Dud Avocado, The by Dundy Elaine

Author:Dundy, Elaine [Dundy, Elaine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Modern Classics, Novel
ISBN: 978-1-59017-413-5
Publisher: New York Review Books
Published: 1958-01-01T03:00:00+00:00

EIGHT

I DIDN’T SEE LARRY for a while. After a show opens it doesn’t belong to the director any more, it’s the stage manager’s baby, and Larry never came around. I wasn’t exactly happy, but—hmm, I don’t know—but, but, but I wasn’t absolutely unhappy either. I found that I liked acting and that, after those first few terrifying minutes each night before I went on stage, I was really enjoying myself. I even liked always having to be at the same place at the same time. I mean, the question actors most often get asked is how they can bear saying the same things over and over again night after night, but God knows the answer to that is, don’t we all anyway; might as well get paid for it.

So I jogged along. I took up with the Hard Core again. And I began posing for Jim. Later on somebody told me that there isn’t a girl in the whole world who won’t take off her clothes if she’s convinced she’s doing it for aesthetic reasons, but at the time it seemed to me I had taken one more giant step.

Otherwise things had changed very little in Montparnasse. Judy was out of the hospital and getting ready to accompany her brother on his tour, Dave Beckenfield had slunk off to Germany, and Crazy Eyes and his mono-dancing sister had apparently changed quartiers, or, at any rate, disappeared from ours. I did a bit of dubbing, a bit of radio, and got two offers from film companies, both of which fell through. From time to time I was fawned upon by the odd Stage-door Johnny, but if this was fame, it was keeping itself very quiet. Very quiet indeed.

Gradually it dawned on me that my passport was gone for good. I went through all my handbags, all my pockets, all my drawers. I went under the bed, on top of the wardrobe and back to the boites of the Opening Night. Then I went to the Etats-Unis. “I have lost my passport,” I told them, “I am a citizen of the world.”

“The hell you are,” said the Ancient. “You are a prisoner of the world. You’d better get yourself over to the American Embassy first thing in the morning or you’re going to be in some real trouble.”

The next morning turned out to be the coldest of the year. I had to put on practically all the clothes I owned before daring to go out into it. When I arrived at the Select for my morning coffee I saw Bradley Slater, that compulsive reader, waving me frantically over to his table with an old copy of the New Yorker. Word had got around that I was going to the Embassy, and he was eager to accompany me. He hadn’t been across the river in weeks—it would make a nice outing for him. By the time I’d finished my coffee I was surprised to find there were so many members of the Hard

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