy Lombardo.”

“I thought it was nice.”

“But I’ve got something much nicer.”

“Speak.”

“Suppose we leave out the overture—I know it hurts to sit, but try—”

“Well—”

“Wait! Instead, when She
does
the number—
then
you stand up in the pit—and you do it
with
her, like a specialty…”

“With
her?” asked Ruby, suspiciously.

“Right with her!”

“And what about the spot?”

“One on her and one on you.”

Ruby got off the bed and moved about the room, rubbing his lip thoughtfully.

“Good,” he said to himself. “Yeah, good.” Then to us, “Good!”

“Tonight?” asked Larry.

“Got to rehearse, though. I don’t wing in public.”

“Say seven?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Bring your lip,” said Larry.

Walking to the theatre, I asked, “What makes you think he’ll go for it?”

“Who? Val?”

“Yes.”

“He’s got nothing to do with it, you know that. This is all Miss Missy’s doing. She’s the one I’ve got to see.”

“Do you think you can?”

“I don’t think anything anymore, ol’ pal. I just let the winds blow me around. Nature follow its instincts. Does an ant think? Or a sea gull? What about elephants? They respond, but I doubt they think. That’s me.”

At the theatre, we waited onstage. She customarily stayed in between shows, had a hot dinner sent in, an hour’s sleep, a massage—before beginning to make up for the evening performance.

Bonnie came out and said, “Just finishing the rub. Be maybe five, seven minutes, no more. He ain’t here, though. Just She.”

“Good,” said Larry.

He put it to her beautifully, I thought. He has a marvelous way of transferring enthusiasm. He sold the idea with excitement and humor—acting it out, creating the scene—selling, selling.

“I don’t know,” She said, frowning.

“Please?” he begged. “A try? One show?”

“What if I say no?” She asked.

“I don’t know, but I’ll give you a guess.”

“No Ruby, right?”

“That would be
my
guess.”

“So he’s got me by the balls—is that it?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”

“O.K. We’ll try it. One show. When? Tonight?”

“Fine.”

“But I’ve got to rehearse. Otherwise, no.”

“Seven?”

“I’ll be there.”

They rehearsed—tentatively at first, but before long they were caught by the music, by the subliminal exchanges, by instinctive understanding, by the witty back-and-forthing, and were clearly enjoying themselves and each other.

They ran through the number six times, then She asked, “Enough?”

“Fine for me,” he said.

“How’s your lip?” She asked.

“Great. How’s yours?”

She walked off. Ruby blew a juicy fart on his horn. Either She did not hear it or She ignored it. I suspect the former.

However good the number seemed in rehearsal, in performance it was a revelation. She and Ruby became a team in passionate action, worked carefully, skillfully, to a crashing climax, and stopped the show cold. The number had always gone well, but never before had it been a literal showstopper.

Later, backstage, there was nothing to discuss. All were agreed that the show had acquired still another strength.

“Greatest thing I ever saw in show business,” said Hy to Larry.

“Thanks.”

“But how come you put it in without consulting
me?”

“Ask Val,” said Larry, and walked away.

44

I finished reading the Bulletin to Boss. He is one of the very few people I have ever encountered who actually likes being read to. I wonder why? Perhaps because it frees him to move about and pack or unpack or eat or drink or arrange things on his desk or play with his money. Who knows? Russ told me once—well, “told” is not the word. Russ once
conveyed
to me in that ventriloquist style of his—talking without moving his lips, the sound emanating from his nose—that AC is literally illiterate, that he cannot read or write. I found this impossible to believe, although I must say I have never seen him do either—other than sign his name to letters and checks.

“Take out the thing about opening-night tickets,” he said. “I don’t want everybody thinkin’ about opening night. Not yet. What’s it their business? So far, how do we know there’s gonna
be
an opening night? Y’know what I mean? I mean,
I
know there’s gonna be an opening night—but the rest of these cruds—I don’t want ’em to think it’s a sure thing. Let ’em worry. Once they know we’re goin’ in, it’s all over. I want everybody on their toes—and not only that—I want ’em scared shitless, then they’ll make an effort. If not, no. So take out the thing about opening-night tickets.”

“Very well. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Stick around.”

“You’ve got a four-o’clock with Jenny.”

“I
know
I’ve got a four-o’clock. What am I? A half-wit?”

“Just a reminder.”

“I notice you didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh. I thought it was rhetorical.”

“Sure.”

He blushed. A characteristic, I note, when confused.

“Do you want me back here before show time?” I asked.

“No. I want you to stick around now. Like I said.”

“Now?”

“That’s right.” He began moving about the room, nervously. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen here with her. She’s a bottle baby, after all. If it gets noisy, I want a witness. Also, make notes. For the record. But that I guess I don’t need to tell you, huh? Notes. Jesus, you make notes like a handicapper. I mean, they never stop and neither do you.”

“Part of my job, isn’t it?”

“If you say so, sure.”

“Remember I have to run these bulletins before six,” I said.

“Hey! Right. Do it while.”

“But you wanted notes.”

“So what? You can’t do both?”

“I don’t see how.”

“Holy Christ! What cooperation. Notes, I said. Did I say word for word, f’Chrissake?
Notes.
Here and there. The general idea.”

“All right, all right.”

“You’d think I was asking for—”

“I said
all right,
Mr. Clune.”

“And don’t call me Mr. Clune. I haven’t done anything to
you!”

I went to the typewriter and began to revise the bulletin.

He picked up the phone.

“Mr. Balaban,” he said. “Fourteen-ten…Hy? Me…Fair. Listen, I’m seein’ her here in a few minutes—so what I need to know is like this: Anything better?…When? She
did?
…Why the hell didn’t you call me right away? I’m here. What am I here for?…But where the fuck does
she
come off making a cut without?…You
did?
…Fine…Look, Hy. Calm down.
I’ll
tell her. You don’t have to tell her anything.
I’ll
tell her. You stay buddy-buddy. Let
me
be the son-of-a-bitch…That’s not funny, Hy. What the hell’s the matter with you? That’s a shitty thing to say. I’m breaking my balls for you and you insult me…Yeah? It’s as good as yours, my sense of humor…God damn it, I only hope
you
try producing a God damn show someday and see how
you
feel surrounded by a lot of God damn—”

The door buzzer stopped him. He glanced at his watch. He dropped his voice.

“That must be her. Talk later.” To me: “Get that, will you?” Into the phone: “And save that smart-ass shit for your songs.”

He hung up as I opened the door. Jenny, looking adorable.

“Hi!” she said.

“Come in, Jenny,” he called out. “Come in.”

As she crossed the room, I realized I had never before seen her in a dress; therefore had never seen her legs. They could be described only one way: Leggy. Long, slim, elegant dancer’s legs. They seemed to want tights or silk stockings or a net leotard. The rest of her wasn’t bad either. She was so adroitly made up that an inexperienced eye would see no makeup at all. Her hair tied back. A loose-fitting, swirling skirt. A white white blouse. No bra. Had she had her neck lengthened? And would she reveal the name of that fragrance if I asked her to?

She sat down on the sofa and crossed her legs, unsettlingly.

AC’s blush again.

“A drink?” he asked. “I’ve got everything right here.”

“I don’t drink,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. “I heard that.”

“Tea?” she asked.

“We got any tea?” he called across to me.

“I think so,” I said. “Anything with it?”

“Not a thing,” said Jenny. “As it comes.”

I went out to the kitchen to get the tea and worried for a moment about missing what I was supposed to be noting—but only for a moment. To hell with him, I thought. He can’t have everything. I took my time.

I brought in the tea, and found him sitting in the armchair, facing her.

I put the tray down on the coffee table.

“Thanks, hon,” she said.

“Anything for you?” I asked him.

“Vodka-tonic,” he said.

I went to the bar to get it.

“But I’ve
always
worked this way, Art,” she said. “Nothing new. The job is to marry the movement to the music—that takes adjustments. Sometimes a change in the moves, sometimes a snip in the music. What’s the panic? It’s not Beethoven’s Fifth, after all. It’s Hy Balaban’s Fiftieth. Utility music. Or am I wrong?”

I served his vodka and tonic. He said nothing.

“Thanks,” I said as I returned to the typewriter.

“O.K.,” he said absently.

Jenny laughed.

“Look, kiddo,” he said. “You’ve got
your
job. I’ve got
my
job.”

“Wanna trade?” she asked.

“Boy,
would
I!”

“Let’s.”

“Trouble is, I’ve never understood dancing. All that jumpin’ up and down. What does it mean? Like Harry Cohn used to say about ballet—'I don’t like it where everybody chases everybody and nobody catches nobody!’”

“A profound man,” said Jenny.

“Could I ask you one thing only? A favor?”

“You bet.”

“If you have to make a cut or a trim or a change or an anything—would you ask first, please?”

“Certainly.”

“Thanks.”

“If he’s around,” she said.

“If who’s?”

“Hy. Isn’t the beef his?”

“No.”

“Whose, then?”

“Mine. I’m trying to keep this thing organized. And everybody happy.”

“And some more than others.”

“What? No.”

“Tell him for me,” said Jenny, “that if he wants to protect every precious bar of his deathless composition, the way to do it is to
be
there. I can’t hold up my work to get a clearance on every teensy-weensy—”

“Hold it.”

“No, I’m telling you—”

“Hold it, I said!”

Jenny stood up, abruptly, and moved to him.

“Art?” she asked, concerned.

“What?”

“Are you all right?”

“Sure all right. Why?”

“You’re flushed,” she said.

“So what? Happens all the time.”

“It shouldn’t. And those
neck
muscles! They worry me.”

“They do?” he asked vacantly.

“Yes. Look here.” She went around behind him, put her left hand on top of his head, and began to feel his neck with the fingers of her right hand. “Feel that?”

“Feel what?”

“The tension? Do you have headaches?” she asked.

“Doesn’t everybody?”

“I
don’t.”

“I know. You let
me
have your headaches.”

“Relax,” she said. “Let your head fall forward.” He did so. I could not help looking over at the action. Jenny caught my eye and winked impishly. “That’s good. Let go. More.”

I went to the copier and began to run the bulletin.

She grasped his shoulders beside his neck and with her thumbs firmly in place on his upper spinal column, began to massage the base of his neck column.

“My God!” she exclaimed.

“What?” he asked, not without alarm.

“Like steel wires,” she said.

“Yeah, I know,” he said modestly, as if responding to a compliment.

She threw her forearm across his throat, steadied him, and continued to massage his back.

“Good,” he said hoarsely.

“What?”

“Feels good,” he said.

“That doesn’t matter,” said Jenny sternly. “What feels good isn’t necessarily what’s good for you. There’s a whole tyranny of what feels good. Take off your shirt.”

“No, that’s all right. That’s enough.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re in trouble.”

He stood up, removed his shirt, threw it onto the sofa, and sat down. She resumed her ministrations from behind. They became more vigorous, more complete.

“What you need,” she said, “is a good osteopath.”

“You’ll do,” he said dreamily.

“No, no. This is just first aid.”

“Sensational,” he whispered.

She placed his arms at his sides, hanging down.

“I could use some oil of some kind,” she said.

“Let me see,” I said, and went out into the kitchen again. It took me a while to find a bottle of safflower oil. When I returned with it to the living room, AC was stretched out on the sofa, face down, and shoes off.

I went back to the copier, wondering if I should make notes on
these
goings-on.

“I mean it,” he said. “You’re a goddamn
professional.”

“Watch your language,” she said.

“I mean it.”

“It’s nothing,” she said. “All dancers know all about it. God, we spend half our lives with osteopaths and chiropractors and trainers and yogis and healers and foot-fixers. If you’re a dancer, you
hurt
all the time. Sprains and strains and bruises and welts. You get to know. Your body is your instrument. You learn to take care of it.”

“Yeah,” he exhaled.

I was trying to keep my attention on the copier, but some magnetic force was impelling me to take in the scene. I looked over and shuddered lightly. The magnetic force was Jenny’s eyes. She had apparently been trying to get my attention for some time. Now that she had succeeded, her eyes held mine for an instant before she motioned me out of the room with one swift throw of her head.

I picked up the copies, my few belongings, and got out of the room as fast as I could.

I had to go out and walk. The scene upset me. Would
I
have done what
she
had done? Doubtless she believed her job was at stake, but I have begun to see that with these people, it is not so much a question of the job or the activity or the money involved—it is a question of the credit, the career, and in most cases, career means life.

Vartan used to say: “We’re not here to pass moral judgments on one another. Just see that
you
behave well, and leave the others to their own devices.”

I walked and walked, and at length came upon the little Rodin Museum I had often heard about, meant to visit, never have. I went in and wandered about the wonders. Works of art. One man’s vision. Is that what is wrong with what is happening over at our place? That it does
not
represent one man’s vision? Of course, I know that the aim over there is a million light years from the work of Rodin. Still, in its way, it aspires to creation.

More questions. Is every show done in the same way as this one? Is there always this amount of deviousness and scheming and politicking and backbiting and perfidy? It is difficult to understand how beauty and magic and wonder can be born out of such a revolting morass of human behavior. Then I remind myself that birth is not altogether beautiful. It is surrounded by nausea and discomfort and eventually intense pain—some say the worst in the world.

What troubles me most of all about that lovely girl back there, putting her body on the line—whoring—to hold on to her job, is that she is not a fraud, not a relative. She is a truly talented artist. I can understand someone humping their way up the ladder. The routine is not indigenous to the theatre, despite all the snide jokes about casting couches and so on. Using the fundamentals is common practice in all businesses—and (do I dare put it in writing?) even in the academic world. We all know some who made their grades on ass alone. But they were the dummies, the ones who could not make it legitimately. Jenny is different: able and imaginative and inventive. Why does
she
have to put out? Or
does
she? Or does she want to? No. In this case, I believe it is her only route. If it works. He is such a reprehensible, amoral man that he might easily cross her. How I wish Hy were taping
him
through the wall! But as someone said the other day—“If you’re looking for justice, don’t look in Shubert Alley.” It has been a wildly disturbing day. Should I resign? I feel poisoned—but it is all too fascinating to leave behind.

I return to The Barclay and find three messages from him in my box. I am tempted to ignore them, but then I imagine the consequences, so I sit down in an armchair in the lobby for a few minutes and collect my thoughts—such as they are.

I ring his room from the lobby.

“Where’ve
you
been, f’Chrissake?”

I say, “Walking”—but “Working” comes out.

“Who on?” he asks with his charmless vocal smirk. “Come up here. Right away.”

I use my key to open the door of his suite. He is not in the living room.

“That you?” he calls from the bedroom.

“Yes.”

“In
here!”

I go into the bedroom, and it is all I can do to keep from collapsing into laughter.

He is sitting up in his bed, under the covers, bearing a striking resemblance to Vivien Leigh in the morning-after scene from
Gone With the Wind.
He is (for him) relaxed, content, satiated, smug.

“Took a nap,” he explains. “Doctor’s orders. He says I’m on the verge of exhaustion. Boy, do I hate a nap! Look.” He throws a sheaf of proofs to me across the bed. “Have you seen these Sunday ads that pisshead put together?”