“That novel I’m buying for my daughter, will it make a movie?” Marrion asked.
“Low-budget,” Bantz said. “Your daughter makes quote-unquote ‘serious’ movies.”
Marrion made a weary gesture. “Why do we always have to pay for other people’s good intentions? Give her a decent writer but no stars. She’ll be happy and we won’t lose too much money.”
“Are you really going to give Vail gross?” Bantz asked. “Our lawyer says we can win in court if he dies.”
Marrion said smilingly, “If I get well. If not, it will be up to you. You’ll be running the show.”
Bantz was astonished at this sentimentality. “Eli, you’ll get well, of course you will.” And he was absolutely sincere. He had no desire to succeed Eli Marrion, indeed he dreaded the day that inevitably had to come. He could do anything as long as Marrion approved it.
“It’s going to be up to you, Bobby,” Marrion said. “The truth is that I’m not going to make it. The doctors tell me I need a heart transplant and I’ve decided not to get one. I can live maybe six months, maybe a year, maybe much less with this lousy heart I have. And besides, I’m too old to qualify for a transplant.”
Bantz was stunned. “They can’t do a bypass?” he asked. When Marrion shook his head, Bantz went on. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course you’ll get a transplant. You built half the hospital, they have to give you a heart. You have another good ten years.” He paused for a moment. “You’re tired, Eli, we’ll talk about this tomorrow.” But Marrion had dozed off. Bantz left to check with the doctors and then to tell them to start all procedures to harvest a new heart for Eli Marrion.
Ernest Vail, Molly Flanders, and Claudia De Lena celebrated by having dinner at La Dolce Vita on Santa Monica. It was Claudia’s favorite restaurant. She had memories of herself as a little girl being brought there by her father and being treated like royalty. She had memories of the bottles of red and white wine being stacked in all the window alcoves, on the back rails of banquettes, and in every vacant space. The customers could reach out and pluck a bottle as if they were grapes.
Ernest Vail was in good spirits, and Claudia wondered again how anybody could believe he would commit suicide. He was bubbling over with glee that his threat had worked. And the very good red wine put them all into a merry mood that was slightly boastful. They were very pleased with themselves. The food itself, robustly Italian, fueled their energy.
“Now what we have to think about,” Vail said, “is two points good enough or should we push for three?”
“Don’t get greedy,” Molly said. “The deal is made.”
Vail kissed her hand movie-star style and said, “Molly you’re a genius. A ruthless genius, true. How could you two browbeat a guy sick on his hospital bed?”
Molly dipped bread into tomato sauce. “Ernest,” she said, “you will never understand this town. There is no mercy. Not when you’re drunk, or on coke, or in love, or broke. Why make an exception for sick?”
Claudia said, “Skippy Deere once told me that when you’re buying, take people to a Chinese restaurant, but when you’re selling, take them to an Italian restaurant. Does that make any sense?”
“He’s a producer,” Molly said. “He read it someplace. It doesn’t mean anything without a context.”
Vail was eating with the gusto of a reprieved criminal. He had ordered three different kinds of pasta just for himself but gave small portions to Claudia and Molly and demanded their opinions. “The best Italian food in the world outside Rome,” he said. “About Skippy, it makes a certain kind of movie sense. Chinese food is cheap, it brings the price down. Italian food can put you to sleep and make you less sharp. I like both. Isn’t it nice to know that Skippy is always scheming?”
Vail always ordered three desserts. Not that he ate all of them, but he wanted to taste many different things at one dinner. In him it did not seem eccentric. Not even the way he dressed, as if clothes were to shield skin from wind or sun, or the way he carelessly shaved, one sideburn cut lower than the other. Not even his threat to kill himself seemed illogical or strange. Nor his complete and childish frankness, which often hurt people’s feelings. Claudia was not unused to eccentricity. Hollywood abounded with eccentrics.
“You know, Ernest, you belong to Hollywood. You’re eccentric enough,” she said.
“I am not an eccentric,” Vail said. “I’m not that sophisticated.”
“You don’t call wanting to kill yourself over a dispute about money eccentric?” Claudia said.
“That was an extremely cool-headed response to our culture,” Vail said. “I was tired of being a nobody.”
Claudia said impatiently, “How can you think that? You’ve written ten books, you’ve won the Pulitzer. You’re internationally famous.”
Vail had polished off his three pastas and was looking at his entrée, three pearly slices of veal covered with lemon. He picked up a fork and knife. “All that means shit,” he said. “I have no money. It took me fifty-five years to learn that if you have no money, you’re shit.”
Molly said, “You’re not eccentric, you’re crazy. And stop whining because you’re not rich. You’re not poor either. Or we wouldn’t be here. You’re not suffering too much for your art.”
Vail put down his knife and fork. He patted Molly’s arm. “You’re right,” he said. “Everything you say is true. I enjoy life from moment to moment. It’s the arc of life that gets me down.” He drank his glass of wine and then went on matter-of-factly. “I’m never going to write again,” he said. “Writing novels is a dead end, like being a blacksmith. It’s all movies and TV now.”
“That’s nonsense,” Claudia said. “People will always read.”
“You’re just lazy,” Molly said. “Any excuse not to write. That’s the real reason why you wanted to kill yourself.” They all laughed. Ernest helped them to the veal on his dish and then to the extra desserts. The only time he was courtly was over dinner, he seemed to take pleasure in feeding people.
“That’s all true,” he said. “But a novelist can’t make a good living unless he writes simple novels. And even that is a dead end. A novel can never be as simple as a movie.”
Claudia said angrily, “Why do you put movies down? I’ve seen you cry at good movies. And they are art.”
Vail was enjoying himself. After all, he had won his fight against the Studio, he had his points. “Claudia, I really agree,” he said. “Movies are art. I complain out of envy. Movies are making novels irrelevant. What’s the point of writing a lyrical passage about nature, painting the world in red heat, a beautiful sunset, a mountain range coated with snow, the awe-inspiring waves of great oceans.” He was declaiming, waving his arms. “What can you write about passion and the beauty of women? What’s the use of all that when you can see it on the movie screen in Technicolor? Oh, those mysterious women with full red lips, their magical eyes, when you can see them bare-assed, tits as delicious-looking as beef Wellington. All much better than real life even, never mind prose. And how can we write about the amazing deeds of heroes who slay their enemies by the hundred, who conquer great odds and great temptation, when you can get it all in gouts of blood before your eyes, tortured, agonized faces on the screen. Actors and cameras doing all the work without processing through the brain. Sly Stallone as Achilles in the Iliad. Now the one thing the screen can’t do is get into the minds of their characters, it cannot duplicate the thinking process, the complexity of life.” He paused for a moment, then said wistfully, “But you know what’s worst of all? I’m an elitist. I wanted to be an artist to be something special. So what I hate is that movies are such a democratic art. Anybody can make a movie. You’re right, Claudia, I’ve seen movies that moved me to tears and I know for a fact that the people who made them are moronic, insensitive, uneducated, and with not an iota of morality. The screenwriter is illiterate, the director an egomaniac, the producer a butcher of morality and the actors smash their fists into the wall or a mirror to show the
audience they are upset. But then the movie works. How can that be? Because a movie uses sculpture, painting, music, human bodies, and technology to form itself, while a novelist only has a string of words, black print on white paper. And to tell the truth that’s not so terrible. That’s progress. And the new great art. A democratic art. And art without suffering. Just buy the right camera and meet with your friends.”
Vail beamed at the two women. “Isn’t it wonderful, an art that requires no real talent? What democracy, what therapy, to make your own movie. It will replace sex. I go to see your movie and you come to see mine. It’s an art that will transform the world and for the better. Claudia, be happy that you are in an art form that is the future.”
“You are a condescending prick,” Molly said. “Claudia fought for you, defended you. And I’ve been more patient with you than any murderer I’ve defended. And you buy us dinner to insult us.”
Vail seemed genuinely astonished. “I’m not insulting, I’m just defining. I am grateful and I love you both.” He paused for a moment and then said humbly, “I’m not saying I’m better than you.”
Claudia burst out laughing. “Ernest, you’re so full of shit,” she said.
“Just in real life,” Vail said amiably. “Can we talk business a little bit? Molly, if I were dead and my family regained all the rights, would LoddStone pay five points?”
“At least five,” Molly said. “Now you’re going to kill yourself over extra points? You lose me entirely.”
Claudia was looking at him, troubled. She distrusted his high spirits. “Ernest, are you still unhappy? We got you a wonderful deal. I was so thrilled.”
Vail said fondly, “Claudia, you have no idea what the real world is all about. Which makes you perfect to do screenplays. What the hell difference does it make if I’m happy? The happiest man who ever lived is going to have terrible times in his life. Terrible tragedies. Look at me now. I’ve just won a great victory, I don’t have to kill myself. I’m enjoying this meal, I’m enjoying the company of you two beautiful, intelligent, compassionate women. And I love it that my wife and children will have economic security.”
“Then why the fuck are you whining?” Molly asked him. “Why are you spoiling a good time?”
“Because I can’t write,” Vail said. “Which is no great tragedy. It’s not really important anymore but it’s the only thing I know how to do.” As he was saying this, he was finishing the three desserts with such evident enjoyment that the two women burst out laughing. Vail grinned back at them. “We sure bluffed out old Eli,” he said.
“You take writer’s block too seriously,” Claudia said. “Just take some speed.”
“Screenwriters don’t have writer’s block because they don’t write,” Vail said. “I cannot write because I have nothing to say. Now let’s talk about something more interesting. Molly, I’ve never understood how I can have ten percent of the profit of a picture that grosses one hundred million dollars and costs only fifteen million to make, and then never see a penny. That’s one mystery I’d like to solve before I die.”
This put Molly in good spirits again; she loved to teach the law. She took a notebook out of her purse and scribbled down some figures.
“It’s absolutely legal,” she said. “They are abiding by the contract, one you should not have signed in the first place. Look, take the one-hundred-million gross. The theaters, the exhibitors, take half, so now the studio only gets fifty million, which is called rentals.
“OK. The studio takes out the fifteen million dollars the picture costs. Now there’s thirty-five million left. But by the terms of your contract and most studio contracts, the studio takes thirty percent of the rentals for distribution costs on the film. That’s another fifteen mil in their pockets. So you’re down to twenty mil. Then they deduct the cost of making prints, the cost for advertising the picture, which could easily be another five. You’re down to fifteen. Now here’s the beauty. By contract, the studio gets twenty-five percent of the budget for studio overhead, telephone bills, electricity, use of soundstages etc. Now you’re down to eleven. Good, you say. You’ll take your piece of eleven million. But the Bankable Star gets at least five percent of the rentals, the director and producer another five percent. So that comes to another five million. You’re down to six million. At last you’ll get something. But not so fast. They then charge you all the costs of distribution, they charge fifty grand for delivering the prints to the English market, another fifty to France or Germany. And then finally they charge the interest on the fifteen million they borrowed to make the picture. And there they lose me. But that last six million disappears. That’s what happens when you don’t have me for a lawyer. I write a contract that really gets you a piece of the gold mine. Not gross for a writer but a very good definition of net. Do you understand it now?”
Vail was laughing. “Not really,” he said. “How about TV and video money?”
“TV you’ll see a little,” Molly said. “Nobody knows how much money they make in video.”
“And my deal with Marrion now is straight gross?” Vail asked. “They can’t screw me again?”
“Not the way I’ll write the contract,” Molly said. “It will be straight gross all the way.”
Vail said mournfully, “Then I won’t have a grievance anymore. I won’t have an excuse for not writing.”
“You really are so eccentric,” Claudia said.
“No, no,” Vail said. “I’m just a fuckup. Eccentrics do odd things to distract people from what they do or are. They are ashamed. That’s why movie people are so eccentric.”
Who would have dreamed that dying could be so pleasant, that you could be so at peace, that you could be so without fear? That best of all you had solved the one great common myth?
Eli Marrion, in the long hours of the sick at night, sucked oxygen from the tube in the wall and reflected on his life. His private duty nurse, Priscilla, working a double shift, was reading a book by the dim lamp on the other side of the room. He could see her eyes dart quickly up and then down, as if checking him after every line she read.
Marrion thought how different this scene was from how it would be in a movie. In a movie there would be a great deal of tension because he was hovering between life and death. The nurse would be crouched over his bed, doctors would be coming in and out. There should sure as hell be a lot of noise, a lot of tension. And here he was in a room absolutely quiet, the nurse reading, Marrion easily breathing through his plastic tube.
He knew this penthouse floor held only these huge suites for very important people. Powerful politicians, real estate billionaires, stars who were the fading myths of the entertainment world. All kings in their own right and now, here in the night in this hospital, vassals to death. They lay helpless and alone, comforted by mercenaries, their power scattered. Tubes in bodies, prongs in nostrils, waiting for surgeon’s knives to scour the debris from their failing hearts or, like himself, for a completely edited heart to be inserted. He wondered if they were as resigned as he.
And why that resignation? Why had he told the doctors he would not have a transplant, that he preferred to live only the short time his failing heart would give him. He thought that, thank God, he could still make intelligent decisions devoid of sentiment.
Everything was clear to him, like making a deal on a film: figuring the cost, the percentage of return, the value of subsidiary rights, the possible traps with stars, directors, and cost overages.
Number one: He was eighty years old and not a robust eighty. A heart transplant would disable him for a year, at the very best. Certainly he would never run LoddStone Studies again. Certainly most of his power over his world would vanish.
Number two: Life without power was intolerable. After all, what could an old man like himself do even with a fresh new heart? He could not play sports, run after women, take pleasure from food or drink. No, power was an old man’s only pleasure, and why was that so bad? Power could be used for the good. Had he not grant
ed mercy to Ernest Vail, against all prudent principles, against all his lifelong prejudices? Had he not told his doctors that he did not want to deprive a child or some young man the chance to have a new life by taking a heart? Was that not a use of power for the higher good?
But he had had a long life of dealing with hypocrisy and recognized it now in himself. He had declined a new heart because it was not a good deal; a bottom-line decision. He had granted Ernest Vail his points because he desired the affection of Claudia and the respect of Molly Flanders, a sentimentality. Was it so terrible that he wanted to leave an image of goodness?
He was satisfied in the life he had lived. He had fought his way from poverty to riches, he had conquered his fellow man. He had enjoyed all the pleasure of human life, loved beautiful women, lived in luxurious homes, worn the finest silks. And he had helped in the creation of art. He had earned enormous power and a great fortune. And he had tried to do good for his fellow man. He had contributed tens of millions to this very hospital. But most of all he had enjoyed struggling against his fellow man. And what was so terrible about that? How else could you acquire the power to do good? Even now he regretted the last act of mercy to Ernest Vail. You could not simply give the spoils of your struggle to your fellow man, especially under threat. But Bobby would take care of that. Bobby would take care of everything.
Bobby would plant the necessary publicity stories featuring his refusal of a heart transplant so that someone younger could have it. Bobby would recover all the gross points that existed. Bobby would get rid of his daughter’s production company, which was a losing proposition for LoddStone. Bobby would take the rap.
Far off he could hear a tiny bell, then the snakelike rattling of the fax machine transmitting the box office receipts compiled in New York. The stuttering making a refrain for his failing heart.