Authors: Irwin Shaw
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Cultural Heritage, #Political, #Historical Fiction, #Maraya21
The Troubled Air
Irwin Shaw
To Martin
Bought by Maraya21
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1
T
HE CLOCK ON THE ACOUSTICALLY PERFECT WALL MOVED TOWARD
nine-thirty, nibbling at Thursday night. The scarred Negro in the cashmere jacket peered through his glasses at the pages in his hand and drawled a line that had seemed funny to everyone in the studio at rehearsal. Fifteen million people laughed. Or were supposed to laugh. Or perhaps didn’t laugh. There would be repercussions from this later in the year.
In the control room, Clement Archer, behind the sound-proof glass, waved his arm to indicate that time was running out. Loyally, on the floor in front of the microphone, the next actor, Victor Herres, spoke a little more quickly than usual and bit crisply into other people’s cues and the lost seconds were won back from the electric clock.
Momentarily victorious over Thursday, Archer leaned back in his chair and squinted at the actors on the other side of the glass. Eloquent fish in a clear aquarium, they swam on the element of time up to and away from the nourishment of the microphones, their voices and the sound of musical instruments from another room blended delicately by the ear-phoned engineer who sat at the control board next to Archer.
The music swelled slowly and the conductor was putting more trumpet into it than Pokorny, the composer, had wanted. Archer was certain that Pokorny, sitting behind him on the edge of a chair, would make a face at this point. He turned and looked. Pokorny was making a face. Pokorny never hid anything. The loose fat jowls, the little pale eyes behind the European glasses, the pink bow mouth immediately reflected every thought that passed through Pokorny’s head. Right now he was making a complicated face, in which he was trying to announce to the world that he was not responsible for the sounds that the butcher of a conductor was drawing from the orchestra, that American musicians were too loud, that he had warned everyone, had fought and as usual lost, because he was a foreigner.
Archer smiled and turned back to the program. He liked the music. He rubbed his bald head reflectively. He had lost his hair by the time he was twenty-five and in the process had developed a nervous habit of touching the top of his head, as though to confirm the bad news a dozen times an hour. The disaster was now twenty years in the past and confirmation was history, but the sorrowful investigating movement remained.
The music died down and the closing scene of the program swept smoothly toward the finish. Across the studio, in a small gallery behind another window, the sponsor and O’Neill, the agency man, sat quietly. The sponsor had a dignified expression on his face. He didn’t look happy, but he didn’t look restless. I will settle for dignity, Archer thought, and listened to Herres making the long final speech.
The scene ended, the music swelled up, Pokorny made another, less complicated face, the announcer praised the product generously, but with decorum. The sponsor looked dignified; the closing theme roared up and faded; the engineer twisted a dial. A pleasant silence filled the control room for a few seconds. Archer blinked and stood up as the actors in the studio broke away from the microphones and started to talk among themselves. Archer patted the engineer’s shoulder. “You were lovely, Johnny,” he said. “Never, in many long years of listening, have I been so moved by an engineer. Such delicacy with the left hand, such virility with the strings, such control with the American Federation of Radio Artists.”
Brewer, the engineer, grinned.
On the floor, Herres was looking up at Archer in the control room and invitingly lifting his hand as though he had a glass in it.
“The actor is making a significant gesture,” Archer said, nodding to Herres. “Would you say that was beer or bourbon in his hand?” He started out of the room, passing Barbante, who was still sitting slumped in his chair, tapping a cigarette on a heavy gold case. Barbante was the writer for the program and, as usual at these moments, he had a derisive and challenging look on his face. He was a small, thick man with a long dark head. He dressed like a diplomat and always exuded a musky smell of expensive toilet water. Archer liked to avoid Barbante after a show.
“The script worked out very well,” Archer said, sniffing the perfume distastefully. “Didn’t you think so, Dom?”
“Oh, I thought it was peachy,” Barbante said. “Just peachy. Sir Arthur Wing Pinero just twirled twice in his grave in envy.”
“All personnel,” Archer said, staring down at Barbante, disliking him, “are hereby advised that, as of this date, all scripts are to be scorned on the writer’s own time.”
“You asked me, amigo,” Barbante said, smiling up, “and I told you. I thought it was peachy. So sad, so funny, so brainless. I may ask for a raise next week.”
“Mr. Archer, Mr. Archer.” It was Pokorny, struggling into a trench coat behind him. Archer recognized the warning wail of complaint in Pokorny’s voice and sighed as he turned to face him. Pokorny had on a long wool muffler and a stiff, reddish tweed suit with trousers that were too long for him. The trench coat was almost pink and was stained with grease over the round bulge of Pokorny’s stomach. With it, Pokorny wore a black velour hat, snapped down all around over his long, thin gray hair. Fully dressed, he looked as though he had been turned out by a demented governess who had an uncle who played in a military band. He came very close to Archer and grabbed his arm. “Mr. Archer, in the most respectful terms, it is necessary to talk about the insolence of the conductor.” He had a singing Viennese accent and he never blinked his eyes and Archer always had the feeling that he wanted to sit on your lap when he talked about his music.
“I thought the score was fine, Manfred,” Archer said mildly, being polite and using Pokorny’s full name because he knew Pokorny hated to be called Mannie.
“Of course, it is probably not in my place to say,” Pokorny gripped Archer’s sleeve more tightly. “But I feel it is my duty to tell you that every value was one hundred percent wrong.” Pokorny’s mouth quivered moistly. “I merely put myself on record. The conductor refuses to talk to me, so I advise you—it should be sharp, it should be hard like diamonds for the proper values. And what do we get—a flood of sentimentality, a Niagara of whipped cream, a Rhine of molasses.”
Archer smiled. Gently he withdrew his sleeve. “I know, Manfred. You’re right. I’ll do something about it for next week. Depend upon me.”
Pokorny bowed. “I am in your debt,” he said formally. He picked up a brief case stuffed with musical notepaper, and went out. Talent, Archer thought, watching the retreating, righteous back, sometimes assumes alarming shapes.
He went through the door and into the studio. Barbante followed him, holding a soft black overcoat over his arm. Barbante strode purposefully over to Miss Wilson, who was the prettiest girl on the program and who had been with them for only a week. She was talking in a corner to a character woman, pretending not to be waiting for Barbante. That size, Archer thought with a flick of envy, that face, you’d never think they’d wait so anxiously for him. Barbante, the fragrant bachelor. There must be something about him that only women can detect. At any distance up to a mile. And they do it on instruments when the visibility is bad. Archer watched the girl’s nervous, surrendering smile as Barbante came up to her, and turned away, feeling unpleasant.
Alice Weller approached him and he arranged his face. You had to be gentle with Alice because she was unlucky and because in the last two years she had suddenly lost her looks.
“How was I tonight?” Alice was asking softly, peering nearsightedly at him. She was wearing a terrible hat that sat on her head like a breadboard. “Did I do what you asked in the second scene?” she asked in her low, rescued voice.
“You were wonderful, darling,” Archer said. “As usual.”
“Good.” Alice flushed and her hands moved with aimless pleasure over her bag. “You are nice to say that.” Then, trying to keep the pleading out of her voice, “Is there a chance you’re going to need me again next week, Clement?”
“Sure,” Archer said heartily. “I’m almost positive. I’ll give you a ring. Maybe we’ll have lunch.”
“Oh,” Alice said, “that would be awfully nice. I look forward to it …”
Archer leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Good night, darling,” he said, and she flushed again as he walked away.
“Gambling,” Herres was saying as Archer approached him, “gambling is the curse of the workingman.” He was matching quarters with Stanley Atlas. “I’ll be with you in a minute, Clement. I have him lined up for the knockout now.”
“Stanley,” Archer said to the Negro actor, who was digging into his pocket for more coins, “you were slow again tonight.”
Atlas took two quarters out. “Was I?” he asked mildly.
“You know you were,” Archer said, irritated with him. “You’re milking laughs to death.”
Atlas grinned. The scars on his cheek looked like grayish quotation marks when he smiled. The scars were surprising on him. He had a quiet, secret face and it was hard to think of him going any place where people would be likely to fight with razors. He seemed slight in his well-cut clothes and his speech, unless he affected an accent, was clear of any trace of his Tampa childhood. “My public expects it, Clem,” he said, playing with the quarters. “The voice of the dark, lazy South. The sluggish rivers, the willows on the bank, the mules on the dusty roads …”
“When was the last time you saw a mule?” Archer asked,
Atlas grinned again. “1929. In a moving picture.”
“Anyway,” Archer said, annoyed with the neat dark face over the white collar, “from now on, when I ask you to go faster, go faster.”
“Yassuh, Boss,” Atlas said, “Yassuh, Boss, you bet, Boss.” He turned back to Herres and lost the two quarters.
O’Neill came through the door, buttoning his overcoat. O’Neill’s coat was lined with mink, the gift of an actress wife who had a lot of money. He sometimes wore a derby hat. Archer admired O’Neill’s courage in wearing a mink-lined coat, especially with a derby hat. Right now, O’Neill had his serious face on, which was incongruous, like a beard on an alderman.
“Ah,” said Herres, “the mink-lined O’Neill.”
“Hello, Vic,” O’Neill said. “Stanley, Clement. Nice show tonight. The sponsor was pleased.”
“Tonight,” said Archer, “we die happy.”
“Clement and I’re joining my wife for a drink,” Herres said. “Come along with us?”
“Thanks,” said O’Neill. “Not tonight. I’m busy.” He turned to Archer. “Clem, can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Be with you in a minute,” Archer said to Herres and followed O’Neill across the studio to a corner. The studio was almost empty now and the sound man was seated at the piano, idly playing scraps of songs.
“La Vie en Rose,”
the sound man played, forgetting the noises he was paid to make professionally, the sound of rain, the sound of footsteps on a gravel path, the sound of auto accidents. Then he switched to a song about a warm, non-existent island in the southern ocean. He didn’t play well, but he played with feeling, and you could tell the sound man longed for distant, quiet and melancholy places.
O’Neill stopped and turned toward Archer. “Listen, Clem,” O’Neill whispered hoarsely, “there’s a little party somebody’s giving the sponsor and he wants you to come.”
“Sure,” said Archer, wondering why O’Neill had to cross the room and whisper this information. “We’ll just go to Louis’ and pick up Nancy Herres and we’ll come along later. What’s the address?”
O’Neill shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “Herres isn’t invited.”
“Oh,” said Archer. “Let’s skip it, then.”
“The sponsor said he’d like to talk to you.”
“Any time from nine to five,” Archer said. “Tell the sponsor I’m an unpredictable artist after business hours.”
“OK,” said O’Neill, visibly controlling his temper. “I’ll tell him you’ve got a headache.”
“Lies,” said Archer, “are the foundation of all decent social relations. You’ll make somebody a wonderful hostess some day, Emmet.”
O’Neill didn’t answer. He was staring at Archer, his dark blue eyes baffled and friendly. He reminded Archer of a bulldog struggling to communicate with the human race, walled in by the lack of language.
“I’m sorry, Emmet,” Archer said. “But I promised Vic.”
“Sure,” O’Neill nodded vigorously. “Don’t worry about it. Will you drop into the office tomorrow? There’re a couple of things I have to talk to you about.”
