William Boyd - The New Confessions

“Right.”

“What’s it got to do with me?”

“Keep reading.”

I went on down the list. Groucho Marx, Bertolt Brecht, Frank Sinatra, John James Todd …

“What the hell is this?” I looked at the list’s heading: “Joe Stalin’s Hollywood Buddies.” The magazine was cheap — bad color reproduction, poor-quality paper. I scrutinized the contents. There seem to be a lot of exclamation marks.

“What does this mean?”

“You’ve been listed.”

“I can see that, for Christ’s sake, but so what?”

“Did you sign that petition, any petition, for the Hollywood Ten?”

“No. I mean I would have if I’d been asked. But I wasn’t. I wasn’t here at the time. I was in New York meeting Karl-Heinz.”

“Thank Christ he’s not on it.”

“Why should he be? Why should I be?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

“I haven’t the faintest.”

“Must be some mistake, then.” He smiled. He was the old Eddie again, relaxed and in control of his destiny.

“I don’t know why, John, but this Red shit has really got me spooked. Those bastards — McCarthy, Parnell Thomas — they’ve really started something. Now everyone gets to hunt Reds.” He gestured at the magazine. “And now this garbage.” He sighed. “Why do we do this to ourselves?”

I liked the “we”—good old Aram Lodokian.

“I can see why you’re worried,” I said, guilelessly. “I mean, God, you were even born in Russia.”

He gripped my arm fiercely. “Never, never say that to anyone, John, ever again.”

“Christ! All right. Let go.… Don’t worry, Eddie. Jesus.…”

He relaxed again. I had never seen him like this. I watched him eat his hamburger. Like everyone else in Los Angeles I had heard of the Hollywood Ten, the Senate Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations and the House Committee on Un-American Activities. It reminded me a little of Berlin in the twenties. I had paid it little heed; I was busy with Father of Liberty .

I drove home, somewhat perturbed. Eddie had told me that Red Connections was published by an organization called Alert Inc., which gave a mailing address on Sunset Boulevard. As I pulled up near my house I saw two men in dark suits standing on the sidewalk opposite. As I approached, one of them — who for some reason seemed vaguely familiar — jumped into a car and drove off. The other man stood his ground.

“Can I help you?”

“Are you John James Todd?”

Why did I hear the voice of Ian Orr? I wish I had had the presence of mind to say, “Who wants to know?” but I managed only a docile admission. He handed me a manila envelope and walked away.

I waited until I was inside before I opened it. I poured myself a beer from the fridge and switched on the air conditioning. I killed two flies in the kitchen. Then I turned to my envelope. There was something immediately unpleasant about the sheet of pink paper it contained. Something ironic about it too: that the House Committee on Un-American Activities should issue its subpoenas on paper of such a politically suspect shade. I, John James Todd, was to present myself before the Brayfield Subcommittee of HUAC (we’ll call it HUAC; everyone else did) at Room 1121 of the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, where I would be questioned in “executive session.”

I phoned Eddie.

“ Oh no! Oh no, Jesus fuck no!” He went on in this vein for a while. “When is it?”

“Next week.”

“Sweet suffering Christ. Have you got a lawyer?”

“No.”

“I’ll get you one. There’s a young guy works for us — very sharp. Don’t worry, John, I’m sure it’s just some terrible mistake. But listen, you’d better stay home for a while. Work from home.”

“All right. But we were going to start casting.”

“Let’s get this hearing out of the way.”

I went along with what he said. I spoke confidentially with a few people, who reassured me. All HUAC activities, they said, were in theory suspended pending the appeal of the Hollywood Ten. No one could understand why this subcommittee had been instigated. Even my lawyer, Page Farrier, was mystified.

Farrier was a junior partner in a firm that did a lot of business with Lone Star. He was a young man, in his late twenties, and his looks inspired confidence. He was big, over six feet, with a strong bulging jaw and thick curly hair that he forced into a parting. He wore bow ties, something I approve of in professional men: it hints at human qualities — vanity, self-esteem — behind the impassive expertise. But, after talking to him for half an hour, I found him less reassuring. He was soft-voiced and diffident, with mobile eyes that met your gaze only for split seconds. He gave me one of the worst pieces of advice I’ve ever received.

“I think you should take the Fifth.”

“The fifth what?”

“The Fifth Amendment to the American Constitution.”

“What’s that?”

“It means that you can’t be asked to bear witness against yourself. If you’re asked a question that might incriminate you, you can refuse to answer it — on the grounds of the Fifth Amendment.”

“But I haven’t done anything.”

“I would take it just in case, Mr. Todd, It’s safer than taking the First; you get cited for contempt of Congress. That could mean jail.”

“Jesus.… Right. But when do I take it?”

“Whenever it seems like something you’ll say will incriminate you.”

“Fine. You’ll tip me the wink if it looks like a tricky question.”

“Ah … I won’t be there, I’m sorry to say.”

“But you’re my bloody lawyer!”

Page colored. He took a pen out of his jacket pocket and replaced it carefully.

“Mr. Todd, may I be frank with you?”

“Please.”

“Ordinarily, I’d really prefer not to be associated with your case. I’m only a junior partner. But because of the Lone Star connection I’ve been told — been assigned to it.” He gave me a weak smile. “I’m sorry. We don’t even have your name on a file in the office.” I seemed to feel a sort of transparency invade my body, as if I were halfway to disappearing. I was around, here , but fewer and fewer people were acknowledging my presence. Page cleared his throat and touched the tips of his bow tie.

“May I ask you a personal question, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Are you in point of fact a Communist? In the party?”

“I’ll take the Fifth.… No, of course not. I’m a film director.”

He beamed with relief. “God, that’s good news.” He lowered his voice. “I’m sort of a liberal-minded person but I don’t think my conscience could let me represent a real Communist. If my fiancée found out …” He swallowed. “Holy shit.”

“Your conscience can rest easy. Listen, do you want a drink?” We were in my house.

“No … no sir, thank you. I’ve got to run. Is there a back way out of here?”

Three days later I walked along the corridor of the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel towards Room 1121. I knocked. It was opened by the man who had served the subpoena on me. I was shown in.

Room 1121 was a suite. The sitting room had been cleared and a long desk set up at one end with three chairs behind it. Another solitary chair was set opposite some six feet away in the middle of the room. Another man, in a pale-blue suit, was standing by the window smoking a cigarette. He came out and shook my hand.

“Mr. Todd? I’m an investigator for the committee. Paul Seager. This is Investigator Bonty.”

Seager had a fat kind face with thin brown hair. Bonty — the man with the subpoena — was dark and sallow with a harelip scar like MacKanness, the bantam who’d threatened to kill me.