“Neither am I, Tony. I feel—”
“There’s a limousine downstairs, waiting for you. Take it.”
“Tony—”
“Take it. Put a bet on a horse for us.”
I went to Longchamps alone, semiconscious. There was a long line at the betting window. When I finally got to the head of it, the man behind the counter said, “Oui?”
I spoke no French. I shoved some money across the counter and held up one finger, “Number une,” and I touched my nose. He said something unintelligible and shoved the money back at me.
I tried again. “Number une.” I held up my finger and touched my nose. “On the nose, to win.”
He shoved the money back again. The people in line behind me were getting impatient. A man stepped out of the line and came up to me.
“What’s the problem?” he asked in English.
“I’m trying to bet this money on number one to win.” The man spoke in French to the cashier, then turned to me.
“Number one has been scratched,” he said. “Pick another horse.”
I chose number two, got a handful of tickets, and stumbled out to watch the race.
Number two won, and Tony and Cyd and I split the money.
That trip was something I never forgot and I resolved to go to Europe every year.
That August, Dore Schary resigned as head of RKO after accepting an offer from Louis B. Mayer to become head of production at MGM. My old boss was now my new boss.
I was assigned to write the screenplay for Nancy Goes to Rio, which was to star Ann Sothern, Jane Powell, Barry Sullivan, Carmen Miranda, and Louis Calhern.
The picture was being produced by Joe Pasternak, a middle-aged Hungarian producer with a heavy accent. Before he came to MGM, he produced small pictures at Universal, a studio on the verge of bankruptcy. A young actress named Deanna Durbin was released from her contract at MGM and went to Universal. Joe Pasternak was assigned by Universal to do a picture with Deanna called Three Smart Girls.
To the studio’s amazement, the picture exploded at the box office. Overnight, Deanna Durbin became a major star and Universal was saved. Shortly after that, Joe Pasternak accepted an offer at MGM as a producer.
One day, Dore Schary called a meeting of the producers on the lot.
When they were all seated in his office, Dore said, “We have a problem. I just bought a play called Tea and Sympathy. It’s a big Broadway hit, but the censorship office won’t let us make it because it involves a homosexual. We have to come up with another angle. I want to hear your suggestions.”
There was a thoughtful silence. Then one of the producers said, “Instead of a homosexual, we could make him an alcoholic.”
Another producer said, “He could be on drugs.”
“He could be a cripple.”
A dozen different ideas were floated around the room, none of them satisfactory.
After a silence, Joe Pasternak spoke up. “It’s very simple,” he said. “You keep the play exactly as it is. He is a homosexual.” And then he added, triumphantly, “But in the end, it’s all a dream.”
That was the end of the meeting.
One of the bonuses of working on Nancy Goes to Rio was meeting Louis Calhern. Calhern had started out in the theater and was a brilliant actor. He had a regal appearance, tall and hawk-nosed, with a stentorian voice. He had been briefly married to three actresses and was on his fourth. He had a wonderful sense of humor and was a delight to be with. He had just starred in The Magnificent Yankee, the story of Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes.
When Louis would come to my house for dinner, as he walked through the front door, he would bellow, “Where the hell is the food?”
I received a telegram from him one day that read: “Understand that my wife has been hoodwinked into making an engagement for you with me on Saturday night, the fourth. I will meet you in the theater after the lights are out. Please do not expect to be seen in public with me. Calhern.”
An agent introduced me to a beautiful young Swedish actress whom I’ll call Ingrid, who had come to the United States to make a test at Universal. She was enchanting and we began a romance.
A few weeks later on a Sunday morning, while I was asleep, the doorbell began to ring. I looked at the bedside clock. It was four A.M. The ringing became more frantic. I reluctantly got up, put on a robe, went to the door and opened it. A stranger, holding a gun, shoved me aside and came into the room.
My heart began to pound. “If this is a holdup,” I said, “take whatever—”
“You son of a bitch! I’m going to kill you.”
It was not a holdup.
At moments like that a writer is supposed to think: This is great material. But what I thought was: I’m going to die.
“I don’t know you,” I said.
“No, but you know my wife,” he shouted. “You’ve been sleeping with her.”
I knew he had made a mistake. I never had affairs with married women. “Look,” I said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know who your wife is.”
“Ingrid.” He raised the gun.
“I—” It was no mistake. “Wait a minute! Ingrid never told me she was married.”
“The bitch married me so she could get a visa to come to this country.”
“Hold it,” I said. “This is all news to me. She doesn’t wear a wedding ring, and she never mentioned a husband, so there’s no way I could have known. Sit down and let’s talk about it.”
He hesitated a moment and sank into a chair. We were both sweating profusely.