Face Me When You Walk Away (22 page)

‘I've arranged meetings later this afternoon,' said Blyne.

‘What will happen to Nikolai?' asked Josef. It was too soon for negotiating, he thought. He should have given himself time to recover from the flight.

‘I thought he'd be tired … getting over the flight,' offered Blyne, uncertainly.

‘I can't leave him alone,' said Josef, simply.

‘They've flown in from the West Coast,' urged Blyne, imagining the Russian was going to cancel the appointment. ‘The director has even come from Europe.'

‘I could stay with them,' suggested Matheson. ‘Maybe go to P.J.'s or Elaine's, do the tourist bit. It would keep them occupied until you're through.'

Josef shook his head, reluctantly. He was so exhausted that words were slipping away from him, like fish he could see in a stream but not catch. He kept pausing, groping to express himself.

‘I don't like it,' he said.

‘Look,' said Blyne. ‘You won't be away more than a couple of hours.'

‘It could only take minutes to foul up completely,' argued the negotiator.

‘If you act frightened, they'll realize it and try to make it worse,' reasoned Matheson. ‘You're the audience they are playing to.'

He really was intelligent, thought Josef …

‘What do you think?' he asked Blyne. The oddness of the question immediately registered. He tried to remember the last time he had asked anyone's advice. It had been Medev, he recalled, during those first weeks in the camp, when he was trying to save his father as much hardship as possible.

‘Seems logical,' said Blyne.

‘Josef!'

Blyne and Matheson turned to the negotiator at the shouted demand from the adjoining suite.

‘Come and watch the cabaret,' invited Josef.

He pushed into the other rooms. The photographers had gone, leaving Nikolai and Endelman alone. Endelman was staring out over the grey, snow-wrapped view of Manhattan, his back to the room.

‘Have you properly met Herbert Blyne, who's publishing the book here? And Harvey Matheson, who edited the American edition?' began Josef, politely.

‘Edited?' picked up the writer, ignoring Blyne and looking at the younger man. ‘My books don't need editing.'

‘I agree,' said Matheson, in flawless Russian. ‘It was the easiest thing I ever had to do.'

Endelman looked crumpled and tired, thought Josef, without his customary elegance.

‘I have to see some film people this afternoon,' Josef said to Nikolai.

‘I'll want to approve the script,' said Nikolai, immediately. Everyone knew the writer's complete ignorance of film making.

‘Of course. Whatever you say.'

He saw Blyne frowning. He was unsure whether the publisher's expression came from his own easy acquiescence or Nikolai's arrogance.

‘You,' said Nikolai, to the publisher, who jumped at being addressed. ‘What other arrangements are there?'

‘Nothing for this evening,' replied Blyne. He was having difficulty controlling himself, thought Josef. ‘Tomorrow there's a breakfast meeting at the Algonquin with the
New York Times
. You've got lunch with the editors of
Kirkus Reviews
and
Publishers Weekly
and in the afternoon a publicity tour, a taped television show and two recorded radio pieces. In the evening, there's the reception at the United Nations.'

Nikolai nodded. Josef wondered if the writer would risk making himself look ridiculous by challenging the schedule, as he had the film, but he said nothing. Matheson seemed embarrassed by the performance.

‘I'm sure you're not tired,' opened the young man, directly addressing Nikolai.

‘Of course not,' rejected Nikolai, a predictable reaction. He turned to Endelman. ‘We have ways of staying awake, don't we Jimmy?'

The photographer remained looking out of the window.

‘Good,' said Matheson. ‘While Josef is with the film people, I thought we might look at New York. See a few of the bars.'

‘I'd like that,' said Nikolai. He reverted to Russian, but spoke slowly, so that Endelman could understand. To Matheson, he said, ‘It would make a pleasant change to be with people whose company doesn't promise to be unutterably boring.'

The writer pouted in theatrical campness and Blyne stared in disbelief. Endelman had turned and looked at the writer sadly.

‘Bring your camera,' Nikolai ordered Endelman. ‘I want some pictures of myself around New York.'

He turned to Josef. ‘Be here when I get back, won't you?' he commanded.

The trio swept out and Blyne stared after them. The publisher laughed, an empty sound.

‘It's got to be a joke,' he said.

‘I wish it were,' said Josef. ‘If it weren't so serious, it would be pitiful.'

‘Jesus H. Christ,' moaned the publisher. He sat on the arm of a chair, shaking his head. ‘Have you told your people what's happened?'

‘No.'

‘Shouldn't you?'

‘What good will it do?' asked the negotiator.

‘They might decide, even now, to take him back.'

‘Not when they've sent the deputy Minister of Culture to attend a Presidential reception.'

‘If it's any consolation,' said Blyne, smiling reluctantly, ‘the book is breaking records. I don't think there's been a seller like it.'

Josef looked unimpressed. There isn't any consolation left on this trip,' he said, bitterly.

He was too tired for film meetings. Fatigue kept snatching at him, insistently. Increasingly, his concentration had wavered as he talked to Blyne, so that the words ebbed and flowed. He showered and still felt exhausted. Reluctantly, he opened the briefcase and stood examining the neat rows of bottles. He had always disdained their help in direct negotiations, carrying them only for insurance. Apart from his fear of dependence, it would be like cheating himself, admitting a weakness, and Josef always hesitated to concede any weakness. He selected a phial of benzedrine. Today was an exception, he thought. It would be impossible without them.

The company had taken a conference suite two floors above his. They were already assembled when he entered, and Josef paused, just inside the door, staring round. It was artificial, he thought. People were arranged around the room and at tables and on easy chairs as they might have been rehearsed for a film-set. Smiling, he moved further into the room and the man around whom everyone else was placed stood in greeting. Josef decided that Richard Watts looked more like an accountant, which he probably was, than a film-company president. He was a thin, short man, with rimless spectacles and a small, clipped moustache. The appearance was calculated, Josef thought. As the man carefully enunciated the introductions, Josef realized that he practised the affectation of the very powerful, showing over-deference to everyone. Josef felt he was being patronized, but was unoffended. He never objected to discussions with people who felt the need to portray imagined roles. The director, who sat immediately on Watts's right side, was Sheldon Burgess, a fleshy man with a sagging, American stomach and a monk's cap of hair. The stomach, Josef knew, was misleading. Burgess had worked for fifteen years in Europe after being blacked by every Hollywood studio for refusing to testify before the McCarthy Un-American Activities Committee. From Rome he had won two Academy Awards, was under nomination for a third and was now making American film companies pay for his exile by demanding three times what any other working director was being paid. Josef supposed he should feel an affinity with the man. He didn't.

The Vice-President was introduced as William Wasnet, a tight-faced, watchful man, for whom Josef felt a hint of recognition. Normally, thought Josef, Wasnet, who was head of production, would conduct such negotiations rather than be a witness. Another studio vice-president and chief lawyer, Edward Artman, sat with a file of documents on his lap and a gold pen in his hand, as if it gave him identification from the others. The remaining people, who because they either sat or stood apart from the inner caucus Josef presumed were of lesser importance, were identified only by name, without any titles. Josef disregarded them, as he knew Watts intended.

‘It's a wonderful book, Mr. Bultova. A great book,' began Watts. Behind him, the chorus nodded and smiled agreement. It was sad, thought Josef.

‘I'd like very much to film it,' added Burgess, as if the President's views needed endorsement. Burgess had a small voice for a man of his size and seemed embarrassed by it. His hand fluttered around his mouth when he spoke, as if to disguise the source of the sound.

Outside it was getting dark. Lights on several skyscrapers were being left on, Josef saw, so that they made the shape of a Christmas tree. Belated doubts at allowing Nikolai out into New York in Matheson's charge began to tug at him.

‘My government have obviously considered the film potential,' reacted Josef.

‘Mr Blyne told me you've gone to particular trouble to retain the copyright in the Soviet Union,' said the President.

Watts would always prefix a name with ‘mister', decided Josef.

‘A business precaution,' pointed out Josef, talking to Artman. ‘There have been instances of Russian works of art being badly treated because of vague, uncertain copyright.'

‘I give you my personal undertaking,' promised Watts, portentously, ‘that you would have no argument about the artistic merits of any film my studio made. I personally guarantee that.'

‘My government would ensure there was every safeguard,' assured Josef, unimpressed. It was a bad choice of words.

Burgess frowned. ‘What does that mean?'

Josef smiled at the concern. It was nearly six o'clock, he noted. Nikolai had been gone nearly an hour. The time-lag to which he had not bothered to adjust would increase the effect of alcohol, Perhaps he'd be exhausted, needing sleep immediately he returned to the hotel.

‘Any contract would have clauses clearly setting out the degree of interpretation allowed in the script,' he said.

‘Censorship,' protested Burgess.

‘It would ensure proper co-operation,' insisted Josef. He had planned the negotiation on the plane journey from England but had not envisaged a meeting like this.

‘I don't imagine the other studios would raise objections,' he offered. It was almost a clumsy threat.

‘Other studios?' asked Watts. The men around them registered the concern that would be expected.

‘Paramount, United Artists, Universal … most of the independents. In fact, there are few people not interested.'

‘Perhaps you'd better tell us what you have in mind,' said Wasnet. The production chief would definitely have been more of a negotiating adversary, thought Josef.

‘For
Walk Softly on a Lonely Day
,' began Josef, deciding to list the demands before the encouragement towards their agreement, ‘I would want outright payment of two million dollars. I would also want ten per cent of the gross. It would obviously be a studio financed film, with no outside money. I would want the contract to stipulate quite clearly that the ten per cent came from the world-wide gross before any other deduction whatsoever.'

He sat back, looking at them, and they returned his stare, waiting, not believing he had finished.

‘Too much,' protested Watts, as Josef had known he would. The man had spoken immediately, without thought, like someone reciting an expected reaction. Josef saw Wasnet and Artman frown.

‘But you haven't allowed me to finish,' complained Josef closing the door behind the other man. Watts looked uncomfortable, embarrassed by the premature response.

‘You must already know,' expanded Josef, ‘that the book is outselling anything that can be remembered in American publishing history. The Presidential reception can only heighten that interest. The success of this book is going to be incredible.'

‘You're telling us nothing we don't already know,' said Watts, irritably. He was annoyed at being so easily drawn by Josef.

The Russian smiled. How wonderful it was not to feel tired. He wondered how long the benzedrine would last. He would have to take another if it became a protracted day. It wouldn't be at all difficult to become dependent, he thought.

‘This property has assured publicity value,' said Josef. ‘You can guarantee a box-office return before you announce the stars.'

He stopped, giving Watts the opportunity to challenge the point. The President frowned suspiciously. He needed a script, thought Josef.

‘Further,' continued Josef, ‘my government is prepared to allow the film to be shot entirely on location in the Soviet Union, the first time such a facility has ever been allowed a Western film company. For the scenes involving the Second World War, the Red Army will be made available.'

He stopped again, allowing the details to settle. In nearly every negotiation in which he had ever been involved, he found people became confused and allowed more concessions than they intended if they were made a series of offers.

‘They are interesting suggestions,' agreed Watts, guardedly.

‘I'm still not clear about the degree of control,' said Burgess.

‘Only upon interpretation,' insisted Josef. ‘And for your protection, I will agree to it being written into the contract that I co-operate with you as technical adviser, able to give decisions on the spot. That might prevent costly production delays …'

‘You would be prepared to be technical adviser?' queried Watts. The promotional value of Josef's association was registering. An uncertainty went through the men in the room, as if they had all been holding the same terminal when the electricity switch had been turned on.

‘There's a catch,' insisted Burgess, voicing the common doubt.

Josef indicated the lawyer. ‘Everything would be put into contractual form,' he guaranteed. ‘Until Moscow's formal approval, you would pay nothing, apart from a nominal binding figure.'