——————
How about that Caduta, though, eh?
Mind you, if you think she behaved strangely, you shouJd have seen me. I had an incredible crying jag. So did Caduta. So did two kids and one baglady. After a while, the dads trooped in. Everyone was beaming and weeping at this display, this proof of human richness. It was all crap too — I knew that. It was all bad art. But what can you expect from me? There are times these days when I feel so starved of warmth that the instructions on a painkiller packet or vitamin tub (‘At the first sign of a cold developing be sure to…’) can make me go all husky and brave. And I certainly appreciated the faceful that Caduta laid on me. I sniffed and rootled around down there for at least ten minutes, and got in several good licks and kisses. But it wasn’t a sexual thing. I would never make a pass at Caduta — no, not Caduta — and if you made a pass at her, I’d beat you up. I was still brimming with plangency, chockful of feeling, when I arrived back at thehotel. Caduta’s parting words to me—she delivered them like a war bride or mother, keeping pace with my cab as it pulled away—were as follows: ‘Protect me, John! Protect me.’ I knew what that meant. I seized the telephone and called Lorne Guyland, in high indignation.
‘Now Lorne,’ I began, after a female flunky had put the great man on, ‘I’ve just had a meeting with Caduta Massi. Those scenes you suggested to her — she doesn’t want to take her clothes off, and I have to say I —’
‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE WON’T TAKE HER CLOTHES OFF.’ SHE’S ONLY A FUCKING TV ACTRESS/ I’LL RIP HER FUCKING CLOTHES OFF!’
I held the telephone at arm’s length, and stared at it. What impressed me most, I think, was the sheer instantaneousness with which Lorne lost his temper. Suddenly, immediately: no temper — gone, long gone. I’m a short-fuse artist myself, but even I need a little longer than that. It takes at least a couple of seconds before I recognize the last straw. But to some people, clearly, every straw is the last straw. To some people, the first straw is the last straw.
‘Lorne, Lorne,’ I said, ‘bear with me here. Look, there aren’t any nude scenes in the script, not with Caduta. With Butch Beausoleil, yes, fine, go ahead, as many as you like. But with Caduta. She’s —’
‘What script? Nobody showed me no fucking script!’
‘Doris Arthur is still working on it, Lorne. But I think I can say that there aren’t going to be any nude scenes between you and Caduta. Semi-nude, maybe. But not nude. And that’s final.’
While he talked I sank back gratefully with my duty-free. Lorne’s superfury had run its course. He had a grip on himself. He was now merely incredibly angry. He said, ‘Final? Final? Boy, you’re really new at this. Now you listen to me, you piece of shit. This is Lorne Guyland man. Yeah. Me! Me! I got to have some beef in that role. You don’t need me. Why don’t you get some old fart like Cash Jones?’ Lorne laughed. ‘I don’t know why I say that. I love Cash. Cash and I go way, he’s one of my oldest, one of my closest friends. A dear friend, John. Very dear.’ Lorne paused. ‘Yeah, but when you got Lorne Guyland in a picture, you got to give him some beef, you got to give him some size, you got to give him some — it’s got to be like big, you know? You saw my work in Pookie, John. I’m glad you called,’ Lorne went on weirdly, ‘because I want to tell you about another new idea I’ve gotten. Now I’m not a writer. I’ve written scenes, of course, in fact I, in fact the idea is this. The young guy, right? I don’t know who the fuck you cast and I don’t care, but him and I have this fight, right?’
‘You and your son. That’s right.’
‘And in the outline, John, it says that he wins.’