Fancies and Goodnights Part 10

"Not as I shall do it. You shall write a new script, specially for me."

"O.K. We'll modernize it. The Capulet apartment is in a New York skysc.r.a.per. Romeo's a young G-man, from Harvard, but disguised as a Yale man in order to outwit the gangsters. Capulet's Harvard, you see. It builds for a reconciliation, a happy end. Romeo's keen on mountain climbing; that builds up for the balcony scene. On a skysc.r.a.per, you see. Only his name's not Romeo. It's Don."

"Isn't that making him different?"

"Well, you know what Shakespeare said, 'Wherefore art thou Romeo?"'

"Juliet said that."

"Well, anyway, it showed there were doubts."

"You're right I've only just thought of it. Charlie, you write my thoughts in a book on Shakespeare, and I'll sign it. I don't want to be an ordinary actress."

"You won't. But let's go and join Mahound. He's wild about you."

"And he's really one of the very big producers?"

"He is. But, a word in your ear. (G.o.d! It's like a sh.e.l.l! A lovely, rosy sh.e.l.l!) I was going to say, remember you've got the talent. Last night you were just a discovery. Today - you are what you are today. You're developing fast. Think in a big way. Don't let anybody cramp your style. Not even Mahound."

"No. Because of my art. That's sacred."

"Grand!"

Mr. Mahound, when we entered his suite, took both her hands in his. "What a very, very lovely thing to do, on the part of a very, very lovely lady, to come and see a poor old film man, in his little hide-out in the Beverly-Ritz!"

"Nicky, Charlie's thought me up a part. Juliet, only better."

"Splendid. Have you anyone in mind for Romeo, my dear Rythym?"

"Oh, some guy."

"He's got to climb up the face of a skysc.r.a.per, Nicky. For me to do the balcony scene, holding a rose."

"Will your Hollywood leading men manage that, Rythym? They are not all as young as they might be."

"Sure. They'll climb anywhere. And look, we've got to work in a Joan of Arc touch to build up the part. She's got to save New York."

"From what?"

"Gangsters. And listen to the pay-off."

"What's that?"

"Real bullets."

"Oh, Rythym! Come, come! After all, there are rules to the game, you know. Even I ..."

"Hear me out," I cried. "The part demands it. Doesn't it, Belinda? How's she going to act up, give all she's got, if you let her down on the bullets?"

"I think I ought to have real bullets, Nicky."

"Of course," I insisted. "Do you think Theda Bara would have played Cleopatra without a real pearl?"

"Not a real asp, though," said Mahound, clutching at a straw.

I twitched it away. "Yeah, a real asp, only an old one. With its teeth out. You can use old bullets. Say, you can use old gangsters, and let on they died of heart failure."

"You sound rather tough all of a sudden, my dear Rythym."

"Tough? You wait till I get on the set!"

"Perhaps the set will have parquet flooring."

"Yes, perhaps it will," said I, despondently. "Perhaps we'll have blank cartridges. Perhaps I'll go out and buy some real pearls instead. Because I'm going to write in a Cleopatra touch, where she comes in rolled up in a carpet"

"Do so, my dear fellow. We've got a writer of talent, Belinda."

"Charlie's all right, but he gives way so. Please, Nicky, I want real bullets."

"Listen, folks," said I. "I'm off to buy those pearls. You talk it over."

On the way back, I was overcome by misgivings. Had I gone too far? Maybe the pearls were a little vulgar. I thought I'd go to my room and see how they looked with two or three of the largest taken from the middle. As I walked along the corridor the elevator came humming down. Mr. Mahound was in it. He saw me. His lips shaped the words, "She's wonderful!" Then he was gone.

Later on, I went up to his suite. Belinda was there alone, tearing up orchids.

"They look like confetti," she said. "I find him a leetle ... fascinating, your Mr. Mahound."

I noted her middle-European accent. "You have your bullets, then?"

"Charlie, we're going to have me save the city from a Red Navy. Real sh.e.l.ls."

"That's right, Belinda honey. Nick's a grand guy. He's a white man, Belinda. He's got background. If I were a girl, I'd think a lot of Nick. But don't forget it; you're the one with the talent. Don't let anybody cramp your style. You've got a big future, Belinda. Maybe you think you're in the money. Baby, that's chicken feed to what's coming to you, all so long as you don't get your style cramped."

"You're right, Charlie. It's my art. It's sacred."

In the evening I saw Mahound alone. "She's wonderful, Charles! But ... I say ..."

"Yeah?"

"Did she say anything to you about sh.e.l.ls?"

"She said you'd said something to her about sh.e.l.ls."

"Maybe I did. In a moment of emotion. It's tough, Charles. Real sh.e.l.ls! There'll be trouble. I don't want to be dragged into court"

"What do you care?"

"I care about my ambitions in pictures. What's more, Charles, I don't like your script. Forgive me, old fellow. It's a grand script, but I don't like it. The fact is, it's too expensive."

His eyes could not meet mine. I saw that he was ashamed that his millions were not entirely unlimited. I reflected that where vanity of that sort is to be found on one side of a contract there is always hope on the other. I goaded bun. "I thought you had all the money in the world. I thought you were solid. They say 'rich as the devil,' you know." He couldn't bear to say frankly he was only a devil. He muttered something about a budget being a budget.

"I can do you a western," said I, sarcastically. "Will you run to a real horse?"

"I've run to a real trap already, my dear Rythym."

"Maybe you have. Very well, I'll get something on paper."

Next day I called Belinda early. "Well, lovey, our script's got panned. I'm writing you a little old period piece in a small-town setting. You wear one of those big bonnets that hide the face."

"Charlie, you don't say so! I want to come in in a carpet, with three big pearls."

"The pearls are out, ducky. There's an economy ramp on. Listen, even your sh.e.l.ls are gone. It's you and a horse."

"Don't write a word, Charlie. Wait till I've seen Nick."

After lunch, the telephone summoned me to Mr. Mahound. Belinda was there, flushed and radiant "Real sh.e.l.ls, Charlie!"

"And bells, Charles. Belinda and I are going to be married. Isn't that so, sweetie?"

"Yes, and I'm going to have real sh.e.l.ls."

"Real battle-s.h.i.+ps, too," said I. "How about that for an idea? Let me put 'em in the script. Coming up the Hudson, blazing away! My present to the bride."

"Do you hear what he says, Nick? Oh, Charlie, you can write! Real battle-s.h.i.+ps!"

"I'm afraid Charles is joking, my dear. He likes jokes about blazing away. But you and I - let's talk about our wedding."

"All right, Nicky. We'll fly to New York. Well go to the Little Church Around the Corner."

"Did you say the little judge around the corner?"

"No, honey, the Little Church."

"Not for us, honey. Us for a quiet wedding, in front of a judge."

"What? Who do you think I am? Your chattel? Your slave? Am I a film star, or not?"

"But a good little wife, too, honey. Remember you're a simple girl. Doggies . . . cookies . . . Her fans want her to be an ideal little wife, don't they, Charles?"

"Yes, Nicky. But I'm not signed up for the wife part yet awhile. I'm not acting any part before I'm signed up for it. My mother said a girl shouldn't ever act like a wife till she is one. She's old-fas.h.i.+oned. Why are one's people so old-fas.h.i.+oned?"

"I'm old-fas.h.i.+oned, too, dear," said Nick. "I can't go to the Little Church Around the Corner. I should sink through the floor. Look, darling, make it just a plain judge, and maybe I can stretch a little on budget. Maybe I'll get you a battle-s.h.i.+p or two."

"Well, don't forget you've promised."

"What a relief! What happiness!" cried he. "Real happiness! Let's start at once."

"Linda," I whispered, while he was telephoning for a plane. "Don't forget your prestige. Make it a good long honeymoon. Two months at least, honey, or the world'll think there's something wrong with your glamor."

"You're right, Charlie. I will."

So they went to Yuma. After some weeks I got a telegram. "Home on Friday. Love. Nick and Linda." Soon afterwards came another. "Confidential. Can you possibly outline alternative script? Western, South Sea, or other simple natural background. Repeat confidential. Nick."

After some thought I drafted a rather humorous farm story, of the sort that made Mabel Normand in the good old days. I thought it would hardly appeal to Belinda, but I was under contract. Orders were orders.

I was at the airport to meet them. Linda alighted first, and was at once seized on by the press. I heard the words husband, doggies, cookies.

"Charles," whispered Mahound. "A word in your ear. Have you got that outline? That rough script?"

"Yes. I've got it. What's the matter? Are you stalling on the real battle-s.h.i.+ps?"

"Charles, she wants the real New York."

"Well! Well! Well! Never mind. I've got a farm story. She can have real striped stockings."

"She thinks big, Charles. She may feel it rather a letdown after the real New York."

"Don't worry. You go off to the hotel. Everything's fixed up for you. I'll look in after supper."

Late that evening I went round to see them. Something told me that all was not harmony in the romantic menage. Mahound was frowning over a heap of bills.

"You've bought a lot of rather impressive orchids, Charles," said he, in a worried tone.

"Nothing's too good for you and Linda," said I, smiling. "You're my best friends in pictures."

"Yes, but it all goes down on the expense account"

"There you go again, dear!" cried Linda. "He's got all mean, Charlie. He says he can't afford to buy me New York. For the bombardment scene. Where I save it. I can't act in front of a lot of paste-board, Charlie. You tell him."

"There's something in that, Nick," said I. "Still, listen, Linda, I've got a new script for you. The part's sort of lovable. Farm. Birds singing. Real birds. Hens, too. You come in scattering the corn. With comedy stockings on. Real stockings. Real comedy."

"Nick, is this just a bad joke, to welcome me home?"

"Now, listen, honey," said Nick. "Give the writer a chance. He's put his life's blood into this story. Go on, Charlie."

"That's true, Linda. There's smiles and tears in this script"

"Smiles?"

"Where you get a sock in the puss with a custard pie. A real ..."

"Say. What have you got lined up for me next? A burlesque act? I'm out. I'm through."

"Joan of Arc started on a farm, honey."

"Joan of Arc never got no custard pie."

"She got worse than that, milking the cows, sweetie," said Nick. "I was there. I fixed it."