They looked at each other and her eyes asked “Shall I marry The American?” He did not answer. After a while he said:
“Let’s go somewhere for the week-end.”
She considered.
“Are you talking about tomorrow?”
“I’m afraid I am.”
“Well, I’ll tell you tomorrow,” she said.
“Tell me tonight. I’d be afraid—”
“—find a note in the car?” she laughed. “No there’s no note in the car. You know almost everything now.”
“Almost everything.”
“Yes—almost. A few little things.”
He would have to know what they were. She would tell him tomorrow. He doubted—or he wanted to doubt—if there had been a maze of philandering—a fixation had held her to The Man, the king, firmly and long. Three years of a highly anomalous position—one foot in the Palace and one in the background. “You had to laugh a lot,” she said. “I learned to laugh a lot.”
“He could have married you—like Mrs. Simpson,” Stahr said in protest.
“Oh, he was married. And he wasn’t a romantic.” She stopped herself.
“Am I?”
“Yes,” she said unwillingly, as if she were laying down a trump. “Part of you is. You’re three or four different men but each of them out in the open. Like all Americans.”
“Don’t start trusting Americans too implicitly,” he said, smiling. “They may be out in the open but they change very fast.”
She looked concerned.
“Do they?”
“Very fast and all at once,” he said. “And nothing ever changes them back.”
“You frighten me. I always had a great sense of security with Americans.”
She seemed suddenly so alone that he took her hand.
“Where will we go tomorrow?” he said. “Maybe up in the mountains. I’ve got everything to do tomorrow but I won’t do any of it. We can start at four and get there by afternoon.”
“I’m not sure. I seem to be a little mixed up. This doesn’t seem to be quite the girl who came out to California for a new life.”
He could have said it then, said “It is a new life” for he knew it was, he knew he could not let her go now, but something else said to sleep on it as an adult, no romantic. And tell her tomorrow. Still she was looking at him her eyes wandering from his forehead to his chin and back again, and then up and down once more with that odd slowly waving motion of her head.
… It is your chance, Stahr. Better take it now. This is your girl. She can save you, she can worry you back to life. She will take looking after and you will grow strong to do it. But take her now—tell her and take her away. Neither of you knows it but far away over the night The American has changed his plans. At this moment his train is speeding through Albuquerque; the schedule is accurate. The engineer is on time. In the morning he will be here.
… The chauffeur turned up the hill to Kathleen’s house. It seemed warm even in darkness—wherever he had been near her was by way of being enchanted place for Stahr: this limousine—the rising house at the beach, the very distances they had already covered together over the sprawled city. The hill they climbed now gave forth a sort of glow, a sustained sound that struck his soul alert with delight.
As he said good bye he felt again that it was impossible to leave her, even for a few hours. There was only ten years between them but he felt that madness about it akin to the love of an ageing man for a young girl. It was a deep and desperate time-need, a clock ticking with his heart, and it urged him against the whole logic of his life to walk past her into the house now—and say “This is forever.”
Kathleen waited, irresolute herself—pink and silver frost waiting to melt with spring. She was a European, humble in the face of power, but there was a fierce self—respect that would only let her go so far. She had no illusions about the considerations that swayed princes.
“We’ll go to the mountains tomorrow,” said Stahr. Many thousands of people depended on his balanced judgement—you can suddenly blunt a quality you have lived by for twenty years.
He was very busy the next morning, Saturday. At two o’clock when he came from luncheon there was a stack of telegrams—a company ship was lost in the Arctic, a star was in disgrace, a writer was sueing for one million dollars, Jews were dead miserably beyond the sea. The last telegram stared up at him:
I WAS MARRIED AT NOON TODAY GOODBYE, and on a sticker attached “Send your answer by Western Union Telegram.”
Chapter 6
Episode 17
I knew nothing about any of this. I went up to Lake Louise and when I came back didn’t go near the studio. I think I would have started East in mid-August—if Stahr hadn’t called me up one day at home.
“I want you to arrange something, Cecelia—I want to meet a Communist Party member.”
“Which one?” I asked, somewhat startled.
“Any one.”
“Haven’t you got plenty out there?”
“I mean one of their organizers—from New York.”
The summer before I had been all politics—I could probably have arranged a meeting with Harry Bridges. But my boy had been killed in an auto accident after I went back to college and I was out of touch with such things. I had heard there was a man from “The New Masses” around somewhere.
“Will you promise him immunity?” I asked, joking.
“Oh yes,” Stahr answered seriously. “I won’t hurt him. Get one that can talk—tell him to bring one of his books along.”
He spoke as if he wanted to meet a member of the “I AM” cult.
“Do you want a blonde, or a brunette?”
“Oh, get a man,” he said hastily.
Hearing Stahr’s voice cheered me up—since I barged in on Father it had all seemed a paddling about in thin spittle. Stahr changed everything about it—changed the angle from which I saw it, changed the very air. He was like a brazier out of doors on a cool night.
“I don’t think your father ought to know,” he said. “Can we pretend the man is a Bulgarian musician or something?”
“Oh, they don’t dress up any more,” I said.
It was harder to arrange than I thought—Stahr’s negotiations with the Writers Guild, which had continued over a year, were approaching a dead end. Perhaps they were afraid of being corrupted, and I was asked what Stahr’s “proposition” was. Afterwards Stahr told me that he prepared for the meeting by running off the Russian Revolutionary Films that he had in his film library at home. He also ran off “Doctor Caligari” and Salvador Dali’s “Un Chien Andalou,” possibly suspecting that they had a bearing on the matter. He had been startled by the Russian Films back in the twenties and on Wylie White’s suggestion he had had the script department get him up a two-page “treatment” of the “Communist Manifesto.”
But his mind was closed on the subject. He was a rationalist who did his own reasoning without benefit of books—and he had just managed to climb out of a thousand years of Jewry into the late eighteenth century. He could not bear to see it melt away—he cherished the parvenu’s passionate loyalty to an imaginary past.
The meeting took place in what I called the “processed leather room”—it was one of six done for us by a decorator from Sloane’s years ago, and the term stuck in my head. It was the most decorator’s room—an angora wool carpet the color of dawn, the most delicate grey imaginable—you hardly dared walk on it; and the silver panelling and leather tables and creamy pictures and slim fragilities looked so easy to stain that we could not breathe hard in there, though it was wonderful to look into from the door when the windows were open and the curtains whimpered querulously against the breeze. It was a lineal descendant of the old American parlor that used to be closed except on Sunday. But it was exactly the room for the occasion and I hoped that whatever happened would give it character and make it henceforth part of our house.
Stahr arrived first. He was white and nervous and troubled—except for his voice which was always quiet and full of consideration. There was a brave personal quality in the way he would meet you—he would walk right up to you and put aside something that was in the way, and grow to know you all over as if he couldn’t help himself. I kissed him for some reason, and took him into the processed leather room.
“When do you go back to college?” he asked.
We had been over this fascinating ground before.
“Would you like me if I were a little shorter?” I asked. “I could wear low heels and plaster down my hair.”
“Let’s have dinner tonight,” he suggested. “People will think I’m your father but I don’t mind.”
“I love old men,” I assured him. “Unless the man has a crutch I feel it’s just a boy and girl affair.”
“Have you had many of those?”
“Enough.”
“People fall in and out of love all the time, don’t they.”
“Every three years so Fanny Brice says. I just read it in the paper.”
“I wonder how they manage it,” he said. “I know it’s true because I see them. But they look so convinced every time. And then suddenly they don’t look convinced. But they get convinced all over.”
“You’ve been making too many movies.”
“I wonder if they’re as convinced the second time or the third time or the fourth time,” he persisted.
“More each time,” I said. “Most of all the last time.”
He thought this over
