B00AZRHQKA EBOK (4 page)

“I’m mixed up,” I say to Clay.

“How so?”

“I thought these were the
dancers
.”

“They are,” he says. “But that’s how it’s done these days. Later on, when we audition the singers, the picked ones’ll be asked to dance. Everybody has to be able to do everything in a musical.”

Larry and Jenny sat together through all this, discussing each applicant carefully. I was happily relieved.

“Look,” I said to Clay. “All that noise in the restaurant. As you said—a plow routine—they seem to be doing fine.”

Clay smiled. “Playing the game, love. Playing the game. Right now, they’re about as sincere as a tap dancer’s smile.”

In time, the twenty-two were cut down to sixteen. I took names, addresses, phone numbers, agent information—preparatory to the call-backs.

Two days later. It is still going on. Open calls over. Equity calls over. Actors and actresses are auditioning, playing scenes, reading from our script, singing, performing specialties.

All morning, members of the staff have been drifting in and out. The songwriters, Mr. Clune, Cindy Sapiro (a money lady), Ivan; one afternoon SHE came in. Big fuss. She thought every audition She saw was awful, and left, saying: “You’ve sure got a long way to go, people.”

Her husband, Val Belmonte, stays behind and makes a nuisance of himself. He has, of course, no official connection with the show—but everyone cossets him (or pretends to) because he is, after all, Husband to the Star, a standard show-business canker sore.

A perfectly remarkable girl comes on—sings beautifully, then while she is dancing, this oaf sings out, “No contrast!” Again: “Where’s the contrast?” (What he means is that she faintly, very faintly, resembles his wife, The Star, in type.)

The dancing girl flushes, misses a step, but goes on gamely and splendidly.

We all applaud when she finishes. She starts off, and damned if he doesn’t yell again, “Where’s the contrast?”

The girl on the stage stops, looks out into the auditorium, and says, “The contrast, Mr. Belmonte, is between professionals and amateurs,” and walks off.

We all feel like applauding again, but no one does.

Belmonte says, “What’s a matter with
her
?”

“Nothing,” says Larry. “She’s marvelous.”

“Not for this show, she ain’t,” says Belmonte. He lights a cigar and leans back, waiting for the next victim. The atmosphere is unbearable. I have a pain in my stomach, and for some reason, both my nipples have become so sensitive that I sit there, rubbing them.

The lunch break, thank God.

I get out of the theatre fast, because I feel I want to have lunch by myself and calm down. No one has to tell me what a mistake it is to get emotionally involved in this damned thing. It’s a job, that’s all, like any other job, and as far as feeling sorry for the ones who don’t make it, I have to believe that the ones with real talent are going to get there one way or another. If not this show, then another show; if not this year, then next year. I know this is Pollyanna thinking, but maybe I’m Pollyanna, who knows?

I walk around for ten minutes or so and find myself inside Joe Allen’s. An empty table, and I sit at it. They don’t like parties of one in there, but I can say I’m waiting for someone, and then—what of it?—the someone doesn’t turn up; that happens all the time in Allen’s. I order a club sandwich (a mistake) and a Coke (another mistake), and sit there wishing I had not given up smoking. I am beginning to think that only a
part
of this tension is being brought on by the events of the day after day. Another contributing factor may well be the lack of sexual expression in my life since Jean-Pierre returned to France. Of all my involvements, that was by far the most misguided. Still, looking back on it, I do not see how I could have escaped it. He was as determined as he was irresistible.

He was one of those trainees sent over to the United States and Doubleday by Hachette, the French publishing house, to observe American methods.

I met him when, in the second quarter of his planned year here, he was assigned to the Editorial. This meant that he came to the twice-weekly conferences on the forty-second floor.

The first time he turned up, I did not know who he was, and I’m sure
he
did not know who
I
was, but he looked at me across the table and performed a small bow. I nodded my head, I suppose. The meeting turned into one of those rare noisy, argumentative ones, and since it was my job to write the report, I was soon too busy to do anything but tend to business. He was gone by the time I had finished.

I inquired about him, was told who he was and what he was doing.

The next day, I saw him walking up Park Avenue with an Avedon-model type, and wondered why this should trouble me. He reminded me vaguely of someone. Who?

He was trim and alive. Physically, he looked not unlike my one-time overwhelming screen passion, Gérard Philipe. He gave the impression of enjoying every moment of life. Who was he like in spirit?

Finally, it struck me. Vartan. He had the same graceful movements, the same sudden laughter.

Another editorial meeting. I was sitting in one of the chairs at the foot of the table. He sat two chairs away. The chair between us was unoccupied.

The conference droned on. Everyone seemed to be doodling, including the Frenchman. He folded his doodle and snapped it over to me. (Shades of Saint Helena High!) I opened it. A single word, in block letters: “DRINK?” I looked up at him. His attention was on the speaker at the head of the table.

Impulsively, I wrote “Yes” under the question and snapped the note back. He read it, smiled and held up his spread fingers, indicating “Five.” I nodded.

Another note: This one read: “DINNER?” I wrote under it, “Perhaps,” and shot it back. He looked at it and held up eight fingers. I shrugged.

He worked a long time over his third note, consulting a pocket dictionary, with apparently no success.

He passed it to me, and I read: “FOCK??”

I wrote: “Your spelling is terrible.”

He wrote back: “What matters? My focking is
formidable
.”

How right he was. For all his gross approach, he proved, in time, to be a gentleman.

He came up to my office at five, promptly, introduced himself: Jean-Pierre Duhamel, and gave me his card.

We went to The Four Seasons. There, over drinks, he told me about himself—an only son of a physician, who had disappointed his family by abandoning his medical studies for a career in publishing.

“If one cannot write,” he said, “is it not a best thing to make the good life for who can?”

“Yes,” I said.

He asked me where I would like to dine. What cuisine did I prefer?

“In
merveilleux
New York,” he said, “you have the table of the world. Not so in Paris.”

We decided, eventually, on Nippon, since we both admired Japanese food, and Nippon, which I consider the best in New York, was unknown to him.

“Good, good,” he said. “It will be for me an adventure.”

He walked me home, kissed my hand, and said he would return in an hour and a half, at 7:45.

At 7:15, the doorman called on the intercom.

“Flowers coming up.”

An arrangement of multicolored roses and lily of the valley in a lovely vase. I was sure it was his creation, not the florist’s.

At 7:45, the doorman again.

“Man down here.”

“On my way.”

He had held his taxi, and asked, “You prefer to ride, to walk?”

“Let’s ride,” I said. “I’m famished. We’ll walk later.”

“O.K.,” he said. “
D’accord
.”

He gave the driver the address of Nippon, carefully and clearly.

What is it about shoes off and sitting on the floor that loosens it all up?

Throughout the exquisite dinner, he charmed me with his manners and wit and youth and aspiration and appreciation and candor.

I was ready for him whenever he said the word.

He did not, however, say it that evening.

After dinner, we walked.

“You like to hear the jazz?” he asked.

“I don’t know much about it.”

“But it is American,” he protested. “And
you
are American.”

“Oh, yes,” I said, “but I was born in fifty-one. I’m a Beatles baby. Dylan. Baez. The Rolling Stones.”

“Very good, all,” he said. “Yes. But come. I show you.”

To Jimmy Ryan’s on 54
^th
Street, and an hour of excitement. Roy Eldridge. Ellis Larkins. Ruby Braff.

Walking again. Home.

“Would you like to come up?” I asked.

“Very much.”

Brandy and coffee and shoes off again and feet up and talk.

All at once, he rose.

“I will leave you now,” he said.

“Oh?”

He must have sensed the disappointment in my voice, because he said, “Is better so. Now we have met, we know each the other a little. You will think of me, I hope. I will think of you, I am sure. Soon we will know. You are not a casual girl, I can see. So is best to be sure. And for my rude note, I apologize.”

I wanted to say, “I am sure.” Instead, I said, “Thank you.”

He kissed me, neatly and sweetly, and he was gone.

Troubled sleep.

Flowers on my desk when I arrived. And a note: “I have two tickets for the theatre this evening.
A Chorus Line
. I suggest how we tear them and spend the evening together in your adorable apartment. I can cook. You are a most desirable person. Sincerely, J-P.”

So it began. The first truly satisfactory relationship of my life.

We went home together that evening, and did everything together. Prepared drinks, bathed, and went to bed. He was a partner, not a predator. He took and gave pleasure. When he knew I was ready, that he had made me ready—he saw first to my comfort, then entered me—gently at first, tentatively—but as I arched to him, signaling that I needed him more deeply—he thrusted. I heard a scream. Mine. I was in pain, in transport, in ecstasy. He moved inside me easily, keeping me alive. After a timeless time, he began an insistent probing, as though there were depths in me still to be plumbed. There were, and he found them. I moved with him, up up up and out. White light. Skies. A whirling rainbow, and my body melting into thin air. As I was recovering, I felt him plunging into me, desperately. How could I help? I clung to him, giving him the inside of me, more, more, and still more—until I felt him convulse above me and sensed his heated flow within me. The paradisiac end—but no, not yet. He continued to fill me, seemingly without end. At long last, we both were still. How long before he rolled off to lie beside me, face-to-face, still joined? We kissed. Kissed again. Slept.

When I awoke, I heard sounds in the kitchen. I got out of bed, looked at the sharp red-lighted figures on the digital clock: 7:40. I brushed my hair, put on a dressing gown, and went out to the kitchen. There he stood, stark naked—stirring a stew with great concentration.

I embraced him and wondered if it was too early to fall in love.

My reverie on the subject of Jean-Pierre was interrupted by a voice:

“Hey, Midge! Can we sit here with you? The jerk was supposed to hold a table, so naturally he didn’t, and we’re gonna be late?”

Russ and Buddy. Was he wearing makeup?

“Of course,” I said. “Help yourself.”

They sat down, next to one another, not with me in the middle.

Jean-Pierre would not like
this
picture, I thought.

They whispered together for a rude minute, then remembered I was at the table with them.

They ordered. Beef stew. I thought of Jean-Pierre again.

“Fasten your seat belts,” said Russ. “Turbulence ahead.”

“Already?” asked Buddy. “It’s ahead of sked.”

“My ol’ faithful Larry,” said Russ. “Coming on too strong again. I tell him. Does he listen? What the hell, I’m only a pipsqueak assistant, so what do
I
know?”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” said Buddy. “And
you
can tell
him
. Jenny’s not going to take any shit this time. Excuse me, Midge. I forgot you were here.”

“What makes you think I am?” I asked.

“Didn’t
you
feel some of it over there today?” asked Russ, looking at me.

“Some of what?”

“The bristles. The hackles.”

“No. It just looked to me as though everyone’s trying to get their own way. I’m used to that.”

“Yuh,” said Buddy. “But who
does
, in the end? That’s the big question.”

“The way I read it,” says Russ, “Jenny’s cucumber-cool.”

“For the present,” said Buddy. “This is my fifth show with her. She always starts like this. Watches the weather. Just see to it your man doesn’t make it too rough or
he’s
the one liable to find himself overboard. There are certain things I could say, points I could make, but I won’t. Not right now.”

“Why
not
right now?” asked Russ.

“Frankly?”

“Frankly.”

“I don’t know you well enough, either of you—to open up. Maybe someday I will.”

“But maybe someday’ll turn out to be too late,” said Russ.

“For what?”

“To save an ass or two.”

“Don’t worry about that, sugar. Before the curtain goes up on this thing opening night, there’re going to be a lot of asses lost. I’ve never seen it fail. Have you?”

“Depends which asses. If they lose the wrong ones—it can mean the difference between smash or bomb.”

“Sure—but there’s only one ass I’m interested in. Mine.”

“Oh, really? I thought it was mine.”

As they giggled, ridiculously, I realized they had forgotten I was there. This being the case, I paid my check, left a tip, and went out.

Forty-five minutes later. I am at the desk in the middle of the auditorium again, making some calls for AC. Russ comes in, plops down beside me and asks, “What happened to
you
?”

“I left.”

“I realize that, dummy. I’m not blind—just deaf and dumb. But did we say something? Or what?”

“Or what.”

“Come on, Midge. Don’t hassle me. We’ve got to be a team. You’ll see. It’ll be better that way.”

“All right.”