Complete Short Stories (45 page)

‘If you take my front-page news like that, Len,’ I told him, ‘you’ll not be offered even a walk-on!’

‘Still, I don’t get it…’

‘Well, you will – as soon as Sammy Samstag turns up here toting an enormous box of Havanas, and you’re left in a corner smoking your
foul
Peninsulares.’

‘Neumann directing? Hardwicke in the lead as Vercingetorix?’

‘No, the title isn’t
Vercingetorix
. It’s
The Difficult Husband.
Otherwise you’ve guessed right.’

‘You’re very fonny, don’t you, Mister?’ Len stalked away, then wheeled angrily, and came out with a splendid curtain line: ‘In my opinion, jokes about dead Americans stink!’

When Jaume stepped from the Palma-Muleta
bus, looking bigger and more morose than ever, no one rolled out the red carpet. That evening I found him alone in his cottage, cooking a bean and blood-pudding stew over the wood fire; and accepted an invitation to share it. Jaume asked for details on Willie’s death, and wept to hear about the open window.

‘He was a brother to me,’ he choked. ‘So magnanimous, so thoughtful! And since he could
not manage this little property by himself, I had asked Toni Coll to tend the trees, and go half-shares in the lemons and oil. Toni has just paid me two thousand pesetas. We are not friends, but he would have lost face with the village by neglecting my land while I was doing my service. He even repaired the terrace that fell before my departure.’

I had brought along a bottle of red Binisalem
wine, to celebrate Samstag’s cable.

‘Poor Willie, how wildly enthusiastic he would have been,’ Jaume sighed, when I read it to him. ‘And how he would have drunk and sung! This comes too late. Willie always wanted me to enjoy the success that his frailties prevented him from attaining.’

‘May he rest in peace!’

‘I had no great theatrical ambition,’ Jaume continued, after a pause. ‘Willie forced
me to write first
The Indulgent Mother,
and then
The Difficult Husband.’

‘Did they take you long?’

‘The Indulgent Mother,
yes. Over the second I did not need to rack my brains. It was a gift.’

‘Yet Señor Samstag, a most important person, finds the result magnificent. That is certainly a triumph. You have a copy of the play?’

‘Only in Majorcan.’

‘Do you realize, Jaume, what will happen if
The Difficult Husband
pleases Broadway?’

‘Might they pay me?’

‘Pay you, man? Of course! With perhaps five per cent of the gross takings, which might mean fifty thousand dollars a week. Say it ran for a couple of years, you’d amass… let me work it out – well, some two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.’

‘That means nothing to me. What part of a peseta is a dollar?’

‘Listen: if things go well,
you may earn
twelve million pesetas…
And even if the play proved a dead failure, you’d get two hundred thousand, merely by selling Señor Samstag the right to stage it!’

‘Your talk of millions confuses me. I would have accepted five hundred pesetas for the job.’

‘But you would equally accept twelve million?’

‘Are these people mad?’

‘No, they are clever businessmen.’

‘You make fun of me, Don
Roberto!’

‘I do not.’

‘Then, at least, you exaggerate? What I want to know is whether this telegram will help me to buy a donkey and retile my roof.’

‘I can promise you an avalanche of donkeys!’

Two days later the contract came, addressed to Willie. Its thirty pages covered all possible contingencies of mutual and reciprocal fraud on the part of author and producer, as foreseen by the vigilant
Dramatists Guild of the Authors League of America; and dealt with such rich minor topics as Second Class Touring Rights, Tabloid Versions, Concert Tour Versions, Foreign Language Performances, and the sale of dolls or other toys based on characters in the play…

I was leafing through the document on the café terrace that afternoon, when Len entered. ‘There’s a man at my place,’ he gasped excitedly,
‘name of Bill Truscott, who says he’s Willie’s agent! Bill and I were at Columbia together. Nice guy. He seems sort of puzzled to find no Willie… See here: could it be that you weren’t kidding me about his Broadway show the other day?’

‘I never kid. Got no sense of humour.’

‘Is that so? Well, anyhow, I told Bill you might be able to help him. Come along!’

Bill Truscott, a gaunt Bostonian, welcomed
us effusively. ‘I sent
The Difficult Husband
to Samstag’s office ten days ago,’ he said, ‘and a spy I keep there sent word that the old s.o.b. was jumping my claim. Doesn’t like agents, favours the direct approach. But let’s get this straight: is Fedora really dead? My spy swears that he cabled Samstag from this place.’

‘Correct. He’s dead. Yet he promised to meet Samstag and discuss this document’
– I tapped the contract – ‘which maybe you’d better have a look at. Tell me, do you speak Spanish? Jaume Gelabert has no English or French.’

‘Gelabert? Who’s Gelabert? Never heard of him.’

‘Author of
The Difficult Husband.
Fedora’s only the translator.’

‘Only the translator – are you sure? How extremely tense! That changes everything. I took it for Fedora’s own work… What sort of a guy is this
Gelabert? Any previous stage successes?’

‘He made a hit with
The Indulgent Mother,’
I said, kicking Len under the table. ‘He’s a simple soul – you might call him a recluse.’

‘Know of any arrangement between Fedora and Gelabert as to the translator’s fee?’

‘I can’t think that they made one. Fedora drank, and did the job by way of a favour to Gelabert, who had been caring for him… Are you worried
about your commission?’

‘
Am
I worried? However, Gelabert will need an agent, and, after all, Fedora sent the play to my office. Len will vouch for me, won’t you, Len?’

‘I’m sure he will, Mr Truscott,’ I said, ‘and you’ll vouch for him. Len needs some vouching for.’

‘I’m on my knees, Don Roberto,’ Len whined, grovelling gracefully.

I let him grovel awhile, and asked Truscott: ‘But didn’t Fedora
acknowledge Gelabert’s authorship in a covering letter?’

‘He did, I remember, mention a local genius who had defended him against some Chinese and was now setting off to fight the Moors, while he himself guarded the lemon grove – and would I please try enclosed play on Samstag; but that’s as far as it went, except for some passages in a crazy foreign language, full of x’s and y’s.’

‘I gather
the letter has disappeared?’

Truscott nodded gloomily.

‘In fact, you can’t prove yourself to be Fedora’s agent, let alone Gelabert’s?’

No reply. I pocketed the contract and rolled myself a cigarette, taking an unnecessarily long time about it. At last I said: ‘Maybe Gelabert would appoint you his agent; but he’s a difficult man to handle. Better leave all the talking to me.’

‘That’s very nice
of you… I surely appreciate it. I suppose you’ve seen a copy of
The Difficult Husband
?
’

‘Not yet.’

‘Which makes two of us! You see: after reading Fedora’s crazy letter, I tossed the typescript, unexamined, to my secretary Ethel May, who, for all that she was the dumbest operator on Thirty-eighth Street, had beautiful legs and neat habits. Hated to throw away anything, though – even gift appeals.
She filed it under “Try Mr Samstag.” Ethel May got married and quit. Then, one day, I came down with the grippe, and that same evening Sam wanted a script in a hurry – some piece by a well-known author of mine. I called Ethel May’s replacement from my sickbed and croaked: “Send off the Samstag script at once! Special messenger.” The poor scared chick didn’t want to confess that she’d no notion
what the hell I was talking about. She chirped: “Certainly, Chief!” and went away to search the files. As a matter of fact, said script was still in my brief case – grippe plays hell with a guy’s memory. Scratching around, the chick comes across
The Difficult Husband,
and sends Sam that. A stroke of genius! – I must give her a raise. But Sam is short on ethics. He bypassed my office and cabled
the defunct Fedora, hoping he’d sign along the dotted line and remember too late that he should have got my expert advice on what’s bound to be the trickiest of contracts. If ever there was a thieving dog!’

‘Yes,’ I said,
‘if
Fedora had been the author, and
if
you’d been his agent, you’d have a right to complain. But, let’s face it, you’ve no standing at all. So calm down! I suggest we call on
Gelabert. He can probably supply supper.’

Night had fallen windily, after a day of unseasonable showers; and the path to Jaume’s cottage is no easy one at the best of times. The ground was clayey and full of puddles; water cascaded from the trees. I lent Truscott a flashlight; but twice he tripped over an olive root and fell. He reached the cottage (kitchen, stable, well, single bedroom) in poor
shape. I gave Jaume a brief outline of the situation, and we were soon sharing his
pa amb oli:
which means slices of bread dunked in unrefined olive oil, rubbed with a half tomato and sprinkled with salt. Raw onion, bitter olives, and a glass of red wine greatly improved the dish.
Pa amb oli
was something of a test for Truscott, but he passed it all right, apart from letting oil drip on his muddied
trousers.

He asked me to compliment Jaume on ‘this snug little shack. Say that I envy him. Say that we city folk often forget what real dyed-in-the-wool
natural
life can be!’ Then he talked business. ‘Please tell our host that he’s been sent no more than a basic contract. I’m surprised at the size of the advance, though: three thousand on signature, and two thousand more on the first night! Sam
must think he’s on to a good thing. Nevertheless, my long experience as a dramatic agent tells me that we can easily improve these terms, besides demanding a number of special arrangements. Fedora is dead; or we could fiction him into the contract as the author.
Unlike Gelabert, he was a non-resident American citizen, and therefore non-liable to any tax at all on the property. Maybe we can still
fiction it that way…’

‘What is he saying?’ asked Jaume.

‘He wants to act as your agent in dealing with Señor Samstag, whom he doesn’t trust. The rest of his speech is of no interest.’

‘Why should I trust this gentleman more than he trusts the other?’

‘Because Willie chose Señor Truscott as his agent, and Samstag got the play from him.’

Jaume solemnly held out his hand to Truscott.

‘You were
Willie’s friend?’ he asked. I translated.

‘He was a very valued client of mine.’ But when Truscott produced an agency agreement from his brief case, I gave Jaume a warning glance.

Jaume nodded. ‘I sign only what I can read and understand,’ he said. ‘My poor mother lost her share of the La Coma inheritance by trusting a lawyer who threw long words at her. Let us find a reliable notary public
in the capital.’

Truscott protested: ‘I’m not representing Gelabert until I’m sure of my commission.’

‘Quit that!’ I said sharply. ‘You’re dealing with a peasant who can’t be either bullied or coaxed.’

A cable came from Samstag: he was arriving by Swissair next day. Mercurio asked Len, who happened to be in the postman’s house, why so many prodigal telegrams were flying to and fro. Len answered:
‘They mean immense wealth for young Gelabert. His comedy, though rejected by Dom Enrique two years ago, is to be staged in New York.’

‘That moral standards are higher here than in New York does not surprise me,’ Mercurio observed. ‘Yet dollars are dollars, and Jaume can now laugh at us all, whatever the demerits of his play.’

Len brought the cable to my house, where he embarrassed me by paying
an old debt of two hundred pesetas (which I had forgotten), in the hope that I might deal him into the Broadway game. ‘I don’t need much… just an itty-bitty part,’ he pleaded.

Why dash his hopes? Pocketing the two hundred pesetas, I said that his friend Bill would surely recommend him to Samstag.

News of Jaume’s good fortune ran through the village two or three times, each time gaining in extravagance.
The final version made Samstag a millionaire second cousin from Venezuela who, reading the
Baleares
account of
The Indulgent Mother,
had appointed him his heir. I asked Jaume to say no more than that he was considering the American offer: it might yet prove unacceptable.

Truscott and I met Samstag’s plane at Palma airport. Spying Truscott among the crowd, he darted forward with scant respect
for the Civil
Guard who was shepherding the new arrivals through Customs, and grabbed his hand. ‘By all that’s holy, Bill,’ he cried, ‘I’m glad to see you. This solves our great mystery! So that anonymous package emanated from you, did it?’

‘Yes, it did, Sammy,’ said Truscott, ‘and, like all packages I’ve ever sent you, it was marked all over with my office stamp.’

‘Why, yes, my secretary did
guess it might be yours, and called you at once – but you were sick, and I couldn’t get confirm –’

The Civil Guard then unslung his rifle and used the barrel-end to prod Samstag, a small, dark roly-poly of a man, back into line. Finally he emerged with his baggage and guessed that I was Mr William Fedora. When Truscott undeceived him, he grew noticeably colder towards me; but the two were soon
as thick as thieves, and no less suspicious of each other. Climbing into our taxi, Samstag lighted a large cigar, and turned away from me; so I asserted myself as a principal in the business. ‘I can use one of those,’ I said, stretching out a finger and thumb.

Startled, Samstag offered me his case. ‘Take a couple,’ he begged.

I took five, smelt and pinched them all, rejected three. ‘Don’t mind
me, boys!’ I said through a fragrant cloud of smoke. ‘You haggle about the special arrangements. I’ll manage the rest.’

At this reminder of our compact, Truscott hastily enlarged on the strong hold I had on Señor Gelabert, assuring Samstag that without me he would get nowhere. Samstag gave him a noncommittal ‘Oh yes?’ and then back to his discussion of out-of-town performances prior to a possible
London
première
. Just before we sighted the village round the bend of our road, I tapped Samstag on the arm: ‘Look here, Sam, what told you that
The Difficult Husband
was God’s gift to Broadway?’