A Choice of Enemies (11 page)

“Would you care for a drink?” Karp asked.

“I love her, Karp. I love Sally.”

Karp patted Norman’s back. “There,” he said. “There, there.”

“How could she prefer that Aryan bastard to me?”

“Are you hungry?”

“No. I’m not hungry.”

Karp poured Norman a scotch and soda. “You look older,” he said. “Your brother’s death has affected you.”

“Affected me?” Norman said. “Nothing affects me. Didn’t you know?”

“There,” Karp said. “There, there.”

“Why didn’t I have the courage to tell Sally how much I loved her when I had the chance?”

“Are you sure you’re not hungry?”

“Jesus.”

“Then, if you don’t mind, I’ll go ahead with my dinner.”

“I’m going away. As soon as I can scrape enough money together I’m going to go to the Continent. I must keep my life free of disturbances. I’m afraid, Karp.”

Norman woke late the next morning. He woke with a hangover. But once he had read his mail his head cleared and he was jubilant. His agent in New York had written to say that Star Books had accepted revisions on his thriller and that a cheque for two thousand dollars was forthcoming. Norman phoned Winkleman right away.

“I’ve got bad news for you, Sonny. I want to back out of that script deal.”

“The hell you do. I paid Charlie another two-fifty yesterday just because you promised to get right down to work. What happened?”

Jesus, Norman thought. He couldn’t write Charlie’s scripts for him. He would explain everything and lend him some money. That was the most he could do. “I’ll get you the money back,” Norman said.

“We must have a bad connection. My name is Winkleman. Is that Norman Price speaking?”

Norman laughed.

“O.K
. Let’s say there
is
a second flood. What about the first payment?” Winkleman asked.

“The storyline was worth what you paid for it.”

“Not if you won’t work on it.
Like you promised.”

“Let Charlie rewrite it.”

“Ixnay.”

“Why?”

“Don’t be an ockshmay, Norm.”

“Why?”

“Because Charlie can’t rewrite it. He writes dialogue like it was for
New Masses
. Sober up, Norm, and write something that’ll spark me.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Then get drunk
. One minute. Bella wants to talk to you.”

Norman adored Bella. He didn’t want her to think that he was doing Sonny dirty. He told her about his trip to Spain. She told him about the children.

“How’s your girl?” Bella asked coyly.

“My girl?”

“Sally. Isn’t that why you rushed home?”

Norman stiffened. “Well, I –”

“Who’r’ye trying to kid?”

“Nobody,” Norman said weakly.

“Bring her around Saturday night. We’re having a party.”

“Sure. I’ll bring her. Tell Sonny I’ll be around tonight, though. I’m serious. I won’t be able to do that script. I’m going away again.”

“Tell him yourself, darling.”

Charlie, though, would have to be told first.

Norman was invited to lunch by Charlie and Joey. He bought a bottle of wine and took the album of flamenco records with him. Norman always came with gifts. Gifts were a proof against eviction. And considering the nature of the news he had for them a gift was clearly in order.

Charlie had been having a hard time while Norman had been away.

Charlie ran, he ran, he ran, he ran from television to stage to movie maker. He picked up a penny’s worth of hope here, the bone of a promise there, a smile from somebody big and a cry from somebody small; an if and a maybe and a promise to call soon; he gulped down a coffee with Graves who called Huston John, waited outside Cameo Production’s offices so that he could run into Pearson casually, told the director of
A Gun for Julia
a joke that the director had told somebody else earlier in the day, had a quick crap, ate a sandwich standing up, and arrived too late at the restaurant where Boris Jeremy was supposed to eat; he huffed, he puffed, he combed his hair, he slept for half an hour in a newsreel cinema, phoned his agent, phoned home, turned around three times for luck, changed a line of his play while queuing for a bus, had a drink in somebody’s office, picked up some “additional dialogue” to write for
Pirates of the
Spanish Main
, read his horoscope in the
Star
, hurried home to see if there was any mail, ran upstairs to see if he could catch his wife in the act of being unfaithful to him, opened up a bottle of beer, and settled down to wait for the next mail delivery.

Charlie’s favourite uncle had drifted from failure to failure. Charlie had written a play about his tragedy, but nobody wanted it.

But yesterday, beginning with Winkleman’s phone call, everything had gone right for once. So Charlie was in an expansive mood when Norman arrived. “Quick,” he said to Norman, “come to the window.” Norman came to the window. “See it,” Charlie said.

There was an unmistakably new car parked downstairs. A Morris Minor.

“I bought it this morning,” Charlie said. “We gave you as a credit reference. Do you mind?”

“Of course not. But I thought you were broke.”

“Have a seat, old chap.”

Joey immediately perched on the arm of Norman’s chair.

“Yesterday morning,” Charlie began, “Rip Van Winkleman finally came through on my script. I got another two-fifty. I’m starting on a rewrite tomorrow.”

A long ash dropped from Norman’s cigarette end. As he looked around searchingly Joey indicated the ashtray held tightly in her lap just about where her tight brown skirt creased into a V-shape.

“Winkleman is a big noise, you know. As soon as the deal came through I got in touch with Boris Jeremy and told him I had a sensational story for him. He liked the story but was a bit wary of having me do the shooting-script until I told him that I was doing one for Winkleman. My contract with Jeremy is now being drawn up. On the strength of these two contracts I went to see Cameo Productions and got three
Sir Galahad
scripts to do. Armed with all this I went to see my bank manager and there below –” Charlie tapped the window – “is the afterbirth. A month from now I’ll trade it in and get me a new Jag.”

Norman responded as best he could to Charlie’s febrile talk at lunch. He was alarmed because Joey, who usually acted as a brake at times like these, seemed to be even more excited than Charlie. But he could understand. It was hell to be a failure’s wife in the
émigré
colony.

“Hey,” Charlie said, “I got a letter from Tommy Hale this morning. He heard that I had to leave the States and wants me to come back to Toronto. There’s loads of work there, he says. But here’s one guy who doesn’t want to be a whale in that little fish pond. No
CBC
panel games for me, Norman. I’ll make it here or nowhere.”

Norman nodded and told them they could keep the flat for a while. He was happy where he was.

“Have you seen Sally yet?” Joey asked.

“It’s all right,” Norman said. “I know about the German boy.”

“It’s a shame. I thought that she was such a nice kid.”

But Joey kicked Charlie under the table and he quickly changed the subject. “What are you hoarding all that wood in the cupboard for?” he asked.

Norman explained that he had bought the boards because he intended to build a bookcase. Charlie offered to do the job for him, but Norman said no, he was going to get a carpenter to do it.

“I think I’d better be going,” Norman said.

Joey offered to walk with him for a bit. Outside, they wandered up to Notting Hill Gate.

“I’m happy for Charlie,” Norman said.

Joey hooked her arm through his.

“Me too. This all means so much to him,” Joey paused. “I was just about ready to accept a typing job from Bob Landis. And you know what
typing
for
him
means.”

“Bob’s a boy,” Norman said affectionately. “He wants to make every woman he meets.”

“And you?”

Norman’s face darkened.

“
O.K
.,” Joey said gaily, “I won’t tease.” But she stopped him short in front of a smart lingerie shop. “There,” she said, pointing out a wooden blonde in the window warmed by a lacy black negligée, “why doesn’t anyone buy
me
something like that?”

“Joey,” he said, as they walked on again, “do you think I’m a prude?”

Joey laughed. Her laughter spread. She held her hand to her mouth as though her laughter, like an egg, might fall and break, and all at once she was serious again.

“No,” she said, “but if you ever let yourself go I’m sure you’ll be worse than Bob.”

“I’m tired of being a bum, Joey. I want to get married and have children.”

She tightened. “So does Charlie. He wants kids too, I mean.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie. No crack was intended.”

“I know,” Joey said, angry with herself. “Oh, why must it always be so hard for two friends to talk without apologizing to each other every second minute?” She reached up and straightened Norman’s raincoat collar. Her smile was rich in tender concern. “Norman,” she asked, “did you ever tell Sally how you felt about her?”

“I told you,” he said sharply, “she was just a – a girl to me.”

“Oh, Norman, really!”

He stooped and kissed her gently on the forehead. “See you,” he said. “God bless.”

“If you want her that badly,” Joey called after him, “then put up a fight.”

When Norman got home Karp was waiting on his bed. He held a half-stripped banana in a little hand. One of his cheeks was swollen, like he had a bad tooth.

“How did you get in?” Norman asked.

Karp stretched out an arm mutely, a little hand open wide, as though to protect himself from a gust of wind. Norman waited while Karp swallowed his banana.

“I’ve got the keys to all the rooms. I’m the landlord, remember?” Karp rose wearily. “Mr. Sonny Winkleman called three times.”

Norman phoned Winkleman. “It’s
O.K.
, Sonny,” he said. “I’ll write you your script. Would you put on Bella for a minute, please?”

Bella came to the phone.

“If it’s all right with you,” Norman said. “I’d like to bring Sally and her boy friend to your party.”

“And her
boy friend?”

“That’s right. If it’s all right with you.”

“Sure.” Bella said, “if –”

“Thanks,” Norman said, hanging up.

“An excellent idea,” Karp said. “I was going to suggest it myself.”

“Just what do you mean by that, Karp?”

“Your friends are refugees from the West. Ernst is a refugee from the East. Once Sally sees what your friends think of Ernst she may think again.”

“Nonsense,” Norman said. “I’m trying to make a gesture, that’s all.”

“Of course,” Karp said, and he was gone.

“Don’t you see?” – Sally flung Ernst down on the bed and jumped on top of him – “This means that Norman wants you to be his friend. He’s changed his mind about us.”

Ernst, too, was delighted. In the three days to go until the party Sally told him all about the people who were likely to be there. He helped her to select a dress and on Friday, as a surprise, Sally took him out and bought him a new sports jacket.

At night Ernst lapsed into a world of impossible dreams. Nicky, and other nightly horrors, did not drift away obligingly, but stood off like sharks preparing for a more deadly assault. Ernst was determined to make a good impression on Norman’s friends and for three days
he considered all possible approaches. He might even tell them about his father.

Karl Haupt.

Ernst visualized the old man wandering from zone to zone, dependent on the irregular money forthcoming from a disowned son, seeking something lost – his family and his self-respect – and being suspected by both sides. The Jews had justice and their considerable dead. Karl Haupt’s legacy was compounded of weakness and a dubious pride in the fact that he had objected to Hitler slightly, but not enough. Ernst recalled that when the old man had at last been picked up for questioning in Saxony the communist police official turned out to be the same one who had used to question him for the Nazis. The cell had been an old gestapo cell. Ernst had kicked up a row about the incident at the time and there – if he went back and put his finger on it – his doubts about the
FDJ
, about communism, had come to a head and burst like a boil.

From that day onwards Ernst was a suspected man. All the same he had scraped some money together, taken his father back to the Western Zone, and found him a room.

“You’re with them,” the old man had said. “You’re dirty.”

“Enough.”

“You’re no better than a thief.”

“Foolish old man,” Ernst had said. “What do you know?”

“
I
never joined them.”

“The Nazis, you mean.”

“The Nazis.…”

“No, you never joined the Nazis. But neither did you ever work for the underground.”

“I am your father. Speak with respect.”

“My group was with the underground. We are different. We are fighting for a better world.”

“Again?”

Ernst had said nothing.

“You are with them,” his father had said, “and you are dirty. They are not so different.”

“Foolish old man,” Ernst had shouted, “what do you understand of history?”

The dazed, inconsolable eyes had hardened with an old man’s rancour. “Don’t come back to see me again. You are no longer my son.”

Ernst had settled his father’s rent for a month. Back in the Eastern Zone a week later he discovered that he was being followed by the
SSD
. He went through the gestures of belief for another month and then all at once even one more day would have been insufferable. So he fled. His father wouldn’t see him again, but he wrote asking for money from time to time.

Sally warned Ernst not to repeat this story at the party. A lot of Norman’s friends were fellow-travellers; they would not believe him anyway. A better approach, she said, would be not to say anything about Germany. It might be best to avoid political discussions altogether.

Ernst didn’t sleep the night before the party.