The Berlin Connection (6 page)

"God won't forgive us because he doesn't love us, he cannot love us..."

Another twenty minutes, then we will see. Show me, Shirley's God, what You think of us, of what we are doing here, that which happened so many times before and which always carries us close to oblivion.

Shirley moans while my lips are caressing her. If you exist, God, then You know why I love Shirley. If You exist, then it is You who formed her so that each year she

becomes more the image of another girl I shall never be able to forget. If You are, You are just as guilty of what is happening here as I am.

"Yes . . ." sighs Shirley. "Yes ... oh, yes . . ." Her auburn hair has spread wildly in a great silken covering over her body and mine. Her eyes, not almost black, close. But I keep mine open and through increasingly denser, purple veils I see the path, the ocean, surfers, ships, my wife by the poolside.

Now show me, God.

12

Before going up to the bungalow to wait for the telephone call I had talked with Herbert Kostasch and the Wilson Brothers on the patio of the main house. Kostp^ch was my German producer. George and Jerome Wilson, twins and bachelors, were the source of our money.

They were sitting side by side, in swimtrunks, on a swinging settee, in their mid-forties, short, tough, each with a wide face, sly eyes, leathery skins. Their ears spread from their heads as those of bats do, with the round, black eyes and heavy lids of those flying mammals.

During the war they had invested their money in a company which built bombers. Several of those had crashed—not by enemy action. There was a scandal. Talk of faulty materials and fraud involving millions. Finally, a special committee of Congress verified that the Wilson Brothers were men of honor. They retired from the war business a few millions richer. Shortly after that they owned one of the largest slot machine businesses. Now they were financing movies.

In their swimtrunks they looked even smaller than usual. George forever giggling, apparently completely uninterested in business, stared at Shirley with delight ev-

ery time she went down to the pool in her high-heeled sandals or to the house, her auburn ponytail over one shoulder. "Damn it all, Mr. Jordan, damn it all! Should I ever call you and a cop answers and says your wife shot you I'll know what happened, hahaha!"

"Hahaha."

"George!"

"Yes, Jerome?"

"I asked you if that's agreeable to you."

"I'll agree to anything if it's agreeable to you."

George simply refused to bother with business. His hobby was beautiful women. He was rich; their availability had been no problem for him despite his dwarfish stature.

Brother Jerome on the other hand loved to wheel and deal. He had found the ideal partner in Herbert Kostasch. Though both were usually shouting at each other their mutual esteem was high. Jerome was yelling, "Anyone would believe you already had the Cosmos million in your pocket, Kostasch!"

"I have, too."

"I thought Jordan was still waiting for a telephone caU."

"That's pure formality. My old friend Horwein and I were agreed from the very beginning."

This was a bluff. I felt sick when I thought of the conversation I had with Kostasch after he had arrived in Los Angeles. It went hke this.

"Everything went splendidly in Frankfurt, dear friend. Horwein is delighted with the script!" Horwein was the chief of Cosmo-EHstributors.

"Then he signed?"

"No, not yet. Terrible heat you have here."

"He didn't sign the contract?"

"No, I just told you. He has to talk to his people about it again. He'll call tomorrow at twelve, your time here."

"But we'U have to talk to the Wilsons before that!"

"Do the Wilsons have to know everything?"

"What if he calls and says no?"

"He won't, you can rely on that. Money sticks to me and he knows it."

"And if he says no, then what?"

"You'll talk to him in any case. Should something go wrong you tell me—not the Wilsons, just as likely they'll have second thoughts."

"But—"

"Good God! By tomorrow night I have the twins ready to give us two and a half million! Then Horwein can kiss our ass. Then we can get any distributor in Germany! All I need now is time. Why are you looking at me? Don't you know how a film is financed?"

No. I had been too young to understand the subtleties of our industry when I had made my movies. There was Kostasch now talking to the Wilson Brothers about this old friend Horwein. I am sure he also told Horwein of his old friends, the Wilson Brothers.

Kostasch was fifty-four years old, came from Hamburg and had once been a German middleweight boxing champion. His nose had been broken and flattened, he looked brutal but was good-hearted. He was not afraid—^never, of anything or anybody. He had suddenly appeared here the end of April. "You don't have to tell me, Mr. Jordan. You are finished. I know all that. Not even a dog will take a biscuit from you. But now comes Herbert Kostasch." He liked to talk about himself in the third person. "I have a story just written for you. Now, what do you say? After twenty years Kostasch is going to make a movie with you!"

As far as the German film industry was concerned Kostasch's reputation was legendary. Naturally I had made a few inquiries about him. In April of 1945 Kostasch had been a corporal in the German Wehrmacht, defending Berlin against Stalin's Red Army—a hopeless venture. Kostasch knew. In a lull of the fighting he and others, civilians and soldiers, were hurrying along Fried-

richstrasse past a bombed branch of the Deutsche Bank. The vaults had been destroyed and milhons of Reichs-mark bills were lying among the rubble. In deathly fear, in expectation of the next Soviet offensive people hurrying by ho one picked up a single bill. "Leave that junk!" a man yelled. "Next week it won't be worth the paper it's printed on!"

Corporal Kostasch did not share the man's opinion. He found two suitcases, a knapsack, filled them with bills and hid them with care. He found an empty apartment, clothes that fitted him, and finished the war in his own way.

The Reichsmark retained its value—for another three years. With his treasure Kostasch bought cameras, films, an entire studio. Now he was a producer. During the so-called 're-education' period he produced comedies and operettas. He had just finished three movies, financed with Reichsmarks, when the monetary reform came. He delayed their release for a time and then showed them when people began paying for their tickets with Deutsche marks.

Now Kostasch was rich. He became ambitious, produced pretentious movies in foreign countries with foreign actors, in co-productions which brought him honors, sometimes even money. He moved to Hamburg, over-committed himself and was almost ruined. Banks helped him. Each time he took on too much; someone always helped him through a crisis. Invariably he landed on his feet—mostly through projects whose mere mention would scare other producers.

"Brainstorms," Kostasch called his sudden inspirations. He would track these down with an animal-like tenacity until writers, actors, financiers and distributors were brought together and another one of his extraordinary films was ready for shooting.

I, too, had been a "brainstorm." Kostasch had formed a new company, Jorkos Productions, Inc. and had regis-

tered in the principality of Liechtenstein for tax reasons. "The internal revenue is going to take the shirt off my back. Or do you, by any chance, want to finance the new Army? So there."

Kostasch and I were equal partners; we shared profits and risks. The movie was to be made in Germany since it was cheaper to produce there. The film's estimated cost was four million Deutsche marks or one million dollars.

The Wilson Brothers were to invest two and a half million Deutsche marks provided the German Cosmos-Distributors was to invest one million two hundred thousand Deutsche marks, which Kostasch, carefree, insisted they must. That would be decided at twelve o'clock through a phone call from Frankfurt. Once they had agreed, they would issue a guarantee for that amount. For the guarantee we could get cash from German banks. Kostasch and I had to raise the remaining three hundred thousand. For me it was thirty-eight thousand dollars. I had just about that much left, I could risk that—it was my last chance to obtain a divorce, to begin a new career, a life with Shirley...

"Now look here, Kostasch, you are only going to receive money from us on the condition that you start shooting at the latest on the tenth of November and deliver to us an English copy no later than the twentieth of March."

"Okay. Okay. Don't get excited, Jerome, my boy, you'll have your copy on the first of March. Herbert Kostasch promises!"

"We'll sue you if you ..."

Jerome was puffing a cigar, by far too large for him. "We have obligations too." Kostasch was grinning. "Why are you grinning?"

"I can imagine what those obligations are. Obligations to avoid paying the Internal Revenue! Right?" Jerome laughed. They smiled at each other. Sharks in love. Then, shouting, they argued about percentages. Swinging back

and forth in the sky-blue settee little George's eyes seemed to pop from his head. Shriley at the pool was pushing her auburn ponytail under a swimcap, stretched her body and dived into the water.

"Now, George, goddam, listen!"

"I completely agree . . ." George smiled apologetically. His eyes had become moist. Almost immediately he again stared at Shirley, who had turned over on her back. Thighs and breasts, her arms, the face was glistening tan and wet in the bright sunlight. I was staring at her too. I had been longing for her for the last fourteen days, fourteen nights. I forced myself to listen to Jerome. This was important, deciding my future, everything.

"Here in paragraph fourteen it says, 'In the event that the movie Come Back cannot be produced all obligations of the Wilson Brothers will automatically cease, etc., etc' That, of course, is completely wrong. It should read: 'Should the movie Come Back not be produced within the time limit specified, etc., etc' If you want to cheat us you'll have to get up eariier, Kostasch!"

I looked at my watch. Eleven-fifteen. Kostasch would have had a splendid career right here in Hollywood. I had never seen such coldness, self-control and effrontery. "This is the international formulation. If you don't like that, Mr. Wilson—with the 1.2 million German guarantee I can have a half dozen other partners by tonight!"

And we did not even have that guarantee! Supposing Horwein were to say "No" at twelve o'clock ...

They were drinking orange juice. I filled their glasses again. George giggled, "Guess you'd rather have a drink of whisky, eh, Jordan?"

"Whisky?" I looked at him, devoid of understanding. After all, I was an actor. Lack of comprehension was easy to feign.

"Well, you used to drink quite a bit."

"That's all finished. Has been for a long time. You can ask anybody. Never touch it." My hand was shaking and

I spilled a little juice. Kostasch saw it, grinned as if to say, keep your cool, boy. I lived like this for fifteen years.

*'If the paragraph is altered I demand a larger share."

"Why?"

"My risk increases."

"That's what insurances are for."

Thirty-five minutes to twelve.

Shirley got out of the pool, stretched and shook herself. George seemed to lick his lips. I tried to drink some juice and nearly gagged. I needed something different. I didn't have Kostasch's strong nerves. Another thirty-five minutes. Supposing Horwein said "No" . . .

"What's the matter, Jordan?"

"I'm ... I think I'll go up to the bungalow."

Kostasch looked at me, irritated. He did not like me to show how nervous I was. "Already?"

"Perhaps the call will come through earlier."

Kostasch shrugged his shoulders, Jerome grinned, as if he had won a victory, and George continued to stare with ecstatic eyes at Shirley by the pool.

As I stepped from the shade of the palm trees to the terrace the glare of the sun hurt my eyes. I walked alongside the main house which had been built in the Spanish style. It was huge. Now it seemed old-fashioned, almost ridiculous, reminiscent of Valentino, Buster Keaton and Garbo . . . yes, and me, the famous, much adored child star, Peter Jordan. A lost, dead world of illusion.

My mother had bought this house in 1935 because it seemed to her the epitome of beauty and refinement. I was still living in this ghostly castle a quarter of a century later, as though time and life had stood still for me since I had reached thirteen.

I had to have a drink. Quickly.

I climbed the steep path to the bungalow, ran the last few yards. It was cool in the living room. I kneeled before the bookshelf. With a pocketknife I lifted out one of the thick floor boards. In the hollow space beneath it was a

bottle of whisky. There were many bottles hidden around the bungalow; well hidden, no one had ever found a single one. I would drive thirty miles before I would throw the empties into the ocean.

With a soda from the refrigerator I fixed myself a large drink, drank it hurriedly, fixed another, drank it more slowly.

Never touch it.

Another thirty minutes . . .

I just could not take it without having a drink. I felt better. The whisky helped, it always helped. Many times I felt that whisky was my only friend, my only rehable friend.

I hid the bottle again, gargled, splashed my face with Eau de Cologne. I did this frequently because I drank frequently. During the last few months I had been drinking steadily. How else could I have stood the situation which I had created? I had been very careful, very clever.

The blessed tranquility which alcohol always gave me held me again. I stepped to the large window and looked at Shirley. She seemed to be disagreeing with her mother who wanted her to do something she was refusing. She shook her head and threw back her hair. Finally she rose, shrugging her shoulders. Then my heart began to beat wildly, she was coming up to me, up the steep path, closer and closer. Minutes later our lips were pressed together, we fell on the couch, wild with desire.