Another Life_ A Memoir of Other People - Michael Korda [185]
Gradually, with an ever-changing guest list, our yachting party made its way slowly down the coastline. In Genoa, where we put in to take on fuel and supplies, Graham, who loved low dives, took me to a rough sailors’ bar that was full of men in drag. A cruise-ship purser, dressed in a blond wig, a clinging red gown, and a feather boa, gave a convincing rendition of Sophie Tucker singing “Some of These Days,” except for his five-o’clock shadow under the pancake makeup.
The journey was not all pleasure, of course. Alex was anxious for Carol Reed and Graham to repeat their successful collaboration on The Fallen Idol. The three of them often sat together on the bridge in the afternoons, Alex smoking a cigar and playing solitaire, while Graham smoked a cigarette and suggested ideas and Carol appeared to doze. Most of the time Alex shook his head wearily. One day, Graham read aloud a few lines he had written on the back of an envelope: “I had paid my last farewell to Harry a week ago, when his coffin was lowered into the frozen February ground, so that it was with incredulity that I saw him pass by, without a sign of recognition, among the host of strangers in the Strand.”
At this (which was, of course, the genesis of The Third Man), Alex smiled, but gloom soon settled back on his face when Graham explained that he hadn’t a clue where the story went from there. Despite pleadings from Alex and Carol, despite offers of unprecedented amounts of money, the story seemed destined never to get beyond the first four lines.
We arrived at Capri just in time to see the sun set over Anacapri. Graham was in a reflective mood as he sipped his drink. “I should give anything to own a villa there,” he said, not exactly to Alex, but in Alex’s hearing.
We dined onboard that night, eating on deck, and Alex retired early, pleading fatigue (which was unusual for him), while his guests played chemin de fer. In the morning, when we sat down to breakfast, Alex joined us instead of taking his breakfast in bed, as was his habit.
Graham unfolded his napkin, and out dropped an old-fashioned, rusty iron key that looked suitable for a dungeon. “What on earth is this?” Graham asked.
Alex smiled. “It’s the key to a villa in Anacapri,” he said. “Quite a nice one. I had myself taken ashore late last night in the motor launch. I bought a villa. It’s in your name, dear boy. Now I want the rest of my story, please.” Even Graham was startled and impressed by this instant generosity. He pocketed the key, and within a few days he and Carol and Alex had worked out the story of The Third Man, which became one of the most successful movies ever made and which Graham turned into not a bad thriller novel as well. For the rest of Alex’s life, the zither theme from The Third Man—a tune he hated—was played in his honor, while to Graham’s great annoyance the story Alex had coerced out of him became more famous than any of his more ambitious books.
As for me, it merely increased my admiration for Graham, with whom I continued to correspond during the many years in which I finished school, served in the Royal Air Force, went to Oxford, fought in the Hungarian Revolution, and eventually emerged in New York as an editor at Simon and Schuster. The first letter I wrote on S&S stationery, in 1958, was to Graham, announcing my new job to him (he had been a publisher and an editor himself, at one time), and expressing the hope that one day, in the far future perhaps, I would have the honor of publishing him. He wrote back to say that he hoped so too, and wished me well, and there the matter rested until late in 1971.
Graham had been published for many years by Viking Press. They did well for him, and there seemed no reason that he would ever move. I was therefore surprised to receive a telephone call from Monica McCall, his agent, asking whether I would like to become Graham’s publisher. Of course I would, I replied. Graham was both commerce and literature, a serious writer of international stature whose books sold in best-seller quantities. It could be argued that he