Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

She hadn’t perceived it at all, but she was dazed by her own luck in finding a phrase that had so captivated him.

He went on, smoking tranquilly: “Do you think I’d waste time if there were anything else I could do?”

“Well, then, Paul, you MUST find some work, the kind you can do and love to do—otherwise you’ll soon become a rather silly old man with nothing but a collection of memories and grievances. Paul, why couldn’t you take any kind of job—at first—if it gave you a chance to make films?”

“ANY kind of job?”

“Not absolutely any kind—I mean a decent job, of course, but maybe not one that gives you all the freedom you’ve been used to… a job where you could prove how good you are to those who don’t already know it… a compromise, Paul. You’ll have to make one if you ever want to get back. Couldn’t you take a job—say—in one of the smaller studios —and on a not so very important picture—if it were offered you?”

“Directing?”

“Yes, naturally—though perhaps not with full control of everything. Hollywood doesn’t do things that way.”

“Ah, Hollywood.”

“Well, where else is there? Apparently you can’t go back to Europe.”

“So you offer me a director’s job in Hollywood at a minor studio and on a B picture. Suppose I say I wouldn’t be interested?”

“Then I’d begin to lose all hope for you.”

“Suppose I said I WAS interested? How soon could I have the job?”

“I don’t know—I don’t know even if there is one. But if you say you’d take it, that’s the first step. Austen has influence—”

“Oh, Austen, Austen, AUSTEN. I wanted his money, and his answer was no. My answer’s the same now—to his influence. Damn his influence. No… NO… What sort of person do you think I am?”

“That’s what I’ve never been able to decide.”

She could see the answer amused him as he retorted: “Maybe YOU ought to write a book about it some day.”

“Except that I doubt if I could ever make the subject interesting enough.”

“Oho, so that’s how you feel? I bore you, eh?”

He never did and he never had, but she answered: “Yes, sometimes… and I’m in a hurry, I think I’d better be going.”

“You won’t even have coffee with me?”

“No, thanks. I really mustn’t stay as long as last time.”

“Next time I want you to have dinner with me.”

“No, I couldn’t do that.”

“Then when shall we meet again?”

“I can’t promise. But let me know how you are, and if you need anything… “

“So you find me a bore,” he repeated, not believing it at all (she could see), but turning over the idea in his mind as some abstract curiosity.

“I won’t argue, Paul.”

“You don’t even ADMIRE me any more?”

This was too much, so she began to smile. “I do admire you, in many ways. I might even admire your attitude towards Austen if I didn’t know it’s a mere gesture. You don’t REALLY feel like that about taking help from people —you haven’t that kind of pride—”

“False pride. Of course I haven’t. And look, Carey, gesture or not, I don’t want Austen putting in his little word for me anywhere. It’s not a matter of principle—much more important, it’s a whim. If you want me to do the kind of job you described—the compromise job—ask Michaelson to find me one. He’s been my agent for the past twenty years —time he did something.”

“All right,” she said, ignoring the further absurdity of that last remark. “I’ll go straight to Micky from here.” She was surprised that the idea hadn’t occurred to her earlier. “But I’ll have a cup of coffee with you first.”

Michaelson had been Paul’s agent too, in the old days before the European adventures. He was getting on in years now, and had taken on a junior whom he was grooming for partnership and to be his eventual successor. It was this comparative youngster whom Carey talked to when she called at the office on Forty-Second Street. He was very affable, assuming no doubt that she had come to announce herself in the market again for a good play; and this, being good business, was good news. But when she said she didn’t want a play, but would like to talk about Paul Saffron, he assumed the look of someone who, from then on, was prepared to listen merely from politeness.

“Do you know Paul Saffron well?” he asked, which she took to be convincing proof of how time could obliterate not only the memory of half a dozen successful plays but of gossip also, and even a breath of scandal.

The irony of it made her answer: “Fairly well. He’s one of your clients, anyway. Or didn’t you realize that?”

“Yes, Mr. Michaelson used to handle him—years ago—I guess that’s why he still considers himself attached to us. Otherwise I doubt whether…”

“I see.” She went on to explain what kind of job Paul wanted, how well qualified he was, and how high his reputation had been in Europe before the war. “Maybe you’ve seen his work. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to call him one of the world’s great picture directors.”

She began to dislike the youth for the way he deliberately poker-faced before answering. “You really think that, Miss Arundel?”

“Yes, I do.”

He poker-faced again. “You know, you actresses can sell a lot of things —face cream, lipstick, cigarettes, home permanents, God knows what. But there’s one thing you can’t sell, and that’s Paul Saffron.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s a Fascist.”

“WHAT?”

“He was mixed up with the Nazis during the war—did propaganda for them or something—”

“That’s not true! I know there’ve been all kinds of slanders about him—”

“All right, all right—so they’re slanders. Maybe. But people believe them. And he hasn’t enough friends who’ll SAY they’re slanders. You’re the first I’ve come across.”

They were still in the argument when Michaelson entered. He and Carey were old friends and greeted each other affectionately. He introduced her formally to the youth, mentioning the latter as “a bright lad… I hope he’s been telling you how glad we’ll be if you’re after another play.”

“I’m not, Micky. I came to talk about Paul—your bright lad didn’t know he was once my husband.”

The youth was not in the least discomfited. “I knew, Miss Arundel, but I thought I could be franker with you if I pretended I didn’t.”

He left the room, at a signal from Michaelson. She said, ruefully: “So I guess he IS a bright lad.”

“Sure… Now what is it about Paul?”

She went through the whole thing again, but to a kindlier audience. At the end he said: “Well, Carey, what Joe told you wasn’t far off the mark. It’s going to be pretty hard to sell Paul anywhere.”

“Because of the lies that are going around?”

“Partly that. And also because Hollywood has ‘em all listed either hot or cold, and Paul’s like ice—at the moment. Now if it were you, I could make a deal by picking up the phone. You don’t know how many enquiries I’ve had—I don’t even bother you about them, because I know how you feel. Look, I say to them, Miss Arundel isn’t interested in pictures, she’s married to a millionaire, you just haven’t an angle with her… But you’re hot, Carey. I think I could ask a hundred thousand for one picture and no quibbling.”

“Micky, let’s get back to Paul. He’ll go to pieces if he doesn’t find a job soon. They must know his pictures made money in Europe.”

“Most of them don’t know and none of them care.”

“I suppose they take more notice of the lies put out by enemies.”