He then turned to the authors. “My only question is — what are you guys going to do with the ten million bucks this is going to earn you?”
“Nine,” Harvey Madison quickly corrected, professional even in jest.
Now it was the men’s turn to walk the beach.
Edgar had to complete the financing. He hoped the tape he was bringing back to New York would do the trick. But they still needed to discuss the director and the stars.
Having so admired Jerome Robbins’s work on West Side Story, Danny wanted him to direct and choreograph their show.
Stuart enthusiastically agreed.
But Edgar, obsessed with the British origins of the Times critic, plumped for Sir John Chalcott, whose recent work at the Old Vic had been so well received.
“After all,” the producer reasoned, “we are dealing with one of the great classics of the English language. Why not put it in the hands of someone who is accustomed to dealing with the immortals?”
“ ‘Immortal’ can be a synonym for ‘dead,’ ” Danny Rossi commented.
“Please, Daniel,” Edgar retorted, “I’ve got a gut feeling on this. I think Sir John’s name would add even more class value.”
After another quarter of a mile, he succeeded in twisting their arms.
Then the talk got around to principals. They started with passionate unanimity. Not only did they all agree on Zero Mostel, but the star himself had already consented merely on the basis of the novel.
Casting the female lead proved more difficult. Danny had what he thought was a sensational idea. He had written the role of Molly — who is a professional singer even in Joyce’s book — for someone with real vocal ability. So he proposed what was to his mind the supreme voice of their time: Joan Sutherland.
“An opera singer in a Broadway show?” Edgar Waldorf cringed. “Besides, she’d never do it.”
“First of all,” said Danny, “I got to know her when I conducted Lucia at La Scala. She’s a terrific lady. And she’s got the courage to take on new challenges.”
“Look,” reasoned the ever-reasonable Edgar Waldorf, “I would be the last person to knock Miss Sutherland’s talent, but opera and Broadway don’t seem to mix.”
“What about Ezio Pinza in South Pacific?” asked Stuart.
“A fluke, a fluke,” said Waldorf. “Besides, what made that show was Mary Martin. And anyway we can’t afford Sutherland. No, I say we’ve got to go with someone used to doing eight shows a week. Someone who’s a proven draw — magnetic, vibrant, exciting —”
“And also big tits, maybe?” Danny asked facetiously.
“That wouldn’t hurt either,” said the producer, trying to act ingenuous.
Danny Rossi stopped walking, put his hands on his hips, and stood like a small colossus in the sand of Martha’s Vineyard.
“Listen, Edgar, I would rather die than have Theora Hamilton in a show of mine. I have my principles.”
“That goes for me as welt,” Stuart added.
“Easy, boys, easy. Nobody’s going to compromise anybody’s principles here,” mediated Harvey Madison. “There are a million talented ladies in the American theater and I’m sure we can come up with someone who meets everyone’s specifications. Now, why don’t we all start back? It’s already a half-hour past cocktail time.”
When the quartet returned, Maria Rossi, busy lighting a charcoal fire with Nina Kingsley, looked up and asked, “Well, gentlemen, did you settle all your problems?”
“Absolutely,” said Harvey Madison. “The great minds are all in sync.”
And there in the growing twilight on that lonely beach, Edgar Waldorf proclaimed, “It gives me great pleasure to tell you that Manhattan Odyssey, under the direction of Sir John Chalcott, will begin rehearsals on December twenty-sixth. And commence its pre-Broadway engagement at the Schubert Theater in Boston on February seventh.
“By the time it opens in New York on March twenty-fourth, it will undoubtedly be sold out for a year. Since not only is it geniusly written, but it will also have the incredible one-two punch of Mr. Zero Mostel —” He paused for effect.
“And Miss Theora Hamilton.”
The authors’ wives shot startled glances at their husbands, whose expressions were strangely resigned.
Chitchat continued during the barbecue. Then they all left the beach quickly to sit silently in front of the television. And admire the pitching virtuosity of Sandy Koufax keeping the ball away from every single batter of the San Francisco Giants.
“How did he convince you?” Maria asked as they were driving home.
“I’m not sure myself,” Danny confessed. “I mean, he used so much sophistry that my head is still spinning. I felt like General Custer. Every time I fended off one of Edgar’s attacks, he was behind me with another tomahawk.”
“But, Danny,” Maria insisted, “you’re the artists. Surely you and Stuart should have the last word.”
“I did have the last word.” He smiled sardonically. “It’s just that Edgar had a few thousand arguments after my last word. All of a sudden Zero wasn’t enough to sell tickets to anybody. He was a ham. The audience had enough of him after Fiddler. His arguments were endless.
“According to Edgar, the only thing that could possibly save us would be the mammiferous presence of the untalented Theora Hamilton. Look, I’ll just cut down her role so she won’t be an utter embarrassment to us.”
“But couldn’t you have agreed on anybody else?”
Danny looked at her sheepishly and confessed, “Edgar seems to be finding resistance to James Joyce among his investors. And it would be hard to find another female star whose husband is willing to put up half a million bucks if we give his wife the role.”
“Aha,” said Maria, with a mixture of surprise and disappointment. “Well, they say that Broadway plays always rise like Venus from a sea of compromises.”
“Yeah,” said Danny, now unable to hide his frustration, “but this is the last compromise. The very last.”
Within mere hours of Ted Lambros’s rejection for tenure at Harvard, communications began to pour in from every important university center of the United States.
Some were simply to express condolences. Others to inquire if it were really true. The subtext being that if Lambros had been shot down, there might be a possibility for them at Harvard. But perhaps the most astounding calls were from those who presumed to know the secrets of that fateful afternoon’s proceedings.
When Ted and Sara returned from the Whitmans’, he had passed beyond depression into a kind of postmortem euphoria. A paradoxical feeling of being “high” on disappointment.
Walt Hewlett from the University of Texas called to convey the inside dope. “Teddie, I know the guys who screwed you were the ‘garbologists.’ ” This was Walt’s term for archaeologists, whom he viewed as mere rummagers in the trash cans of ancient civilizations.
“What makes you so sure, Walt?”
“Listen, those guys have an incredible animosity for anything written in a book. They only trust pornographic graffiti scrawled on Roman urinals. So I guess you’ll be going to Berkeley, huh?”
Ted was stupefied. He had no idea that everybody in the world of classics knew everything.
“I’m not sure,” he answered cagily. For today’s experience had taught him a great lesson in the laws of the academic jungle. “Hey, Walter old friend, I’m really touched that you called. But it’s past midnight. And just because I don’t have tenure doesn’t mean I can skip my nine-o’clock class tomorrow.”