their claims, he thought as he sat himself down at the small familiar bar; the places in which our conversations have taken place in the lull of an afternoon are reserved for them. The bar was empty except for himself and he didn’t recognize the barman. He ordered a Cognac, not his usual Scotch, remembering that Mr. Gray (strangely, after their long friendship, he thought of him as Mr. Gray instead of by his Christian name) had liked Bisquit Dubouchet. The fumes assailed his memory and for a moment Mr. Gray was a living presence at his side. The presence was not macabre, the memory not sorrowful, but warm and comforting.
The last time he had seen Mr. Gray had been on the occasion of the Damons’ tenth wedding anniversary. There had been a small party at the Damons’ apartment, with a few of the agency’s clients of whom they were particularly fond and an old friend of Damon’s, Martin Crewes, who had been a client and had gone to Hollywood, where he was now a highly paid screenwriter and had a business manager who made his deals for him. He was in New York for conferences with a director, and Damon had been pleased to hear his voice on the phone the day before. They had been good friends, and he had been an honest and gifted man and had always been good company. He had written two fine novels about the small town in which he had grown up in Ohio, but they had hardly sold at all and Crewes had told Damon and Mr. Gray as he was leaving for the West Coast, “The hell with it. I surrender. I’m tired of starving. There has to be a limit to the number of times you hit your head against the stone wall. The only thing I know how to do is write, and if somebody wants to pay me for it, God be with him. I’ll try not to write shit, but if that’s what they want, that’s what I’ll give them.” He had been a humorous and zestful man when Damon had known him, but after a few minutes over the drinks before dinner, Damon was saddened to see that his friend had turned into a solemn and pompous windbag who told dreary anecdotes about producers and directors and movie stars, punctuating his conversation with a high, nervous giggle that put Damon’s nerves on edge.
He had been a solidly built, slightly fat young man but now was trimmed down to the bone and Damon guessed that he did calisthenics at least two hours a day and ate only fruits and nuts to maintain that tense, ballet dancer’s figure. His hair glistened, an unnatural ebony, and was cut in a kind of pageboy bob that completely covered his ears. He wore a black turtleneck sweater, with a thick gold chain hanging on his chest and black pants and a fawn-colored cashmere jacket. The boy from the little town in Ohio about whom he had once written had successfully disappeared.
In his first ten minutes in the room he had already told the assembled guests that the picture he had just completed had cost a cool seven and the next one was going to be epical in scope and they’d be lucky to get in under ten. It took a few moments for Damon to realize that the seven was seven million and the ten ten million.
When Mr. Gray came in, later than the other guests, he made his disapproval of Crewes plain with his first words to the man—“Ah, Stonewall Crewes has finally returned to take the salute of his ragged but loyal troops”—and Damon knew that it had been a mistake to invite the screenwriter to the party. And when Mr. Gray stepped back to survey Crewes, as though to get a better look at a painting in a museum and said, in tones of mock wonder, “Is that the Paramount uniform?” Damon knew that Crewes would never call him again, no matter how many times he came to New York.
Still, the party was agreeable; Crewes left early, after drinking only soda water with a slice of lemon in it and merely nibbling at some salad and around the edges of the slice of baked ham that Sheila had put on his plate.
The Damons were leaving the next day for a month tour of Europe and the
The last time he had seen Mr. Gray had been on the occasion of the Damons’ tenth wedding anniversary. There had been a small party at the Damons’ apartment, with a few of the agency’s clients of whom they were particularly fond and an old friend of Damon’s, Martin Crewes, who had been a client and had gone to Hollywood, where he was now a highly paid screenwriter and had a business manager who made his deals for him. He was in New York for conferences with a director, and Damon had been pleased to hear his voice on the phone the day before. They had been good friends, and he had been an honest and gifted man and had always been good company. He had written two fine novels about the small town in which he had grown up in Ohio, but they had hardly sold at all and Crewes had told Damon and Mr. Gray as he was leaving for the West Coast, “The hell with it. I surrender. I’m tired of starving. There has to be a limit to the number of times you hit your head against the stone wall. The only thing I know how to do is write, and if somebody wants to pay me for it, God be with him. I’ll try not to write shit, but if that’s what they want, that’s what I’ll give them.” He had been a humorous and zestful man when Damon had known him, but after a few minutes over the drinks before dinner, Damon was saddened to see that his friend had turned into a solemn and pompous windbag who told dreary anecdotes about producers and directors and movie stars, punctuating his conversation with a high, nervous giggle that put Damon’s nerves on edge.
He had been a solidly built, slightly fat young man but now was trimmed down to the bone and Damon guessed that he did calisthenics at least two hours a day and ate only fruits and nuts to maintain that tense, ballet dancer’s figure. His hair glistened, an unnatural ebony, and was cut in a kind of pageboy bob that completely covered his ears. He wore a black turtleneck sweater, with a thick gold chain hanging on his chest and black pants and a fawn-colored cashmere jacket. The boy from the little town in Ohio about whom he had once written had successfully disappeared.
In his first ten minutes in the room he had already told the assembled guests that the picture he had just completed had cost a cool seven and the next one was going to be epical in scope and they’d be lucky to get in under ten. It took a few moments for Damon to realize that the seven was seven million and the ten ten million.
When Mr. Gray came in, later than the other guests, he made his disapproval of Crewes plain with his first words to the man—“Ah, Stonewall Crewes has finally returned to take the salute of his ragged but loyal troops”—and Damon knew that it had been a mistake to invite the screenwriter to the party. And when Mr. Gray stepped back to survey Crewes, as though to get a better look at a painting in a museum and said, in tones of mock wonder, “Is that the Paramount uniform?” Damon knew that Crewes would never call him again, no matter how many times he came to New York.
Still, the party was agreeable; Crewes left early, after drinking only soda water with a slice of lemon in it and merely nibbling at some salad and around the edges of the slice of baked ham that Sheila had put on his plate.
The Damons were leaving the next day for a month tour of Europe and the
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