Rafael Yglesias - Hot Properties

“Mom didn’t run away,” Tony complained.

“That’s exactly what she did. She’s converted it in her mind to political heroism, and I suppose you had no reason, being so young, to know differently. She not only wasn’t called by the Un-American Activities Committee — why should she be? she wasn’t a party member — she wasn’t even blacklisted.”

“That’s bullshit,” Tony said angrily.

“It’s a matter of fact,” Richard said. “Check with the people who really did lose their jobs. She was a baby in the forties and early fifties — we didn’t move here until fifty-one. She knew a lot of communists, but she wasn’t one. She had a nervous breakdown, Tony.” He stared at his son for a moment. “After being fired off Felson’s picture, she collapsed. She claimed it was because of the blacklist, because she had supported the Hollywood Ten. Supported!” He laughed. “She met them at the train station and had Dalton Trumbo over for dinner— once.”

“She never claimed she was involved before the hearings. Simply that she helped—”

“Come on, Tony! She pretends to be the Joan of Arc of the McCarthy period.” He leaned forward. “She couldn’t handle failure. Rejection. Unlike most actresses, she had no struggle in her career until she came to Hollywood. She was the bright young star of Broadway. She expected this town to lie at her feet. And it did for a while. But she’s a stage actress. The magnification of the camera made her look like a ham. And she wouldn’t adjust — she believed she was infallible, that the directors were fools. She got a reputation for being a prima donna and she wasn’t a star. She forgot that ‘prima’ precedes ‘donna.’ So she was fired. And then no one was knocking down her door.” He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “And she hated me because I had followed her out here as a nothing and I became a network vice-president within a year and a half.” He opened his eyes and moved his head from side to side as though it were stiff. “I was just supposed to be the handsome, smiling husband — not the big success. Between her envy and her arrogance and her failure, she flipped out.”

This point of view was a collection of familiar facts arranged into an unrecognizable bouquet. Despite its newness, Tony wasn’t shocked. He knew his father had a reason to justify himself, but still he didn’t doubt him. He spoke painfully, abandoning years of restraint, which made his words plausible. Besides, he was a man who prided himself on accuracy. Tony knew that if he challenged his father’s story, proof, absolute proof, would be submitted. “But she did make it in the business,” was all that he could offer as refutation.

“Do you think her work on TV is first-rate?”

Tony lowered his head. He felt his mouth tremble.

Knowing the answer to the questions, Richard went on. “She’s not a genius, Tony. And I’m not a monster.”

“So what?” Tony looked up. “What the fuck has this got to do with me?”

Richard stood up and then paused as if he had forgotten where he meant to walk. “Garth rehired you after he and I had a long talk at a party. He couldn’t understand why you had refused to do the rewrite last time. He liked you. Admired your work. He thought he’d been supportive. Couldn’t understand why you walked away.” Richard had been speaking to his empty desk chair. He moved toward it now. “I’ve just told you why you walked away last time.” He sat down and covered his forehead with the heels of his palm, pressing. “I’ve got a splitting headache.” He released the pressure and finally looked at Tony, his voice hoarse: “You throw another temper tantrum now and you’ll never work in this town again. Maybe that doesn’t matter to you. Your mother they eventually forgave. But she’d had a breakdown and then worked in the theater for fifteen years. What’s your excuse?”

“My God,” Tony said, feeling outraged. “You talk about me like I’m a spoiled piece of shit! I’m one of the best young playwrights in the country—”

“No you’re not,” Richard said quietly. “Stop kidding yourself. New York is loaded with tiresome middle-aged people who had a few promising early years. If you’re not careful, you’ll be one of them soon.”

“You really don’t give a shit about me,” Tony blurted. “You talk cold … coldly about me. Like I’m an employee—”

“Yeah, sure, if I loved you I’d support your deluded image of yourself. Academy Award-winning screenwriters don’t walk off projects! Tom Stoppard wouldn’t walk off! Nobody!” Richard shouted, his face reddening. “Even if you had achieved what you think in your head you have, even then!” He quieted, grabbing his head in one hand and furiously massaging each temple. “I feel it’s my fault — leaving you with her.” He pointed out the window. “There is a real world out there, Tony, where curtains ring down on tragic lives. People don’t stand up at the end and wipe off ketchup. If you humble yourself, if you work hard for years —then perhaps, at the end of your life, you will be treated like a prince.” As though he caught a glance of himself in a mirror — enraged, his arm thrust out — Richard resumed a tranquil pose. “Being a great artist, Tony, means you answer all the crap the world dumps on you with your work— not with more crap.”

Tony felt frozen in place. His hurt had been chilled, the fire of his outrage doused. His father’s words sobered not merely his brain, but the world as well. “If you admired my plays, you wouldn’t say that. The truth is, you think I have to pay dues because my work isn’t great.”

Richard shook his head, not to contradict Tony, but sadly to himself — giving up on a hopeless case. “Even if I thought they were works of genius— especially if I thought they were — I’d want you to finish. If you’re as great as you think you are, then this script, and all the rewrites in the world, should be child’s play for you. I know you’re smarter than Bill Garth and Jim Foxx, I know you’re smarter than me. So what?”

“I don’t think I’m smarter—” Tony stammered.

“Yes you do! You think you’re smarter, handsomer, wittier, more talented. But that’s the point. You only think it. You haven’t proven it to anyone.”

“All right!” Tony pleaded. He put his hands up in surrender. He felt his mouth weaken, his eyes fill. “Stop. I’ll go back. I’ll finish the script. I’ll shut up. I’ll sleep in the fucking servants’ quarters. Just shut the fuck up.”

Richard slumped into his chair, his hands holding his head, as though he were keeping two broken pieces in place until the glue hardened. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“I’ve gotta get back to my boss.” Tony said. And he walked back into the sun, the Hollywood sun — glaring pallidly over the studio lots, as though weary of its ceaseless duty.

The police, the press, David’s family, and his friends all assumed that David must have heard the news on television — the startling flash that Chico had tried unsuccessfully to break to him by phone on the night he killed himself.

The old man wasn’t Gott. He was a former German soldier, unimportant and unwanted, who had hung about Neo-Nazi circles in Europe and South America. He might even have known Gott, certainly he had obtained genuine documents that he used to fool Newstime. From interrogations of a young man who had helped in the con, it came out that the plan was hatched not only to get money but also to create favorable publicity for the new Nazi movement by denying the charges outstanding against Mengele and Gott. These details hadn’t been broadcast on the night David hanged himself, but the shattering fact for a proud professional like David, the ghastly irony that everybody assumed had overwhelmed him — that the victim had been a foolish deluded old man, that his killer would pay for a pointless crime, a crime which might have been prevented if Newstime had doubted the story more (Tamar Gurion had learned of the meeting because of careless gossip by the stringer) had come over the airwaves at roughly the time David slung his rope over the pipes and ended his life.