The Influence Peddlers Read online

  Eventually, some of the Yankees began to talk, when McGhill wasn’t there. They told a strange story to the people who had become their friends, a show of confidence in Ganthier, Raouf, Gabrielle Conti, and even Montaubain, the teacher who was enthralled with film. Ganthier knew Americans well. He had seen them live and die during the war, and he had been to the United States twice. “They are the only descendants of Shakespeare,” he told Raouf and Gabrielle. “The English are no longer Shakespearean ever since Dickens and his novels. Dickens reconciled them with decency and humanity. They are still somewhat assholes on principle, but it is only in America that you can still run into Richard III, Lady Macbeth, or Falstaff, people who have the strength to throw themselves headfirst into whatever they do, risking those heads, and that’s what they call freedom, Falstaff’s throwers of steel, always ready to throw it over a river, under trains, in the cement of skyscrapers, over the seas, and after six in the evening they bathe in alcohol, adulterated or not, and that’s when the women take power because they are less drunk than the men, and the next day they divorce Falstaff to marry Shylock, or vice versa! Shakespeareans who also spend their time driving Othello crazy: they say they killed themselves to free him, and then they forbid him from sitting next to them.”

  Gabrielle Conti often joined the discussion at the hotel bar. She had also been to the States. The Americans continued to talk in front of a journalist then, but the reason they did was only understood later, and they hadn’t always been so prudent—there had been another era in their country, real good times.

  In the mornings after they met, Gabrielle would go to the farm to tell Rania the Americans’ story, skipping the least palatable parts: It had begun the year before, in California, a scandal. That’s why people in the movie business were being careful, Gabrielle adding that new conditions had been added to their contracts: “They are forbidden from getting drunk in public, two people must not be in the same hotel room if they’re not married, and it is sometimes written in that they can lose their job if negative statements about them are circulated in the media, even if those statements are lies, they just have to be negative, Kathryn showed me her contract” . . . Rania was very interested in what Kathryn did. She asked Gabrielle if it were true that American women had as many lovers as their husbands had mistresses. Gabrielle knew only that Kathryn loved Neil. Neil had a reputation as a ladies’ man, but he had fought in Europe for four years during the war . . . “ayuha’ al’ahyia, happy are the survivors,” Rania had murmured. She wondered what her husband’s life over there could have been like. He had died a hero; the rest didn’t interest anyone. Ganthier could have given her a glimpse of that life, but she hadn’t had a conversation with him for years. He had come to her uncle’s when she was a child. He was almost a member of the family. She had called him ‘ammi, Uncle Ganthier. He had given her books, Les Petites Filles modèles, which she had loved, and later another book by the Countess of Ségur, Diloy le cheminau, which portrayed Arabs as evil and cowardly. Rania had asked Ganthier why.

  “Probably because the author didn’t know any Arabs.”

  “So she’s talking about something she knows nothing about?”

  Rania had decided not to read that countess anymore, she had told Ganthier. She had never been ill at ease with him, except in her adolescence, and she didn’t really understand why. Then she had stopped going to Nahbès, she had gotten married, she had lost her husband, and when she had come back to take care of her aunt, Ganthier hadn’t come to visit them; her uncle and he had had a falling out. Her uncle said: “He is here through force, and then he wants us to call it hospitality.”

  Rania realized that a silence had fallen over her and Gabrielle. Gabrielle was looking at her.

  “Sorry,” said Rania, “I was thinking about . . .”

  “I know . . . ,” said Gabrielle.

  She picked up the thread of her story: the Americans’ story had begun with a short piece in the newspapers, a woman, a clinic in San Francisco, an actor interrogated by the police.

  Gabrielle spared her friend the details, but at the bar of the Grand Hôtel, when Cavarro told it, it was much rougher: it had hit the actors like a ton of bricks on September 4, 1921. They had begun to talk about it a few days before the newspapers did, telephone calls, laughing at breakfast, a girl, not the first time she did that, they hung up, a somewhat nasty rumor; they had a pastry and then they called someone else, a blouse and a bra thrown across a room, shouts, and not at just anyone’s house, a bra on a lamp, knocks at the door, people in their pajamas at three in the afternoon, at least a dozen of them. “Oh, a lot more than that!” Wayne had said, and Cavarro immediately shot him a venomous look, a look that Raouf hadn’t understood even if he did understand that Cavarro wanted to maintain control of the story and couldn’t stand for anyone to add anything to what he was saying: a girl in a bathtub with big pieces of ice on her stomach to ease her pain, shouts, also laughter, the day after Labor Day, the workers’ holiday—in the States, it’s the first Monday in September—a girl stripped while yelling, at a celebrity’s place, no, not in Los Angeles . . . in San Francisco, the good city, clothes rolled up into balls, thrown across the room, they’d already seen that a hundred times, but they were talking about it because of the knocking on the door and the pieces of ice, at a million-dollar star’s place . . .

  In fact, said Neil, the girl hung around people in the movie industry. That evening she had been drinking like a fish and she was the star of the show. Yes, said Cavarro, a great thrower of clothing, not too bad to watch, by the way, and real coyote cries, and it wasn’t at the star’s home, but in a palatial hotel in the heart of San Francisco, a huge suite. They were celebrating both the star’s new contract and Labor Day.

  Samuel Katz, Cavarro’s publicity man, had added that it was really a contract for a million per year, a gramophone, a party, contraband whiskey, and if they only whispered about it, it was because if you said bad things about a star in California, said Katz, the studios end up hearing about it, and you become shit for twenty years.

  When Samuel Katz was talking Cavarro let him speak with a great deal of indulgence, then he resumed, it’s not the fact that the girl took her clothes off that caused a stir—it was the type of gathering where everyone was soon naked—no, it was the shrieking, and not the sounds someone makes when they bang themselves on a table in the middle of a room, those are funny sounds. Everyone stands around in a circle, said Cavarro, you clap your hands, the girl hangs on to the tie of the guy like in a rodeo, you sing “Oh, Susannah,” and you wait for the finale, the rising shrieks, especially when the girl really knows what she’s doing, because to be pleasured in front of thirty people . . . Oh, I know some who manage very well, said Kathryn before falling back into her thoughts. She hated that type of girl, Neil’s specialty, they chased after him, they wanted to show him what good actresses they were, and he pretends to believe that I did the same thing when I was their age, it suits him . . . Cavarro continuing: that day the girl invented a new thing, the angry striptease, to create a scandal for the star! Ganthier was watching Raouf, who was looking blasé, and a voice finally pierced through, burning through Cavarro’s discreet narration: the star was Roscoe Arbuckle, it was Fatty!

  Cavarro had gotten up: “We said we were going to tell this to our friends like a true drama. If you want to break the suspense, you don’t need me anymore!” They had gone after him, let him explain to the French and Raouf who Roscoe Arbuckle was, over six feet tall, weighed a quintal and a half, nicknamed Fatty, a comic actor, a quintal and a half of tempest, he could even do a backflip. When he arrived at a party with his retinue of already drunk girls, it made an impact! Raouf had seen the glacial look Kathryn had given Cavarro, who fell silent, Wayne taking advantage to add that Fatty was a popular comic, for millions of children, all over the country, accompanied by millions of mothers. The story, added Neil, was a lie to destroy Fatty Arbuckle. Okay, there really had been a party, in San Francisco, w
ith around a dozen people, on Sunday, and on Monday there were indeed fifty of them. Fatty had always left his door open; he liked that, serious work, then play. But all the same, said Kathryn, a girl who was shrieking in the middle of the party, there also could have been reasons. That’s what was disturbing, and on Wednesday evening, the girl was in the clinic.

  Suddenly, they started to talk about the noise of the electric fans in the rooms, and the general lack of fans in Nahbès. McGhill had just appeared at the bar, greeted by a few forced smiles. He didn’t stay long, and Neil resumed: Fatty hadn’t done anything, people went wild at his parties, they didn’t want to leave anything of the pig, everyone went wild, and no one was forced, but no one likes obese people, especially when they have money! Kathryn wasn’t saying anything, and Samuel Katz added, that’s exactly what was getting to people, the money, it can seem evil if people are told that the big million-dollar baby attacked women at fiestas where the tail was wagging the dog . . . Neil adding for his French friends and Raouf:

  “You have the right to earn the million, but you can’t dirty it, people never miss an opportunity to teach morality, back home it’s a national sport!”

  “That said,” continued Katz, “for Fatty and the million, audiences came to see him because of what he did, not because of what he earned.” And Wayne added in a slow voice, “It wasn’t because of his weight that people laughed. With weight, Fatty said, you make people laugh five, six times in a half hour of film. The job is to raise that to sixty times: you have to have an idea, talent, thirty minutes, and sixty laughs.”

  “You might also recall that he added something else,” said Kathryn, “because Fatty never managed to shut his mouth. He would say: ‘If you think it’s a piece of cake to make people laugh, try it for a half hour, without stopping, after that you’ll want only one thing—to become a true sadist,’ he said that several times, ‘sadist.’” No one had contradicted Kathryn.

  At the farm, Gabrielle had quickly gone on to the end of the story: they said that on Wednesday the young woman who had shrieked was in the hospital, and they also said that maybe Fatty had . . . Gabrielle didn’t add anything; the details needed to stay at the Grand Hôtel bar. Rania had told her at some point that it sounded like the summary of a novel. “That’s journalism,” Gabrielle had said, “The narrative without the fiction . . . That said, the best fiction is what is created by real people!” Rania had given in, keeping her roaming thoughts to herself, li habibun azuru fi lkhalawat . . . I have a friend I visit in solitary moments . . . His place in my heart fills all my heart . . . I die of his indifference like a bee in a flame . . . The figure approached, she kissed his eyes . . . I am an infidel, my heart is crazy and my tears fall one by one . . . There is the memory, but there is the desire . . .

  This is the first time we’ve spoken about this together, Cavarro had confided to Ganthier, when we were in California no one dared mention it—no one wanted to be summoned to testify. Wayne tried to defend Fatty in spite of the looks Kathryn was giving him: for fooling around Fatty had an embarrassment of choices, he had only to say yes. Wayne then thought that both Neil and Kathryn were angry at him, and Katz took advantage to cut him off: Anyway, that girl, she did that more often than most, she was even forbidden from getting near Mack Sennett. They said she had infected half the studio; Sennett had even brought fumigators into the building. The girl was in the hospital, her name was Rappe, Virginia Rappe. Fatty had gone back home to Los Angeles. It wasn’t really a hospital, Cavarro pointed out, it was a clinic for young, single women . . . Bullshit, said Kathryn, that was invented by the men, holding her husband’s gaze and translating “bull” and “shit” for Raouf.

  6

  THE OLD WOMAN AND THE EGGS

  Raouf had a favorite ally: Tess, Kathryn’s maid, had decided to become his friend. Tess’s name used to be Lizzie, Lizzie Warner. She had changed her first name because she thought that Lizzie was too obvious—people automatically saw a black servant, with a white apron and a kerchief in her hair, grouchy and maternal—she had opted for Tess. Kathryn had said to her, “When you say that name you feel like you’re giving an order . . .” Tess was happy with the remark, because such a first name put some clarity in relationships with bosses: they said “Tess!” and the voice didn’t have time to soften on another syllable.

  Tess knew how to get by. That was useful, because she said she was neither loyal nor devoted, two qualities of a slave. She made a point of having a bad character and of threatening Kathryn regularly with finding another job, which wouldn’t have been difficult: she knew how to repair wigs, alter a dress, do the shopping and cook a dinner for ten people at the last minute, pack suitcases without ever forgetting anything, come to work on Sunday morning, saying she couldn’t refuse because you couldn’t ever give bosses a reason to be upset. She also paid very close attention to her weight. She was as thin as a reed. She said a plump maid was a slave-owner’s cliché. She was very hard on men. Her skin was rather light, some white blood a few generations before her—no doubt a master or an overseer exercising his rights, she told Kathryn. From time to time a white man thought he could do the same thing, such as the time a journalist from the Herald, Arnold Belfrayn, had found himself doubled over, his hands over his crotch, in the vestibule of Kathryn’s house. Tess always acted as if she had nothing to lose.

  The friendship between Tess and Raouf had begun during the film shoot, one evening when the extras had organized a méchoui for the Americans, a real country méchoui, not some dish cooked in pieces in the oven like they do in the city. All the Americans came; they liked to show that they were a community. They were offered whole animals on platters, with sauce and hot bread. They were taught what to do, taking the food with the right hand, thumb, index, middle finger, only three fingers and very nonchalantly, while having a nice conversation with one’s neighbor, and the sauce, that’s what was best, the sauce with a piece of lovely, crusty bread to dip into the golden brown mixture of olive oil, animal fat, blood, pepper, salt, and saffron, and they also showed the Americans the place where they cooked the méchoui, just in time: there was still a lamb on its bed of cinders. They had made a circle around the hole, and at one point Raouf saw Tess move away, a slow walk, mistress of herself, as if she couldn’t stop going toward the sunset, and suddenly she leaned against the trunk of an olive tree, a broken figure. Raouf joined her; she was vomiting. He didn’t say anything. He held her, then helped her to sit down, then he went to tell Kathryn, who said, “Oh, my God!” and she rushed over with Wayne by her side. They took Tess to Kathryn’s car. Raouf didn’t ask any questions about what had happened. Kathryn did tell him, “No, she’s not pregnant! I’ll tell you one day, but not now.” Since then, every time Raouf ran into Tess they spent a few moments of friendly banter on the work and the days spent filming, and Tess taught him about the moods of her boss, whose name Raouf tried to get her to say as often as possible, sometimes reciting to himself, idha dhukirat dara l’hawa bimasami‘i, when they say her name desire wrenches me to my ears.

  One evening, in a carriage, Raouf had finally kissed Kathryn’s hand. She said, “When you’re done, we’ll talk.” What came next was a very calm statement: a woman loving her husband for and in spite of everything, a fine young man whom she was happy to have as a friend, “and if you do that once more we will never see each other again.”

  They continued to be seen together. He sought refuge in the pride of experiencing a strong and thwarted passion, and carried the umbrella with care; sometimes Kathryn leaned on his arm to cross a hole in the road, or avoid a porter whose head was hidden under a sack of grain. She wanted to go everywhere, see how people lived, especially at the outdoor souk, which Raouf didn’t like, the crowds, the dust, the shouting, the awful wares. He said: “I’m not a guide for things of the past.”

  Arriving at the souk they heard inhuman cries. They came from the right, from a large pen.

  “The donkey pen,” said Raouf.

  �
�Donkeys for sale?”

  “No, that’s where the peasants leave the animals they rode in on. It avoids a mess, theft. There are hundreds of donkeys.”

  “Who are having a braying contest,” concluded Kathryn. Raouf added: “What really makes them bray is because there are two pens, one for male donkeys, and one for females.” It smelled like urine, dung, earth, cut hay. The wind blew gusts of acrid dust onto their faces. A man began to run, holding a stick in his hand. “A pen attendant,” said Raouf.

  “Why is he shouting?”

  “It’s not interesting.”

  “Raouf, come on!”

  “He’s shouting: ‘Pig, you’ll see!’”

  “At a man?”

  “No, at a donkey.”

  “Why call a donkey a pig?”

  Both of them watched the man with the stick, and Kathryn burst out laughing: thirty yards away the head and chest of a donkey rose up above the others, a donkey that was mounting the hindquarters of his neighbor, and the neighbor was protesting. The attendant had begun to beat the delinquent, who was being stubborn in spite of the blows, Kathryn saying: “He’s brave, why don’t they leave him alone? After all, there won’t be any consequences . . .” While the attendant was going at it, other donkeys had begun to have the same idea. Chests appeared here and there above the melee. Another attendant started in on another couple. Kathryn was laughing harder and harder. People were looking at them, Raouf saying: “Let’s go,” and Kathryn: “I was raised in the country, Raouf!” Among the mass of animals, a circle of peasants surrounded two men, who were shouting at each other.