– Then stop trying to behave like him.
– But maybe if you paid me more money …
Hal Roach smiles. It’s the first time Hal Roach has smiled at him in weeks.
– Maybe if you could stay married to the same woman, you’d have more money.
He smiles back. It’s a truce, although it will not last.
– I’ll take that under consideration.
– How is –?
Hal Roach pretends to fumble for the name, although Hal Roach knows it well.
Ruth, he prompts.
– Yes, Ruth.
Ruth’s fine, he lies.
139
He leaves the lot. He has work to do, but it can wait.
The Chaplin jibe has hit its mark.
Chaplin releases Modern Times. It is a marvel. He sees it twice, because he cannot catch all its beauty in a single viewing. Chaplin is making art in Modern Times, while he dresses up as an idiot in one picture and spends a week trying to cut a dead woman from another. Hal Roach believes that he has delusions about his place in the firmament, but he does not.
He knows that these pictures on which he lavishes such attention and imagination are fillers.
He knows that they are forgotten almost as soon as they are seen.
He knows Hal Roach is right, that the days of short pictures have passed, and the only way to keep making them is to do as Harry Cohn does with the Stooges and produce throwaways as quickly and cheaply as possible, recycling an endless cacophony of rage and violence.
But he knows, too, that these pictures are his art. They are all that he can fashion, and he cannot regard them as Hal Roach does. He cannot dismiss them as inconsequential. He cannot say that they do not matter, and therefore to lavish on their creation more money, more time, more care, more sweat, more pain, more joy than is necessary is to engage in foolishness.
To do so is to negate the reason for his existence.
And what of Ruth?
Ruth wants a life he cannot give her. He is not the man whom she believed herself to be marrying. He is a fellow of whims and vagaries. He thrives on dissatisfaction.
Ruth, in turn, is not Lois, or whatever image of Lois he has now conjured in his mind, a being as unreal as a mermaid or dryad. A child might have brought him closer to Ruth – Ruth is fond of his daughter, and his daughter, in turn, is fond of Ruth – but the fact of his daughter’s existence did not save his first marriage, and only in recent months has he learned of Ruth’s previous miscarriages.
Ruth asks if he hates her for not being able to give him a child. He tells her that he does not.
– So why do you hate me?
– I don’t hate you.
– Then why do you humiliate me?
– I don’t understand what you mean.
But he does.
Because there are nights when he comes home smelling of Alyce Ardell.
140
At the Oceana Apartments, Ida serves him lightly sugared tea in a china cup. He is feeling dizzy. He has stumbled on the way to his desk, and only the support of a chair has saved him from a nasty fall.
Ida strokes his forehead.
What are you thinking about? Ida asks.
– My failings.
Ida raises an eyebrow.
– And just how much time do you believe you have for such nonsense?
– Not enough.
– Well, there you are.
Ida kisses him gently.
– You’re a foolish man.
He sits in his chair and sips his tea.
In those (first) dying days of his (second) marriage, he came to regret the nomenclature of his boat. Calling it the Ruth L was an impulsive gesture, like the marriage itself.
His head swims. The cup spills. He almost calls Ida, but he does not wish to trouble her further.
Chaplin: something about Chaplin and the Ruth L.
Something about 1936.
He looks to his shelf again, where the copy of Chaplin’s autobiography sits.
He remembers.
In 1936, he and Babe participate in the Night of 1000 Stars at the Pan-American Auditorium, where Chaplin is also on the bill. On this occasion, Chaplin ignores him, or perhaps Chaplin simply doesn’t see him. He believes it to be the former.
Chaplin is capricious.
Chaplin is Chaplin.
But later in 1936, while out on the Ruth L off Catalina Island, a voice calls to him from a cruiser, the Panacea. It is Chaplin. A rope is thrown. Greetings are exchanged. He and Ruth are introduced to Paulette Goddard, Chaplin’s co-star in Modern Times, but also Chaplin’s latest lover. He and Chaplin have drinks together. They reminisce about England, and Fred Karno.
We are alike, you and I, Chaplin tells him. We are both men adrift.
It is one of the happiest afternoons of his life.
They part. Promises are made to stay in touch. But Chaplin does not stay in touch, and years go by before they speak again.
Because Chaplin is Chaplin.
That night, Ruth fucks him for the first time in weeks.
Ruth fucks him for the last time in this marriage.
The next morning, over coffee, Ruth asks him if the others fuck like she does.
At the Oceana Apartments, the cup drops, and he sleeps.
141
Babe is sometimes touchy, even with him, but he exploits Babe’s frustrations when he can, just as he has always done. Babe’s exasperation, captured on film, is at its best when unfeigned.
Babe now spends more time than ever at Santa Anita, watching the races. It is a place of refuge from Myrtle, but it does Babe no good. Any pleasure Babe might previously have derived from the smell of horses and grass is besmirched by the knowledge that another marriage is crumbling, and not quickly enough for Babe’s liking. Nevertheless, Santa Anita offers security of a sort: Hal Roach is one of the investors in its parent company, the Los Angeles Turf Club, and Al Jolson, Bing Crosby, and Harry Warner are among its stockholders. Babe is on the board of directors.
Where there are stars there is money, and money, like stars, must be guarded.
But no system is perfect.
This is how Babe tells it to him:
Babe is studying the racing form at Santa Anita on a day rendered less bright only by Babe’s disposition. Babe is alone. Babe hears his name being called. Babe looks up. Perry Fowler is hovering with his camera, and where Perry Fowler goes, so follows Aggie Underwood.