“I’m still living it down, I can assure you,” she said, insisting on going to the bar for the next round of drinks. Giant plodded after her like an animated exhibit from the Museum of Natural History. When she came back and put Whitman’s bourbon in front of him, she went on to say, “Brighton is a gossipy town. I’m known as the Black Widow by some of the nastier types. They can’t believe I didn’t kill him. I have ended up with a house and a lot of money, but still—”
Whitman was beginning to feel secure inside his protective skin of whiskey. Her legs, which he had inspected as she went to the bar, were as healthy as the rest of her. Definitely a hockey player this one, a woman of charm and humor, but not the type to be given more than the story of his life. A game of gin rummy might be the limit of their intimacy.
“You’re an interesting man, Mr. Whitman,” she said. “When I reveal I’m a wealthy widow, most of them become nervous, or extra polite, or sexy. But you didn’t turn a hair.”
“Maybe it’s because I earn more than I could spend in two lifetimes.”
“My guess is you’re Dr. Mark Whitman.”
“Take the prize.”
“Do you specialize?”
“Plastic surgery.” His occupation never failed to raise a woman’s interest.
“How fascinating. That’s quite a fad in your country, I believe.” “More than a fad in California. It’s becoming a way of life. If we ever lower the price, automate it somehow, it’ll become like color television — everybody will have one.”
“Meanwhile, you like things the way they are.”
“I’m doing very nicely, thank you. No complaints.”
Was he fooling Mrs. Belziel? He could not kid himself about his dissatisfaction with life. Whitman remembered the key question put to him by a television interviewer. The man was making a film on California life. Whitman cooperated because there was no such thing as bad publicity. They began by tracing his background. Born in Munich, he had been brought to America by his parents who were far-sighted enough to realize that Hitler’s joke was going to be on them. Growing up comfortably in New York, he had a happy childhood except for the embarrassment of living with parents whose accent was not American.
Medicine as a career seemed to be a foregone conclusion. Whitman went along because his way was being paid and he could see the logic of becoming rich. But at college his most satisfying time was spent on stage with the dramatic group. He was good — better than most of the others who said they were going on to a career in the theater.
A drama coach told him once, after he had come off following a very good rehearsal, “You’ve got something, Mark. When you’re on stage, nobody looks at anybody else.”
He was not surprised to hear it. “I love it up there,” he said. “I feel in control.”
By this time he was no longer Morris Weissman, he was Mark Whitman. He chose the surname of a poet whose work he admired. Looking at Brenda Belziel’s dog, Whitman recalled a fragment from one of the poems.
I think I could turn and live with animals...
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins...
Brenda had been watching him closely. “Forgive me for saying so,” she said, “but I think you hate your work.”
He found himself telling her the truth. I didn’t hate it till about a year ago. Not consciously. A man making a film about plastic surgeons asked me a question. He said, “With your obvious intelligence, do you feel you’re doing enough with your life, devoting your time to giving rich women smaller noses and bigger breasts?”
“What was your answer?”
“Something glib at the time. But subsequently I watched the film on television. The camera was on my face as he asked the question and I saw my eyes shift before I replied. It was a queer feeling. What I saw in my own eyes is what I have been experiencing ever since.” Whitman drank again. “Eight weeks later I left home.”
As he talked on, the woman seemed to accept with equanimity what to Whitman was a shattering story of a man falling apart in his early fifties. A wife who didn’t care whether he stayed or ran away. A daughter 22 years old, absent for almost a year in India — irony of ironies, she was untraceable because she had changed her name. And here he was, attempting at this late date to take up an acting career in England.
“Sounds to me like a smashing idea,” she said.
“Coals to Newcastle,” Whitman said sheepishly. “I’ve learned there are seven thousand unemployed actors in London alone.”
“But you have an American voice. That should be useful.”
“No shortage of Yanks in the London theater. I was told to try the provinces. Look for work in some rep company. That’s why I’m in Brighton.”
“Any job so far?”
“I’ve been to see various groups perform but I haven’t applied for an audition. They’re all so good, I’ve lost my nerve.”
She looked at her watch. “I don’t think our conversation is finished, do you?”
“It’s been fun, Brenda.”
“Two things. Will you come up to my house for a drink this evening? Say around eight o’clock? I’d bring you with me now but there are some dreary people I must get rid of.”
“Yes, okay. I’d like to.” He scribbled the address she gave him on a scrap of paper.
“The other thing is The Lion.” She was on her feet now, organizing the dog for the door.
“You said his name is Giant.”
“I mean the theater pub around the corner. They do a lunchtime performance most days. Have you been in?”
“Been meaning to.”
“Do go in. No disrespect, but they aren’t as professional as some of the others who have London connections. It might be the best place for you to break in.”
“I hear you,” Whitman said. “I’ll finish my drink and give it a go.”
There was a hinged wooden sign on the pavement outside The Lion advertising a performance of some comedy he had never heard of. Whitman went in and could tell by the appearance of the young people drinking that he was too late to see the play. They had to be the cast: girls with large eyes and mouths; young bearded men with their hair combed forward. Every phrase of their small talk carried in the sparsely populated saloon bar.
Whitman sought out the dusty bottle of Jim Beam lost behind two magnums of sherry. Waiting for his drink, he decided not to request an audition today. No harm waiting until he could speak without slurring his words.
He caught sight of himself in a mirror behind the bar and raised his glass to give that lonely image something to do. Two months of restaurant eating had given him some extra pounds. His face was firm, the skin retaining some of its California tan. “This is all there is for you,” Whitman said to himself. “You’ve had a fling and it’s over. No tragic scenes. You’re going back to the soft life of changing faces and putting money in the bank.”
One of the bearded youths came to the bar. He ordered a pint and a dry sherry. Whitman surprised himself by saying, “I meant to see your performance but I missed it. Maybe tomorrow.”
“We could have used you,” the boy said. “We aren’t exactly playing to standing room.”
“Let me pay for these,” Whitman insisted. When he had pocketed his change and looked around, he saw the lad at a table near the door, sitting down beside a young girl with astonishing silver hair. Sunlight through a window created a dazzling aura around her head. There was an empty chair at the table. The boy pointed to it and Whitman responded by moving across the floor, stepping carefully. He was as nervous as if this was the audition.