3

IN THE FIRST PLACE, JAKE HAD EVEN HAD SERIOUS doubts about making the film, but he had been through so many scripts, most of them appalling. He would not consider anything being shot abroad, because of Nancy’s pregnancy. He was bored, he was restless. So he had foolishly allowed his agent to talk him into it.

From the start, the project was ill-starred. Before the first day of shooting, Jake had turned against the script. He got off to a horrendous start with the actress, a stunning but vacuous British girl, who was to play the lead. She was on a macrobiotic diet and reading Zen, absolutely convinced that the yellow-brick road to international stardom was paved with trendiness. In her world, things were either swinging or a drag, other people groovy or uptight. She was willing to do a nude scene, she told Jake not once, but twice, as long as it was “artistically necessary.”

The first day of shooting, always Jake’s shakiest time on a set, the producer loomed over his shoulder as soon as he picked up the viewfinder. It was a grueling day, seemingly endless, and when it was over Jake had only shot a minute, a most unsatisfying minute, he knew, without waiting to see the rushes at noon the following day. Ensconced in the screening room with the producer, the star, her agent and others, indignant and in a sweat. Nobody said a word when the lights went on, fearful of committing themselves before the producer pronounced. The producer, who was already whispering in a far corner, with the lighting cameraman, the star, and her thrusting agent.

Announcing that he expected everyone on the set in twenty minutes, Jake strode out, seeking comfort among Hersh’s Continuing Rep, many of whom he had hired for the production.

“Don’t let him worry you, Yankel. He’s a grobber.”

During the first set-up of the afternoon, a restaurant scene, it all came down. The star, blinking the false eyelashes which she wore over Jake’s objections, turned to him between takes and indicated the group assembled under the hot lights since noon, rehearsed – spun into action – shushed – spun into action and shushed again and again – only so that she, the camera tracking after, might sweep through them, making a poignant exit, and getting her three little lines right, turned to him, her entrancing smile aimed at the crouching still photographer, and said, “Aren’t they, like, crazy?”

“What?”

“The faces you chose. Are they real people,” she asked, “or only extras?”

“They are my friends,” Jake said tightly. “And where are you going?”

“We aren’t doing it again?”

Yes. And again, and one more time as the producer seethed. Then again, and twice more, until she fled to her dressing room, the perplexed producer tumbling after.

A letter, hand-delivered, turned up at the office of Jake’s agent before six. Jake was barred from the set.

“Tell him not to worry,” Jake said. “I quit.”

“No, you don’t. I’ll have you back on the set on Monday. You’re making this picture.”

“Don’t threaten me.”

There was a meeting on Tuesday and another, with lawyers, on Wednesday. Thursday a subdued agent took Jake to lunch and revealed that another director had been hired. “I’ve turned down their offer of a settlement. I’m holding out for your full salary.”

“That’s the stuff.”

“If I get it, you won’t be able to sign to make another film so long as you were supposed to be working on theirs. If you do, you’ll forfeit the money.”

Jake laughed.

“You think it’s funny?”

“Hell, I’m going to be paid more monthly not to work than I’ve ever earned in my life.”

“Don’t let it depress you. I can’t think of anyone on our list it hasn’t happened to at least once.”

With nowhere to go, and nothing to do, except connive with Hoffman on how to put his money out of reach of the Inland Revenue, Jake took to sleeping in late and then meandering down to Swiss Cottage to pick up the Herald Tribune at W. H. Smith’s. Almost daily, he passed the dress shop Ruthy worked in. Ruthy usually rapped hopefully on the window as he drifted by, startling him out of his reveries. She waved, he waved back, then this dumb show no longer satisfied her. She took to summoning Jake to the door.

“Have you heard from Joseph?”

“No.”

“Not to worry. But there’s no harm in asking, is there?”

Another day.

“Quick. See her? No. Across the street. The lady getting into the chauffeured Bentley.”

“Yes.”

“She’s a cousin to Lady Cohen. Whenever she comes into the shop she asks to be served by me personally. It’s a pleasure to deal with her. She’s no Golder’s Green yachna, if you know what I mean. Anything new?”

Jake looked baffled.

“I mean Joseph. Have you heard anything?”

“Ruthy, please. I haven’t seen him since I was a boy.”