When Tessa left, Colonel Tishnar whispered to Renate: “What a pathetic woman. All flutter and furbelows, no meaning to her life, all chaos.”
Renate spent a sleepless night. For she knew that Tessa, too, had been searching for the man who had enough stories to tell to make their staying at home not seem like a retirement from active life. And she was ill with a bad heart. How could Renate inform her that Colonel Tishnar had decided to leave that very day for India? Could her old heart bear this defeat, she who was not familiar with failure? She would expect Colonel Tishnar to call her up. Her charm had never failed. But it was Renate who called in her warmest, most exultant voice: “Colonel Tishnar thought you absolutely charming, too charming in fact. He told me you reminded him of his dead wife, who made him suffer a great deal and who was unfaithful to him. He is leaving for India. He told me you are far too dangerous for his peace of mind.”
Tessa’s voice grew lighter and younger, even though the tired heart caused breathlessness between each sentence. She was elated to think that Colonel Tishnar had run away so far from her power and charm.
“And do you know, Renate, I think he is right. I am sure I would have been unfaithful to him.”
So there was Colonel Tishnar already won, married, and betrayed, all in a few hours, a victory to stimulate the failing heart of any woman.
RENATE GREW TIRED OF PAINTING PORTRAITS, of hostessing, of designing dresses, and so she made a plan for a new magazine.
way out because they were out of the way of people who never left their offices.
John was a clairvoyant film critic and he wrote for Renate describing all the beautiful and original scenarios written by writers of quality which lay in “cold storage” in the studios. He also wrote a dazzling article made up of all the paragraphs which had been lopped off at the beginning, in the middle or sometimes at the end for the sake of layout.
Judith Sands offered several stories which were too long or too short for other magazines, and which did not tie up with any journalistic news item like a play on Broadway, a film in Hollywood, or a murder, or burglary or a leap from the fifteenth floor.
Several novelists had beautiful chapters left out of their novels. The novels had been weighed on a scale and found to be two ounces overweight.
Betty was dressing dummies for Saks windows, but she was skilled in lively and seductive layouts. She did not split stories into fifteen to-be-continued columns interrupted with gaudy advertisements. She quarantined commercials.
Henri offered his most secret recipes.
Harry sold records in a music store, and had stored in his mind the most complete knowledge of jazz music and its composers.
Renate was inviting contributions born of enthusiasm, inventiveness, novelty, exploration, of people in love with their media and whose love was contagious. What she banished was the bored critics, the imitators, the second-handers, the standardized cliches. Even the first dummy aroused in people a feeling they were at last to know, read, see everything other magazines neutralized, dissolved, synthesized, deodorized, sterilized, disguised, monotonized, mothproofed, and sprayed with life-repellents.
“It must be alive,” was Renate’s only editorial principle.
Alive like Don Bachardy’s line portraits of personalities, like Renate’s women and animals, like Judith Sands’ stories of cities and the lovers who had lived in them, or the Consul’s wife’s selection of how writers had written about women dressing (or undressing) and a thousand other scintillating subjects which other editors believed radioactive.
Renate advertised for capital. The very same evening she received a telephone calclass="underline" “My name is John Wilkes. I am answering your advertisement. I like the idea of your magazine. I am 27 years old. I made my money in oil wells in Phoenix. Send me the dummy. Here is my address. But do not telephone me. It makes me nervous. I am always on the go for business. I never know where I am going to be. Send me a budget for what you will need to run for a year. Tomorrow I fly to New York for a conference. The next day I may be in Egypt. I am bored with business and welcome a new interest.”
Renate posted the dummy. The young millionaire telephoned again: “I am in New York. I received the dummy. I like your ideas. Keep working on them. As soon as I can I will fly to Los Angeles and meet your staff and your lawyer. Tell your lawyer to prepare a rough draft of the contract.”
Renate made the usual inquiry about Mr. John Wilkes. The answer was: “Unknown.” But it was suggested that John Wilkes might have accounts in the name of his company. Or perhaps not in Phoenix at all. So Renate relinquished the search for credit references.
Manuscripts began to arrive, cartoons, letters, recordings to review, books to review, passes to film openings, theatre openings. Renate and her staff were invited to fashion shows, exhibitions, to travel at half-rates to Paris, to visit film stars, to interview visitors from Japan.
They all gave up their routine jobs. Renate had cards printed with their various titles. Every morning enough original material arrived to fill a magazine each day.
John Wilkes was still busy, flying here and there, but always telephoning, always interested. He sent a photograph of himself. He looked as Gary Cooper looked at his age.
Renate rented an office. Friends helped her to decorate it. The symbol of it was a mobile. Several mobiles hung from the ceiling, setting the theme of liveliness and motion of the magazine.
In a few weeks they were in touch with all the countries they had wanted to visit, all the personalities they had wanted to know. It was if everyone responded to the ebullience and felt attracted to the atmosphere not yet desiccated by story conferences and dehydrated by editorial policies. Secret wishes and fantasies were being materialized. Every encouraged idea generated a new one. Renate could hardly contain the richness. It was like an oil well which had overflowed. Circulation problems? Only a problem of circulation of the blood.
John Wilkes applauded, laughed, shared in the universe born of yes. He sponsored Renate’s gaiety and originality, her belief that ideas must only be handled by the one who gave birth to them or else they withered.
“Is it time for a celebration?” they asked.
Renate said: “Let’s wait until John Wilkes comes. Let’s wait until the contracts are signed.”
But they bought champagne. It was such a delight to buy champagne and fill in a slip which would be paid by the expense account. No more concern over narrow personal budgets. What a delight to take a taxi when carrying heavy portfolios and charge it. What a delight to eat in a new restaurant every day and be treated like a millionaire so one would write flatteringly about the dinner. What delight to visit the printer all of them knew, and to be able to say to him they would pay him handsomely this time. What delight to plan for Christmas in June, to reserve hotel rooms for the film festivals at Venice, to plan for Spoleto, to accept invitations to the jazz festivals.