Douglas Kennedy - Five Days

‘Well, hello there! Didn’t know you liked westerns.’

It was the insurance man from the hotel. The insurance man from Maine. It was Richard Copeland.

Before I could reply — not that I knew how I should reply to this greeting — the cinema went dark and the screen burst into technicolor life. I spent the next two hours watching John Wayne riding across the empty spaces of the American West, struggling with his demons as he tried to find his way back to a place he might just call home.

I RARELY CRY in the movies. But there I was, sobbing over a western I’d never seen before. It centered around a man who carries so many griefs and furies with him — such anger at the world — that he spends years trying to track down his young niece who was kidnapped by the Apaches when she was just a girl. When he finally discovers her as a young woman — and now one of the wives of the chieftain who had slaughtered her family — his initial instinct is to kill her. Until a profound sense of personal connection kicks in and he saves her, returning her to her remaining relatives. As they welcome her back with open arms, the man who has endured so much while searching for her watches as she disappears inside their home. Then, as the door closes behind her, he turns and heads off into the vast nowhere of the American West.

It was in this final scene of the film that I found myself crying — and being surprised by the fact that I was crying. Was the reason due to the fact that, like the John Wayne character in the movie, I so wanted to go home? But was that ‘home’ I so longed for just an idealized construct, with no bearing on reality? Do we all long for homes that have no bearing on those we have built for ourselves?

All these thoughts came cascading out in the last minute or so of the film — along with the tears that once more arrived out of nowhere and made me so uncomfortable.

The lights were now coming up — and I was racing around my handbag for a Kleenex, trying to dry my eyes in case that man decided to engage me in further chat. I really was hoping he’d do the easier thing, maybe nod to me goodnight, then be on his way.

I dabbed my eyes. I stood up, along with the other ten or so people who were seated in the downstairs part of the cinema, and deliberately walked the other way out of the theater to avoid running into Richard Copeland. But when I reached the exit door and turned back I saw that he was still in his seat, lost in some sort of reverie. Immediately I felt a little ashamed about wanting to get away from a man who was simply trying to be nice to me in the few moments we’d spoken together, and who had been as touched by the film as I’d been. So, without thinking too much about what I was doing, I lingered for a moment or so in the lobby until he came out. Up close I could see that his eyes were red from crying. Just as he was registering the fact that mine were red too.

‘Quite a film,’ I said.

‘I never cry in movies,’ he said.

‘Nor do I.’

‘Evidently.’

I laughed. An awkward pause followed, as neither of us knew what to say next. He broke the silence.

‘You get talking with a guy standing in line for the hotel reception, next thing you know he’s at the same movie theater as you.’

‘Quite a coincidence.’

‘I’d just had dinner with a client of mine who runs a machine tool company in Brockton. Not a particularly interesting town — in fact, it’s the wrong side of grim — and not the most interesting guy in the world either. Still, he’s been a loyal client for eleven years — and we knew each other back in high school in Bath. And I’ve no darn idea why I’m telling you this, bending your ear. But would a glass of wine interest you now?’

I hesitated — as I was somewhat thrown by the invite, even if I was not displeased by it either.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said in the wake of my silence. ‘I completely understand if. ’

‘Is there somewhere nice around here? Because the hotel bar. ’

‘Agreed, agreed. It’s pretty damn awful. I think there’s a place next door.’

Again I hesitated — and simultaneously glanced at my watch.

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘if it’s far too late. ’

‘Well, it is just after ten o’clock. But it’s not a school night, right?’

‘Right.’

‘OK — let’s go next door, Richard.’

‘You remembered my name.’

‘You did give me your card, Mr Copeland.’

‘I hope that wasn’t too forward of me.’

‘I just thought you might be trying to sell me some insurance.’

‘Not tonight, Laura.’

I smiled. He smiled back.

‘So you remembered my name,’ I said.

‘And without a calling card as well. Then again, salesmen always remember names.’

‘Is that what you consider yourself, a salesman?’

‘Yes, unfortunately.’

‘I had a grandfather who ran a hardware shop in Waterville — and he never stopped telling me that everybody’s always selling something. At least you sell something of value to people.’

‘You are being too kind,’ he said. ‘And I’m probably now keeping you from something.’

‘But I just said I was happy to have a glass of wine with you.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘I won’t be if you ask me that question again.’

‘Sorry, sorry. A bad habit of mine.’

‘We all have bad habits,’ I said as we walked out of the cinema and into the street.

‘Are you always so kind?’ he asked.

‘I wasn’t kind to you this afternoon.’

‘Oh, that. I really didn’t think. ’

‘I was bitchy. I’m sorry I was bitchy. And if you tell me I wasn’t bitchy—’

‘OK, you were bitchy. Totally bitchy.’

He said this with a small, somewhat mischievous smile crossing his lips. I smiled back.

‘Good!’ I said. ‘Now that we’ve gotten all that out of the way. ’

The cafй into which he steered us was called Casablanca and had been done up to very much resemble the joint that Humphrey Bogart managed in the film. The bartenders all wore white tuxedo jackets, the waiters gendarme uniforms.

‘You think we’ll run into Peter Lorre tonight?’ I asked Richard.

‘Well, as he got shot in the third reel. ’

‘You know your movies.’

‘Not really — though, like everyone, I do love Casablanca.’

The maitre d’ asked us if we were here to eat, drink or enquire about letters of transit out of Casablanca.

‘Drinks only,’ Richard said.

‘Very good, monsieur,’ the waiter said in what could only be described as a Peter Sellers French accent. As soon as we were installed in a booth Richard rolled his eyes and said:

‘Sorry. If I’d known this place was a theme bar. ’

‘There are worse themes than Casablanca. At least you didn’t bring me to a Hooters.’

‘Not exactly my style.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘But if you’d rather go elsewhere. ’

‘And miss the charms of Morocco in Cambridge?’

‘I’ve never been to North Africa. In fact, never outside of the US or Canada.’

‘Me neither. And the thing is, I always told myself, when I was much younger, that I was going to travel, going to spend an important part of my life on the road.’

‘I told myself that too.’

‘Looking around here. it’s funny, but I remember when I was around fourteen and going through the usual adolescent nonsense — and having a really bad time of it with my mother — I announced to her one day: “I’m joining the French Foreign Legion,” because I’d seen some old Laurel and Hardy movie on TV where they ended up in the Foreign Legion. ’

‘Sons of the Desert.’

‘And you say you know nothing about movies.’