Part 8 (1/2)

”I live in London,” Wadleigh said. ”Did you know that?” He asked the question harshly, daring Craig to admit that he had lost interest in his one-time friend's activities.

”Yes,” Craig said. ”How is London?”

”The city of Shakespeare and Marlowe,” Wadleigh said, ”of Queen Elizabeth and d.i.c.kens, of Twiggy and Ian Wadleigh. Another s.h.i.+t hole. I'm supposed to be down here doing a piece on the Festival for an English f.a.g magazine. On spec. They pay my hotel bill. If they take the piece, they throw me another couple of pounds. They want that old magic name Ian Wadleigh on their f.a.g cover. When they read the piece, they'll probably puke. All I've seen here is s.h.i.+t. And I'm going to say so. There'll be a twitter in the dovecote. The f.a.g entertainment editor never learned how to read, so he thinks movies are today's music of the spheres. The Art of Now. He thinks Jean-Luc G.o.dard turns out a new Sistine Chapel four times a year. Christ, he thought Blow-up was a masterpiece! What do you think of the c.r.a.p they're showing here?”

”Some good, some bad,” Craig said. ”I figure by the time the thing's over, we'll have seen at least six good pictures.”

”Six!” Wadleigh snorted. ”When you make up the list, send it to me. I'll include it in my piece. Freedom of the press. The half-dozen selections of a once-great mind.”

”You'd better go back to your hotel, Ian,” Craig said. ”You're being a pain in the a.s.s.”

”I'm sorry.” Wadleigh was genuinely contrite. ”My manners have deteriorated the last few years. Along with everything else. I don't want to go back to my hotel. There's nothing there for me but a collection of fleas and half the ma.n.u.script of a book I'll probably never finish. I know I'm a bitter son of a b.i.t.c.h these days, but I shouldn't take it out on an old pal like you. Forgive me. You do forgive me, don't you, Jess?” He was pleading now.

”Of course.”

”We were friends, weren't we?” He was still pleading. ”We had some good times together, didn't we? We put down a lot of bottles together. There's still something left, isn't there, Jess?”

”Yes, there is, Ian,” Craig said, although there wasn't.

”What kills me,” Wadleigh said, ”is what pa.s.ses for writing these days. Especially in the movies. Everybody grunting and saying, Yeah, and, Like, you know, I dig you, baby, and, Let's f.u.c.k, and that's supposed to be dialogue, that's supposed to be how the n.o.ble human animal communicates with his fellow man under the eye of G.o.d. And the people who write like that get a hundred thousand a picture and win Oscars and all the girls they can handle, and I'm down to writing a c.r.a.ppy two-thousand-word piece on spec for a f.a.g English magazine.”

”Come on, Ian,” Craig said. ”Every artist has his ups and downs. Just about everybody goes in and out of fas.h.i.+on in his lifetime. If he lasts long enough.”

”I will be back in fas.h.i.+on fifty years after I die,” Wadleigh said. ”Posterity's darling, Ian Wadleigh. And how about you? I haven't seen many articles in the Sunday papers recently saying how wonderful you are.”

”I'm on sabbatical leave,” Craig said, ”from admiration.”

”It's one h.e.l.l of a long sabbatical leave,” Wadleigh said.

”So it is.”

”That reminds me,” Wadleigh said. ”There's a girl here by the name of McKinnon-she's some kind of reporter-who keeps trying to pump me about you. All sorts of questions. About women. Girls. Your friends. Your enemies. She seems to know more about you than I do. Have you been talking to her?”

”A bit.”

”Be careful,” Wadleigh said. ”She has a funny light in her eye.”

”I'll be careful.”

A Fiat with two girls in it slowed down along the curb, and the girl nearest them leaned out the open window and said, ”Bonsoir.”

”Get the h.e.l.l out of here,” Wadleigh said.

”Sal juif,” the girl said. The car spurted ahead.

”Dirty Jew,” Wadleigh said. ”Do I look that bad?”

Craig laughed. ”You must learn to be more polite with French ladies,” he said. ”They've all been brought up in convents.”

”Wh.o.r.es,” Wadleigh said. ”Wh.o.r.es everywhere. In the audience, on the screen, on the streets, in the jury room. I tell you, Jess, this is the living and eternal capital of wh.o.r.edom for two weeks each year. Spread your legs and take your money. That ought to be printed on every letterhead under the seal of the city of Cannes. And look at that. Over there.” He pointed across the boulevard where there were four young men smiling professionally at pa.s.sing males. ”How do you like that?”

”Not very much,” Craig admitted.

”You can't tell the players without a program anymore,” Wadleigh said. ”Wait till you read my piece.”

”I can't wait,” Craig said.

”I'd better send you a copy of the ma.n.u.script,” Wadleigh said. ”Those f.a.gs'll never print it. Or maybe I'll turn wh.o.r.e, too, and write just what that f.a.g entertainment editor wants to hear. If I don't get that dough, I don't know what I'll do.”

”Maybe that's just what those girls in the car and those boys over there on the corner say to themselves every night,” Craig said. ”If I don't get that dough, I don't know what I'll do.”

”You're just too f.u.c.king Christian tolerant, Jess,” Wadleigh said. ”And don't think it's a virtue. The world is going to the dogs on a sickening wave of tolerance. Dirty movies, dirty business, dirty politics. Anything goes. Everything's excused. There's always a half-dozen something that isn't bad.”

”What you need, Ian,” Craig said, ”is a good night's sleep.”

”What I need,” Wadleigh said, stopping on the sidewalk, ”is five thousand dollars. Have you got five thousand dollars for me?”

”No,” Craig said. ”What do you need five thousand dollars for?”

”There're some people making a movie in Madrid,” Wadleigh said. ”They have a lousy script, naturally, and they need a quick rewrite. If I can get there, it's almost sure the job's mine.”

”It only costs about a hundred bucks to fly from here to Madrid, Ian.”

”What'll I use for the hotel?” Wadleigh demanded. ”And food? And for the time it takes to sign the contract? And before the first payment? And for my lousy third wife? At this moment she's attaching the books and typewriter I left in storage in New York for nonpayment of alimony.”

”You've struck a responsive chord there, Brother,” Craig said.

”If you go in to make a deal and the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds know you haven't got a dime, they grind you to powder,” Wadleigh said. ”You've got to be able to get up and walk out and say, Up yours, friends. You know that. I figure five thousand is a minimum.”

”Sorry, Ian,” Craig said.

”Okay, can you give me three hundred? I can get to Madrid and give myself a couple of days on three hundred.” The fat on his throat over his loose collar was quivering.

Craig hesitated. Unconsciously, he patted his coat over his wallet. He knew he had five hundred dollars in American money and about 2000 francs in the wallet. Superst.i.tiously, in memory of the time he had been poor, he always carried a lot of money with him. Turning down requests for loans, even from people who were strangers, was invariably painful, almost impossible, for him. He regarded this trait, rightly, as a weakness in his character. He always remembered that in War and Peace Tolstoy had used Pierre Bezouchov's new-found ability to turn down supplicants for money as a sign of maturity and ripening intelligence. ”All right, Ian,” he said, ”I can give you three hundred.”

”Five thousand would do better,” Wadleigh said.

”I said three hundred.” Craig took out his wallet and extracted three one hundred dollar bills and gave them to Wadleigh.

Wadleigh stuffed the bills roughly into his pocket. ”You know I'll never pay you back,” he said.

”I know.”

”I won't apologize,” Wadleigh said fiercely.

”I'm not asking you to apologize.”

”You know why I won't apologize? Because you owe it to me. You know why you owe it to me? Because once we were equals. And now you're something, and I'm nothing. Less than nothing.”

”Have a good time in Madrid, Ian,” Craig said wearily. ”I'm going to bed. Good night.”