“What songs does he sing?”
“Lots. Wonderful songs.”
“Like what?”
“There were so many. I can’t think of them.”
“What about just one?”
“‘Laura O’Banion’? ‘Lara O’Banion’? ‘Lucy O’Banion’?”
“I’m sure that was a real toe tapper.”
“No no, he was good, really. He entertained the troops. Your father saw him after the Somme. He used to dance with two canes. That was his … trademark. Yes.”
Sidney Balbion, a man of about sixty, simultaneously closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sun as it came into the clear between the entangled white clouds over the sea. He was tall and, for a man of his age, unfattened. The hair that was left to him in a bathtub ring around the side of his head was jet black, as were his large, rich eyes, his beetled eyebrows, and his heavy beard, which he had to shave twice daily. His teeth were as white as new piano keys, his nose excelled in prominence, and his forehead exaggerated the contrast of his features in a way that could easily be discerned from far in the back of even a major theater.
He had the air of someone who once had been frequently recognized and who, though now hardly recognized at all, was prepared to be charming and responsive to anyone and anything—even a crossing gate, a door slammed in his face, or a shop girl who thought he was an animal cruelty inspector.
“I’d like to talk to him,” Mrs. Lawrence said.
“Why don’t you? He’s not doing anything.”
“He’s sleeping.”
“No he’s not. He was reading his paper, and when the clouds parted he turned his face to the sun.”
“He’s in his bathing costume.”
“He’s wearing a robe.”
“It wouldn’t be right. Oh, look, that man just sat down. He’s an Englishman. You can tell. They’re talking. I’d be interrupting them.”
“Who cares?” the daughter asked.
“But I tell you what we can do: we can sit behind him and listen to what he says. He won’t even know we’re there.”
“And that would be right?”
“He’s famous. We won’t tell.”
“He’s not famous, and you will tell. You’ll tell everyone.”
“I want to know. That’s the point,” said Mrs. Lawrence, who then gathered her things, crossed the terrace undetected, and slipped into a chair directly behind Sidney Balbion’s, there to listen and knit. She was soon joined by her daughter, who tried to read a newspaper in German and had to give up after the first paragraph, which was also the first sentence. And there they sat and listened to the other man and to Sidney Balbion, who once had sung for the king.
“HAVE YOU HEARD anything from the Farkases?”
“I don’t hear anything from the Farkases, Nigel, except what comes through their solicitor. It costs a great deal of money to hear from them, and as it’s always a demand, a threat, or an accusation, the more I don’t hear from them the better.”
“Even Herman? Herman’s the good one, isn’t he, and Willi’s the bad one?”
“No, Herman’s the bad one, and Willi’s the bad one. There’s no difference between the two. Herman likes to pretend that he’s a decent chap, but he isn’t.”
“Herman’s the one who met Hitler, isn’t he, not Willi?”
“Nigel,” Sidney Balbion said, with the beginnings of impatience, “neither of them has met Hitler. Herman claims to have met Hitler but never has. Willi makes no claim about Hitler, as far as I know.”
“Why didn’t you just keep your mouth shut about Hitler, Sidney? You’ve got to learn to be more diplomatic.”
“To the contrary, Nigel. I’m an entertainer. I make my stock-in-trade the truth. Oh yes, everyone thinks he knows that nothing we do is real or true, but that’s the point, you see, that’s how we convey the truth, by letting it ride under the belly of the ram. I didn’t make speeches. I spoofed him. It was better.”
“You killed your career, that’s what you did.”
“What does it matter? Hitler will pull the whole world into war, once again. In light of that, what does the career of one music-hall singer mean?”
“It means a lot to you, Sidney. And if you’re right you can go back to entertaining the troops.”
As the waves broke sharply, Sidney Balbion looked at his friend askance, hesitated, and then said, in the most evenly delivered lines, “I already have entertained the troops. I am now forgotten enough so that I would not again be asked to entertain the troops. And I would not abstain, merely to put myself in a position to entertain the troops, from trying to forestall a world war.”
“What war, Sidney? We have peace. I know a violinist. … Hitler is interested at most in the German-speaking areas that surround Germany. The violinist heard him say so, privately, at a reception.”
“Well, then there’s nothing to worry about, is there? Nigel, never trust what famous people are overheard to say in private. They have been attuned to audiences all their lives, they know as if by magic when others are listening and when they are not, and they think like a fox.”
“The prime minister, the whole British government, press, and people believe this, but not Sidney Balbion. That was your ruin, Sidney.”
“I’ve been injured by that, yes, but it hasn’t been my ruin. I was ruined by time, as is every one and every thing, eventually. I just passed through at excessive speed, and am dead before I’ve died. And there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“For example,” Nigel went on, “everything beyond the German areas, beyond Austria, the Sudetenland, and Silesia, is filled with Jews, millions and millions of them. Hitler wants the Jews out of Germany, obviously. He would have to be insane to invade a lot of countries where there are scads of Jews. What could he possibly do with them? That’s the guarantee, iron clad, that he won’t go much further than he’s gone.”
“Even if you’re right, Nigel, this is not the cause of my ruin.”
“No,” said Nigel. “You were playing … what? … Birmingham? Bathgate? You were doing all right.”
“I last played Birmingham in ’twenty-eight, Bathgate in ’twelve. My last engagement in England, Nigel, was in Reading, in nineteen thirty-four.”
“I don’t understand. The Farkases have theaters everywhere. You have a contract with them.”
“I do.”
“Why aren’t you playing in their theaters?”
“They don’t like my act, and won’t book me anywhere.”
“Then why don’t you go someplace else?”
“There is no place other than anywhere.”
“I mean to another organization.”
“They won’t let me go, except to play limited engagements elsewhere, for which, understandably, no one wants to book me, and I wouldn’t want to sign. Ballet. Have you ever heard anything as absurd? I can hardly get out of bed in the morning, when I ride in a train it’s hell to get out of my seat, and the Farkases say I’m free to do ballet, which I’ve never done in my life anyway. The contract says that if a new act I present is comparable to what I’ve always been doing, the Farkases have to put me on, but they won’t. That’s why I’ve brought suit.”
“How long will it take?”
“A lawsuit? Aeons. Ages. Epochs. Light-years. Because of litigation, I now, finally, understand infinity. You know, they improperly tallied the box office (in their favor), and reneged on their obligation to publicize my appearances. In Reading, I suppose they thought I wasn’t worth it, so they spent only half of what they were supposed to spend. And then, when the theater didn’t fill up as it might have, they blamed me, and now they won’t book me anywhere.”
“How are you supposed to eat, Sidney? It’s a crime.”
“I was paid a goodly sum in advance, but that was fourteen years ago. I made the contract with Lord Lyons, but then he died and everything went to the bloody Farkases. Now they want the money back. It’s been fourteen years, in which I turned down scores of of
fers. The money’s run out. I gave them fourteen years of my life. I worked up four completely new acts, big ones, and now they won’t book me and they won’t let me go.”
“What do they want?”
“The money; they’re Farkases.”
“How do you exist?”
“I’m using up my savings, and my contract does allow me to entertain at private parties.”
“Ah! Aristocrats have huge affairs, don’t they? The Riviera, yachts, country houses, and all that. Could be quite lucrative.”
“Not those kind of parties. They don’t want the music hall in those places.”
“What parties, then?”
“Birthdays, mainly. Children’s parties.”
“Oh. But still, only the aristocracy could afford the musicians and the sets for that sort of thing.”
Sidney Balbion sighed. “I don’t do music hall, Nigel, not at children’s parties. Children are different: they wouldn’t appreciate it.”
“Yes, but their parents … What do you do?”
“The clown. I do children’s birthday parties, as a clown.”
Nigel did not suppress an explosive burst of laughter. He would not have been able to had he tried. He was much relieved when Sidney joined him, and they laughed, as good friends can, until they had tears in their eyes. Mrs. Lawrence cleared her throat so she would not give herself away by following them, and took up her knitting with faux furiousness, as Angelica read a French fashion magazine, oblivious of everything.
After a while, during which the wind shifted slightly and, with unusual clarity, brought the sound of the surf pounding the strand, Nigel said, “The Farkases are crazy.”
“The Farkases are not crazy. They are, however, malevolent. They will gain nothing by my ruin but pleasure, which makes them malevolent. On the other hand, they are quite right that there is no demand for what I do. I can’t blame that on them, I can only blame them for the way they’re handling it. Though the times have changed many times in my life, I haven’t. I’ve always done what I do. I started when I was a little boy. I used to. …”
“Would messieurs like something to drink?” the young tennis-court-sweeping waiter asked.
“Nigel?”
“Yes. Very. Citron pressé, with a dash of gin.”
“Two citrons pressés, one with gin,” Sidney said, and the waiter swooped backward and walked quickly toward the bar, where the bartender was shaking a drink in a silver repoussé shaker.
“I used to dance with a stick. I would do it for sheer joy and in imitation of a performance I had seen—Terry Fisher, remember him?—and I loved it. I would do this alone, with a great deal of passion. Lots of entertainers see what people like and then do exactly that to please them. I was always the other way ’round. I did what I did, and then, purely by accident, it pleased others, and I was able to earn a living, and a good one, for a time. Then things changed and I didn’t.”
“But why not, Sidney? That’s the way of all life. You change, and if not, you die. Why didn’t you change? Why can’t you change?”
“I think,” said Sidney Balbion, “that some people can’t change merely because they’re not agile enough. I’m agile enough. Some don’t change because they object to the new. I don’t, really. I have no objection to talking pictures, or Fred Astaire. I admire Fred Astaire. I wish I could dance as well as he.”
“Then, why?”
“Affection, Nigel, affection. And loyalty. The music and the dancing, and the conventions of the music hall—the bright light and roseate makeup, the pastel-colored cities painted upon the scrims, the girls in gorgeous costumes—I have affection for all that. I wouldn’t leave it for something new. For when I was a boy, and spending long hours teaching myself the routines, I was alone, and they saved me. I’m grateful to them, and they have become the storehouse of my emotions. It was as if the songs and the dances were a recording mechanism upon which all that I loved was etched. Loyalty, loyalty to remembrance, at the very least. Oh, I change. My acts are never the same. But the core remains, the heart of the matter, and that never changes. The world bribes you, threatens, and cajoles you. It wants you to betray your affections and your loyalties. I won’t.”
“That sounds rather silly coming from the man who is famous for ‘Lara Olive’s Lacy Lingerie,’ Sid.”
“I know. But it’s like loving a baby. Let’s say you had a child and it was unattractive to the world because the world could not see past a less than interesting face, or a bent physique. Would you love that child any the less?”
“Of course not, but, ‘Lara Olive’s Lacy. …”
“I realize it’s not Bach, Nigel, but when I sing it there’s a great deal wrapped up in it—memory, all the people who listened over the years, the faces of the soldiers at Arras, who appreciated it as if it were the most beautiful song in the world, and then filed out in a thunderstorm of artillery, so many of them to die. Still, I make no claim. It’s not my place to make a claim of one sort or another, only never to betray, and I will not betray.”
The rhesus-monkey waiter, who momentarily would return to the tennis court yet again to sweep away the sand, appeared with the citrons pressés. They took them, thanked him, and drank them.
“Would you care to join me for dinner tonight at l’Espalier, Sidney? It’s not far down the coast, and the jitney is very pleasant in the open air.”
“I’m leaving,” Sidney Balbion declared.
“When?”
“Four o’clock train.”
“The Ostend boat will have left.”
“Not going to Ostend, going to Berlin.”
“Berlin.”
“And then to Poland.”
“Poland.”
“I’m going to tour.”
“As a tourist?”
“As an entertainer.”
“Poland, Sidney?”
“I open next week in Przemyl. Then, for various lengths of run, Sosnowiec, Piotrków, Kalisz, Bialystok, and finally, assuming that all has gone well and my reception justifies it, Warsaw.”
“Sidney,” Nigel said, “the Poles will receive you in utter bewilderment.”
“I suspect you are right.”
“They won’t have the slightest idea of what you’re doing.”
“Why should they? They’re Poles.”
“The theaters will be empty.”
“And I will be in them, singing.”
“But I thought the Farkases could prevent you from going on?”
“Not in Poland. The contract says that I’m committed to them exclusively in Great Britain, and that in those countries where I’m neither a subject nor a citizen, I must obtain their express, written consent. There was always Italy, the factory towns, and they would not consent; and there was even Germany, and they would not consent.”
“They let you have Poland?”
“No, they can’t stop me in Poland. I’m a British subject but also a Polish citizen. I was born there, in Tarnow, near Czechoslovakia. Might as well have been born on the moon.”
“I knew you had some Yiddish, but not Polish.”
“Not a bit. My parents never uttered a word of Polish after they came to England.”
“I can’t imagine, Sidney—forgive me—that a tour of those cities would be very rewarding. I mean in a monetary sense.”
“It isn’t, but it’s something.”
“At least it proves my point.”
“What point?”
“About Hitler, about your view of the whole thing. You are in fact in agreement with me if you, Sidney Balbion, a Jew and—little did I know—a Polish citizen, are going to Poland, now. Obviously, you don’t believe that Hitler will invade.”
Sidney Balbion was amused.
“It would be suicide. You don’t believe it, do you, I know you don’t. You can’t.”
“Nigel,” said Sidney, after a pause in which Mrs. Lawrence had ceased to knit and even the waves seemed to have held their breaking in abeyance, I do.
> “Oh no,” said Mrs. Lawrence under her breath, her fingers motionless around her knitting needles, “oh no.”
And then Sidney Balbion stood up to his full, impressive, music-hall height, and in his robe he looked regal. “Honor, Nigel, honor,” he said. “It’s the only thing left, and it leaves you with happiness. Come, let’s take a walk on the beach. I want to look at the sea before I go.”
As the two men took the path between the dunes, Mrs. Lawrence said to her daughter, “Look, Angelica, look. There goes Sidney Balbion.”
Her daughter did look up from her fashion magazine, and she said, “I told you, Mother, I’ve never heard of him.”
Mar Nueva
TO ME, nothing is as vivid as the Mar Nueva, though in the more than fifty years since my summers there I have lived in other countries and seen great things. And, then, there are the little things that in their mass can dim other memories. I’ve sailed in glass-bottom boats, joined glacier parties, and slept in tiny huts on the veldt, but when I went back to the Mar Nueva last December for the start of the summer season, I found that the intervening half century had robbed me very little of remembrance, which is not to say the recognition of maplike details. In those years, some beaches had been washed away, while others were born of hurricanes. What had been the main road is now merely the coastal road, both fashionable and crumbling. Further inland, on what used to be cane fields, divided highways cross in cloverleafs, and middle-aged businessmen who were not born then speed along in air-conditioned cars to summer houses three times as costly as the old estates and no bigger than their potting sheds.
Nor by remembrance do I mean the precise identification of landmarks, for individual trees are down, fences have long since vanished, and this time we were going south to hills that once I had seen across the bay from our house, hills that distance and tropical air had stripped of detail and painted sullen, massive, and blue—so there was nothing specific and arresting that I might have seen even if things of that nature had the good grace to last.
I mean by remembrance only my utterly clear recollection of the light on the surface of the sea, the color of the sky, the way the waves rolled in, between parcels of the sweetest silence, and how the entire sea moved, surging and falling back without breaks or whitecaps, in transparent contours that rose and fell like the chest of someone who is asleep.