Complete Short Stories (46 page)

‘Not
what,
but
who
?’ he answered cheerfully. ‘It was Sharon, of course! Sharon always knows. She said: “Pappy, believe me, this is going to be the hottest ticket in town.” So I cabled Fedora, and flew.
She’s only fourteen, my Sharon, and still studying at Saint Teresa’s. You should see her grades: lousy isn’t the word! And yet she always
knows…
Takes a script, sniffs it, reads three lines here, four there; spends a couple of minutes on Act Two; skips to the final curtain… Then’ – Samstag lowered his voice and ended in a grave whisper – ‘then she goddamwell
pronounces!’

‘So you haven’t read
the script either? That makes three of us. What about having a look at it after supper? Or, to save time and eyesight, we might have Len Simkin – another Thespian chum of yours, Sam – read it aloud to us?’

‘If you insist. Perhaps Señor Gelabert has a copy. I haven’t brought one myself – came here for business, not to hear a dramatic reading.’

In fact, nobody had a script. But that did not prevent
Samstag and Truscott from arguing Special Arrangements together at the village inn all the rest of the day, until everything seemed sewed up. The meeting with
Señor Gelabert, they congratulated themselves, would be a mere formality.

Hair slicked, shoes well brushed, Jaume arrived at our rendezvous in his Sunday best, and showed impressive
sang-froid.
Early cares, ill luck, and the tough barrack
life at Melilla had made a man of him. After profuse congratulations, which Jaume shrugged off, Samstag sent for the village taxi and invited us both to dinner in Palma. Len, to his disappointment, was left behind. We chose
Aquí Estamos,
Majorca’s most select restaurant, where Samstag kept slapping Jaume’s shoulders and crying ‘
¡Amigo!’,
varied with
‘¡Magnífico!’,
and asking me to translate Sharon’s
appreciative comments on the play, one of which was: ‘The name part couldn’t be more like you, Pappy!’
(¡El papel titular corresponde precisamente contigo, Papaíto!’)
At this Jaume, now full of crayfish, asparagus, roast turkey, wild strawberries and champagne, smiled for the first time that evening. We wound up around 3 a.m. drinking more and worse champagne to the sound of flamenco in a gipsy
night club. Truscott and Samstag, who were flying back together at 8 a.m., had let themselves go properly; their goodbyes could not have been warmer.

However, Jaume had stood by his guns: declining to commit himself until he could read the amended contract and get it approved by a reliable notary. Nor would he anticipate his good fortune by the purchase of so much as a pig, let alone an ass.

When Truscott finally sent me the document, Len offered his expert advice gratis – he knew all about Broadway contracts, and could tell at a glance whether anything were wrong. ‘Maybe Bill and Sammy did a crooked deal together,’ he suggested. ‘Of course, he’s an old friend of mine, but in show business…’

Shaking Len off, I took the contract to Jaume’s cottage. ‘A letter from Señor Samstag is attached,’
I told him. ‘Shall I read it first, or shall I first translate this document?’

‘The document first, if you please.’

I read: ‘Whereas the Author, a member of the Dramatists Guild of the Authors League of America Inc. (hereinafter called the “Guild”) has been preparing the book of a certain play or other literary property now entitled
The Difficult Husband.
And whereas the Producer etc., etc.,
desires to produce the said play in the United States and Canada, etc., etc… Now therefore, in consideration of the premises and the mutual promises and covenants herein contained and other good and valuable considerations, it is agreed:

‘FIRST: The Author hereby a) warrants that he is the author of the said play and has a right to enter into this agreement –’

Jaume interrupted: ‘But I am not
a member of this Guild!’

‘Never mind, you can apply for membership.’

‘And if they won’t accept a foreigner?’

‘Don’t worry! Señor Truscott will fix you up. Let’s get on: “The Author b) agrees that on compliance with this contract –”’

‘Maybe, Don Roberto, you should translate the letter first.’

‘Very well, then… It says here that Señor Samstag greatly enjoyed his visit to Majorca, and is delighted
that we all see eye to eye, and that it only remains for you to sign the attached instrument, your agent, Señor Truscott, having agreed with him on the terms.

‘Then, wait a bit… then the tone of the letter changes. While still considering the play to be superb, Señor Samstag suggests certain radical changes in the treatment. It is by no means good theatre yet, he writes. The Difficult Husband,
for instance, remains too static a character; his actions are predictable, and so is the eventual victory of his wife. In a sophisticated play, the leading man’s character must develop; and this development must be substantiated by brisk dialogue. Here, the Husband should grow gradually less difficult, more
human,
as the action advances. Also, he should be granted an occasional small victory over
his wife…’

Jaume’s eyes were smouldering. ‘He says that, does he, the imbecile?’

I tried to smooth him down. ‘After all, show-business people are apt to understand the market. They study it year in, year out.’

‘Read on!’

‘He insists that the scene where the couple quarrel about household accounts must be changed. Let the husband, instead, teach his wife how to manage something else, something
visible
– say, a television set or a garbage disposer. “In the theatre we want to
see
things,” he writes. “Then, when the wife wins his permission to take a long cruise and pretends that she has gone, but stays ashore to save household money – this is most unconvincing! Let her go for her health, really go, and fall in love with a handsome adventurer on the ship! Her husband can get comically
jealous at the beginning of the Third Act –”’

‘Stop!’ Jaume roared. ‘Why does this fellow first telegraph that my play is magnificent, and now want to change it altogether, though offering me the same immense sum of money?’

‘Patience, Jaume! He cabled “Bravo!” because he hadn’t read your play. Now he writes the reverse because he still hasn’t read it. Knowing you to be inexperienced, he naturally
entrusts
The Difficult Husband
to his assistants, who are expert play-doctors. The suggestions you so dislike emanate from these play-doctors. If you will not rewrite the play, that task necessarily falls to them, or to someone working under their direction.’

‘Then it will no longer be mine?’

‘Oh yes, it will be! You’re protected by the contract. Your name will flash out in red, green, and yellow
neon lights from the front of the theatre, and you will get the big money. Play-doctors get no more than their salaries. They can’t
write
plays; they can only rewrite them.’

‘Willie would never have agreed!’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Willie would not have changed a single word! He had a stubborn nature.’

‘Well, I admit that this letter sounds nonsense – not that I’ve read
The Difficult Husband…
But
you are faced by a clear choice. Either fight for every word of your play, and be lucky if you keep one in ten; or else refuse to sign the contract.’

‘Enough, enough, Don Roberto! My mind is made up. The devil take this contract! If Señor Samstag’s assistants care to rewrite my play, very good! Let them spin a coin to decide who shall be the author. I will sell
The Difficult Husband
outright,
making no conditions whatsoever, except that Señor Samstag must pay me a sum down, in pesetas, and –
pff!
– that’s it!… What might he pay?’

I told him: ‘Fortunately it’s not a case of buying your
name:
he’s only buying your story. Since the Señorita Samstag believes in it so strongly, he might be good for ten thousand dollars – around half a million pesetas. That’s nothing for a producer like
Samstag.’

Jaume said slowly: ‘Not having yet signed my agreement with Señor Truscott, I am still my own master. Let us telegraph Señor Samstag that, if he flies here again, a new one-page contract will be awaiting him at the notary’s.’

‘And Señor Truscott?’

‘For three hundred thousand I can become the Lord of La Coma, which is in the market now; so, since Señor Truscott envies me this cottage,
he may have it and welcome. I will add a terrace or two, to round off the property. As for the lemon grove and olives, which are worth far more, they are yours, Don Roberto.’

‘Many thanks, Jaume; but I want nothing but your friendship. We should dispatch your message at once.’

Three days later Samstag flew in, delighted not to find Bill Truscott about. ‘Agents create unnecessary complications
between friends, don’t you think?’ he asked us. A one-page contract in legal Spanish was easily agreed upon, and Samstag had arranged for the necessary pesetas. They went straight into an account which Jaume opened at the Bank of Spain.

As we drove home from Palma, Jaume said the last word on the subject: ‘What can be done with a man who complains that a play is dramatically bad before he even
reads it?
The Difficult Husband,
as many Majorcans know, though perhaps few Americans, enjoyed a remarkable success at the
Cine Moderno
some years ago. My poor mother took me there. The film ran for three whole weeks. Only an imbecile would wish to change its plot. It was called – what was it called? – ah, now I remember:
“La Vida con Papá
”. How does one say that in English, Don Roberto?’

July 24th, 1959

Dear Captain Graves,

You’re unlikely to recall my name after so long a lapse, though we coincided at the Royal Welch Depôt a couple of times in 1916; but you can’t have forgotten ‘Houdini’ Cashman. I had a mind to write you about him when I first read your autobiography,
and there came across a mention of his abrupt departure from the regiment two or three months after the Armistice. You say:

The subject nagged at me again when you reissued the book last year and, to cap it all, I had a letter from young Bob Stack – the bigger, taller brother of Dick Stack, who was in the 2nd Battalion with you; I don’t think you knew Bob. He was one of the best, and did pretty well for himself when he emigrated to Australia and made a fortune in wool. He now has nine grandchildren,
one of whom is named Daniel in my honour. We still write each other every so often and regularly exchange cards at Christmas. Anyhow, he sent me a Melbourne newspaper cutting about the death in prison of one Victor Cashman, formerly a professional conjuror. There can’t be more than one Victor Cashman in the conjuring world: besides, the story makes good sense to anyone who knew Houdini.
So, before it’s too late, I’m going to get the whole saga off my chest, and apologize in advance for its inordinate length, hoping that you won’t be bored.

I recall Houdini’s arrival at the Depôt in June 1917, when the Military Service Act was flooding the regiment with swarms of skrim-shankers who had been winkled out of non-essential jobs – scrapings from the bottom of a pretty foul barrel.
Of course, along with them came some red-hot lads just old enough to qualify for the sausage-machine. As for the new officers, they were – you remember – a thoroughly mixed lot, and caused Colonel Jones-Williams a deal of trouble, what with affiliation orders, bringing women into the Camp, complaints of dud cheques from tradesmen, etc.

Houdini came wearing two Boer War ribbons. The Adjutant didn’t
question them, but they made some of us very suspicious. He claimed to have served in South Africa with the City Imperial Volunteers, but when Jock Wilson, who won a D.C.M. with the same corps in 1900, cross-examined him about the various engagements in which they’d taken part, and about their officers, Houdini could remember nothing. He’d been kicked on the head by a mule, he said, just before
the Cease-Fire sounded, and his war memories had faded completely from his mind. We began to wonder how the hell Houdini had got a commission, because he knew no more drill than he could have picked up in the Boys’ Brigade. And with what regiment, if any, had he served since the war started? He claimed to have been a despatch rider during the Retreat, and carried his left arm as though he’d been
wounded in the shoulder. I reckon that Houdini Cashman, with his cissy manner, simpering through his ingrowing moustache, and sitting cross-legged like a Buddha on the floor of his hut, was the queerest fish in the entire British Army.

Most of us felt some sympathy for true-blue Bible-punching Conchies, who quoted the Sixth Commandment at the tribunals, and damn well meant it – what we couldn’t
stand were dirty yellow-bellied column-dodgers of the Cashman type, who banked on being safer
in
the Army than
out
, if they played their cards properly – and Houdini Cashman had his tunic sleeves stuffed with aces. Literally, as well as in a manner of speaking, because a deck of fake cards was his principal stock-in-trade. He’d nearly dug himself in at the Depôt as Assistant Musketry Officer,
on the strength of his ribbons, having ingratiated himself with old Major Floods by his usual thimble-rigging tricks, when Jock Wilson called on the Adjutant. ‘Willie,’ he said, ‘that Cashman fellow’s a wrong ’un. You’d be wise to put him on the next draft before worse befalls us. And in case the stinker goes sick, as I think he will, be sure to warn the M.O. beforehand.’

So Houdini found himself
at Rouen Base Camp soon afterwards, on the same draft as myself – ten officers and two hundred men. You’ll remember Captain Sassoon’s lines: