Mario Puzo - Fools die

“I’m glad you called,” she said. “I’ve missed you. And don’t be mad about Osano. I won’t see him again.”

“Why not?” I said. “Why shouldn’t you?”

“Oh, shit,” she said. “He was fun, but he couldn’t keep it up. Oh, shit, I promised myself I wouldn’t tell you that.” She laughed.

Now, being a normal jealous lover, I was delighted to hear that my dearest friend was partially impotent. But I just said carelessly, “Maybe it was you. He’s had a lot of devoted females in New York.”

Her voice was gay and bright. “God,” she said, “I worked hard enough. I could have brought a corpse back to life.” She laughed cheerfully.

So now, as she meant me to, I had a vision of her ministering to an invalid Osano, kissing and sucking at his body, her blond hair flying. I felt very sick.

I sighed. “You hit too hard,” I said. “I quit. Listen, I want to thank you again for taking care of me. I can’t believe you got me in that tub.”

“That’s my gym class,” Janelle said. “I’m very strong, you know.” Then her voice changed. “I’m awfully sorry about Artie. I wish I could have gone back with you and taken care of you.”

“Me too,” I said. But the truth was that I was glad that she couldn’t. And I was ashamed that she had seen me break down. I felt in a curious way that she could never feel the same way about me again.

Her voice came very quietly over the phone. “I love you,” she said.

I didn’t answer.

“Do you still love me?” she said.

Now it was my turn. “You know I’m not allowed to say things like that.”

She didn’t answer.

“You’re the one that told me that a married man should never tell a girl he loves her unless he’s ready to leave his wife. In fact, he’s not allowed to tell her that unless he’s left his wife.”

Finally Janelle’s voice came over the phone. It was all choked with angered breaths.

“Fuck you,” she said, and I could hear the phone slamming down.

I would have called her back, but then she could let that phony French-accented voice answer. “Mademoiselle Lambert isn’t at home. Could you please leave your name?” So I thought, Fuck you, too. And I felt great. But I knew we weren’t through yet.

When Janelle told me about her screwing Osano, she couldn’t know how I felt. That I had seen Osano make a pass at every woman he met unless she was absolutely ugly. That she had fallen for his sweeping approach, that she had been so easy for him, made her seem less in my eyes. She had been a pushover, like so many women. And I felt that Osano felt some contempt for me. That I had been so madly in love with a girl he had been able to push over in just one evening.

So I wasn’t heartbroken, just depressed. An ego thing, I guess. I thought of telling Janelle all this, and then I saw that that would be just a cheap shot. To make her feel trampy. And then too I knew she would fight back. Why the hell shouldn’t she be a pushover? Weren’t men pushovers for girls who fucked everybody? Why should she take into account that Osano’s motives were not pure? He was charming, he was intelligent, he was talented, he was attractive and he wanted to fuck her. Why shouldn’t she fuck him? And where was it any of my business? My poor male ego had its nose out of joint, that’s all. Of course, I could tell her Osano’s secret, but that would be a cheap, irrelevant revenge.

Still, I was depressed. Fair or not, I liked her less.

On the next trip West, I didn’t call Janelle. We were in the final stages of complete alienation, which is classic in affairs of this kind. Again, as I always did in anything I was involved with, I had read the literature and I was a leading expert on the ebb and flow of the human love affair. We were in the stage of saying good-bye to each other but coming back together once in a while to ward off the blow of final separation. And so I didn’t call her because it was really all over, or I wanted it to be.

Meanwhile, Eddie Lancer and Doran Rudd had talked me into going back to the picture. It was a painful experience.

Simon Bellfort was just a tired old hack doing the best he could and scared shitless of Jeff Wagon. His assistant, “Slime City” Richetti, was really a gopher for Simon but tried to give us some of his own ideas on what should be in the script. Finally one day after a particular asshole idea I turned to Simon and Wagon and said, “Get that guy out of here.”

There was an awkward silence. I’d made up my mind. I was going to walk out and they must have sensed it, because finally Jeff Wagon said quietly, “Frank, why don’t you wait for Simon in my office?” Richetti left the room.

There was an awkward silence and I said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. But are we serious about this fucking script or not?”

“Right,” Wagon said. “Let’s get on with it.”

On the fourth day, after working at the studio, I decided to see a movie. I had the hotel call me a taxi and had the taxi drive me to Westwood. As usual, there was a long line waiting to get in and I took my place in it. I had brought a paperback book along with me to read while waiting in line. After the movie I planned to go to a restaurant nearby and call a taxi to take me back to the hotel.

The line was at a standstill, all young kids talking about movies in a knowledgeable way. The girls were pretty and the young men with their beards and long hair prettier in a Christ like way.

I sat down on the curb of the sidewalk to read and nobody paid any attention to me. Here in Hollywood this was not eccentric behavior. I was intent on my book when I became conscious of a car horn honking insistently and I looked up. There was a beautiful Phantom Rolls-Royce stopped in front of me, and I saw Janelle’s bright rosy face in the driver’s seat.

“Merlyn,” Janelle said, “Merlyn, what are you doing here?”

I got up casually and said, “Hi, Janelle.” I could see the guy in the Rolls-Royce passenger seat. He was young, handsome and beautifully dressed in a gray suit and gray silk tie. He had beautifully cut hair, and he didn’t seem to mind stopping so that Janelle could talk to me.

Janelle introduced us. She mentioned that he was the owner of the car. I admired the car and he said how much he admired my book and how eagerly he was waiting for the picture. Janelle said something about his working at a studio in some executive position. She wanted me to know that she wasn’t just going out with a rich guy in a Rolls-Royce, that he was part of the movie business.

Janelle said, “How did you get down here? Don’t tell me you’re finally driving.”

“No,” I said. “I took a taxi.”

Janelle said, “How come you’re waiting in line?”

I looked by her and said I didn’t have beautiful friends with me with their Academy cards to get in.

She knew I was kidding. Whenever we had to go to a movie, she would always use her Academy card to get ahead. “You wouldn’t use the card even if you had it,” he said.

She turned to her friend and said, “That’s the kind of dope he is.” But there was a little bit of pride in her voice. She really loved me for not doing things like that, even though she did.

I could see that Janelle was stricken, pitied me having to take a taxi to go to the movies alone, forced to wait in line like any peasant. She was building a romantic scenario. I was her desolate, broken husband, looking in through the window and seeing his former wife and happy children with a new husband. There were tears in her gold-flecked brown eyes.

I knew I had the upper hand. This handsome guy in the Rolls-Royce didn’t know that he was going to lose out. But then I got to work on him. I got him in a conversation about his work and he started chatting away. I pretended to be very interested and he went on and on with the usual Hollywood bullshit and I could see Janelle getting very nervous and irritated. She knew he was a dummy, but she didn’t want me to know he was a dummy. And then I started admiring his Rolls-Royce and the guy really became animated. In five minutes I knew more about a Rolls-Royce than I wanted to know. I kept admiring the car and then I used Doran’s old joke that Janelle knew and I repeated it word for word. First I made the guy tell me how much it cost and then I said, “For that kind of money this car should give head.” She hated that joke.