Barney's Version - Mordecai Richler [118]
“Please, Miriam.”
“The truth is you fed him all that food and drink because you never forgave him for not telling you that it was Boogie’s original story. You were being vengeful as always.”
“No.”
“You never forgave anybody anything.”
“And you,” I hollered, wakening. “And you?”
I rose early, as I am wont to do no matter what time I fall asleep, suffering from the previous night’s sins: head throbbing, eyes scratchy, sinuses blocked, throat raw, lungs hot, limbs underwater heavy. I made the usual resolutions, showered, slipped my mint-fresh chompers into place, if only to restore the shape of my collapsible jaw before shaving, and then dialled room service, using that foolproof technique for having a hotel breakfast brought up in a hurry. Something I had learned from Duddy Kravitz.
“Good morning, Mr. Panofsky.”
“What’s so good about it? I ordered breakfast three-quarters of an hour ago and you gave me your word I would have it within twenty minutes.”
“Who took your order, sir?”
“How in the hell would I remember who took my order, but it was for a freshly squeezed orange juice, poached eggs, rye toast, prunes, The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal.”
A pause, then she said, “I can’t find a record of your order, sir.”
“I’ll bet you’re all illegal immigrants down there.”
“Give me ten minutes.”
“Just see I don’t have to call down again for a third time.”
Twelve minutes later my breakfast order was there, the waiter offering profuse apologies for the delay. I knocked back my orange juice with my garlic, blood pressure, cholesterol, anti-inflammatory, enjoy-a-good-daily-dump, and Vitamin-C pills, and then checked out my stocks in the Journal. Merck was up a point and a half, Schlumberger was holding steady, American Home Products had slipped a notch, Royal Dutch had gained two points, and the rest were idling. The New York Times obit page yielded neither friend nor foe. Then the phone rang. It was that smarmy BBC-TV producer, who collected blank receipts from taxi drivers and probably pocketed all the mini–jam jars at his hotel breakfast table. Calling from the lobby. Christ, I had forgotten all about him. “I thought you said ten-thirty,” I said.
“No, eight-thirty, actually.”
I had run into him a couple of days earlier in the Polo Lounge, where he told me he was making a documentary about the Hollywood blacklist. In a mood to bullshit, I had bragged about all the blacklisted types I had met through Hymie in London in 1961, and I agreed to be interviewed in the hope that Mike might see it. No, because I liked the idea of being asked to pontificate.
Seated under the hot lights, squinting, simulating deep thought, I said, “Senator McCarthy was an unprincipled drunk. A clown. True enough, but now that the witch-hunt is long past, I do believe he can be seen, with hindsight, as the most perspicacious and influential film critic ever. Never mind Agee.” Then, remembering to pause for effect, I dropped my sandbag. “He certainly cleaned out the stables, as it were.”
“I dare say,” said the Beeb’s presenter, “I’ve never heard it put quite like that before.”
Seemingly groping for words, obviously troubled, I hesitated before I ventured, “My problem is I had considerable respect for The Hollywood Ten as people, but not as writers of even the second rank. That driven bunch invested so much integrity in their foolish, guilt-ridden politics that they had none left for their work. Tell me, did Franz Kafka need a swimming-pool?”
That won me a tight little laugh.
“I don’t like saying it, but for the BBC, veritas. The truth is, much as I detested Evelyn Waugh’s politics, I would happily take one of his novels to bed rather than watch a rerun of one of their sentimental, knee-jerk liberal films on late-night TV.”
Gabble, gabble, gabble. Then, pausing to light my first Montecristo of the day, pulling on it, removing my reading glasses, I looked directly into the camera, and said, “Let me leave you with a couple of pertinent