Джеймс Кейн - Career in C Major and Other Fiction

“You mean, that it’s nice, and silly, and cock-eyed, that I should be here with you, and that I should be an opera singer, when all God intended me for was a dumb contractor, and that it’s a big joke that came off just the way you hoped it would, and I never believed it would, and — something like that?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean.”

“Then yes.”

“Let’s dance.”

We danced, and I held her close, and smelled her hair, and she nestled it up against my face. “It’s gay, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I’m almost happy, Leonard.”

“Me too.”

“Let’s go back to our little booth. I want to be kissed.”

So we went back to the booth, and she got kissed, and we laughed about the way I had hid from Mario, and drank the wine, and ate steak. I had to cut the steak left-handed, so I wouldn’t joggle her head, where it seemed to be parked on my right shoulder.

We stayed a second week in Chicago, and I did my three operas over again, and then we played a week in the Music Hall in Cleveland, and then another week in Murat’s Theatre, Indianapolis. Then Cecil’s contract was up, and it was time for her to go back and get ready for the Metropolitan.

The Saturday matinee in Indianapolis was Faust. I met Cecil in the main dining room that morning, around ten o’clock, for breakfast, and while we were eating Rossi came over and sat down. He didn’t have much to say. He kept asking the waiter if any call had come for him, and bit his fingernails, and pretty soon it came out that the guy that was to sing Wagner that afternoon couldn’t come to the theatre, on account of unfortunately being in jail on a traffic charge, and that Rossi was waiting to find out if some singer in Chicago could come down and do it. His call came through, and when he came back he said his man was tied up. That meant somebody from the chorus would have to do it, and that wasn’t so good. And then Cecil popped out: “Well what are we talking about, with him sitting here. Here, baby. Here’s my key, there’s a score up in my room; you can just hike yourself up there and learn it.”

“ What? Learn it in one morning and then sing it?”

“There’s only a few pages of it. Now. Go.”

“Faust is in French, isn’t it?”

“Oh damn. He doesn’t sing French.”

But Rossi fixed that part up. He had a score in Italian, and I was to learn it in that and sing it in that, with the rest of them singing French. So the next thing I knew I was up there in my room with a score, and by one o’clock I had it learned, and by two o’clock Rossi had given me the business, and by three o’clock I was in a costume they dug up, out there doing it. That made more impression on them than anything I had done yet. You see, they don’t pay much attention to a guy that knows three roles, all coached up by heart. They know all about them. But a guy that can get a role up quick, and go out there and do it, even if he makes a few mistakes, that guy can really be some use around an opera company. Rossi came to my dressing room after I finished Traviata that night and offered me a contract for the rest of the season. He said Mr. Mario was very pleased with me, especially the way I had gone on in Wagner, and was willing to work with me so I could get up more leading roles and thought I would fit in all right with their plans. He offered me $150 a week, $25 more than I had been getting. I thanked him, thanked Mr. Mario for the interest he had taken in me, thanked all the others for a pleasant association with them, and said no. He came up to $175. I still said no. He came up to $200. I still said no and asked him not to bid any higher, as it wasn’t a question of money. He couldn’t figure it out, but after a while we shook hands and that was that.

That night she and I ate in a quiet little place we had found, and at midnight we were practically the only customers. After we ordered she said: “Did Rossi speak to you?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Did he offer $150? He said he would.”

“He came up to $200, as a matter of fact.”

“What did you say?”

“I said no.”

“... Why?”

“What the hell? I’m no singer. What would I be trailing around with this outfit for after you’re gone?”

“They play Baltimore, Philadelphia, Boston, and Pittsburgh before they swing West. I could visit you week-ends, maybe oftener than that. I... I might even make a flying trip out to the Coast.”

“I’m not the type.”

“Who is the type? Leonard, let me ask you something. Is it just because his $200 a week looks like chicken-feed to you? Is it because a big contractor makes a lot more than that?”

“Sometimes he does. Right now he doesn’t make a dime.”

“If that’s what it is, you’re making a mistake, no matter what a big contractor makes. Leonard, everything has come out the way I said it would, hasn’t it? Now listen to me. With that voice, you can make money that a big contractor never even heard of. After just one season with the American Scala Opera Company, the Metropolitan will grab you sure. It isn’t everybody that can sing with the American Scala. Their standards are terribly high, and very well the Metropolitan knows it, and they’ve raided plenty of Scala singers already. Once you’re in the Metropolitan, there’s the radio, the phonograph, concert, moving pictures. Leonard, you can be rich. You — you can’t help it.”

“Contracting’s my trade.”

“All this — doesn’t it mean anything to you?”

“Yeah, for a gag. But not what you mean.”

“And in addition to the money, there’s fame—”

“Don’t want it.”

She sat there, and I saw her eyes begin to look wet. “Oh, why don’t we both tell the truth? You want to get back to New York — for what’s waiting for you in New York. And I... I don’t want you ever to go there again.”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Yes it is. I’m doing just exactly the opposite of what I thought I was doing when we started all this. I thought I would be the good fairy, and bring you and her together again. And now, what am I doing? I’m trying to take you away from her. Something I’d hate any other woman for, and now — I might as well tell the truth. I’m just a — home-wrecker.”

She looked comic as she said it, and I laughed and she laughed. Then she started to cry. I hadn’t heard one word from Doris since I left New York. I had wired her every hotel I had stopped at, and you would think she might have sent me a postcard. There wasn’t even that. I sat there, watching Cecil, and trying to let her be a home-wrecker, as she called it. I knew she was swell, I respected everything about her, I didn’t have to be told she’d go through hell for me. I tried to feel I was in love with her, so I could say to hell with New York, let’s both stay with this outfit and let the rest go hang. I couldn’t. And then the next thing I knew I was crying too.

We hit New York Monday morning, but there was a freight wreck ahead of us, so we were late, and didn’t get into Grand Central until ten o’clock. She and I didn’t go up the ramp together. I had wired Doris, so I went on ahead, but a fat chance there would be anybody there, so when nobody showed I put Cecil in a cab. We acted like I was just putting her in a cab. I said I’d call her up, she said yes, please do, we waved goodbye, and that was all. I went back and sent the trunk down to the office, then got in a cab with my bag and went on up. On the way, I kept thinking what I was going to say. I had been away six weeks, and what had kept me that long? On the Rochester part, I had it down pat. There had been stuff in the papers about grade-crossing elimination up there, and I went up to see if we could bid on the concrete. But what was I doing in those other places? The best I could think of was that I had taken a swing around to look at “conditions,” whatever they were, and it sounded fishy, but I didn’t know anything else.