Serenade

Chapter 8

I didn’t like Hollywood. I didn’t like it partly because of the way they treated a singer, and partly because of the way they treated her. To them, singing is just something you buy, for whatever you have to pay, and so is acting, and so is writing, and so is music, and anything else they use. That it might be good for its own sake is something that hasn’t occurred to them yet. The only thing they think is good for its own sake is a producer that couldn’t tell Brahms from Irving Berlin on a bet, that wouldn’t know a singer from a crooner until he heard twenty thousand people yelling for him one night, that can’t read a book until the scenario department has had a synopsis made, that can’t even speak English, but that is a self-elected expert on music, singing, literature, dialogue, and photography, and generally has a hit because somebody lent him Clark Gable to play in it. I did all right, you understand. After the first tangle with Ziskin I kind of got the hang of how you handle things out there to get along. But I never liked it, not even for a second.

It turned out he wasn’t the main guy on his lot, or even a piece of the main guy. He was just one producer there, and when I showed up the next morning he seemed even to have forgot my name. I had his piece of paper, so they had to pay me, but I wandered around for a week not knowing what I was supposed to do or where I was supposed to do it. You see, he didn’t have his script ready. But my piece of paper said six weeks, and I mean to collect on it. After four or five days they shoved me in what they call a B picture, a Western about a cowboy that hates sheep and the sheep man’s daughter, but then he finds some sheep caught in a blizzard and brings them home safe, and that fixes it all up. I couldn’t see where it fixed anything, but it wasn’t my grief. They had bought some news-reel stuff on sheep caught in the snow, and that seemed to be the main reason for the picture. The director didn’t know I could sing, but I got him to let me spot a couple of campfire songs, and on the blizzard stuff, Git Along, Little Dogies, Git Along.

They finished it toward the end of September, and gave it a sneak preview in Glendale. I thought it was so lousy I went just out of curiosity to see how bad they would razz it. They ate it up. On the snow stuff, every time I came around the bend with a lamb in my arms, breaking trail for the sheep, they’d clap and stamp and whistle. Out in the lobby, after it was over, I caught just a few words between the producer, the director, and one of the writers. “B picture hell — it’s a feature!”

“Christ, would that help the schedule! We’re three behind now, and if we can make an extra feature out of this, would that be a break! Would that be a break!”

“We got to do retakes.”

“We got to do it bigger, but it’ll get by.”

“It’ll cost dough, but it’s worth it.”

She hadn’t come with me. We were living in an apartment on Sunset by that time, and she was going to night school, trying to learn how to read. I went home and she had just gone to bed with her reader, Wisdom of the Ages, a book of quotations from poetry, all in big type, that she practiced on. I got out the guitar and some blank music paper that I had, and I went to work. I split up that song, Git Along, Little Dogies, Git Along, into five-part harmony, one part the straight melody, the other four a quartet obbligato in long four-beat and eight-beat notes, and maybe you think it wasn’t work. That song is nothing extra to start with, and when you try to plaster polyphonic harmony on top of it, it’s a job. But after a while I had it done, and went to bed with her to get a little sleep.

Next morning, before they could get together and really think up something dumb, I got the producer, the director, the writer and the sound man together in the producer’s office, and I laid it down to them.

“All right, boys, I heard a little of what you said last night. You thought you had a B picture here, and now you find out if it’s fixed up a little bit, you can get away with it for a feature. You want to do retakes, put some more money in it, do it bigger. Now listen to me. You don’t have to put one extra dime in this if you do what I tell you, and you can make it a wow. The big hit is the snow stuff. You’ve got at least ten thousand feet of that that you didn’t use. I know because I saw it run off one day in the projection room. The problem is, how to get more of that stuff in, and tie it up so it makes sense so they don’t get tired of it before you’ve really made full use of it. All right, this is what we do. We rip out that sound track where I’m singing, and make another one. I do that song, but after the first verse I come in, singing over top of myself, see? My own voice, singing an obbligato to myself on the verse. Then when that’s done, I come in and sing another one on top of that. Then I come in on top of that, so before the end of it, there’s five voices there — all me — light falsetto for the tenor part, heavier for the middle point, and plenty of beef in the bass. Then we repeat it. At the repeat, we start a tympanum, a kettle drum, just light at first, but keeping time to the slug of his feet, and when he gets in sight of the ranch-house we bang hell out of it, and let the five-part harmony swell out so the thing really gets there. All during that, you keep cutting in the snowy stuff, but not straight cuts. Slow dissolves, so you get a kind of dream effect, to go with the cock-eyed harmony on that song. And it doesn’t cost you a dime. Nothing but my pay, and you’ve got me anyhow, for another two weeks. How does it hit you?”

The producer shook his head. His name was Beal, and he and the director and the writer had been listening like it was merely painful, my whole idea. “It’s impossible.”

“Why is it impossible? You can put all those parts on your loops, I know you can. After you’ve checked your synchronization, you run them off and make your sound track. It’s absolutely possible.”

“Listen, we got to do it big, see? That means we got to do retakes, we got to put more production in, and if I got to spend money, I’d a hell of a sight rather spend it on that than on this. This way you say, I got to pay an arranger, I got to hire an orchestra—”

“Arranger, hell. It’s already arranged. I’ve got the parts right here. And what orchestra?”

“For the kettle drum, and—”

“I play the kettle drum myself. On every repeat of the song, I tune it up. Just a little higher, to get a sense of climax, a little louder, a little faster. Don’t you get it? They’re getting near home. It’ll build. It’ll give you what you’re looking for, it—”

“Nah, it’s too tricky. Besides, how can a goddam cowboy be singing quartets with himself out there in the snow? They wouldn’t never believe it. Besides, we got to pump up the rest of the picture, the beginning—”

“O.K., we’ll do that, and then they’ll believe everything. Look.”

It had suddenly popped in my mind about my voice coming back at me, that night in the arroyo, and I knew I had something. “In that campfire song, the second one, Home On The Range, we do a little retake and show him singing it at the mountains. His voice comes back, in an echo. It surprises him. He likes it. He begins to fool around with it, and first thing you know, he’s singing a duet with himself, and then maybe a trio. We don’t do much with it. Just enough that they like it, and we establish it. Then in the snow scene it’s not tricky at all. It’s his own voice coming back at him from all over that range — out there all alone, bringing home those sheep. They can believe it then, can’t they? What’s tricky now?”

“It’s not enough. We got to do retakes.”

Up to then the sound man had sat like he was asleep. He sat up now and began to make marks on a piece of paper. “It can be done.”

“Even if it can be done, it’s no good.”

“It can be done, and it’s good.”

“Oh, you’re telling me what’s good?”

“Yeah, I’m telling you.”

The technical guys on a lot, they’re not like the rest of them. They know their stuff, and they don’t take much off a producer or anybody. “You went and bought ten thousand feet of the prettiest snow stuff I ever saw, and then what did you do? You threw out all but four hundred feet of it. It’s a crime to waste that stuff, and the lousy way you fixed up the story, there’s no way to get it in but the way this guy says. All right then, do like he says, and get it in. It’ll build, just like he says it will. You’ll get all those angle shots in, all those far shots of miles of sheep going down that mountain, all but the little bits that you never even tried to get in before, and then toward the end of it, the ranchhouse where they’re getting near home. I’ll give him a light mix on the first of it, and on all the far shots, and when we get near the end — we cut her loose. That kettle drum, that’s O.K. It’ll get that tramp-tramp feel to it, and go with the music. The echoes on Home On The Range I can work with no trouble at all. It’s O.K. And it’s O.K. all down the line. It’s the only chance you got. Because listen: either this is a little epic all by itself, or it’s a goddam cheapie not worth hell room. Tal your pick.”

“Epic! That’s what I’ve been trying to get.”

“Well then, this is how you get it.”

“All right, then, fix it up like he says. Let me know when you’ve got something for me to look at.”

So he, I, and the cutter went to work. When I say work I mean work. It was sing, rewrite the parts, test the mix, run it off, and do it all over again from morning to night, and from night to almost morning, but after a couple of weeks we had it done and they gave it another preview, downtown this time, with the newspapers notified. They clapped, cheered, and gave it a rising vote. The Times next morning said “Woolies” was “one of the most vital, honest, and moving things that had come out of Hollywood in a long time,” and that “John Howard Sharp, a newcomer with only featured billing, easily stole the picture, and is star material, unless we miss our guess. He can act, he can sing, and he has that certain indefinable, je-ne-sais-quoi something. He’s distinctly somebody to watch.”

So the next day eight guys showed up to sell me a car, two to sell me annuities, one to get me to sing at a benefit, and one to interview me for a fan magazine. I was a Hollywood celebrity overnight. When I went on the lot in the afternoon I got a call to report to the office of Mr. Gold, president of the company. Ziskin was there, and another producer named London. You’d have thought I was the Duke of Windsor. It seemed I wasn’t to wait till Ziskin got his script ready. I was to go into another one that was waiting to shoot. They had been dickering with John Charles Thomas for it, but he was tied up. They thought I would do just as well, because I was younger and bigger and looked the part better. It was about a singing lumberjack that winds up in grand opera.

I said I was glad they liked my work, and everything was fine if we could come to terms on money. They looked kind of funny, and wanted to know what I was talking about. We had our agreement, and I was pretty well paid for a man that started in pictures just a little while ago.

“We did have an agreement, Mr. Gold.”

“And we still got it.”

“It ran out today.”

“Get his contract, Ziskin.”

“He’s sewed for five years, Mr. Gold, absolutely for five years from the date on the contract, with options every six months, same as all our talent, with a liberal increase, two fifty I think it was, every time we take up our option. A fine, generous contract, and frankly, Mr. Sharp, I am much amazed by the attitude you’re taking. That won’t get you nowheres in pictures.”

“Get his contract.”

So they sent down for my contract, and a secretary came up with it, and Gold took a look at it, put his thumb on the amounts and handed it over. “You see?”

“Yeah, I see everything but a signature.”

“This is a file copy.”

“Don’t try to kid me. I haven’t signed any contract. That may be the contract you were going to offer me, but the only thing that’s been signed is this thing here, that ran out today.”

I fished out the memo I had got off Ziskin that night in the dressing-room. Gold began to roar at Ziskin. Ziskin began to roar at the secretary. “Yes, Mr. Ziskin, the contract came though at least a month ago, but you gave me strict orders not to have any contracts signed until you gave your personal approval, and it’s been on your desk all that time. I’ve called it to your attention.”

“I been busy. I been cutting Love Is Love.”

The secretary went. Ziskin went. London looked sore. Gold began drumming on his desk with his fingers. “O.K., then. If you want a little more dough, something like that, I guess we can boost you a little. Tell you what we do. We won’t bother with any new contract. You can sign this one here, and we’ll take up the first option right away, and that’ll give you twelve fifty. No use quarreling about a few hundred bucks. Report on the set tomorrow morning to Mr. London here, and you better be going down and getting measured for your costumes so you can start.”

“I’m afraid twelve fifty won’t do, Mr. Gold.”

“Why not?”

“I prefer to work by the picture.”

“O.K., then. Let’s see, this is on a six-week shooting schedule, that’ll make seven and half for the picture. I’ll have new contracts drawn up this afternoon with corresponding options.”

“I’m afraid that won’t do either.”

“What the hell are you getting at?”

“I want fifty thousand for the picture, with no options. I want to work, but I want every picture a separate deal. For this one, fifty thousand. When we see how that goes, we’ll talk again.”

“Talk like you had good sense.”

“Listen, I’ve been out here a little while now, I know what you pay, and fifty thousand is the price. Very low it is, too, but as you say, I’m new here, and I’ve got to be reasonable.”

London left, talking over his shoulder as he went. “Stop work on the sets. I’ll wait for Thomas. If I can’t get him I’ll take Tibbett, and if I can’t get him I’ll put an actor in and dub the sound. But I’ll be goddamned if I’m paying fifty grand to this punk.”

“Well, you heard him, Mr. Sharp. He’s the producer. Fifty thousand is out of the question. We might up that seven and a half to ten, but that would be top. The picture can’t stand it, Mr. Sharp. After all, we know what our productions cost.”

“I heard him, and now in case you didn’t hear me, I’ll say it over again. The price is fifty thousand. Now beginning tomorrow I’m taking a little rest. I’ve been working hard, and I’m tired. But one week from today, if I don’t hear from you, I’m taking the plane for New York. I’ve got plenty of work waiting for me there, and get this: I’m not just talking. I’m going.”

“I hate to see you be so foolish.”

“Fifty, or I go.”

“Why — pictures could make you rich. And you can’t get away with this. You’re trying to put one over on us. You’ll be blackballed all over Hollywood. No studio will have you.”

“To hell with that. Fifty or I don’t work.”

“Oh, to hell with it, hey? I’ll goddam well see that you don’t work in Hollywood. We’ll see if a lousy ham actor can put one like that over on Rex Gold.”

“Sit down.”

He sat, and he sat pretty quick. “Once more. Fifty or I’m going to New York. You got a week.”

“Get out of my office.”

“On my way.”

I had bought a little car by then, and every day we would start out early for the beach or some place, and every day when we got back, around one o’clock, so she could take her siesta, there would be a memo to call Mr. Ziskin, or Mr. London, or somebody. I never called. Around five o’clock they would call again, and it would turn out that if I would go over and apologize to Mr. Gold, there might be an adjustment on the price, say up to fifteen thousand or something like that. I did like hell go over and apologize. I said I had done nothing to apologize for, and the price was still fifty thousand. Somewhere around the fifth day they got up to twenty-five. We were at the Burbank airport, going out to the plane, before they came around. A guy ran up, waving signed contracts. I looked them over. They said fifty thousand, but called for three pictures, one each at that price. I thought fast, and said if they’d pay for my tickets it was all right. He snatched them out of my hand before I even finished. Next day I went into Gold’s office and said I heard he wanted to apologize. He took that for a gag and we shook hands.

All that time I was making “Woolies,” I hardly saw her at all. By the time I got in from the lot, around seven or eight o’clock, she would be gone to night school. I’d eat dinner alone, then go and get her, and we’d have a little snack at the Derby or somewhere. Then it would be time to go home and go to sleep. Believe me, you work on a picture lot, and don’t let anybody tell you different. She’d be still asleep when I left in the morning, and the next night it would be the same thing over again. But that week I took off, we did go out and buy her some clothes. We got four or five dresses, and a fur coat, and some more hats. She loved the fur coat. It was mink, and she would stroke it the way she stroked the bull’s ears. And she looked swell in it. But the hats she couldn’t get the hang of at all. Between me and the saleswoman, we managed to fix her up with a few that seemed to be all right, a kind of soft brown felt hat that would do for regular dresses and that went nice with the coat, and a big filmy one for night, and a little one for knocking around in the morning, or at night school, and two or three that went with what the saleswoman called sports dresses, the kind of thing they wear at the beach. But she never could get it through her head which hat went with which dress. We’d start out for the beach, and she’d come out of the bedroom with white dress, white shoes, white handbag, and the big floppy evening hat. Or she’d start out in the afternoon with a street dress on, and the fur coat, and one of the sports hats. And I’d have a hard time arguing her out of it, make her put on what she ought to have. “But the hat is very pretty. I like.”

“It’s pretty, but you can’t wear evening hats to the beach. It looks funny. It’s all wrong.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know why. You just can’t do it”

“But I like.”

“Well, can’t you just take my word for it?”

“I no understand.”

And then this thing happened that finished me with Hollywood, and everything about Hollywood, for good. Maybe you don’t know what it’s like to be a big Hollywood actor. Well, it’s about like being the winning jockey in the Irish Sweepstakes, only worse. You can’t turn around that somebody isn’t asking you to some little party he’s giving, or begging your autograph for some kid that is home sick in bed, or to take space in some trade paper, or to sing at some banquet for a studio executive. Some of that stuff I had to do, like the banquet, but the parties, I ducked by saying I had to work. But when “Paul Bunyan” was finished, and I was waiting around for retakes, I got this call from Elsa Chadwick, that played opposite me in it, asking me to a little party at her house the next night, just a few friends, and would I sing? She caught me with my mouth hanging open, and I couldn’t think of anything to say. I mumbled something about having an engagement to take a lady to dinner, and she began to gurgle that I should bring her. Of course I should bring her. She would expect us both around nine.

I didn’t know what Juana was going to say, but instead of balking, she wanted to go. “Oh yes. I like, very much. This Miss Chadwick, I have seen her, in the cinema. She is very nice.”

Next day, early, I was called over to re-shoot a scene, and I forgot about the party till I got home. Juana was under the shower, getting ready to go. By that time I had a Hollywood suit of evening clothes, and I put them on, and went out in the living-room and waited. In about a half hour she came out, and I got this feeling in the pit of my stomach. She had gone out, all by herself, and bought a special dress for the party. Do you know what a Mexican girl’s idea of a party dress is? It’s white silk, with red flowers all over it, a red rose in her hair, and white shoes with rhinestone buckles. God knows where she found that outfit. It looked like Ramona on Sunday afternoon. I opened my mouth to tell her it was all wrong but took her in my arms and held her to me. You see, it was all for me. She wanted to wear a red rebozo, instead of a hat. It was evening, and didn’t call for a hat, so I said all right. But when she put it on, that made it still worse. Those rebozos are hand-woven, but they’re cotton, like everything else in Mexico. I’d hate to tell you what she looked like with that dress, and those shoes, and that cotton shawl over her head.

Chadwick went into a gag clinch with me when we came in, but when she saw Juana the grin froze on her face and her eyes looked like a snake’s. There were twenty or thirty people there, and she took us in and introduced us, but she didn’t take us around. She stood with us, near the door, rattled off the names in a hard voice. Then she sat Juana down, got her a drink, put some cigarettes beside her, and that was all. She didn’t go near her again, and neither did any of the other women. I sat down on the other side of the room, and in a minute they were all around me, particularly the women, with a line of Hollywood chatter, all of it loud and most of it off color. They haven’t got the Hollywood touch till they cuss like mule-skinners and peddle the latest dirty crack that was made on some lot. I fed it back like they gave it, but I was watching Juana. I thought of the soft way she talked, and how she never had said a dirty word in her life, and the dignified way she had stood there while she was being introduced, and the screechy way they had acted. And I felt something getting thick in my throat. Who were they to leave her there all alone with a drink and a pack of Camels?

George Schultz, that had done the orchestrations for “Bunyan,” went over to the piano and started to play. “Feel like singing, boy?”

“Just crazy to sing.”

“Little Traviata?”

“Sure.”

“O.K., give.”

He went into the introduction of Di Provenza il Mar. But this thing in my throat was choking me. I went over to Juana. “Come on. We’re going home.”

“You no sing?”

“No. Come on.”

“Hey, where are you? That’s your cue.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re supposed to come in.”

“I’m not coming in.”

“What the hell is this?”

We went out and put on our things and Chadwick followed us to the door. “Well, you don’t seem to enjoy my little party?”

“Not much.”

“It’s mutual. And the next time you come don’t show up with a cheap Mexican tart that—”

That’s the only time a woman ever took a cuff in the puss from John Howard Sharp. She screamed and three or four guys came out there, screen he-men, all hot to defend the little woman and show how tough they were. I stepped back to let them out. I wanted them out. I was praying they’d come out. They didn’t. I took Juana by the arm and started for the car. “There won’t be any next time, baby.”

“They no like me, Hoaney?”

“They didn’t act like it.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know why.”

“I do something wrong?”

“Not a thing. You were the sweetest one there.”

“I no understand.”

“You needn’t even bother to try to understand. But if they ever pull something like that on you, just let me know. That’s all I’ve got to say. Just let me know.”

We went to the Golondrina. It’s a Mexican restaurant on Olvera Street, a kind of Little Mexico they’ve got in Los Angeles, with mariachis, pottery, jumping beans, bum silverware, and all the rest of it. If she had dressed for me, I was bound she was going to have a good time if I had to stand the whole city on its ear to give it to her. She had it. She had never been there before, but as soon as they spotted her they all came around, and talked, and laughed, and she was back home. The couple in the floor show made up a special verse of their song for her, and she took the flower out of her hair and threw it out there, and they did a dance with it, and gave her some comedy. Their comedy is a lot of bum cucaracha gags, with a lot of belly-scratching and eye-rolling and finger-snapping, but it was funny to her, so it was funny to me. It was the first time I had ever had a friendly feeling toward Mexico.

Then I sang. A big movie shot is an event in that place, but a Mexican would never pull anything, or let you know he was looking at you. I had to call for the guitar myself, but then I got a big hand. I sang to her, and to the girl in the floor show, and whanged out a number they danced to, and then we all sang the Golondrina. It was two o’clock before we left there. When we went to bed I held her in my arms, and long after she was asleep this fury would come over me, about how they had treated her. I knew then I hated Hollywood, and only waited for the day I could clear out of there for good.

Under their contract, they had three months to call me for the next picture, and the way the time was counted, that meant any date up to April 1. It was just before Christmas that I got the wire from the New York agent that she had a tip the Met was interested in me, and would I please, please, let her go ahead on the deal? I began to rave like a crazy man. “Hoaney, why you talk so?”

“Read it! You’ve been going to school, there’s something for you to practice on. Read it, and see what you’ve been missing all this time.”

“What is ‘Met’?”

“Just the best opera company in the world, that’s all. The big one in New York, and they want me. They want me! — she’d never be sending that unless she knew something. A chance to get back to my trade at last, and here I am sewed up on a lousy contract to make two more pictures that I hate, that aren’t worth making, that—”

“Why you make these pictures?”

“I’m under contract, I tell you. I’ve got to.”

“But why?”

I tried to explain contract to her. It couldn’t be done. An Indian has never heard of a contract. They didn’t have them under Montezuma, and never bothered with them since. “The picture company, you make money for her, yes?”

“Plenty. I don’t owe her a dime.”

“Then it is right, you go?”

“Right? Did they ever give me anything I didn’t take off them with a blackjack? Would they even give me a cup of coffee if I didn’t pack them in at the box office? Would they even respect my trade? This isn’t about right. It’s about some ink on a dotted line.”

“Then why you stay? Why you no sing at these Met?”

That was all. If it wasn’t right, then to hell with it. A contract was just something that you probably couldn’t read anyway. I looked at her, where she was lying on the bed with nothing on but a rebozo around her middle, and knew I was looking across ten thousand years, but it popped in my mind that maybe they weren’t as dumb ten thousand years ago as I had always thought. Well, why not? I thought of Malinche, and how she put Cortés on top of the world, and how his star went out like a light when he thought he didn’t need her any more. “... That’s an idea.”

“I think you sing at these Met.”

“Not so loud.”

“Yes.”

“I think you’re a pretty bright girl.”

Next day I hopped over to the Taft Building and saw a lawyer. He begged me not to do anything foolish. “In the first place, if you run out on this contract, they can make your life so miserable that you hardly dare go out of doors without some rat shoving a summons at you with a dollar bill in it, and you’ll have to appear in court. Do you know what that means? Do you know what those blue summonses did to Jack Dempsey? They cost him a title, that’s all. They can sue you. They can sew you up with injunctions. They can just make you wish you never even heard of the law, or anything like it.”

“That’s what we got lawyers for, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. You can get a lawyer there in New York, and he can handle some of it. And he’ll charge you plenty. But you can’t hire as many lawyers as they’ve got.”

“Listen, can they win, that’s all I want to know. Can they bring me back? Can they keep me from working?”

“Maybe they can’t. Who knows? But—”

“That’s all I want to know. If I’ve got any kind of a fighting chance, I’m off.”

“Not so fast. Maybe they don’t even try. Maybe they think it’s bad policy. But this is the main point: You run out on this contract, and your name is mud in Hollywood from now on—”

“I don’t care about that.”

“Oh yes you do. How do you know how well you do in grand opera?”

“I’ve been in it before.”

“And out of it before, from all I hear.”

“My voice cracked up.”

“It may again. This is my point. The way Gold is building you up, Hollywood is sure for you, as sure as anything can be, for quite some time to come. It makes no different to him if your voice cracks up. He’ll buy a voice. He’ll dub your sound for you—”

“Not for me he won’t.”

“Will you for Christ sake stop talking about art? I’m talking about money. I’m telling you that if your pictures really go, he’ll do anything. He’ll play you straight. He’ll fix it up any way that makes you look good. And most of all, he’ll pay you! More than any opera company will ever pay you! It’s a backlog for you to fall back on, but—”

“Yeah, but?”

“Only as long as you play ball. Once you start some funny business, not only he, but every other picture man in Hollywood turns thumbs down, and that’s the end of you, in pictures. There’s no black-list. Nobody calls anybody up. They just hear about it, and that’s all. I can give you names, if you want them, of bright boys like you that thought they could jump a Hollywood contract, and tell you what happened to them. These picture guys hate each other, they cut each other’s throats all the time, but when something like this happens, they act with a unanimity that’s touching. Now, have you seen Gold?”

“I thought I’d see you first.”

“That’s all right. Then there’s no harm done. Now before you do anything rash, I want you to see him. There may be no trouble at all. He may want you to sing at the Met, just for build-up. He may be back of it, for all you know. Get over and see him, see if you can fix it up. After lunch, come back and see me.”

So I went over and saw Gold. He wanted to talk about the four goals he made in the polo game the day before. When we did get around to it he shook his head. “Jack, I know what’s good for you, even if you don’t. I read the signs all the time, it’s my business to know, and they’ll all tell you Rex Gold don’t make many mistakes. Jack, grand opera’s through.”

“What?”

“It’s through, finished. Sure, I dropped in at the Metropolitan when I was east last week, saw Tosca, the same opera that we do a piece of in Bunyan, and I’d hate to tell you what they soaked me for the rights on it, too. And what do I see? Well, boy, I’m telling you, we just made a bum out of them. That sequence in our picture is so much better than their job, note for note, production for production, that comparison is just ridiculous. Grand opera is through. Because why? Pictures have stepped in and done it so much better than they can do it that they can’t get by any more, that’s all. Opera is going the same way the theatre is going. Pictures have just rubbed them out.”

“Well — before it dies, I’d like to have a final season in it. And I don’t think the Metropolitan stamp would hurt me any, even in pictures.”

“It would ruin you.”

“How?”

“I’ve been telling you. Grand opera is through. Grand opera pictures are through. The public is sick of them. Because why? Because they got no more material. They’ve done Puccini over and over again, they’ve done La Bohème and Madame Butterfly so much we even had to fall back on La Tosca for you in Bunyan, and after you’ve done your Puccini, what you got left? Nothing. It’s through, washed up. We just can’t get the material.”

“Well — there are a couple of other composers.”

“Yeah, but who wants to listen to them?”

“Almost anybody, except a bunch of Kansas City yaps that think Puccini is classical, as they call it.”

“Oh, so you don’t like Puccini?”

“Not much.”

“Listen, you want to find out who’s the best painter in the world, what do you do? You try to buy one of his pictures. Then you find out what you got to pay. O.K., you want to find out who’s the best composer in the world, you try to buy some of his music. Do you know what they charged me, just for license rights, on that scene you did from Tosca? You want to know? Wait, I’ll get the canceled vouchers. I’ll show you. You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Listen, Puccini has been the main asset of that publishing house for years, and everybody in grand opera knows it, and that’s got nothing to do with how good he is. It’s because he came in after we began to get copyright laws, and because he was handled from the beginning for every dime that could be got out of him from guys like you. If you’re just finding that out, it may prove you don’t know anything about opera, but it doesn’t prove anything about Puccini.”

“Why do you suppose guys like me pay for him?”

“Probably because you knew so little about opera you couldn’t think of anything else. If you had let me help on that script, I’d have fixed you up with numbers that wouldn’t have cost you a dime.”

“A swell time to be saying that.”

“To hell with it. You got Tosca, and it’s all right. I’m talking about a release for the rest of the season to go on at the Met.”

“And I’m talking about what’s good for one of our stars. There’s no use our arguing about composers, Jack. Maybe you know what’s pretty but I know what sells. And I tell you grand opera is through. And I tell you that from now on you lay off it. The way I’m building you up, we’re going to take that voice of yours, and what are we going to do with it? Use it on popular stuff. The stuff you sing better than anybody else in the business. The stuff that people want to hear. Lumberjack songs, cowboy songs, mountain music, jazz — you can’t beat it! It’s what they want! Not any of this tra-la-la-la-la-la! Christ, that’s an ear-ache! It’s a back number. Look, Jack: From now on, you forget you ever were in grand opera. You give it to them down-to-earth! Right down there where they want it! You get me, Jack? You get me?”

“I get you.”

“What did Gold say?”

“He said no.”

“I had an idea that was how he felt. I had him on the phone just now, about something else, and I led around to you in a way that didn’t tip it you had been in, but he was telling the world where he stood. Well, I’d play along with him. It’s tough, but you can’t buck him.”

“If I do, what did you say my name would be?”

“Mud. M-U-D, mud.”

“In Hollywood?”

“Yes, in Hollywood.”

“That’s all I wanted to know. What do I owe you?”

When I got home there were four more telegrams, saying the thing was hot, if I wanted it, and a memo New York had been calling. I looked at my watch. It was three o’clock. I called the airport. They had two seats on the four-thirty plane. She came in. “Well, Juana, there they are, read them. The abogado says no, a hundred times no. What do I do?”

“You sing Carmen at these Met?”

“I don’t know. Probably.”

“Yes, I like.”

“O.K., then. Get packed.”