to pick and choose. Understand?
I nodded.
—Just like the stories your mother told you when you were a kid, back in Dublin.
I looked at him.
—No? he said.
—No.
—Well, Jesus, you got kids of your own, right? You told them stories.
I nodded.
—All done in a couple of minutes, he said.—Between Once upon a time and Happily ever after. We’ll have two hours, max. But it’s plenty. If we do it right. We already have the story. But I need the tools. Pictures. Music. The shortcuts. The Kerry Dances .
—It wasn’t her song.
—We make it her fucking song.
He wasn’t angry.
—I’m having to fight, he said.—I’m making this one here—He nodded back at the fort.
—so Herb Yates - he’s the fucking producer - so he’ll give me the finance to make ours. I’m the most bankable director in Hollywood, every one a sure-fire hit. I’ve won fucking Oscars. But our picture’s set in Ireland. It’s too far way. They don’t think it’ll make them money.
He sighed.
—We’re nearly there, he said.—We’ll make it. How’d you meet her?
—School, I said.
—Sat beside each other, he said.—On the first day. It’s a bit corny, but it could work.
—No.
—Why not? he said.—What?
—She was my teacher, I said.
—That’s right, he said.—You told me she was the schoolmarm.
—Yeah.
—But you didn’t tell me she was your fucking schoolmarm. Jesus. You were, what? Ten, eleven?
—Eight.
—She was what, twenty-five?
I shrugged.
—Well, listen, he said.—Here goes.
He sounded like he was getting ready to sit up. But he didn’t.
—We won’t get that past the censor, he said.—They just won’t allow that.
—I met her again in the GPO, I told him.—Years later.
—There now, he said.—You’re thinking like a writer. The place is burning down, right?
—Yeah.
—Bullets in the air.
—Yeah. And—
—Go on, he said.
—The glass dome above us, I said.—It started to melt.
—Great, he said.—Drops of molten glass.
—Yeah.
—See? he said.—This is one of the shortcuts. Love and liberty in ten, fifteen seconds. Miss O’Shea—
—I rode her in the basement on a bed made of stamps.
—I’m right there with you, Henry, he said.—But we won’t shoot the fucking.
—Fair enough.
—You understand.
—Yeah, no; you’re grand. I understand.
—But what we’ll do is, he said,—we shoot two good faces. Whoever’s you, probably Hank, and whoever’s playing your schoolmarm, probably Maureen or maybe Joanne Dru.You’ll like Joanne. She’s here, somewhere.
He nodded back, at the fort.
—Two faces, he said.—Two pairs of those Irish eyes. And the eyes are saying it all. And the glass drips and the bullets fly. And cut. You can see that?
—Yeah, I said.
—This is great, he said.
I agreed with him; I believed him.
—Great, he said.—Bed of stamps, right?
—Right.
He started singing, quietly.
—OH, THE DAYS OF THE KERRY—
DANCES - What was her name?
—I don’t know, I said.
—Meta told me you’d keep saying that.
—I never knew her name.
—We’ll have to give her a name.
—No.
—We’ll see.
—No.
—We’ll fucking see. How do we get that across? The woman has no name.
—She had a name, I said.
—But you don’t know it.
I nodded.
—You didn’t want to know it.
—That’s right.
—Was it a secret agent thing or a better-fuck thing?
—Better-fuck.
—How do we tell that in a picture? Without the guy explaining, putting us to fucking sleep?
—He could put his finger in his ears just when she’s going to tell him.
—Your pal, Douglas Fairbanks.
—What about him?
—You ever see him put his fingers in his ears? Or Valentino? Or Hank Fonda?
—Okay.
—I don’t think I could even make Duke Wayne stick his fingers in his fucking ears.
He turned his chair to face the set again and he was suddenly surrounded by busy men, and he was up and gone, into the phoney fort. I turned my own chair. I heard the accordion
I nodded.
—Just like the stories your mother told you when you were a kid, back in Dublin.
I looked at him.
—No? he said.
—No.
—Well, Jesus, you got kids of your own, right? You told them stories.
I nodded.
—All done in a couple of minutes, he said.—Between Once upon a time and Happily ever after. We’ll have two hours, max. But it’s plenty. If we do it right. We already have the story. But I need the tools. Pictures. Music. The shortcuts. The Kerry Dances .
—It wasn’t her song.
—We make it her fucking song.
He wasn’t angry.
—I’m having to fight, he said.—I’m making this one here—He nodded back at the fort.
—so Herb Yates - he’s the fucking producer - so he’ll give me the finance to make ours. I’m the most bankable director in Hollywood, every one a sure-fire hit. I’ve won fucking Oscars. But our picture’s set in Ireland. It’s too far way. They don’t think it’ll make them money.
He sighed.
—We’re nearly there, he said.—We’ll make it. How’d you meet her?
—School, I said.
—Sat beside each other, he said.—On the first day. It’s a bit corny, but it could work.
—No.
—Why not? he said.—What?
—She was my teacher, I said.
—That’s right, he said.—You told me she was the schoolmarm.
—Yeah.
—But you didn’t tell me she was your fucking schoolmarm. Jesus. You were, what? Ten, eleven?
—Eight.
—She was what, twenty-five?
I shrugged.
—Well, listen, he said.—Here goes.
He sounded like he was getting ready to sit up. But he didn’t.
—We won’t get that past the censor, he said.—They just won’t allow that.
—I met her again in the GPO, I told him.—Years later.
—There now, he said.—You’re thinking like a writer. The place is burning down, right?
—Yeah.
—Bullets in the air.
—Yeah. And—
—Go on, he said.
—The glass dome above us, I said.—It started to melt.
—Great, he said.—Drops of molten glass.
—Yeah.
—See? he said.—This is one of the shortcuts. Love and liberty in ten, fifteen seconds. Miss O’Shea—
—I rode her in the basement on a bed made of stamps.
—I’m right there with you, Henry, he said.—But we won’t shoot the fucking.
—Fair enough.
—You understand.
—Yeah, no; you’re grand. I understand.
—But what we’ll do is, he said,—we shoot two good faces. Whoever’s you, probably Hank, and whoever’s playing your schoolmarm, probably Maureen or maybe Joanne Dru.You’ll like Joanne. She’s here, somewhere.
He nodded back, at the fort.
—Two faces, he said.—Two pairs of those Irish eyes. And the eyes are saying it all. And the glass drips and the bullets fly. And cut. You can see that?
—Yeah, I said.
—This is great, he said.
I agreed with him; I believed him.
—Great, he said.—Bed of stamps, right?
—Right.
He started singing, quietly.
—OH, THE DAYS OF THE KERRY—
DANCES - What was her name?
—I don’t know, I said.
—Meta told me you’d keep saying that.
—I never knew her name.
—We’ll have to give her a name.
—No.
—We’ll see.
—No.
—We’ll fucking see. How do we get that across? The woman has no name.
—She had a name, I said.
—But you don’t know it.
I nodded.
—You didn’t want to know it.
—That’s right.
—Was it a secret agent thing or a better-fuck thing?
—Better-fuck.
—How do we tell that in a picture? Without the guy explaining, putting us to fucking sleep?
—He could put his finger in his ears just when she’s going to tell him.
—Your pal, Douglas Fairbanks.
—What about him?
—You ever see him put his fingers in his ears? Or Valentino? Or Hank Fonda?
—Okay.
—I don’t think I could even make Duke Wayne stick his fingers in his fucking ears.
He turned his chair to face the set again and he was suddenly surrounded by busy men, and he was up and gone, into the phoney fort. I turned my own chair. I heard the accordion
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