Celebrity Chekhov (8 page)

He was in the mood to have talked on a good deal longer, but luckily the auto repairman called. Our car was ready. We walked over there, and Gary Busey followed us, and suddenly, with an aggrieved look in his eyes, spoke to Michael Douglas.

“Let me come back to work for you,” he said, blinking furiously and tilting his head on one side. “I am dying of hunger!”

“Okay,” said Michael Douglas. “Show up tomorrow. Work a week, and we'll see.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Gary Busey, overjoyed. “I'll come today, sir.”

It was a five-mile drive home. Michael Douglas, glad that he had at last opened his heart to his friend, spoke cheerfully, telling me that if everything had been satisfactory in his home life, he should have returned to Washington and worked for a think tank. The country could have used him, he knew. America needed new policies; to turn away from that was not admirable. He generalized with pleasure and expressed regret that he would be parting from me early next morning, as he was catering an event.

And I felt awkward and depressed, and it seemed to me that I was deceiving the man. And at the same time it was pleasant to me. I gazed at the immense crimson moon that was rising, and pictured the tall, graceful, fair woman, with her pale face, always well-dressed and fragrant with some special scent, and for some reason it pleased me to think she did not love her husband.

On reaching home, we sat down to supper. Catherine Zeta-Jones, laughing, mocked our purchases one by one, and I thought that she certainly had wonderful hair and that her smile was unlike any other woman's. I watched her, and I wanted to detect in every look and movement that she did not love her husband, and I fancied that I did see it.

Michael Douglas was soon struggling with sleep. After supper he sat with us for ten minutes and said:

“Do what you want, but I have to be up at four. I'm going to bed.”

He kissed his wife tenderly, pressed my hand with warmth and gratitude, and made me promise that I would certainly come for dinner the following week. He told me it was too late for him to drive me home, but that I could sleep in the guest room if I wanted rather than taking a car.

Catherine Zeta-Jones always sat up late, and on this occasion I was glad.

“And now,” I began when we were left alone, “and now you'll be kind and play me something.”

I felt no desire for music, but I did not know how to begin the conversation. She sat down to the piano and played, I don't remember what. I sat down beside her and looked at her long white hands and tried to read something on her cold, indifferent face. Then she smiled at something and looked at me.

“You are dull without your friend,” she said.

I laughed.

“It would be enough for friendship to be here once a month, but I turn up oftener than once a week.”

Saying this, I got up and walked from one end of the room to the other. She too got up and walked away to the fireplace.

“What do you mean to say by that?” she said, raising her large, clear eyes and looking at me.

I made no answer.

“What you say is not true,” she went on, after a moment's thought. “You only come here on account of Michael. Well, I am very glad. One does not often see such friendships nowadays.”

Not knowing what to say, I asked: “Want to go sit in the backyard?”

I went out upon the patio. Nervous shudders were running over my head and I felt chilly with excitement. I was convinced now that our conversation would be utterly trivial, and that there was nothing particular we should be able to say to one another, but that night what I did not dare to dream of was bound to happen—that it was bound to be that night or never.

“Nice weather,” I said aloud.

“It makes absolutely no difference to me,” she answered from inside the house.

I went back in. Catherine was standing, as before, near the fireplace, with her hands behind her back, looking away and thinking of something.

“Why does it make no difference to you?” I asked.

“Because I am bored. You are only bored without your friend, but I am always bored. But that probably doesn't interest you. “

I sat down to the piano and struck a few chords, waiting to hear what she would say.

“Please don't stand on ceremony,” she said, looking angrily at me, and she seemed as though on the point of crying with vexation. “If you are sleepy, go to bed. Because you are Michael's friend, you are not in duty bound to be bored with his wife's company. I don't want a sacrifice. Please go.”

I did not, of course, go to bed. She went out on the patio while I remained inside and spent five minutes turning over the music. Then I went out, too. We stood close together in the shadow of the curtains, and below us were the steps bathed in moonlight. The black shadows of the trees stretched across the flower beds and the yellow sand of the paths.

“I have to leave in the morning, too,” I said.

“Of course, if my husband's not at home you can't stay here,” she said sarcastically. “I can imagine how miserable you would be if you were actually interested in me! Wait a bit: one day I shall throw myself at you. . . . I shall see with what horror you will run away from me. That would be interesting.”

Her words and her pale face were angry, but her eyes were full of tender passionate love. I already looked upon this lovely creature as my property, and then for the first time I noticed that she had dark eyebrows, exquisite eyebrows. I had never seen such eyebrows before. The thought that I might at once press her to my heart, caress her, touch her wonderful hair, seemed to me such a miracle that I laughed and shut my eyes.

“It's bedtime now. Have a peaceful night,” she said.

“I don't want a peaceful night,” I said, laughing, following her inside. “I shall curse this night if it is a peaceful one.”

I held her hand and walked her to the stairs. I saw by her face that she understood me, and was glad that I understood her, too.

I went to my room. Near the books on the table lay Michael Douglas's hat, and that reminded me of his affection for me. I went back to the patio and walked a bit in the yard. The mist had risen here, too, and the same tall, narrow, ghostly shapes that I had seen earlier on the river were trailing round the trees and bushes and wrapping about them. What a pity I could not talk to them!

In the extraordinarily transparent air, each leaf, each drop of dew, stood out distinctly; it was all smiling at me in the stillness, half asleep. There was a mound in the garden; I went up it and sat down. I was tormented by a delicious feeling. I knew for certain that in a moment I should hold in my arms, should press to my heart, her magnificent body, should kiss her eyebrows; and I wanted to disbelieve it, to tantalize myself, and was sorry that she had cost me so little trouble and had yielded so soon.

But suddenly I heard heavy footsteps. A man of medium height appeared down the street, and I recognized him as Gary Busey. He leaned against a tree and heaved a deep sigh, then lay down. A minute later he got up and lay on the other side of the tree. The gnats and the dampness of the night prevented his sleeping.

“Oh, life!” he said. “Wretched, bitter life!”

Looking at his bent, wasted body and hearing his heavy, noisy sighs, I thought of an unhappy, bitter life of which the confession had been made to me that day, and I felt uneasy and frightened at my blissful mood. I came down the knoll and went to the house.

Life, as he thinks, is terrible, I thought, so don't stand on ceremony with it, bend it to your will, and until it crushes you, snatch all you can wring from it.

Catherine was standing on the verandah. I put my arms round her without a word and began greedily kissing her eyebrows, her temples, her neck.

In my room she told me she had loved me for a long time, more than a year. She vowed eternal love, cried and begged me to take her away with me. I repeatedly took her to the window to look at her face in the moonlight, and she seemed to me a lovely dream, and I made haste to hold her tight to convince myself of the truth of it. It was long since I had known such raptures. Yet somewhere far away at the bottom of my heart I felt an awkwardness, and I was ill at ease. In her love for me there was something incongruous and burdensome, just as in Michael Douglas's friendship. It was a great, serious passion with tears and vows, and I wanted nothing serious in it—no tears, no vows, no talk of the future. Let that moonlight night flash through our lives like a meteor.

At three o'clock she went out of my room, and, while I was standing in the doorway, looking after her, at the end of the corridor Michael Douglas suddenly made his appearance; she started and stood aside to let him pass, and her whole figure was expressive of repulsion. He gave a strange smile, coughed, and came into my room.

“I left my hat here yesterday,” he said without looking at me.

He found it and, holding it in both hands, put it on his head; then he looked at my confused face, at my slippers, and said in a strange, husky voice unlike his own:

“I suppose it must be my fate that I should understand nothing. . . . If you understand anything, I congratulate you. It's all darkness before my eyes.”

And he went out, clearing his throat. Afterward in the kitchen I saw him standing by the coffeemaker. His hands were trembling, he was in nervous haste and kept looking round; probably he was feeling terror. Then he went out to his car and left.

Shortly afterward I called a car for myself. The sun was already rising, and the mist of the previous day clung timidly to the bushes. On my way I saw Gary Busey walking on the side of the road. He was wobbling, either from fatigue or from drunkenness.

The terror of Michael Douglas, the thought of whom I could not get out of my head, infected me. I thought of what had happened and could make nothing of it. I looked at the rooks, and it seemed so strange and terrible that they were flying.

Why have I done this? I kept asking myself in bewilderment and despair. Why has it turned out like this and not differently? Why did she have to have feelings? Why did he have to come into the room for his hat? Does it all come down to a hat?

I have not seen Michael Douglas nor his wife since. I am told that they are still living together.

Chapter 16
The Death of a Redheaded Man

O
NE FINE EVENING
, C
ONAN
O'B
RIEN WAS SITTING IN THE
second row at the Staples Center, watching the Lakers run away from the Sacramento Kings. He was thrilled to see the game, excited and gratified. But suddenly . . . In stories one so often meets with this “But suddenly.” The authors are right: life is so full of surprises! But suddenly his face puckered up, his eyes disappeared, his breathing was arrested, he put his head down, then drew it up suddenly, and “Achoo!”

It is not reprehensible for anyone to sneeze anywhere. Petty thieves sneeze and so do captains of industry, and sometimes even television hosts. All men sneeze. Conan O'Brien wiped his face with a napkin, and like a polite man, looked round to see whether he had disturbed anyone by his sneezing. But then he was overcome with confusion. He saw that an old gentleman sitting in front of him in the first row of the stalls was carefully wiping his bald head and his neck and muttering something to himself. In the old gentleman, Conan O'Brien recognized Larry King.

I have sprayed him, thought Conan O'Brien. I am not planning to be on his show anytime soon, but still it is awkward. I must apologize.

Conan O'Brien gave a cough, bent his whole person forward, and whispered in the man's ear.

“Pardon me, Mr. King, I sprayed you accidentally. . . .”

“Never mind, never mind.”

“Excuse me, I did not mean to.”

“Please, sit down! Let me watch the game. I'm here with Chance and Cannon!”

Conan O'Brien was embarrassed, he smiled stupidly and fell to gazing at the court. He gazed at it but was no longer feeling bliss. He began to be troubled by uneasiness. At halftime he went up to Larry King, walked beside him, and overcoming his shyness, muttered:

“I sprayed you, Mr. King. Forgive me. You see, I didn't do it to—”

“Oh, that's enough about it. I'd forgotten it, but you keep reminding me. It's like Liz Taylor,” said Larry King, moving his lower lip impatiently.

I don't know what he means, but there is something fierce in his eyes, thought Conan O'Brien. And he doesn't want to talk. I ought to explain to him that I really didn't mean anything by it, that it is how nature works. I don't want him to think I spit on him. He doesn't think so now, but he will think so later!

On getting home, Conan O'Brien told his wife about his sneezing. It struck him that she took too frivolous a view of the incident; she was a little frightened at first, but when she learned that Larry King had said that it was nothing to him, she was reassured.

“Still, you had better go and apologize,” she said, “or he will think you don't know how to behave in public.”

“That's just it! I did say that I was sorry, but he didn't take it right. He just said something strange about Elizabeth Taylor. There wasn't time to talk properly.”

The next day Conan O'Brien went to apologize. He found out that Larry King was taping a series of brief interviews with sitcom stars. He put on a shirt and tie, drove to the studio, and waited while Larry King spoke to Kaley Cuoco, Jon Cryer, and Joel McHale. Finally, Larry King stood and walked toward the bathroom. Conan O'Brien intercepted him.

“Yesterday at the game, Mr. King,” Conan O'Brien began, “I sneezed and accidentally sprayed you.”

“I have nothing to say about it,” Larry King said. He went to the bathroom, and when he came out, he went straight over to Julie Bowen to speak to her.

He won't talk to me, thought Conan O'Brien, turning pale. That means that he is angry. It can't be left like this. I have to explain myself to him.

When Larry King had finished his conversation with Julie Bowen and was heading out to the parking lot, Conan O'Brien intercepted him again.

“Mr. King! If I am bothering you, it is only because I feel such regret. It was not intentional. Please believe me.”

Larry King made a mournful face and waved his hand.

“You're just making fun of me,” he said as he closed the car door and drove away.

Making fun of him? thought Conan O'Brien. That's not true at all. He has interviewed thousands of people, but he won't stop to listen to me. If that is how it is, I am not going to apologize to that guy anymore. He can go to hell. I'll write a letter to him, but I won't make any more attempts in person.

So thought Conan O'Brien as he drove home. But he did not write a letter to Larry King; he thought and thought but could not write a sentence. He had to go next day to explain in person.

The next day, Larry King was interviewing sports figures: LeBron James, Phil Mickelson, Stephen Strasburg. When Conan O'Brien saw that he was done with Danica Patrick, he hurried toward him. “I tried to talk to you yesterday,” he muttered. Larry King fixed him with an owlish stare. “But it was not to make fun of you. I was apologizing for having sprayed you when I sneezed. I did not dream of making fun of you. If I made fun of you, if people started making fun of people without any concern for the truth, then there would be no respect for persons, there would be—”

“Get out!” yelled Larry King, turning suddenly purple and shaking all over.

“What?” asked Conan O'Brien, in a whisper turning numb with horror.

“Get out!” repeated Larry King, now stamping his foot.

Something seemed to give way in Conan O'Brien's stomach. Seeing nothing and hearing nothing, he reeled to the door, went out into the street, and staggered to his car. Reaching home mechanically, without taking off his tie, he lay down on the sofa and died.