The Dud Avocado - Elaine Dundy [87]
Those were the most words I’d ever heard Bax say at a time. Practically a speech. I’d been studying him fiercely, trying to figure out just what it was about him they wanted so much. I mean Larry’s handsome, too, with his carroty hair and full, sensuous mouth. At least I think so. And much more exciting-looking, flashing and quicksilver and expressive. And Bax—as he himself said—looks just like everybody else. I finally saw what they meant, though. There is in Bax all the sturdy ruggedness, the woodsy woodenness and strict regularity of feature of a certain type of Hollywood Hero.
I was thoroughly disillusioned. It was a rude awakening on two counts. First to discover that all of Stefan’s joviality had really been designed to get a hold of Bax, and secondly to face the fact that I’d lived twenty-one years without being discovered once. It was obviously the sort of thing that started happening to you young. I mean if I hadn’t been discovered up till then, how would I ever be?
We sat around the table for a while, in silence.
“Will I do what?” I said to Larry suddenly.
He looked at me blankly. “What are you talking about?”
“I heard the Casting Director say something to you about, ‘Well, if she wants to do it.’ Do what? Sweep floors I suppose,” I snorted.
“Not quite as bad as that, Gorce.” He patted my hand. “I gave him this big build-up about you, see, and there are a couple of small parts going, small but good, I understand, and the Casting Director says there might be a possibility that they’ll use you for one of them, I mean if you want to do it. Don’t worry about the money, I’ll squeeze them plenty for it.”
“Stick with Larry and you’ll be wearing diamonds,” I said glumly to Bax.
“Cheer up, Gorce. Behave yourself and I’ll tell you something nice. You know who the key figure is around here? It’s that little guy the Bullfighter, who by the way is one of the top bullfighters today. He’s got his own money in this deal and he’s going to have plenty to say about what’s what. You made a great hit with him, Gorce. He wants us to have dinner with him Monday night. He’s leaving now. He’s got a fight in San Sebastian on Sunday, but when he gets back he wants us to have dinner with him. What do you think of that?” He let it sink in for a minute, and then said, “Play your cards right there and you can probably have any part you want. Stick with him kid, he’s the one with the diamonds.”
This didn’t go over too well with Bax, but it did cheer me up considerably. I mean, gosh, a real bullfighter! In fact I got so excited about the whole idea I practically had them talked into driving down to San Sebastian to see the fight, except that Bax pointed out that it’s in Spain and I don’t have a passport.
That settles it; pact or no pact I’m writing to Uncle Roger for help as soon as I finish this entry. No more horsing around.
We sat at the café until lunch time. A couple, two English people, sat down at the table next to ours just in time to see the Bullfighter and all his pals get into a shiny lavender Cadillac and drive off in a blaze of flashing chrome. The woman, a large Junoesque creature with a sensationally unhappy expression on her face, had slapped on an enormous pair of sunglasses as he came out and had been studying him intently. Suddenly she turned to her companion. “Well, there’s another dream gone down the drain—he must be every bit as high as my waist,” she announced sullenly. “He really looks such a boring little man, doesn’t he, so utterly clueless in those revolting American clothes, I can’t think why we’re going to do this picture. Basil wants us all to go down to San Sebasitian