Barney's Version - Mordecai Richler [20]
“My problem,” Boogie continued, “is that I have some respect for the Hollywood Ten as people, but not as writers of even the second rank. Je m’excuse. The third rank. Much as I abhor Evelyn Waugh’s politics, I would rather read one of his novels any day than sit through any of their mawkish films again.”
“You’re such a kidder, Boogie,” said a subdued Hymie.
“ ‘The best lack all conviction,’ ” said Boogie, “ ‘while the worst / Are full of passionate intensity.’ So said Mr. Yeats.”
“I’m willing to admit,” said Hymie, “that our bunch, and I include myself in that lot, possibly invested so much integrity in our guilt-ridden politics we had little left for our work. I suppose you could argue that Franz Kafka didn’t require a swimming-pool. Or that George Orwell never attended a script conference, but …” And then, unwilling to tangle with Boogie, he unleashed his anger on me. “And I hope I will always be able to say the same for you, Barney, you condescending little prick.”
“Hey, I’m not a writer. I’m merely hanging out. Come on, Boogie. Let’s split.”
“Leave my friend Boogie out of this. At least he speaks his mind. But I have my doubts about you.”
“Me too,” said Boogie.
“Go to hell, both of you,” I said, leaping up from the table and quitting the nightclub.
Boogie caught up with me outside. “I expect you won’t be satisfied until he punches you out.”
“I can take him.”
“How does Clara put up with your tantrums?”
“Who else would put up with Clara?”
That made him laugh. Me too. “Okay,” he said, “let’s get back in there, and you make nice, understand?”
“He bugs me.”
“Everybody bugs you. You’re one mean, crazy son of a bitch. Now if you can’t be a mensh, you can at least pretend. Come on. Let’s go.”
Back at the table, Hymie rose to rock me in a bear hug. “I apologize. Humbly I do. And now we can all do with some fresh air.”
Settling into the sand, on the beach in Cannes, we watched the sun rise over the wine-dark sea, eating our tomatoes, spring onions, and figs. Then we shed our shoes, rolled up our trouser bottoms, and waded in up to our knees. Boogie splashed me, I splashed him back, and within seconds the three of us were into a water fight, and in those days you didn’t have to worry about turds or used condoms drifting in on the tide. Finally we repaired to a café on the Croisette for oeufs sur le plat, brioches, and café au lait. Boogie bit the end off a Romeo y Julieta, lit up, and said, “Après tout, c’est un monde passable,” quoting only God knows who.13
Hymie stretched, yawned, and said, “Got to go to work now. We begin shooting at the casino in an hour. Let’s meet for drinks at the Carlton at seven tonight and then I know of a place in Gulf-Juan where they make an excellent bouillabaisse.” He tossed us his hotel keys. “In case you guys want to wash up or snooze or read my mail. See you later.”
Boogie and I strolled as far as the harbour to look at the yachts, and there was our French sugar daddy, sunning himself on his teak deck, out of the Mediterranean endlessly rocking, his squeeze nowhere in sight. He looked absolutely pathetic, wearing reading glasses, his sunken belly spilling over his bikini, as he perused Le Figaro. The stock-market pages, no doubt. Obligatory reading for those without an inner life. “Salut, grandpère,” I called out. “Comment va ta concubine aujourd’hui?”
“Maricons,” he hollered, shaking his fist at me.
“Are you going to let him get away with that?” asked Boogie. “Knock his teeth out. Beat the shit out of him. Anything to make you feel better.”
“Okay,” I said. “Okay.”
“You’re a fucking menace,” he said, leading me away.
3
The script Hymie and I wrote on Long Island was never produced, but less than a year later, in 1961, he phoned me from London. “Come on over. We’re going to write another picture together. I’m so excited about this project I’ve already written my Academy Award acceptance speech.”
“Hymie, I’ve got a full plate over here. I spend every weekend in Toronto