‘But that isn’t what makes success… If you could do it with advertising every producer in New York’d be a millionaire,’ burst in Goldweiser. ‘It’s the mysterious occult force that grips the crowds on the street and makes them turn in at a particular theater that makes the receipts go up at a particular boxoffice, do you understand me? Advertising wont do it, good criticism wont do it, maybe it’s genius maybe it’s luck but if you can give the public what it wants at that time and at that place you have a hit. Now that’s what Elaine gave us in this last show… She established contact with the audience. It might have been the greatest play in the world acted by the greatest actors in the world and fallen a flat failure… And I dont know how you do it, nobody dont know how you do it… You go to bed one night with your house full of paper and you wake up the next morning with a howling success. The producer cant control it any more than the weather man can control the weather. Aint I tellin the truth?’
‘Ah the taste of the New York public has sadly degenerated since the old days of Wallack’s.’
‘But there have been some beautiful plays,’ chirped Miss Goldweiser.
The long day love was crisp in the curls… the dark curls… broken in the dark steel light… hurls… high O God high into the bright… She was cutting with her fork in the crisp white heart of a lettuce. She was saying words while quite other words spilled confusedly inside her like a broken package of beads. She sat looking at a picture of two women and two men eating at a table in a high paneled room under a shivering crystal chandelier. She looked up from her plate to find Miss Goldweiser’s little birdeyes kindly querulous fixed hard on her face.
‘Oh yes New York is really pleasanter in midsummer than any other time; there’s less hurry and bustle.’
‘Oh yes that’s quite true Miss Goldweiser.’ Ellen flashed a sudden smile round the table… All the long day love Was crisp in the curls of his high thin brow, Flashed in his eyes in dark steel light…
In the taxi Goldweiser’s broad short knees pressed against hers; his eyes were full of furtive spiderlike industry weaving a warm sweet choking net about her face and neck. Miss Goldweiser had relapsed pudgily into the seat beside her. Dick Snow was holding an unlighted cigar in his mouth, rolling it with his tongue. Ellen tried to remember exactly how Stan looked, his polevaulter’s tight slenderness; she couldn’t remember his face entire, she saw his eyes, lips, an ear.
Times Square was full of juggled colored lights, crisscrossed corrugations of glare. They went up in the elevator at the Astor. Ellen followed Miss Goldweiser across the roofgarden among the tables. Men and women in evening dress, in summer muslins and light suits turned and looked after her, like sticky tendrils of vines glances caught at her as she passed. The orchestra was playing In My Harem. They arranged themselves at a table.
‘Shall we dance?’ asked Goldweiser.
She smiled a wry broken smile in his face as she let him put his arm round her back. His big ear with solemn lonely hairs on it was on the level of her eyes.
‘Elaine,’ he was breathing into her ear, ‘honest I thought I was a wise guy.’ He caught his breath… ‘but I aint… You’ve got me goin little girl and I hate to admit it… Why cant you like me a little bit? I’d like… us to get married as soon as you get your decree… Wouldn’t you be kinder nice to me once in a while… ? I’d do anything for you, you know that… There are lots of things in New York I could do for you…’ The music stopped. They stood apart under a palm. ‘Elaine come over to my office and sign that contract. I had Ferrari wait… We can be back in fifteen minutes.’
‘I’ve got to think it over… I never do anything without sleeping on it.’
‘Gosh you drive a feller wild.’
Suddenly she remembered Stan’s face altogether, he was standing in front of her with a bow tie crooked in his soft shirt, his hair rumpled, drinking again.
‘Oh Ellie I’m so glad to see you…’
‘This is Mr Emery, Mr Goldweiser…’
‘I’ve been on the most exordinately spectacular trip, honestly you should have come… We went to Montreal and Quebec and came back through Niagara Falls and we never drew a sober breath from the time we left little old New York till they arrested us for speeding on the Boston Post Road, did we Pearline?’ Ellen was staring at a girl who stood groggily behind Stan with a small flowered straw hat pulled down over a pair of eyes the blue of watered milk. ‘Ellie this is Pearline… Isn’t it a fine name? I almost split when she told me what it was… But you dont know the joke… We got so tight in Niagara Falls that when we came to we found we were married… And we have pansies on our marriage license…’
Ellen couldnt see his face. The orchestra, the jangle of voices, the clatter of plates spouted spiraling louder and louder about her…
‘Good night Stan.’ Her voice was gritty in her mouth, she heard the words very clearly when she spoke them.
‘Oh Ellie I wish you’d come partying with us…’
‘Thanks… thanks.’
She started to dance again with Harry Goldweiser. The roofgarden was spinning fast, then less fast. The noise ebbed sickeningly. ‘Excuse me a minute Harry,’ she said. ‘I’ll come back to the table.’ In the ladies’ room she let herself down carefully on the plush sofa. She looked at her face in the round mirror of her vanitycase. From black pinholes her pupils spread blurring till everything was black.
Jimmy Herf’s legs were tired; he had been walking all afternoon. He sat down on a bench beside the Aquarium and looked out over the water. The fresh September wind gave a glint of steel to the little crisp waves of the harbor and to the slateblue smutted sky. A big white steamer with a yellow funnel was passing in front of the statue of Liberty. The smoke from the tug at the bow came out sharply scalloped like paper. In spite of the encumbering wharf-houses the end of Manhattan seemed to him like the prow of a barge pushing slowly and evenly down the harbor. Gulls wheeled and cried. He got to his feet with a jerk. ‘Oh hell I’ve got to do something.’
He stood a second with tense muscles balanced on the balls of his feet. The ragged man looking at the photogravures of a Sunday paper had a face he had seen before. ‘Hello,’ he said vaguely. ‘I knew who you were all along,’ said the man without holding out his hand. ‘You’re Lily Herf’s boy… I thought you werent going to speak to me… No reason why you should.’
‘Oh of course you must be Cousin Joe Harland… I’m awfully glad to see you… I’ve often wondered about you.’
‘Wondered what?’
‘Oh I dunno… funny you never think of your relatives as being people like yourself, do you?’ Herf sat down in the seat again. ‘Will you have a cigarette… It’s only a Camel.’
‘Well I dont mind if I do… What’s your business Jimmy? You dont mind if I call you that do you?’ Jimmy Herf lit a match; it went out, lit another and held it for Harland. ‘That’s the first tobacco I’ve had in a week… Thank you.’
Jimmy glanced at the man beside him. The long hollow of his gray cheek made a caret with the deep crease that came from the end of his mouth. ‘You think I’m pretty much of a wreck dont you?’ spat Harland. ‘You’re sorry you sat down aint you? You’re sorry you had a mother who brought you up a gentleman instead of a cad like the rest of ’em…’
‘Why I’ve got a job as a reporter on the Times… a hellish rotten job and I’m sick of it,’ said Jimmy, drawling out his words.