The Paper Dragon (29 page)

Yesterday was yesterday, of course, dead and gone. Yesterday the trial had begun, and by Thursday or Friday it would be concluded — but who knew when the judge would give his decision? If the judge said, "Why, yes, my son, you have been wronged, good Arthur Constantine," then he could tell Selig and Stern and even Hester Miers — who was romping in the snow now with her skirts up, fully aware that her legs were long and excellently shaped but trying to give the impression nonetheless of a six-year-old abandoning herself to her first wintry experience — he could tell all of them to go straight to hell because he would be in actual possession of, or at least in loan-acquiring promise of, ten million dollars or more. His hands began trembling.

Don't think about it, he told himself. You may
lose
this damn trial, stranger things have happened, don't even think about it. If you get Hester Miers, you get the money for the play, the play goes on, that's all you have to know. Don't think about the other, there's no fairness in this world, you learned that the night the critics killed
Catchpole
and Freddie Gerard began crying like a baby, "Why can't I bring in a winner, Arthur, why can't I ever bring in a winner?" Don't think about winning the trial, think only about getting Hester for the part. Think only about getting Hester.

She had admitted to being twenty-five years old, but Arthur suspected she was something closer to thirty. She was a tall, slender girl (she claimed she ate only one meal a day) with blond hair cut very close to her head in a haphazard coiffure, deliberately unkempt, and lending a look of overall unpredictability to her face. She was not a beautiful girl, nor could he even find anything terribly attractive about her, except perhaps her coltish legs. Her face was an elongated oval, her eyes brown and highlighted with black liner, her lipstick a pale orange on a mouth too generous for the rest of her features. A nose job had apparently been performed on her some time ago, but it was beginning to fall out of shape, and it gave her face a faintly lopsided look. She was definitely not pretty, and he was disappointed by her looks, but he kept reminding himself that she possessed a vibrant, almost luminous quality on stage, even though she looked like some kind of a jackass now, galloping around in the snow that way.

When she finally came over to him again, out of breath and flushed, he said, "What seems to be troubling you about the part?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"Well,
something
is."

"Oh, sure, something is."

"Well, what?"

"I don't know." Hester sat on the edge of the pool. The lighted Christmas trees behind her put a high gloss on her blond hair. She took a small lace-edged handkerchief from her bag, crossed her legs, and ineffectually began drying them.

"I think it's a perfect part for you," Arthur said.

"You do?"

"Certainly."

"I don't know."

"Really, Hester."

"Well, I don't know. You still haven't explained it to me. I wish you'd explain it to me," she said, and in the same breath added, "How tall are you?"

"Five-ten," Arthur said. "Seriously, Hester, I don't think Lincoln Center would object to your leaving. Not for a part like this one."

"I'm not sure about that," she answered. "Do you have a handkerchief?"

"Yes." He took a handkerchief from his breast pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to her.

"Thank you," she said. "I don't think Kazan liked me very much, but things are different now. I'm not sure they'd let me go just like that."

"It's a matter of how much you want the part, I guess," Arthur ventured.

"Yes, of course."

"So if there are any problems about it, I wish you'd tell me what they are."

"Oh, I don't know," Hester said, and rose suddenly, picking up her shoes in one hand, returning Arthur's handkerchief with the other, and then walking down the steps and onto Park Avenue barefooted, the shoes swinging at the end of her arm. Arthur took a deep breath, hesitated alongside the pool for a moment, and then followed her.

"This is the greatest street in the world," Hester said. "Tell me about Carol."

"Where do you want me to begin?"

"Where is she from?"

"The Bronx. That's pretty clear in the—"

"Do you know where I'm from?"

"No."

"Originally?"

"No, where?"

"You won't believe it."

"Try me," he said.

"Seattle, Washington. How about that?"

"Really?"

"Yes. My father was a lumberjack. Do you know you can get mugged on this street at this hour of the night, and your body dumped in the river?"

"No, I didn't know that. Carol…"

"A boy I know got mugged on Fifth Avenue, would you believe it?"

"… is a girl who feels—"

"He was one of the gypsies in
Hello, Dolly
. This was after the show broke. He lived, I don't know, on 48th Street, I guess, and he was walking down Fifth Avenue, and these hoods jumped him. This city…"

"The Bronx is different, you know. Carol grew up in a neighborhood…"

"It's not
too
different really. You read about Bronx muggings all the time, don't you just love these reminders, 'Just a Drop in the Basket,' they really gas me."

The hell with it, Arthur thought, the goddamn rotten hell with it.

"You know what?" he said.

"What?"

"Actresses give me a severe pain in the ass," he said.

"Oh, really?" Hester said, and shrugged, and ran up the street to the corner, her arms raised winglike, the shoes dangling from one hand. "Oh, it's
marrr
-velous!" she shrieked. "Snow is
marrrrvelous
!"

Arthur walked slowly to the corner. There were lighted Christmas trees on the islands dividing the avenue, lighted trees perched on the marquee of the Sheraton-East, enormous wreaths hanging from the buildings, blues and greens reflecting on the snow. There was no wind, and the city was hushed. He felt like weeping.

"Would you like to know why actresses give me a severe pain?" he said angrily.

"In the ass," Hester amended. "You forgot in the ass."

"A severe pain in the ass, thank you. Would you like to know why?"

"No," Hester said. "I'll bet you always got the prettiest girl in the class, didn't you?"

"What?"

"You. Did you always get the prettiest girl?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"In your class."

"No, I always got the ugliest one," Arthur said.

"Do you think
I'm
pretty?"

"Not particularly."

"I have beautiful legs."

"Hester, do you want this goddamn part or not?"

"I
know
I have beautiful legs."

"Who
cares
about your legs?"

"You're not telling me anything I don't already know. In fact, you're boring me. Do you want to discuss your play, or do you want to go home?"

"I want to go home," Arthur said.

"Good night," she answered, and turned left on 52nd Street.

"No, wait a minute," he said.

"No, go home," she said. "Really, I'm bored to death. I was offered a part in a play by William Inge, did you know that? Just two weeks ago."

"No, I didn't know that."

"I could have had
After the Fall
, too, in spite of Kazan. I just didn't think it was right for me. But I could have had it."

"You'd have been terrible," Arthur said.

"That's beside the point. I could have had it if I wanted it. They think very highly of me at the Rep."

"I think very highly of you right here."

"Cut it out," she said.

"Cut
what
out?"

"When I was a struggling young actress, longer ago than I care to remember, a wise old lady said to me, 'Hester baby, don't ever ball a writer, a director, or a producer. It won't get you the part.' I followed her advice, and now I don't
have
to ball writers, directors, or producers."

"Who do you have to ball
now
?" Arthur asked.

"Don't get smart."

"I'm sorry, but I think I'm missing your point."

"My point is don't come on with me."

"I didn't know I was."

"You were," Hester said, "and the answer is no. Give me your arm, I want to put on my shoes." She caught his arm at the elbow and, leaning against him, put on first one shoe and then the other. "What are you smiling about?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"I don't like people who get dumb smiles on their face. How tall did you say you were?"

"Five-ten."

"That's short."

"It's not so short."

"It's short. I'm five-eight."

"Where do you live, Hester?"

"Over there someplace," she said, and gestured vaguely uptown. "In my stocking feet. I'm a very tall girl."

"I live on Fifty-fourth and Third," Arthur said.

"So?"

"Why don't we go there?"

"What for?"

"I'm cold."

"I'm not."

"We can discuss the play there."

"We can discuss it right here."

"Anyway, I'd like a drink."

"I know what you'd like."

"What would I like?"

"You'd like to jump right into bed with me."

"No, I only…"

"Forget it."

"… want to discuss the play someplace where it's warm."

"If you want to discuss it, discuss it here."

"Okay."

"And stop smiling like that."

"Okay."

"Do you want me to play the part?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe you. I don't believe your character, and I don't believe you, either."

"Okay."

"Stop smiling. I don't even know if it's such a good play."

"It's a good play, believe me."

"Sure, you wrote it."

"It's still a good play, no matter who wrote it."

"I think it's a confusing play."

"It's real."

"My part is confusing."

"Your part?"

"The girl. Carol."

"She's honest."

"That's what's confusing."

"That's what's real."

"I don't know anybody like her."

"I do."

"She's impossible to play. I don't even
understand
her."

"I understand everything about her."

"Then
you
play her."

"No, you play her, Hester."

"I wouldn't know where to begin. Besides, why should I? Your last play was a flop."

"So was yours."

"That was before Lincoln Center."

"It was still a flop."

"I got rave notices."

"The critics hated the play."

"That doesn't mean it was bad."

"It closed, didn't it?"

"That wasn't my fault."

"Of course not, Hester. In New York, it's never the actor's fault."

"You're talking like a writer."

"What
should
I talk like?"

"You're being defensive and hostile…"

"But honest."

"Besides, the critics loved me."

"The hell with the critics."

"Oh, sure, the hell with them, I agree. But they loved me. Did you see the play?"

"Yes."

"Didn't
you
love me?"

"I loved you."

"You're lying."

"No, I'm being honest."

"Whenever I meet anybody who claims he's honest, I run and hide the family jewels. You just want me in your play, that's all."

"Is that all?"

"What else?"

"You're right, Hester."

"What?"

"About what else I want."

I'm always right about what men want."

"I'd like to…"

"Stop working so hard," she said. She looked at him steadily. "You turned me on at least ten minutes ago."

… knew then I wanted to be an actress, and that nothing else would ever satisfy me, no wait here, I want to check. I have a woman sleeping in, you know, I think it's all right, yes, her door is closed. I put a television set in her room, one of those little GE's, do you know them? If she's awake I can hear the set going. I'll put the light on when we get upstairs, watch the flowerpot on the bottom step. Do you really like my legs, you never
did
say you liked them, you know. My bedroom is at the other end of the hall, there's a little wrought iron balcony that overlooks the backyard, there are dozens of daffodils in bloom in the spring, I go out every morning to say hello to them. I put them in myself last year, the bulbs. A boy dying of leukemia sent them to me, he wrote the nicest letter. His parents had taken him to see me downtown, knowing he was going to die and all, they own a seed order business upstate. He sent me the daffodil bulbs later, with his marvelous letter telling me what a dazzling actress he thought I was, and how beautiful, do you think I'm beautiful? I planted them myself last fall. I bought one of those tools, it's a hollow circle you press into the earth, it makes the hole just the right depth, and I planted them all one afternoon, there were four dozen of them. They came in a specially protected bag, you should see them now, they're gorgeous. I go out to look at them each morning in the spring, and I feel the world is coming alive, even though that poor lovely little boy is probably dead by now, leukemia, what a terrible thing. I wrote him a nice thank-you note, I hope he died happy, give me your hand, it's this way.

I don't want to put the light on, do you mind? Let's just sit here by the window. I bought this loveseat in London at the Portobello market, do you like it, it's red velvet, you can't see the color in the dark, I know, but it's the most brilliant red, and really in excellent condition. It's a genuine antique, you know, the man gave me papers for it and everything, sit here, are you comfortable? I sometimes sit here by the window and look out at the city and try to superimpose London on it, those marvelous little slate roofs, and the chimney pots, and the London sounds. I try to transport them here. I knew a very wonderful man in London, he was a correspondent for the B.B.C., they came to interview the cast one day. This was two summers ago, the weather was so marvelously sunny and bright, so rare for London, so rare. I was there with
The Alchemist
, which was like carrying coals to Newcastle, I suppose, but they seemed to love it. The critics said I was radiant, I adore the English, don't you adore the English? He had a mustache, this man in London, a big bristling cavalry mustache, and very blue English eyes, and that florid complexion all Englishmen seem to have, that fine aquiline nose, very much like your nose, Arthur, your're not English, are you? We had tea at the Stafford, and I told him all about myself, I am Hester Miers, I said, I've been acting since the time I was sixteen and won a high school contest sponsored by KJR in Seattle, well not quite
all
about myself, I've never told anyone everything about myself, do you mind the dark? I love to make the room dark. When the drapes are closed, the blackness, try to see my eyes in the dark, Arthur. Put your face very close to mine, can you see my eyes? Kiss me.