The Pillow Fight (47 page)

Now, in the theatre, it was my turn to ask: ‘What made you think of that?’

‘I was remembering,’ she answered, and that was all she would allow me. Though we sat together, sculptured, like royalty, with fixed dynastic smiles, we were utterly divided still. It was part of the rawness of that evening, and it came at the end of five weeks of the same forlorn, contemptuous, bitter disengagement.

When next I thought about the time, it was 1 a.m.; the party was thinning out, though not very much – no party with a theatrical basis ever broke up before the food and drink were finished, and there were still those reviews to come … I sighted Kate once, talking to Jack Taggart; across the stage, they noticed me looking at them, and they smiled back, but it did not seem that they smiled very much. Hate Steele Month was still on.

A rather pretty girl, with bare feet and her dress torn, came walking hurriedly out of the wings; then she turned, and called to some unseen adversary: ‘You don’t have to rape me!’ ‘I would say that was true,’ said the cynical fellow standing next to me at the huge central bar, and I laughed with him. But suppose it had been my sister … Dave Jenkin was doing a wild tap-dance routine in the middle of the stage, putting most of it out of bounds for other dancers. Erwin was at his post, still eating, talking very gravely indeed to one of his backers, who talked very gravely back.

I overheard Susan say: ‘You know, I think you’re absolutely right! I was
over
rehearsed!’

It was my newly adopted world, and I didn’t like it at all.

Then the man on the other side of me suddenly turned out to be my publisher.

‘It’s past your bedtime, Hobart,’ I told him.

‘It’s past
our
bedtime,’ he said precisely.

‘I hope no one misconstrues that.’

He wrinkled his nose. ‘That would not surprise me at all. What very peculiar people you have in the theatre.’ Then he turned to look at me more closely. ‘Aren’t you rather pale?’ he asked.

‘I’ve been working.
Si monumentum requiris
– can’t pronounce the rest of it. And worrying. And of course drinking. All people like me are pale … Tell me that you liked the show.’

‘I liked the show.’

‘More!’

‘It should do very well.’

He was something less than effusive, and I couldn’t quite let it go. ‘Don’t have a complete mental breakdown over this.’

‘No, I really did like it, Jonathan. I thought it was very good.’ He added, with a certain amount of care: ‘You know – of its kind.’

‘Like a beautifully designed sewer?’

He laughed, while I drank. ‘Like a beautifully designed musical. But don’t forget, I published
Ex Afrika
.’

‘There’s plenty of
Ex Afrika
in this.’

Now he was looking worried, as if he did not know whether to answer me seriously or not; he seemed more than ever, like a professor – a professor with an unruly class which might start acting out the Blackboard Jungle while his back was turned. At length he said: ‘Well, it’s half the story, isn’t it? The funny half – no, that’s not it exactly. The
top
half, sad and funny both, but basically the part that doesn’t matter.’ He looked at me carefully. ‘You see I’m trying to be quite honest about this … All the part under the surface, the core of
Ex Afrika
, is still in the book. And only in the book.’

I drank again. What was it Kate said about criticism? I
must
learn to be brave about it … ‘Then we’re both satisfied. I have a show, you have a book.’

His brow cleared. ‘I’d be completely satisfied if you’d write me another one.’

‘I will, Hobart, I will. Don’t crowd me.’

I passed my glass across the bar for a refill, and the barman, a refined youth not quite at home in these raffish surroundings, asked: ‘Something similar?’

‘Too right!’ I said, in my Australian accent.

He sniffed as he passed the champagne glass back to me. I had made another enemy – and a barman at that.

‘I’m not crowding you,’ said Hobart.

‘What?’

‘You said, “Don’t crowd me”, and I’m not.’

‘Oh.’ He had sounded rather irritated. ‘That’s good to know.’

I had the impression that he was not going to talk to me very much longer.

‘How are things at home?’ he asked presently.

‘Terrific,’ I said. ‘One long honeymoon.’

‘Kate was looking very well.’

‘What’s “was”? She
is!
’

‘I meant, when I talked to her.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I don’t think I’ll wait for those reviews after all. I’m sure they’ll be wonderful.’

‘You wish to leave me?’

‘It’s time to go.’ For a small man, he could be firm enough when he wanted to be. ‘Good night, Jonathan. Let’s have lunch, one of these days.’

‘With a new book by Steele?’

‘With or without a new book by Steele. But in a perfect world–’ he gestured, and smiled, and was gone.

I turned to the barman, and said: ‘Something similar.’ But he was now a different barman, an oldish, disgruntled, rushed-off-his-feet man who did not speak the language of leisure. He snatched my glass, and asked curtly: ‘What’ll it be?’

‘Good God!’ I said. ‘Don’t you know a champagne glass when you see one?’

He glared at me, and stuck out a bristly chin. ‘Yeah. That’s why I asked. Champagne’s finished.’

‘Who says so?’

He pointed to an empty bottle. ‘Look for yourself, Mac.’

‘Good God! Don’t you know who I am?’

‘No.’

‘Good God!’

Very weak dialogue, Steele, I thought, as I turned away; we won’t keep it in. But I knew where the champagne would be, if there was any left in the theatre. Like Lord Muddley, it was the kind of thing I heard about.

Erwin – enormous, overflowing, massive old theatrical czar Erwin Orwin – made room for me at his table as I sat down beside him.

‘Hallo, Johnny,’ he said. ‘Have some more champagne. You know my associate, Mr Ehrlich?’

‘No.’ I shook hands with Mr Ehrlich, a tall, thin, precise Jew with very formal manners and, I should have guessed, lots of money. ‘But I do now. And yes, Erwin, I’d like some champagne. I feel bound to tell you that in certain parts of this building, the champagne has run out.’

‘Mine hasn’t,’ said Erwin. ‘There’s got to be a limit for actors, that’s all.’ He snapped his fingers, and a man jumped forward, with a magnum of Louis Roederer at the ready; he snapped them again, and a cigar was brought, and a third man lit it almost before I knew it was in my mouth. ‘Well, Johnny, how does it feel to have a hit?’

‘We have a hit?’

‘What else? This is going to be the toughest ticket in town.’

‘Five stars,’ said Mr Ehrlich. ‘Not a star less.’

‘Ehrlich is the German for honourable.’

‘Even so,’ said Mr Ehrlich.

‘Your girl was terrific,’ said Erwin.

‘All right, Erwin. But thanks for giving her a try, anyway.’

‘Have you another work in mind?’ asked Mr Ehrlich.

‘A novel.’

‘May it make another great musical enterprise!’

We talked about that, and this and that, and the theatre, and how good Dave Jenkin had been, and how
The Pink Safari
would make a fabulous film (side glances exchanged between Mr Ehrlich and Mr Orwin), until two o’clock, when there was a sudden outbreak of ooh-and-ah on the other side of the stage, and people came running in with the morning papers, and we had our reviews.

Suddenly everyone was kissing and laughing and shaking hands and slapping each other on the back. The party took a wild upward swing. Dave Jenkin was uttering loud yells of delight, hugging his girlfriend, turning cartwheels all round the stage. The orchestra, which had been flagging, began to roar and thump out our songs, with many an extra clash of cymbals. More champagne appeared, released from some prudent reserve, and with it came fresh smiles and whoops and people joining hands and dancing. Erwin, delighted, put his arm round my shoulder; even Mr Ehrlich gave my hand a small informal squeeze.

People crowded up to our table, waving newspapers, pointing to headlines, upsetting glasses, clapping me on the back, kissing the nape of my neck. ‘They mentioned
me!
’ Susan cried, and collapsed into the nearest chair, overcome by the sheer grandeur of fame. Someone yelled: ‘Three cheers for
The Pink Safari!
’ and the cheers came up like high-pitched thunder.

We had a hit.

They were fantastic reviews – the dictionaries must have been combed for adjectives, and we had enough quotable comments to crowd a full-page ad. ‘
Safari
a Smash!’ ‘Rip Roaring Success’, ‘Five Star Hit!’ ‘My Fair
Safari!
’ ‘Dazzling Display of Talent’, ‘Resounding Triumph’, ‘You MUST take This Safari!’ – there it was in black and white, quotable, memorable, unarguable. Erwin Orwin’s press agents couldn’t have done better. I couldn’t have done better myself.

In all the swamping praise, there was only one example of the still small voice. It seemed to be speaking to me, in direct and cautionary terms. It was important. It was, inevitably, the
Times
.

Those readers (said the man, after calling the show ‘an undoubted success’) who enjoyed that fine novel
Ex Afrika
may find themselves putting their hands over their ears – or even holding their noses – at
The Pink Safari
. But (as no one knows better than author-playwright Jonathan Steele) there are thousands of people in and out of New York who don’t give a finger-snap what happens to novels, good or bad, but who do like plush musicals; and these devotees should keep the SRO notices nailed up at the Orwin Theatre for many a long month – or year.

I thought: If we trim that down to ‘Should keep the SRO notices nailed up at the Orwin Theatre’, we couldn’t ask for a better quote. And from the
Times
…

It was the last snide thought of the evening.

Erwin was leaving, attended by a pallid, puffy-eyed, yet jubilant phalanx of his aides. ‘Good boy, Johnny,’ he said, as he shook hands, and then: ‘Give me a call tomorrow. I’ve got some ideas.’

I was still sitting down – bad manners, but a matter of necessity. ‘Did you read the
Times
?’ I asked him.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Wonderful review.’

‘Not so wonderful about the book.’

‘The book’s great.’

‘No, I mean the novel.’

‘Oh, that. Well, of course they had to say something. Don’t let it get you down.’

‘But it’s true.’

He was looking down at me with expert appraisal. ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘Go home. Get some sleep. You’ll think differently tomorrow.’

‘It
is
true.’ I waved my hand round the
Safari
stage, brilliantly contrived for my last-act, lovable, loyal losers. ‘This is all wrong. All wrong!’

Now he had a different look, or rather a very strange progression of them: near-anger melting into a gleam of anxiety, and then to one of his widest grins. ‘Confidentially, I agree with you,’ he said, and shook my hand again. ‘But don’t you tell a soul.’

I wasn’t going to tell a soul, till I had sorted it all out. But someone, I found, was going to tell me.

The someone was my hotshot agent and non-critical friend, Jack Taggart. He took the chair vacated by Erwin Orwin, and smiled at me, and said: ‘Well, you did it.’

‘Yeah.’ But I was dispirited, and it wasn’t going to change tonight. ‘What did I do, Jack?’

‘Made
The Pink Safari
a riot.’ He had a glass of his usual whisky and water in his hand, and he raised it, toasting me. ‘Cheers. This thing can’t miss. Erwin was talking to me about a film deal.’

‘Am I in on that?’

He sighed gustily; the theatrical atmosphere was catching, even for him. ‘Don’t you ever read your contracts? You get a big cut anyway. And if you adapt this thing as a screenplay, you just about double everything. If you want to. Do you want to?’

‘Hell, I don’t know.’

He looked at me very soberly. ‘You really don’t, do you?’

‘No.’

‘Well, if you want my advice–’

‘I want your advice.’

‘I’ll give it you in two words.’ His corncrake voice was suddenly forceful. ‘Forget it.’

This was confusing, and though confusion was nothing new, it still deserved translation. ‘Translation,’ I said.

‘What do you really want to do next?’

‘Not another of these bloody things, anyway.’

‘That’s what I meant. You’ve done it once. Don’t do it again. Don’t even think of it. Finish the book instead, or write a new one.’

When a neutral man, suddenly and at last, took a position, it was always surprising, and I was surprised now. This was the first time that Jack had ever offered a suggestion which wasn’t strictly professional, such as the choice between two differing rates of royalty. It was like an unloaded gun firing, a man serving a writ, a talking horse … But there was much more to come.

‘And while you’re at it,’ he went on, ‘leave New York. For a while, anyway. It’s been nice having you, Johnny, but this town is not for you.’

‘How in hell do you figure that out?’

‘It’s getting in the way of your work.’

‘You’ve been talking to Kate.’

‘Sure I’ve been talking to Kate. The first time ever, about this sort of thing. It turned out that we had exactly the same ideas.’ He was looking very thoughtful, staring at the table-top, fiddling with his glass. ‘A lot of it is none of my business. But you as a writer – that is. There’s a whole range of new work for you to do, on race relations. It’s the crucial thing now, I believe, and you know a great deal about it. You mustn’t go to waste … There are plenty of experts taking care of that damned east-west axis, hardly any working on the north-south one, the really important one … North and south in this country, north and south in the world. We live on the rich top of it; down there they’re boiling with anger and frustration, they’re sick of the misery … Do something about that, Johnny. Show it, explain it, do a little bit to cure it. It’s your job. Panel shows, and this–’ he waved his hand round the stage, ‘–and novels about the sex life of the rich white trash,
just – are – not!
’