West of Sunset by Stewart O’Nan Read Free Book Online

up.”
    â€œI agree,” Scott said. “But they’re not going to buy it from the Reds.”
    â€œWe will,” Benchley said. “New York and Hollywood.”
    â€œMight as well be the Reds to the rest of the country,” Scott said.
    â€œI know,” Ernest said. “And no one wants to back the wrong horse.”
    â€œIs it the wrong horse?”
    â€œIt’s the right horse,” Ernest said. “Just the wrong time.”
    â€œI don’t see how being anti-Fascist can be premature,” Benchley said.
    â€œIt’s tough,” Ernest said. “All we can do is hope we lose well enough so people will be ready the next time.”
    Scott looked to Benchley to see if he’d heard him correctly. Benchley sat with his arms crossed, biting his lip.
    â€œIt’ll all be over by spring, no matter what we do. Then it’ll be someone else’s turn.”
    â€œAustria,” Scott said.
    â€œVery good,” Ernest said.
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œWhich is why I wanted to talk with you. I hear you’re going to be working on
Three Comrades
for Metro.”
    Scott didn’t know why, but how he’d heard so quickly frightened him. It wasn’t out of the question that Ernest knew Eddie Knopf, or that Eddie had run it by some of the other producers. Maybe all of Hollywood knew, via rumor, and naturally he, the unwitting subject, heard it last.
    â€œNothing’s settled yet.”
    â€œIf you do,” Ernest said, “do me a favor and remember Spain.”
    â€œI will.”
    â€œYou know the first movie Hitler banned?”
    â€œAll Quiet on the Western Front,”
Scott said, making the connection plain.
    â€œThey’ll do everything they can to stop this one, or gut it,” Ernest said. “There’s an attaché from the German consulate named Reinecke who screens everything before it goes to the foreign distributors. He’s basically their censor for Europe.”
    â€œDon’t the studios have final say?” Even as Scott said it, he realized how naive he sounded. Like any leaders who ruled through and solely for money, when threatened, the studio heads were geniuses at appeasement.
    â€œThalberg had final cut on everything,” Benchley reminded him.
    â€œYou know how to get things past an editor,” Ernest said. “That’s your strength, making heavy things seem light—not like me. I couldn’t write a
Saturday Evening Post
story to save my life.”
    You’ve never had to, Scott thought.
    â€œJust be aware,” Ernest said, “that certain people are going to be very interested in what you’re doing.”
    â€œThat’s good to know,” he said, though, knowing how powerless he was, he felt he’d been given an impossible assignment.
    They ate on a terrace noisy with birdsong, commanding a broad view of the sea. Dietrich served them cold trout and salad and went back into the house, from time to time peering out of the kitchen window like a servant. Scott had ice water rather than the Mosel.
    â€œOn the wagon—good for you,” Ernest said, toasting him. “I’ll be joining you in a few months if it’s any comfort.”
    â€œIt’s not,” Scott said cheerily, toasting him back.
    As they were saying good-bye at the bottom of the stairs, while Benchley was gushing at Dietrich about the lunch, Ernest discreetly asked after Zelda.
    Scott shrugged. “No better, no worse.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œThank you.” He didn’t ask after Hadley, or the new Mrs. Hemingway, just returned his embrace and said he’d see him tonight. Afraid of seeming familiar, he reached to take Dietrich’s hand. She drew him to her like an old friend. She smelled of lilacs, and the silk of her hair against his skin made him shiver. In the car he wanted to ask Benchley if that had happened to him, but didn’t.
    He was glad to