Half an hour later, we were entering an elegant-looking restaurant on the Isar River. We sat down to order. The waiter handed us menus. They were filled with wines from countries all over the world.
“What kind of wine would you like?” the waiter asked.
Before anyone could speak, Jed said, “I’ll have a beer.”
The waiter shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. We don’t serve beer here. We serve only wine.”
Jed glared at him and got to his feet. “Let’s get out of here.”
I could not believe what I was hearing. “But Jed—”
“Come on. Let’s go. I don’t want to eat in a place that doesn’t serve beer.”
Embarrassed, we all got up and left.
“Goddamn Germans,” Jed snarled.
Jorja and I were horrified. We all got into a taxi and went back to the hotel, where we had dinner.
Laci apologized to Jed. “I’m sorry about this,” he said. “I know another place where they have great beer. We’ll go there tomorrow night.”
The following day, Jed and I worked on the new play. We spent part of the time writing in the garden and part of the time writing in our suite. I started developing situations arising from the basic premise and Jed would make a suggestion here and there.
That evening, the Bush-Feketes picked us up.
“You’ll like this place,” Laci assured Jed.
In the restaurant, they took us to our table and the waiter handed us menus. “What would you like to start with?” he asked.
Jed spoke up. “I’ll have some wine.”
The waiter said, “I’m sorry, sir. We only serve beer here. We have beers from almost every country in the—”
Jed jumped to his feet. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
I was shocked again. “Jed, I thought you—”
“Come on. I won’t stay in a crummy restaurant where I can’t have what I want.”
He went out the door and we all followed him. Mr. Charm was turning into a monster.
The next day Jed came to my suite to work on the play and it was as though nothing had happened.
In the morning, as Jorja and I were on our way down to breakfast, the hotel manager stopped me.
“Mr. Sheldon, could I speak to you for a moment?”
“Of course.”
“Your guest is very rude to the maids and housekeepers. He’s made them very upset. I wonder if you—”
“I’ll talk to him,” I said.
When I did, he said, “They’re too sensitive. My God, they’re only maids and housekeepers.”
The actress in Jorja was enchanted by Harris’s talent. She kept asking him about the theater. At dinner one evening she said to him, “You know, there was a moment in The Crucible when Madeleine Sherwood walked off the stage, and it was a magnificent exit. What was her motivation? What did you tell her to think?”
He looked at Jorja and snapped, “About her paycheck.”
That was the last time he called Jorja by name.
The following day the three of us left for Baden-Baden, the luxurious spa in the middle of Baden-Württemberg, in southwest Germany.
Jed hated it.
From there we went to the beautiful Black Forest, a fantastic mountain range in southwest Germany that extends ninety miles between the Rhine and Neckar Rivers. It is covered by dark pine forests and cut by deep valleys and small lakes.
Jed hated it.
I had had enough. Our play was coming along much too slowly. Instead of working out a story line, Jed would concentrate on one scene we had written, and go over it endlessly, unnecessarily changing a word here and there.
I said to Jorja, “We’re going back to Munich without him.”
She sighed. “You’re right.”
I looked over the notes that I had made on the play. They seemed very banal.
When Jed came to my suite to go to work, I said, “Jed, Jorja and I have to get back to Munich. We’re going to leave you.”
He nodded. “Right. I wasn’t going to do the play with you, anyway.”
A few hours later Jorja and I were on a train, heading for Munich.
When we arrived at our hotel, I reached for the phone to telephone Laci and my disc slipped out. I fell to the floor in terrible pain, unable to move.