Prater Violet (11 page)

But what was I to say? To have tried to excuse Bergmann's outbursts to himself would merely have made things worse. I knew he was ashamed of them, five minutes later. I only avoided his rage by keeping very close to him. Though he took little notice of me, he needed my presence, as a lonely man needs his dog. There was nothing I could do to help, except to maintain our contact.

I was with him nearly every evening, until he was tired enough to go to bed and lie still. I don't think he slept much. I would have offered to spend the night on the couch in his living room, but I knew he would resent that. I couldn't treat him as an invalid.

One evening, while we were having supper in a restaurant, a man named Patterson came up to our table. He was a journalist, who did a movie gossip column for one of the daily papers, and spent most of his time hunting for news around the studios. He had visited our unit once or twice, to talk to Anita. He was a breezy, stupid, thick-skinned person, whose curiosity knew no inhibitions; in fact, he was very well suited to his job.

“Well, Mr. Bergmann,” he began heartily, with the fatal instinct of the very tactless, “what do you think of Austria?”

My heart sank. I tried, weakly, to interrupt and change the subject. But it was already too late. Bergmann stiffened. His eyes flashed. He thrust his head forward across the table, accusingly.

“What do
you
think of Austria, Mr. Patterson?”

The journalist was rather taken aback, as most of them are, when you ask them questions. “Well, as a matter of fact, I … It's terrible, of course.…”

Bergmann gathered himself together, and struck out at him like a snake. “I will tell you what you think. You think nothing. Nothing whatsoever.”

Patterson blinked. But he was too stupid to realize he had better drop the subject. “Of course,” he said, “I don't pretend to know much about politics, but…”

“This has nothing to do with politics. This has to do with plain human men and women. Not with actresses and indiscreet whores. Not with celluloid. Not with self-advertisement. With flesh and with blood. And you do not think about it. You do not care one damn.”

Even now, Patterson wasn't really rattled. “After all, Mr. Bergmann,” he said defensively, with his silly, teasing, insensitive smile, “you must remember, it isn't our affair. I mean, you can't really expect people in England to care…”

Bergmann's fist hit the table, so that the knives and forks rang. He turned scarlet in the face. He shouted, “I expect everybody to care! Everybody who is not a coward, a moron, a piece of dirt! I expect this whole damned island to care! I will tell you something: if they do not care, they will be made to care. The whole lot of you. You will be bombed and slaughtered and conquered. And do you know what I shall do? I shall sit by and smoke my cigar and laugh. And I shall say, ‘Yes, it's terrible; and I do not give a damn. Not
one
damn.'”

Patterson, at last, was looking a bit scared.

“Don't get me wrong, Mr. Bergmann,” he said, hastily. “I quite agree with you. I'm on your side entirely. Oh, yes … We don't think enough of the other fellow, and that's a fact.… Well, I must be toddling along. Glad to have seen you. We must have a talk, some day.… Good night.”

We were alone. Bergmann was still fuming. He breathed hard, watching me out of the corner of his eye. I knew that he was waiting for me to make some comment.

And I couldn't. That night, as never before, I felt emotionally exhausted. Bergmann's intense, perpetual demand had drained me, it seemed, of the last drop of response. I no longer knew what I felt—only what I was supposed to feel. My only emotion, as always in such moments, was a weak resentment against both sides; against Bergmann, against Patterson, and against myself. “Why can't they leave me alone?” I resentfully exclaimed. But the “I” that thought this was both Patterson and Bergmann, Englishman and Austrian, islander and continental. It was divided, and hated its division.

Perhaps I had traveled too much, left my heart in too many places. I knew what I was supposed to feel, what it was fashionable for my generation to feel. We cared about everything: fascism in Germany and Italy, the seizure of Manchuria, Indian nationalism, the Irish question, the workers, the Negroes, the Jews. We had spread our feelings over the whole world; and I knew that mine were spread very thin. I cared—oh, yes, I certainly cared—about the Austrian socialists. But did I care as much as I said I did, tried to imagine I did? No, not nearly as much. I felt angry with Patterson; but he, at least, was honest. What is the use of caring at all, if you aren't prepared to dedicate your life, to die? Well, perhaps it was some use. Very, very little.

Bergmann must have known what I was thinking. After a long silence, he said, kindly and gently, “You are tired, my child. Go to bed.”

We parted at the restaurant door. I watched him walking away down the street, his head sunk in thought, until he was lost among the crowd.

I had failed him; I knew it. But I could do no more. It was beyond my strength.

That night, I think, he explored the uttermost depths of his loneliness.

*   *   *

NEXT MORNING, Ashmeade came onto the set. I wondered why. He seemed to have no special mission. He nodded to Bergmann, but didn't engage him in conversation. For some time, he stood watching, with a faint, secret smile on his lips.

Presently, Bergmann walked off into a corner, to speak to Dorothy. This must have been what Ashmeade was waiting for. He turned to me.

“Oh, Isherwood, can you spare me a minute of your valuable time?”

We strolled away together, toward the other end of the stage.

“You know,” Ashmeade told me, in his soft, flattering voice, “Chatsworth's very grateful to you. In fact, we all are.”

“Oh, really?” I was cautious, somehow suspecting this opening.

“We quite realize,” Ashmeade chose each word, smiling, as if it tasted nice, “that you're in rather a difficult position. I think you've shown a great deal of tact and patience. We appreciate that.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand,” I said. I knew exactly what he was driving at now. And he knew that I knew. He was enjoying this little game.

“Well, I'm going to be frank with you. This is between ourselves, of course.… Chatsworth's getting worried. He simply can't understand Bergmann's attitude.”

“How dreadful!” My tone was thoroughly nasty. Ashmeade gave me one of his poker-face looks.

“Everybody's complaining about him,” he continued, his voice becoming confidential. “Anita talked to us yesterday. She wants to be released from the picture. We wouldn't agree to it, of course. But you can't blame her. After all, she's a big star. Bergmann treats her like a bit player.… It isn't only Anita, either. Harris feels the same way. So does Watts. They're prepared to put up with a good deal of temperament from a director. But there's a limit.”

I said nothing. I hated having to agree with Ashmeade.

“You two are still great friends, aren't you?” It sounded like a playful accusation.

“Better than ever,” I told him, defiantly.

“Well, can't you give us some idea of what's the matter with him? Isn't he happy here? What's he got against us?”

“Nothing … It's hard to explain.… You know he's been worried about his family.…”

“Oh, yes, this business in Austria … But that's all over now, isn't it?”

“On the contrary. It's probably just beginning.”

“But I mean, the fighting has stopped. And his family's safe. What more does he want?”

“Look here, Ashmeade,” I said. “It's no use our talking about this. You couldn't possibly understand.… You want the picture finished. I see that. Just be patient, a little. He'll come round.”

“I hope you're right,” Ashmeade gave me a playfully wry smile. “It's costing the studio a lot of money.”

“He'll come round,” I repeated, confidently. “You'll see. I'm sure it's going to be all right.”

But I wasn't sure. I wasn't even hopeful. And Ashmeade knew it.

*   *   *

I DON'T KNOW exactly how the whole thing started. Two days later, I overheard Joyce saying something to Clark about Eddie Kennedy. It would have made no impression on me if they hadn't stopped talking and looked guilty and slightly gleeful as I came up.

Several times that morning, I heard Kennedy's name. Fred Murray said it. Roger was mentioning it in a conversation with Timmy. Prince Rudolf was murmuring it to Count Rosanoff, as they waited to rehearse a scene. They glanced toward Bergmann, and their faces betrayed a discreet satisfaction.

Then, while we were in the sound booth together, Roger said to me, “I suppose you've heard? Eddie Kennedy looked at our rushes this morning.”

For the moment, I didn't understand what he meant.

“That's funny,” I said. “I was in the projection room myself. I didn't see him.”

Roger smiled. “Of course you didn't. He saw them later. After you and Bergmann had gone.”

“I wonder why?”

Roger gave me a glance, as though he thought I might be acting innocent. “There's only one explanation, Chris. Figure it out for yourself.”

“You mean—they're going to put him on this picture?”

“I don't see what else it can mean.”

“Gosh…”

“Do you think Bergmann knows?” Roger asked.

I shook my head. “He'd have told me.”

“For Christ's sake, Chris, don't tell him I told you this.”

“Do you suppose I want to talk about it?”

“I'm sorry for Bergmann,” said Roger, thoughtfully. “He's had bad luck here. I don't care if he does sound off sometimes. He's a decent old bird.… I wish this didn't have to happen. Besides, Eddie could no more direct this picture than a drunken cow.”

My one cowardly idea was: Bergmann has got to hear this from somebody else, and not when I'm around. At lunchtime, I tried to sneak away; but he was watching for me. “Come,” he said, “we shall eat at the hotel.” This was exactly what I had feared.

Sure enough, Kennedy was there, sitting with Ashmeade. They were deep in conversation. Kennedy seemed to be outlining some plan. He had arranged his knife, fork and spoon in a square, and was demonstrating something with the pepper-pot. Neither of them took any notice of us; but, as we passed, Ashmeade looked at Kennedy and laughed an intimate, flattering laugh. Several of the other Bulldog directors and executives regarded us curiously. I could feel their eyes following our backs.

During the meal, Bergmann was thoughtful and moody. We scarcely spoke. I had to force myself to eat. I felt as if I were going to vomit. Should I tell him? No, I couldn't. I waited for something to happen.

We had nearly finished when Patterson, the journalist, came in.

He greeted everybody, stopping at each group for a joke and a word or two; but I knew instinctively that he was making for our table. His face was beaming, it seemed to me, with the malice of the stupid man who thinks he is going to score a point.

“Well, well, Mr. Bergmann,” he began, sitting down without being invited. “What's all this I hear? Is it really true?”

“Is what true?” Bergmann looked at him with distaste.

“About the picture. You're really dropping it?”

“Dropping?”

“Retiring. Giving it up.”

For a moment, it seemed that Bergmann still didn't understand him. Then he jerked out, “Who told you this?”

“Oh, well, you know,” Patterson looked maliciously coy, “these things get about.” He watched Bergmann's face inquisitively. Then he turned to me, with a most unconvincing display of anxiety. “I say, I hope I haven't put my foot in it?”

“I never pay much attention to studio gossip,” I said incautiously, in the agony of my embarrassment.

Bergmann turned on me, quite savagely. “You heard this, too?”

“There must be some mistake, of course,” Patterson was now openly malicious, “if
you
know nothing about it, Mr. Bergmann.… It's a funny thing, though. I got this from pretty high up. It certainly sounded authentic. Eddie Kennedy was mentioned.…”

“Oh, if that's all it was…” (I was desperately trying to give Bergmann a chance of pretending he knew this already.) “it's quite easily explained. Just because he saw our rushes this morning … You know how these things are misrepresented.…”

But Bergmann was beyond all diplomacy.

“Kennedy saw the rushes? And I knew nothing about it! Nothing! I wasn't told!” He swung round upon me, again. “You knew this all the time? You were in this conspiracy against me?”

“I—I didn't think it was important.…”

“Not important! Oh, no! If I am betrayed and tricked and lied to, it is not in the least important! If my only friend joins the enemy, it is not important!” Suddenly, he turned back to Patterson. “Who told you this?”

“Well, really, Mr. Bergmann—I'm not at liberty to say.”

“Of course you are not at liberty to say! These people are your paymasters! Very good: I will tell you who it was. Ashmeade!”

Patterson tried to look inscrutable. He didn't succeed.

“It was Ashmeade!” cried Bergmann, triumphantly. “I knew it!” He spoke so loud that the people at the next table stared at us. “I shall confront him immediately with this impudent lie!”

He jumped to his feet.

“Friedrich!” I grabbed his arm. “Wait. Not now.”

My tone must have been commanding in its desperation, for Bergmann hesitated.

“We'll talk to him at the studio,” I continued. “It'll be better. Let's think this over first.”

Bergmann nodded and sat down again.

“Very well, we shall deal with him later,” he agreed, breathing hard. “First, we must see his master. At once. After lunch.”