“Well …,” says Howard politely.
“I love McKechnie. You know who McKechnie reminds me of? Raskolnikov. Only McKechnie’s more subtle. I love the idea of lions and tigers in the middle of London. Like we’re in Bond Street. Suddenly … rrrrrrr! And there’s a man-eating tiger bounding out of the Westbury Hotel! You have a very visual imagination, do you know that, Howard?”
“Well …,” objects Howard modestly.
“No, you really do. And the mangrove swamps? There’s this guy walking down Piccadilly, when suddenly — woomph! He’s gone! Help! — schloomp, schloomp, schloomp — he’s fallen into a mangrove swamp! Howard, you and I share the same sense of humour.”
“Well …,” says Howard tactfully.
“We’re really going to have a ball together on this one. Because the thing is this, Howard. I want you to write the script.”
“Well …,” agrees Howard cautiously.
“Because you’re the only one who can do it, Howard. You understand these people. And it’s practically a script already. Because I don’t want to change anything. I want to realize exactly what you have envisioned.”
“Well …,” says Howard gratefully.
“Did you by any chance get to see New Canaan, Connecticut, between March 1 and April 14 last year? No? Because that was mine. I made that. That would have given you some idea of the way I work. I also did one or two of those hijackings over Nevada — but that wouldn’t have interested you. That was a different style of production altogether.
“I wish you’d seen New Canaan, Connecticut, March 1 to April 14…. Excuse me one minute. Stella, before Howard leaves, will you fix for him to fly to New Canaan for a few days last spring …?”
“Well …,” considers Howard.
“Because I know you’ll appreciate that. No violence. No unnecessary screwing. Just a lot of real people doing real things. A black family moves in — the neighbors bake them a cake. This young guy has an automobile accident — they take him to the hospital — his wife breaks down and cries. That kind of thing. There are some really wacky scenes at the PTA meeting that you’d love. And the colour’s just fantastic….”
“Well …,” objects Howard.
“But this report of yours, Howard. Two years ago we couldn’t have made this. The industry wasn’t mature enough. But now the message is getting through. This is the kind of thing that people want to see. They’re sick of big war spectaculars. They want a little idealism, a little love. The bankers realize they’ve bombed with the blockbusters. They’re ready to back our judgment now, Howard — my judgment, your judgment.”
“Well …,” accepts Howard graciously.
“This is a go project, Howard. Together we’ll build Jerusalem in England’s green and pleasant land.”
“For the option,” Howard explains to Felicity, walking up and down the terrace, frowning seriously, with the setting sun flashing in a thousand windows of the city behind him, “they’re paying … 30,000.00.
“They pay that anyway, whatever happens. Then, if we go ahead with the script, they pay, for the treatment … 50,000.00, then for the first draft … 120,000.00, and for the second draft another … 120,000.00, making in all, for the script … 290,000.00. Then if we actually go ahead and build the New Jerusalem, they have to take up the full rights, which would amount to … 2,000,000,000.00.“
Felicity gazes at him, trying to take it in. “2,000,000,000.00?” she repeats.
“That’s right,” says Howard casually … “2,000,000,000.00.”
“I suppose it’s all right,” says Felicity, “if you say it quickly … 2,000,000,000.00”
“Oh,” says Howard … “2,000,000,000.00 isn’t all that much, as these things go. After all … 2,000,000,000.00 when you think about it, is … 0.00 compared to the budget for the whole production, which will probably run out about … 100,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000.00.”
Bill Mishkin flies out to Rome. Bill Saltman, the director, flies in from Miami. He calls Howard as soon as he arrives — but Howard has flown out to the Bahamas, for a conference with Bill Mishkin, who is stopping over on his way to Caracas. But it turns out that Bill Mishkin has had to change his plans, and go to New York instead to get a haircut. So Howard flies out from the Bahamas just as Bill Saltman flies in.
Eventually Howard and Bill Saltman meet back home, two blocks away from the RCA building; but in Howard’s case with a great sense of velocity from his journeyings.
Bill Saltman has rented a large apartment with no windows, Second Empire furnishings, and gunsmiths’ production drawings of antique firearms arranged in tasteful clusters on the walls. He is a melancholy man, much older than Mishkin, with pouched drooping eyes that have seen civilizations fall and currencies collapse. He sits in a Second Empire armchair, a curling pipe in one side of his mouth, the other side opening and closing every few moments, like a fish breaking the surface, to let the smoke out, and listens expressionlessly while Howard explains his ideas for the script. Howard moves about the room, sitting on various chairs, gesturing.
“What I’m aiming at,” says Howard, “is not some kind of thing where everybody is, you know, just sort of happy and sort of contented sort of thing all the time….”
The phone rings.
“Who did you say?” says Bill into the phone in a teasing voice, without taking the pipe out of his mouth, and looking blankly at Howard as he talks, as somewhere to rest his eyes. “Biba? That’s a very pretty name. Did you think that up yourself …? No, I’m kidding, Biba…. You know what, Biba? I don’t know who you are and I can’t understand what you’re trying to tell me, but you have a very beautiful telephone voice, and I believe you have saved my life…. No, I mean that, Biba, because I am sitting here totally alone, going slowly out of my mind. I have influenza and pains in my stomach. I’m dying, Biba. What is this terrible place …? Of course I’d love you to stop by, Biba…. Bless you, Biba, bless you. An old man’s blessing on your head.“
He puts the phone down.
“Go on,” he says to Howard.
“I’m sorry,” says Howard. “I didn’t know you were ill.”
Bill Saltman lifts his shoulders very slightly.
“It’s the pills,” he says. “The green-and-white pills I was prescribed in Athens. They don’t go with the red pills I got in Miami. Go on.”
“Well,” says Howard, “I think the thing we want to avoid at all costs — I mean, I really feel quite strongly about this — is setting up some kind of Utopia — some kind of oversimplified Arcadia which wouldn’t stretch the imagination of the …”
The phone rings.
“Is this Jane?” says Bill Saltman. “Oh, Gayle … You waited in the bar till midnight …? Honey, I’m sorry. I had to go to Tangier. Then I had to go to Miami. Then I had to go to Hawaii. Then I just felt so tired I thought I’d have an early night. Well, come by around six, Gayle — I’m in a meeting for the next two three hours.”
He turns back to Howard.
“So …?”
“So what I think we’ve got to do,” says Howard, “is to set up a society where everyone has enough sort of … contentment… to be sort of contented, but not so much that they can’t see that all this sort of contentment is sort of blinding them to the possibility of becoming sort of more contented in a sort of kind of deeper sort of …”
The doorbell rings. It’s Biba. She is ridiculously young and pretty, and flustered to find two of them.
“Excuse me, Howard,” says Bill. “Could you look back at five, say? I have a conference at six, but we could get in one hour’s work, at any rate. I think we should make a serious effort to get some progress on this thing.”