“They always say that — then it goes on for months.”
“You could stay with your father if Garth gets to be too much.”
“God, I’d rather stay at a hotel.”
Gloria frowned at her glass and lifted it to her lips, sipping. When she put it down she smiled and put her hand on Tony’s shoulder. “It’s just a rumor, Tony, but I think you should know …” She paused and smiled encouragingly.
He was baffled. “Yes …?”
“Your father — they say — is probably going to be named CEO of International Pictures.”
Tony swallowed. “CEO?”
“Chief executive officer. The head of the company, overseeing television and features.”
He looked away from the band of mirrored glass — reflecting the glittering hairstyles, sparkling glasses, and open laughing mouths — down at the brilliant red leather of the booth. He closed his eyes as the humiliation fell over him like a shroud. Don’t show it! Life is a performance. “I see. That’s why Garth wanted me back.”
“No!” Gloria said, like someone commanding a dog not to pee on the rug. “That’s why I wanted to warn you about it. I knew you’d think that. But Garth has no idea of—”
“Gloria, that town is worse than high school. Somebody pops a pimple out there and everybody knows how much pus came out. If you’ve heard the rumor, he’s heard it.”
“Not true. I know it and I’m the only one who does, because of my association with someone — I can’t explain. I know that no one else knows. Have you heard anything about it?”
“No, of course—”
“You see!”
“But that—”
“Listen to me, Tony. Garth has had two other writers do drafts since yours.”
“You’re kidding me. Two?”
“Yes. They’re awful. Whatever problems your draft has, at least there’s a movie there. These other drafts are unusable. He wants you back. I was afraid that the rumor might come true and be announced while you’re out there and you’d get paranoid and pissed off and walk off. I don’t want that to happen.”
Tony stared into her eyes. “Forget it, Gloria. Don’t bother with the speech. I don’t care why I’ve gotten the job back. I was going crazy. I’m just glad I’m working. Garth wants me to live at his house — I’ll live at his house. He wants me to do the dishes, I’ll do the dishes. I don’t care.” He straightened his shoulders and smiled. Life is a performance, his mother’s ringing youthful voice spoke through time in his head. “To a go picture,” he said, raising his glass.
Patty entered the loft grimly. She had discussed it thoroughly with Betty at lunch. She had to get away from these men. She couldn’t think clearly about her life while living with Grumpy David and seeing Demanding Gelb. Tony was going to Los Angeles for at least a month and Betty had offered to put Patty up for as long as he was gone. Four weeks of male abstinence, both sexual and emotional, might clear her head.
She had decided to blurt it out — her desire for a temporary separation was the story she planned to tell David — the moment she entered, afraid that any hesitation would end up in cowardly silence. She walked to the bed area, where she saw light, and stopped, amazed: David was packing a suitcase. It stunned her. How did he know?
“Hi,” he said. His voice sounded rushed. “Where were you? Believe it or not, I have to fly to Brazil.”
“What?”
“You can’t say a word to anybody. This has to be absolutely secret. I’m flying to Brazil to interview, or possibly interview, Hans Gott.”
“Who?”
David looked up from folding his pants and smiled. “You wouldn’t know. He’s on the hit parade of Nazis. He was Mengele’s favorite helper. Decided who would live and who would die in the ovens. Also performed experiments on twins, dwarfs. Shot blue dye into the eyes of children, and so on … lovely man.”
“Oh. Yeah,” she mumbled, baffled by this turn of events. “I thought he was dead.”
“You’re thinking of Mengele. This one might be, too. The guy I’m supposed to meet could be a fraud.”
“Isn’t this dangerous?”
“We’re supposed to meet in a public place — I sure as hell am not going to meet him in a dark alley.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Don’t know. A few days?”
“Oh.” Patty sat on the bed and stared off, nonplussed. She felt deflated, and, oddly, sad to be left alone in the loft. She had wanted to walk out on him and be with Betty. Not wait in solitude for the return of a man she didn’t want anymore. And he looked so appealing right now — his cheeks flushed with excitement, his tone energetic and funny.
“You’ll be all right,” he said.
She nodded.
“Won’t you?”
“I want to move out,” she said. The words floated out of her, levitating from her inner thoughts mystically, in violation of her mind’s censuring gravity.
“You’re that scared to be alone?” David asked, almost laughing with amazement.
“I’m sorry …” she said, and got up, wanting to walk away to shut herself up, but she couldn’t move, unable to figure out where to go.
David studied her back. She had taken to hunching her shoulders more, it seemed to him, since she had become a novelist. Was it bending over the typewriter?
Now he understood what she meant: she was leaving him, he thought dully. It didn’t surprise him, though it was unexpected. Since his regular visits to the Mistress, he had lived side by side with her, passengers. On a subway, sharing noise and light and movement, but not speaking or knowing each other. Strangers seated together on a dull trip.
Patty turned back. “Can I help?”
“You want to move out,” David said. “Break up, you mean.”
She stared at him like a frightened little girl. Her eyes wondered at him. What will you do? Don’t be angry. What will you do? Don’t hate me. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”
“My flight isn’t until tonight. Everything’s ready. I was just nervously packing.” He paused and cocked his head, asking calmly, “You’re going for good?”
Tears formed in her eyes: a deserted child, shrinking from the big horrible world. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” she said, weeping between the words. “I feel like I’m going crazy. I shouldn’t be saying this now …” She hunched over, moving toward the bed as if she were collapsing uncontrollably and needed to cushion her fall.
He watched her coldly. He felt heartbroken for her: she lay on the bed like a broken doll. He was convinced that if he hugged her now, spoke of his love, she would reverse her decision to go. But the effort, both physical and emotional, of feeling and giving, the whole boring mess of vomiting up the truth, repelled him. He didn’t want to smell and look at his innards, to regurgitate his perversions, inadequacies, and failed hopes. “Is it anything in particular?” he asked.
“What?” she said, her voice muffled by the bed and her tears.
“Are you upset about something I can fix?” he answered in a grudging tone.
“No, it’s not you — I’m fucked up,” she said, and rolled over onto her back, her arms resting outward, crucified on a soft mattress. “I love you,” she said.
“I love you too,” he answered perfunctorily. “So why are you moving out?”
“Kiss me,” she said, looking like a centerfold — yearning for an unseen lover, her body defenseless, the gates open to any violation.
David shook his head. He felt like laughing. “You’re crazy. What kind of breakup is this? If you’re walking out on somebody, you don’t interrupt it for a seduction.”
“I’m not walking out. I need some time—”