In truth, the degree of anyone’s successdepends on how often they can say the word yesand hear the word no. Those many timesyou’re thwarted yet persevere.
By shooting this scene with the same audienceand setting as the earlier one, we can imply how all awards ceremoniesare merely lovely traps baited with some bright silver-plate piece ofpraise. Deadly traps baited with applause.
Stooping, I twist the cap off one thermos,not the one full of black coffee, or the thermos full of chilled vodka,nor the vacuum bottle rattling with Valiumlike a Carmen Miranda maraca. I open anotherthermos bottle and pinch out the thin sheaf of pages which are rolledtight and stuffed inside. Printed along the heading of each sheet, wordsread Love Slave. Athird draft. I give her the pages.
My Miss Kathie squints at the typed words.Shaking her head, she says, “I can’t make heads or tails out of this.Not without my glasses.” And she hands the sheets back to me, saying,“You read them. I want you to tell me how I’m going to die.…”
And from the audience, we hear a sudden rushof thunderous applause.
ACT II, SCENE SIX
“ ‘On the day she painfully fried to death,’ ”I read in voice-over, “ ‘my beloved Katherine Kentonenjoyed a luxuriant bubble bath.’ ”
As with previous final-chapter sequences readaloud from Love Slave,we see the younger, idealized versions of Miss Kathie and the Webb,cavorting upon her bed, in a soft-focus, misty version of her boudoir.In voice-over, I continue reading as the fantasy couple leave theirlovemaking and stride, slow, trancelike, long-legged into the bedroom’sadjoining bathroom.
“‘As was her custom,’ ” reads my voice, “‘subsequent to strenuous oral contact with my romantic meat shaft,Katherine rinsed her delicate palate with a mouthful of eau de cologneand applied chips of glistening ice to her slender, traumatized throat.
“‘As I opened the taps,’ ” continues thevoice-over, “ ‘filling her sunken, pink-marble tub with frothy steamingwater, I added the bath oil, and dense mounds of lather billowed. As Ireadied these luxuriant ablutions, my dearest Katherine said, “Webster,my darling, the pints of love essence you erupt at the peak of oralpassion taste more intoxicating than gorging on even the richestEuropean chocolate.” My beloved belched demurely into her fist,swallowed and said, “All women should taste your delicious emissions.” ’”
The soft-focus, idealized Miss Kathie shutsher violet eyes and licks her lips. The fantasy couple kiss, then break theirembrace.
“ ‘Lowering her silken sensual legs withinfinite care,’ ” I read in voice-over, “ ‘Katherine immersed herspattered thighs, her acclaimed pubis descending into the scaldingclouds of iridescent white. The hot liquid lapped at her satinybuttocks, then splashed at her silken bustline. The misty vaporsswirled, perfume filling the sultry bathroom air.’ ”
My own voice continues, reading, “ ‘It wasthe year every other song on the radio was Mitzi Gaynor singing “On theAtchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe,” and a large RCA radio satconveniently near the edge of the pink-marble bathtub, its dial tuned toplay romantic ballads, and its sturdy electrical cord plugged into aconvenient wall socket.’ ”
We get an insert shot of said radio, balancedon the tub’s rim, so close that steam condenses in sweaty droplets onthe radio’s wooden case.
“ ‘In addition,’ ” continues my voice, “ ‘anattractive assortment of electric lamps, each equipped with subdued,pink-tinted bulbs, their flattering light filtered by beaded shades,these also stood around the rim of the luxurious bubble bath.’ ”
A slow panning shot reveals a forest oflamps, short and tall, balanced on the wide rim of the oversize tub. Ablack tangle of power cords snake from the lamps to wall outlets. Manyof these thick cords, almost pulsing with electric current, look frayed.
“ ‘Sinking up to her slender neck in thefragrant foaming bubbles,’ ” continues the voice- over, “ ‘Katherinereleased a contented moan. At that moment of our inestimable happiness,playing the lovely Grand Waltz Brilliant by Frédéric Chopin, the radio slipped from itsperilous perch. Just by accident, all the various lamps also tumbled,plunging deep into the inviting waters, poaching my beloved alive likean agonized, screaming, tortured egg.…’ ”
On camera the perfumed foam boils, billowing,rising to mask the flashing, sizzling death scene. My voice reads, “‘The end.’ ”
ACT II, SCENE SEVEN
We cut back to the auditorium of the lavishBroadway theater where a Japanese bomb explodes, blasting shrapnel into Yul Brynner in the role of DwightD. Eisenhower. The USSArizona listsstarboard, threatening to capsize on Vera-Ellensinging the role of Eleanor Roosevelt. The USSWest Virginiakeels over on top of Neville Chamberlain andthe League of Nations.
As the Zeros strafe IvorNovello, my Miss Kathie climbs to the foremast of the battleship,menaced by antiaircraft gunfire and Lionel Atwill,biting the pin of a hand grenade between her teeth. With a jerk of herhead Miss Kathie pulls the pin, slingshotting her arm to fling thegrenade, lobbing it too wide. The cast-iron pineapple narrowly misses Hirohito, and instead beans RomaniRomani in the string section of the orchestra pit.
From an audience seat, fifth row center, avoice screams, “Oh, stop, for fuck’s sake.” LillianHellman stands, brandishing a rolled copy of the score, slashingthe air with it as if with a riding crop. Lilly screams, “Just stop!”She screams, “You’re giving aid and comfort to the enemy!”
Onstage, the entire Japanese Imperial Armygrinds to a silent halt. The dead sailors strewn across the deck of the USSTennessee standand twist their heads to stretch their stiff necks. EnsignJoe Taussig brings the USSNevada back intoport while Lilly hauls herself up onto the stage apron. Her spittleflashing in the footlights, she screams, “Fouettéen tournant when you throw the grenade, you stupid bitch!” Todemonstrate, Hellman rises to stand, trembling on the point of one toe,then kicks her raised leg to rotate herself. Kicking and turning, shescreams, “And go all the way around, nothalfway.…”
In the reverse angle, we see Terrence Terry and myself seated at the rear of thehouse, surrounded by an assortment of garment bags, hatboxes andunwanted infants. The house seats are otherwise empty. Terry speculatesthat Miss Kathie keeps botching the grenade throw intentionally. Herprevious hand grenade slammed into Barbara Bel Geddes.The throw before that bounced off the thick skull of HumeCronyn. If Webster plans to kill her at the peak of a new stagesuccess, Terry explains, it hardly makes sense for Miss Kathie to defeatthe evil Emperor Showa. Rave opening-nightnotices will only increase her danger.
Onstage, Lilly Hellman executes a perfect pasde bourée step, at the same time putting a pistol shot between the eyesof Buddy Ebsen.
Handing the pistol to Miss Kathie, Hellmansays, “Now, you try it.…”
The pistol misfires, killing Jack Elam. Another shot ricochets off of the USSNew Jersey andwounds Cyd Charisse.
In my lap, I scribble into a notebook. Myhead bowed over my work. Tucked beneath the notebook I conceal thelatest revision to Love Slave,a fourth draft of the final chapter. A scenario beyond the omnibuscrash, the grizzly bear pit, the bubble-bath electrocution.