“I like you. I liked McGann because the man showed real courage. Even Jesse’s okay when he’s not being a pompous ass. He’ll be all right for a while longer.”
“You said that before, but now McGann’s dead!”
“But weren’t you all happier with that lie? Are you sure you really want the truth? I doubt it.”
“That’s all? It only comes down to that? Children fall out windows or starve in Somalia only because you don’t like them? I don’t believe it! What have they ever done? They didn’t get a chance to live! How can you do that to kids?”
“Because I do. It’s not hard.”
“And good people die in misery and pain and confusion because you don’t like them? What about all the good they do in their lives?”
“You and I have different reasons for liking and disliking people, Wyatt. And be careful of the tone of your voice; I don’t like being lectured.”
“Who are you? You look like Strayhorn just because it’s easier for me to understand, right?”
“Right! In my time I’ve been… let’s see”—crossing his arms, he tapped a finger against his beak and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling—“Humbaba, Grendel, Old Toast, Cold Storage, the Cop in the mask store… whatever you want. Whatever you understand.”
“Are you the Devil?”
“Nope. He doesn’t exist. Just Life and Death. It’s so simple, no one’s ever wanted to believe it.”
“But there’s a God! Don’t say there isn’t!”
He started to speak but stopped and smiled instead. “That’s one answer I guarantee you wouldn’t understand, so I’ll spare you a scar. Believe what you want.”
ARLEN
I love doing this taping, Rose. I hope it’s not boring you. I’d give so much to be able to tell you these things face to face, but since there’s no way that’s possible now, this is a pretty good second best.
So I spent the next three days taking care of Leland—or as much as he would allow it—and showing him the Vienna I love. Unlike Paris or Venice, this is not a city for lovers. It’s too sedate, too formal; it has no passion or spontaneity. None whatsoever. To me its greatness is its dignity and beauty. Like an illustrious old statesman who’s lived a long and worthwhile life, its history is its identity. Like the old gent, it sits in its perfectly tended gardens, content to live in memories for the rest of its days.
We went to museums and some touristy things, but spent most of our time taking long walks on the Ringstrasse and Prater Alice or deep in the Wienerwald. I was amazed at how much Leland knew about Vienna—a hell of a lot more than I do. At Freud’s house he got into a long discussion with one of the curators about Anna Freud and Ernest Jones. Then only a few blocks away from there he stopped and pointed to a church where Beethoven’s funeral was held. Standing in front of the building, he described the funeral so fully that I was totally engrossed. It was like being with a Beethoven scholar and social historian in one. I don’t know about you, girl, but to me one of the sexiest things in the world is a man who knows things but makes no big deal about it. Leland’s knowledge always came out as sheer enthusiasm—wow! Look at that! Guess what happened here? Can you believe we’re actually here to see it? I tagged along with my mouth open, feeling so lucky to be along for the ride.
Once in a while we’d stop because he was tired or uncomfortable, but even then it was a treat because he’d go on with stories about his life. I couldn’t get enough of them. Did you know the Chinese eat more watermelon than any other nation? They love it so much they actually have a watermelon museum? Or that Ceausescu had a limousine only for his dog? I was completely captivated and didn’t want the meals or the walks or the days to end.
And as you can guess, my feelings toward him got warmer and warmer. Even his nice plain face gradually started looking like Gary Cooper’s. I wanted him and wanted to tell him that. No ties were necessary, no commitment—just I’d like this day to go on into the night and see what you’re like there too. Because if it’s anything like now, then I’m yours, brother. But he didn’t make a move, not one, not even for a shivery second. Didn’t accidentally touch my arm or brush my hand when he was making a point in conversation. God knows I wanted him to, and started feeling that maybe I had cooties or something, because there wasn’t even the slightest anything to show interest on his part. No quick look at my chest, or bumps-into when there were plenty of good chances for them. I even tried bumping into him once when we were on an escalator, but when I moved, he moved faster. It got so frustrating that I even caught myself thinking, Hey, I’m Arlen Ford the glamorous movie star; don’t I interest you at all? Or maybe he was gay? Uh-oh. That thought loomed gloomily over me for a whole day until he made some reference to a woman he’d had an affair with a year ago. Luckily he was looking away, because my face lit up like a sparkler when I heard that, and I almost started whistling. Since he’d put the subject on the table, I breezily asked if he was involved with anyone now. He said only that he was, but it was over.
We went to the casino on Kartnerstrasse and he won a thousand schillings. When we were walking down the street later, a really good South American band was playing. We stood and listened a while. Then Leland went over and put all of the money he’d won into the guitar case the players had open for donations. When the guys saw that, they started playing so fast that they sounded as if they’d overdosed on Dexedrine.
Wherever we went, he took pictures. Many of them were of Vienna, bat most were of me. I didn’t mind. This time he was my friend and I looked forward to seeing them when they were developed. When he was walking around, he carried two little cameras in his front pockets—one loaded with black-and-white film, the other with color.
After the casino we went to the Café Hawelka to watch the late night scene there. After we’d settled in with our coffee and cigarettes, he asked me why I had really stopped making movies and left L.A. He said he’d read the stories and interviews, but not many people just stop in the middle of their lives like that, especially when they’re successful, and run away.
I said I’d quit for two reasons. The first was that I woke up one morning with a bad taste in my mouth and a bad guy in the bed next to me. If the acting had been going better, that would have been basically bearable: I’d have thought, Oh, this is just a rotten time and things’ll get better. But the other reason for quitting blended in with that in the worst possible way. I’ve tried to describe this to you, Rose, but never had a good way of putting it till now. It came to me when I was talking with Leland.
I’ve finally realized I’m one of those people who peak early in life and then go down just as fast. Or part of us does.
You know how awful and confused and strung-out I was before I left? I believe it’s because I unconsciously realized I no longer had the ability to be a good actress. I’d done all of my best work, and from there on out, if I had continued, it would have been impossible to do anything well.
Leland said he read a review of a famous dramatist’s newest play. The critic said the play was terrible and what the writer should have done was stopped writing twenty years before—after having had a couple of flops—because by then he must have known somewhere in his soul that he no longer had the magic to do great work. If he’d stopped, then we’d know him for his masterpieces, and not the embarrassing shit that came afterward. He should have just stopped.