Let them do it. I’m Cary Grant, they aren’t.
Dear Mr Bondurant, Please accept my apologies (I have been a little harsh on you). I should like to thank you for your work. You have all my
gratitude and esteem, and I have no doubt that people higher
up than I am will demonstrate their appreciation.
The two suits made to measure by Quintino have been left
in my house. They are all yours, a gift from the Commonwealth.
I shall have Mr Raymond send them to you.
Hoping to be able to meet you again,
au revoir.
Cary Grant
They are enjoying the sunset by the pool, Cary and his old friend.
James David Graham Niven. Nicely trimmed moustache, the aplomb of the declining empire, years spent in His Majesty’s infantry. The epitome of the British actor. His success. His curse. Stereotyped roles. A charming, distinguished accent. He works by accepting the parts turned down by Cary because they were too damned English.
What has Cary got that David might envy? He’s English, American and a citizen of the world. David can’t do that: he appears and you hear bagpipes, echoes of novels by Kipling, the ‘white man’s burden’, the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. Life and soul of the party. A wise and constantly surprising wit. Forever the Englishman.
What has David got that Cary envies: medals and honours. Everyone knows he fought. On his return to the States, Ike in person awarded him the Order of Merit, the highest honour for a citizen of a foreign country.
They offered me the part of Phileas Phogg in Around the World in Eighty Days. Another part as a perfect English gentleman. Did you accept? Of course I did. You accept too many parts. Listen to your critics. The kine are getting leaner, my friend. Soon I’ll be reduced to working in television. Cary thinks about his own trip around the world, or nearly. So what have you been up to over the last two months? I saw you in a paper and you looked curious, something wasn’t quite right. Cary invents a convenient version, I was busy, preparing to go back on to the screen, etcetera. I’m leaving for the Côte d’Azur. The plot of To Catch a Thief. Not a bad story. A bit light for Hitchcock. Sure. When we’re on the subject of stories, I read a ludicrous and revolting book written by somebody called Fleming. The protagonist is an MI6 agent called James Bond. Brief summary. Incoherent, indeed. They’ll never make a film out of that! Laughter.
It’s reality that’s incoherent, my friend. Joe McCarthy on TV every night, pointing the finger at this one and that one! I have a feeling he’s overdoing it, he seems to be getting further and further up the ladder, someone’s going to react. Someone must react. Have we reacted? We’re just actors. You remember Frances Farmer? I don’t just remember her: I read an article about her, not long ago. What? Moments of consternation. And what happened to her in the end? She went back to Seattle. She worked as an usher in a cinema, if I remember correctly. Strange, it was about her, but the only person who spoke was her mother. She’s about to get married. It must be a plot. Her mother has a guilty conscience. We all have guilty consciences. You know what they’ve done? Yes, there are rumours going about. Electroshock, ‘hydrotherapy’. They force you to sit in a vat of icy water. Naked. I heard that the nurses were prostituting her to soldiers on leave. Is that true? They say she’s been lobotomised. She didn’t seem lobotomised to me. Certainly, she looked like she’d been through it but. Years in a mental hospital. Like my mother. Sometimes this country frightens me: it creates beauty, it spreads ideals of freedom. and then it puts someone like McCarthy on the stage. Apparently Ike hates him. We have to put our hopes in him. I can tell you: I voted for him. What about you? I’m a British subject, you twit! Who’s McCarthy got it in for now? The army. Incredible. Remember the story about the Adam Hat Company? He attacked Drew Pearson’s radio programme, and hit hard at the sponsor, saying, ‘Anyone who buys these hats is giving a contribution to the cause of communism.’ The company withdrew its sponsorship. And what about the money he gets from private citizens? Some people send him five- or tendollar bills, but I’ve heard that others are sending five or ten thousand dollars. He’s said to reply to everyone in person, so I sent him a five-dollar bill, giving my cleaning woman’s name. He wrote back thanking me and asking for more money to help the ‘hard and costly struggle against communism’. Where is that money going to end up? Reliable sources tell me he spends it at the racetrack. The bastard! The charlatan! And how do you think he dresses? Sloppily. He looks as though he’s slept in those badly cut suits. He goes on TV with a gravy-stained tie, I’ve seen it with my own eyes.
Voices from inside the house, the maid, you’re not allowed in here, how dare you? Fuck off, I’m a federal agent, I’m a fucking G-man! Where’s the boss? You’re drunk, you can’t just. He turns up in the garden. The maid apologises: excuse me, sir, I tried to stop him, but. Cary and David get up from the sofa. Cary recognises him: Bill Brown. FBI agent. Plastered. Black suit, white socks, white shirt, black tie. No hat. You prick, they told me you were back in town. Weren’t you going to kick me up the ass? How dare you say Mr Hoover’s a faggot? Who’s getting kicked in the ass now, eh? David, let me introduce agent Bill Brown, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I don’t believe it: this guy here? Do you have a warrant, Brown? This is trespass. You commie-lover, you’re not even American! Mr Brown, what you are doing violates all the Bureau’s rules of conduct. I’m actually beginning to doubt that you really are a federal agent. I ask you to leave my property, or I swear that this time I will act without further warning. What the fuck do you. Cary’s right fist smashes into Brown’s jaw. Brown staggers, slips, falls into the pool. He is unconscious, and in danger of drowning. David jumps in. Ten minutes later the ambulance shows up. I am a witness to the fact that it was self-defence, my friend. No, David. I struck the first blow. What does it matter? You did well. That G-man has a glass jaw. Damnation, I nearly broke my hand, just before my return to the screen! Better stick it in the ice bucket. This is going to make Hoover furious. Can you imagine tomorrow’s headlines! No, nothing’s going to get out. Hoover will muzzle the reporters. In any case, you’d be better off heading for the Côte d’Azur. One day I’ll write a book. I’ll put all the strange Hollywood stories in it. Well, don’t write about this. Fine, old man. The moon’s out. Look at it, Cary, the moon’s a balloon. This is just one big stage set. Tell that to Frances Farmer. A sigh from David. You’re right. The moon looks like a balloon.
Cary thinks about something else, hand in the bucket, next to the bottle of champagne.
What do you think of Grace Kelly?
Chapter 7
Bologna, Bar Aurora, 8 May
Let’s be clear about this: we in the Bar Aurora are not like those old women who are forever looking at other people’s plates because they have only bones on their own. Sure, from now on we won’t have to go on and on about the great fucks we’ve had. But even without that there’s still stuff to talk about, you bet, because the times we live in are a disgrace because of the nuclear ‘experiments’, and Bologna FC are a disgrace because Coach Viani is too defensive even when the team plays scrubby teams like Legnano, and Italy is a disgrace because the priests are in charge.
Every now and again we’ve all got a friend with problems, and when that happens it’s normal for him to talk about them, and it may lead to gossip, but usually you’ll find some way to help him. So if this friend is the one who jollies up your evenings, and he’s got a long face, everyone else ends up feeling the same, so his troubles become a shared affair, something you have to resolve together.