The Merry Month of May by James Jones Read Free Book Online Page B

felt rather sorry for the poor producers. But Harry didn’t, although he pretended to at the appropriate times.
    I knew from the moment we sat down that Harry was going to take the job. I don’t know if anyone else could have seen it. Certainly the two producers didn’t. And Louisa had left us immediately after a coffee. Dear Louisa. But over the second coffee and the brandy, Harry began to bring out a formidable and almost interminable battery of objections. These lasted through the brandy and well into the Scotch. And they were pretty devastating, and pertinent, objections. Or seemed so to me. The whole thing must have lasted until well after three o’clock.
    In between belts at their Scotch, and sunk down in the cloudlike wreathes of expensive cigar smoke which gave me a fearful headache, they continued to throw it back and forth, as they called it, and Harry went on elaborating his list of objections. He demolished those poor producers (and they were not small fry) so thoroughly and with such relish that I was embarrassed for them.
    I was his esthetic objection. I had read it (I hadn’t; but here I nodded and frowned) and I agreed with him that their property, the novel they had bought, was worthless. Harry would have to do it all. Only one or two scenes could be used at all, and these only when highly modified by Harry. He looked at me, and I hastened to smile and nod my agreement.
    Then there was the objection of Harry’s reputation. As they well knew, it was based on, and he was noted for, writing good old-fashioned American morality-play Westerns, complete with dovetailing love stories he was famous for and that touched and moved his audiences. Harry was not sure he wanted to leave that role, step out of that well-fit suit of clothes, to take on some new gimmick like this Italian-Western, so-called “modern” stuff. It might easily ruin his other reputation.
    And what about the director? He could not write for just any director. Harry elaborated on this for a while.
    And the star? They had no real contact with a star for it, yet. And Harry could not write the star role properly unless he had some idea what star he’d be writing for. As they well knew, a Burton role was not a Steve McQueen role. They discussed this a while.
    No, he just did not think he was the man for their job, Harry said finally.
    They came back with all the right answers. They knew the original story was not much good, they said, but they were depending on Harry to fix that. As for his reputation, they thought such a film would enhance his reputation, not damage it. And the director and the star of course depended a great deal on whether they had a Harry Gallagher script or not. They were really ladling it on. They both looked a little puzzled somehow, as though somehow they could not quite figure out how they had got put into this position, this role. Matter of fact, they went on, they could even use a phony name, something like Enrico Galignani, say, if Harry liked that idea. Of course, the director and star would know Harry Gallagher really wrote it. After all, Harry Gallagher was a “star” writer, the kind whose work directors and stars delighted to do. Who did he have in mind, who did he think he would like, as the star and director?
    There then followed a long discussion, over more Scotch and cigars, as to what director and what star would be good for it and could work together well. It was flattery of the worst order really, and I could see that Harry was quite aware of that. Finally they left with the tentative agreement that Harry would think about it a few days and let them know whether he would accept or refuse, or whether he wanted to discuss it further.
    “Who the hell do they think they’re bullshitting?” Harry said the instant the door closed. He was grinning. We went back into the smoke-fouled living room.
    For a moment Harry stood and looked at it. “Jesus!” he said suddenly. He slapped himself on both thighs.