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By Root 719 0

them showing a lot of deeply tanned skin, and a certain number of very sleek men wearing the kind of summer suits that can be had only from a Roman tailor, which never seem to crease or wrinkle. Under the subdued lighting, there was a sparkle and glare of gold and gemstones. Fabbri, in short, had produced a party of beautiful people for Bluhdorn, all of them attractive, wealthy, or both. Bluhdorn, however, despite his eye for a good-looking woman, walked right past them all without a word, until we were on the terrace, which was lit with blazing torchères. At the far end a huge buffet had been set up. There were piles of lobsters, displays of every imaginable kind of seafood, hot dishes, cold dishes, all presented with the kind of old-fashioned opulence and elegance that only the French can achieve when money is not a concern. Fabbri held out both arms in a gesture of hostly pride. “What do you think of that?” he asked.

Bluhdorn wasn’t impressed. “Are we here to eat or to talk business?” he growled, and before we could even put a few crevettes roses with ail on a plate, we were whisked off to a small library, a few of the beautiful young women were pushed out, and we sat down to discuss all over again, at interminable length, the problems of making The Fifth Horseman into a movie. Tired Barry Diller may have been (when we finally did sit down to dinner, he instantly went to sleep at the table), but he was not so tired that he had forgotten how to say no.

Collins and Lapierre told him all their ideas for turning the book into a script, while he listened politely, shaking his head. In the end, even Bluhdorn got tired of the whole thing, and we were eventually allowed to sit down and eat. About midnight, I was told that I should spend the night, since Bluhdorn wanted to talk to me over breakfast. Too tired to be apprehensive, I allowed myself to be led away to one of the guest houses. I could not help noticing that while the rich often spend lavishly on their houses, they tend to economize on guest rooms. This one could have been a bedroom on the ground floor of any budget-priced motel in America. Clearly, some young woman had been displaced from it on my behalf, since her things were all over the room. I moved her lingerie off the rumpled bed and fell instantly asleep.

In the morning, I walked up to the main house and found Bluhdorn seated on a terrace, at the breakfast table, surrounded by flowers and birds, reading the morning newspapers in several languages. He was wearing an open sports shirt in a vivid pattern, a pair of shorts, and sandals, but there was nothing relaxed about his manner. We talked about the previous night’s meeting as we ate breakfast. Did I think it had gone well? he asked.

I sipped my coffee. I saw nothing to be gained by avoiding the truth. No, I didn’t think so, I said. Whatever the story problems were, it didn’t seem to me that they had been solved. The truth of the matter was that it was all a waste of time and effort. The fact remained that either you wanted to make a movie about a Palestinian terrorist planting an atomic weapon in New York City or you didn’t. If you did, there was more than enough material to make it, whoever wrote the screenplay. If you didn’t, then no amount of ideas, however clever, would convince you.

Bluhdorn nodded. He was in a sunny mood—maybe it was the weather, maybe he was simply a man who enjoyed breakfast. He lit a cigar and looked out over the orange groves and pine trees to the sea. “What the hell,” he said. “We tried, right?” No answer seemed to be called for. “What else do you have to do here?” he asked.

Nothing, I told him.

He raised an eyebrow. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “You mean you flew over here just for this one goddamn meeting?” I nodded. He reflected on this and shook his head. “Then you’d better be getting back to New York.”

I was back in New York the same day. The journey had been so rapid that a lot of people didn’t even know I had been away, and, after a few days, I wasn’t even sure myself.

PERHAPS BECAUSE the trip had been unsuccessful, I