Текст книги "Little Golden America"

Автор книги: Евгений Петров

Соавторы: Илья Ильф
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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

"No, gentlemen," Mr. Adams said excitedly. "Have you heard? I one businessman can in all seriousness tell another businessman, to the sound of calculating machines and telephone bells, that God sent him there to him to get a job, and this recommendation by God is actually taken into consideration, then you can see for yourself that this is a very useful, businesslike God. That is the real American God, of offices and business, not some European chatterbox with a penchant for useless philosophy. Even Catholicism has acquired special attributes in America. Father Coughlin has built himself his own radio station and he advertises his God no less frantically than Coca-Cola is advertised. Seriously, European religions do not suit Americans. They are predicated on an insufficiently businesslike basis. Besides, they are too clever for the average American. He needs something simpler. He must be told which god to worship. He cannot decide for himself. Besides, he has no time to make the decision; he is a busy man. I repeat, he must have a simple religion, telling him definitely what advantages a given religion yields, how much it will cost him, and in what way this religion is better than others. But whatever you say, do say it concretely. The American cannot endure vagueness."

Once, when we were sitting in our Hollywood Hotel, hard at work, the Adamses ran into our room. We had never before seen them in such a dither. Mr. Adams's coat hung on only one of his shoulders, just as it had hung on Pushkin before the duel. He emitted inarticulate cries, and minute by minute his face turned redder and redder. Mrs. Adams, meek Mrs. Adams, who never lost her presence of mind and her composure, even while we were crossing the icy mountain passes, was running around the room and exclaiming from time to time:

"Why didn't I have a revolver with me? I would have shot her like a dog!"

"No, Becky, would shoot her like a dog!"

We were frightened.

"What's come over you? Whom are you going to shoot like a dog? Why like a dog?"

But more than ten minutes passed before the Adamses calmed down and were able to begin the story of what had so incensed them.

We learned that early that morning, not wishing to wake us, they departed for Los Angeles to hear a sermon by a well-known woman in America who had created a new religion, Aimee McPherson.

After quibbling about who should tell the story, Mr. Adams, as usual, won out.

"Gentlemen, it is simply incredible!" he cried in a stentorian voice. "You have missed a lot because you were not with us. Write it down in your little books that we all lost out. And so, Becky and I went to the temple of Aimee McPherson. In spite of the fact that it was still a whole hour before the sermon was to begin, the church was full. More than a thousand people were sitting there. All of them were good, simple people. The ushers evidently decided that we were important people, so they placed us in the first row. Very well. We sit and wait. Yes, yes. Of course, in the meantime we got into conversation with our neighbours. Excellent people. One of them, a farmer from Iowa; another, had also journeyed here especially for this. He has a small ranch in Nevada. Good, honest people, who want to believe in something, who long for spiritual sustenance. They must be given something without fail! They need something, gentlemen! Finally, we hear music. A flourish of music blares forth, and, just as in a circus, Aimee McPherson appears, marcelled, all in curls, with a raspberry manicure, in a white cape, all primped up and rouged. No longer young, but still good-looking. Everybody is elated. And why not? Just think of it, gentlemen! Instead of a dull preacher, a handsome modern woman comes out. And do you know what she said? It was frightful!"

"If I only had a revolver," Mrs. Adams interposed. "I would have..."

"No, no, Becky, you must not be so bloodthirsty. And you must not interrupt me. And so, gentlemen, I will not bother to repeat to you the nonsense she talked. In Europe it would have called forth laughter, even from the most ignorant people. But we are in America! Here you must say only very simple things. My word of honour, the good people who filled the church were in raptures. The spiritual food which Aimee McPherson offered to them would not have suited even a canary, if a canary needed religion. Crude charlatanism, manured with pathetic witticisms, and a considerable quantity of eroticism in the form of a chorus of young women in transparent white dresses. But the main thing was still ahead! We learned that Aimee McPherson needed a hundred thousand dollars to repair the temple. A hundred thousand dollars, gentlemen, is big money even in rich America. And I must tell you that Americans do not like to part with their dollars. You understand yourself that if she had merely asked the assembly to contribute money for the repair of the temple, she would not have collected much. But she thought up a trick of genius! The orchestra, which was shaking the joists, became silent; and, marcelled, like an angel, Sister McPherson again turned to the crowd. Her speech was truly inspiring. Gentlemen, you missed everything because you did not hear that amazing speech. ' Brothers,' she said,'money is needed. Not for me, of course, but for God. Can you give God one penny for every pound of your body's weight which He has given to you as a gift of His unutterable grace ? Only one penny? It isn't much! Only one penny God asks of you! Will you refuse Him that?'

"And right away the attendants ran down the aisles, distributing leaflets on which was printed:

"' Pray, weigh yourself, and pay!'

"' Only one penny for each pound of your live weight. Weigh yourselves! Weigh your relatives!Weigh your friends!'

"You know, gentlemen, to think that up is a work of genius! It takes a subtle knowledge of the peculiarities of American character. Americans love figures. It is easiest of all to convince them with figures. They would not have given money just like that. But a penny a pound– there's something boundlessly convincing and businesslike in that! Besides, it is an engaging occupation. The farmer will return to Iowa, and all through the week he will be weighing his neighbours and his relatives. There will be a lot of laughter!

"Yes, yes. The attendants again ran down the aisles, this time with large trays. They collected trayfuls of money in a few minutes. The average American weighs about one hundred and eighty pounds. My fat neighbour from Nevada gave two dollars. Yet he was clearly not rich. He was convinced with the aid of idiotic arithmetic. I tell you quite seriously, the religion of all these sects is somewhere halfway between the multiplication table and the music-hall. A few figures, a few old anecdotes, a little pornography, and quite a lot of gall. Write that down in your little notebooks, gentlemen!"

39 God's Country

AIMEE McPHERSON exceeded the limits of Mr. Adams's patience.

"No, seriously, gentlemen," he was saying to us, pacing up and down our hotel room. "Becky and I decided to go away. No, no, I understand you excellently. You are writers, you want to learn all you can about American motion pictures. It is very necessary for you. But Becky and I have nothing to do here. We shall go to Mexico."

With these words Mr. Adams spread on the bed a large map torn at the folds and fell on it with his stomach.

"We shall go to Mexico and rest up at the seashore. Becky and I have already gone to the Chamber of Commerce and have got information there. Besides, we shall go at once to the A.A.A., and there we shall get more information. Is that right, Becky? Right near the American border is an excellent place, the village of Encinada—a marvellous beach, a good road. Then, later, we shall meet in San Diego. From there our return trip to New York will begin. What do you think of it, gentlemen? "

Although the journey had been a great source of pleasure to the inquisitive Adamses, they now began to fear that we might not return to New York on time. They were homesick without their baby. Days on end they would seek out little children, press them in tight embraces, stifle them with kisses. The delay in Hollywood beyond the schedule frightened them.

"If we start from San Diego by the twenty-sixth of December, we shall manage to return home on time," Mr. Adams was saying, drawing with a red pencil on the map our return journey. "Along the Mexican border we shall travel to El Paso, then by way of San Antonio we shall reach New Orleans, and, there, cutting across almost all of the Black Belt states, we shall make our way to Washington."

Regrettable as it was to part with our fellow travellers, we were obliged to do it, because getting acquainted with Hollywood required a few more days. We did not wish to torment Mr. Adams by making him tag along with us to various studios. It would have been too inhuman. We agreed to meet on the twenty-fifth of December in San Diego, a city situated on the shores of the Pacific almost on the Mexican border. In case we should not arrive by that date, the Adamses were to proceed on the journey without us, and we would have to catch up with them by train. We had become so accustomed to the Adamses that, standing at our newly washed car shining with freshness, we bade farewell time without end yet could not really part from them. As a matter of fact, at the very last minute the Adamses again disappeared in the Chamber of Commerce for additional information and did not reappear for so long that, unable to wait for them any longer, we set off on our own affairs.

We met numerous people in Hollywood and learned much that was interesting. But one sin lies on our conscience. We were in Hollywood and did not meet Chaplin, although that could have been arranged and we desired it fervently.

It all happened because the meeting with Chaplin was undertaken by a person who simply could not do it even if he had worked on it a whole year. To our regret, we lost many days before we learned that. When we undertook the matter from another end, Chaplin had finished the music for Modern Times and had gone away for a rest. Then came that cheery commercial holiday—Merry Christmas. Then we had to leave. And thus our meeting with Chaplin came to naught.

Conversations with Milestone, Mamoulian, and other directors, among the ten best, convinced us that these excellent craftsmen were sick and tired of the senseless plays which they had to produce. Like all big men in art, they want to produce significant things, but the Hollywood system will not let them do it.

We saw several Russians of the many found in Hollywood. They work a lot, are sometimes successful and sometimes not successful, but feel themselves guilty because they stick around here instead of being in Moscow. They don't say anything about it, but it is evident by every indication.

When the Art Theatre was in America, one very young actor decided to remain in Hollywood for a while to work in films. He stayed behind for three months, but has been there more than ten years. He is one of those who are successful. His affairs are constantly improving.

What is the nature of his success? He receives five hundred dollars a week. He has a seven-year contract with his firm. Don't think that a seven-year contract is a great streak of luck. The essence of such a contract is that the actor who signed it is actually obliged to serve the studio with which he is connected for seven years. The studio itself, however, has the right every half-year to reconsider the contract and to decline the actor's services. Thus, it is a seven-year contract for the employee, while for the employer it is only a semi-annual contract.

He has a lot of work. Early in the morning he drives out to be filmed, and returns home late in the evening. He is filmed in one picture, gets a week's rest, and then he begins filming in another picture. There is no stop. He has time only to change his make-up. Since he is a foreigner and does not speak very pure English, he plays foreigners—Mexicans, Spaniards, Italians. All he has to do is to change his sideburns from Spanish to Italian. Since he has a stern face and black eyes, he plays mostly villains, bandits, and the most primitive boors.

"It's a fact!" he cried to us. "The interval between one picture and another is so short that I almost have no time to learn my role. Word of honour!"

Having shown us his house (a good American house with electric appliances, gas heat in the floor, and a silver Christmas tree), his automobile (a good American car with cigar lighter and radio), and his wife (a good Russian wife with grey eyes), the actor turned to what evidently concerned him most of all.

"Well, and how is it in the Union?"

Having received a substantial answer as to how it was in the Union, he asked with even greater interest:

"Well, and how are things in Moscow?"

Having received a no less substantial reply about that too, the actor cried out:

"And at the Art Theatre, how is it? How is it in our theatre?"

We told him about that too.

"Mishka Yanshin is an honoured artist of the Republic?" he groaned joyously. "But Mishka is a mere boy! We played together in silent roles. And Khmelev? Is it possible that he is playing Tsar Fedor? Simply miraculous! But Khmelev and I. . . we were children in 1922! It's a fact that we were children! Well, I know everything about Ilyinsky! He's become a famous artist, yet we studied in the studio together. It's a fact that we studied together! Igor and I!"

He could in no wise become accustomed to the thought that all of our Yanshins and Khmelevs had already grown up and had become, great artists. He could not get accustomed to it, because he measured them by Hollywood standards. Essentially, nothing at all had happened to him in the course of thirteen years. True, he received more money and had his own automobile, but he did not become a famous actor. Only recently, literally a month ago, they began to place his name in the list of players. But before that he did not have even that distinction. They simply used him—some anonymous motion-picture genius with Mexican sideburns and sparkling eyes. Yet he is a very talented actor!

Late that night, accompanying us through the hushed Hollywood streets, he suddenly became excited and began to curse everything.

"Hollywood is a village!" he cried in a passionate voice." It's a fact! A wild village! There is nothing to breathe here!"

And for a long time after that his rich Russian voice was heard throughout California:

"A village! I assure you, it's a village! It's a fact!"

This wailing in the night was the last thing we heard in Hollywood. In the morning we left by train for San Diego, by way of the Santa Fe Railway.

To do this we first went to Los Angeles, which is separated from Hollywood ... as a matter of fact, it is not at all separated from Hollywood, but merges with it, just as Hollywood itself unnoticeably passes into Beverly Hills, Beverly Hills passes into Santa Monica, and Santa Monica into something else.

Los Angeles in translation means "city of angels." Yes, it is a city of angels, smeared in oil. Here, as in Oklahoma City, the oil was found in the city itself, and entire streets are occupied by metal derricks—they tap, pump, make money.

Los Angeles is a ponderous city with large buildings, dirty and populous streets, iron fire escapes which stick out of the facades of houses. This is a California Chicago—brick, slums, the realest kind of poverty and the most revolting wealth.

Just before our departure we saw a long line of people standing before the entrance to a restaurant. A piece of cloth over the regular sign an-246

nounced that here the Salvation Army was giving away free Christmas dinners to the unemployed. The doors of the restaurant were closed. It was still a long wait for the dinner hour. The queue represented all kinds and types of American unemployed—from the tramp with cheeks and chin long unshaven to the tractable clerk who had not yet cast aside his necktie and who had not yet lost the hope of returning to respectable society. Here stood youths—they who had already grown up at the time when jobs vanished, they who had never worked, do not know how to do anything, and have no place to learn a trade. No one needs them, who are full of strength, who are capable young men. Here stood old men, who had worked all their lives, but who will never work again. Fathers of families, honest toilers, who during their toiling lives had enriched more than one boss—they, too, are no longer needed by anyone now. They still hope for something, but nothing will happen.

Upton Sinclair, whom we had met several days before in Pasadena, a small and beautiful California town, said to us:

"Capitalism as a system for bringing to people profit and wages, as a system for giving people means of livelihood, has long ago come to an end in America. But I regret to say that the people have not yet realized it. They think that this is a temporary mishap, of the kind that happened before. They do not understand that never again will capitalism give jobs to fifteen million American unemployed. Since 1930, when it began, the depression has lightened considerably, business is considerably better, yet unemployment does not decrease. People have been replaced by new machines and by the rationalization of production. The richest country in the world, ' God's country,' as Americans call it, a great country, is capable of assuring its people neither jobs, nor bread, nor lodging."

And this great passionate man who all his life had rushed about in search of truth, who had been a liberal and a socialist, and the founder of his own social theory, under the flag of which he had been nominated for governor of California on the Democratic party ticket and even polled nine hundred thousand votes, wearily dropped his head. We sat in his house, a darkish, old-fashioned, dusty house, which did not look livable. The house, too, was old and tired. His attempt to make of California an isolated state where there would be no unemployment came to nothing. Sinclair was not elected governor. But nothing would have come of it even if he had been elected governor.

"I am through with that," Sinclair told us in farewell. " I am returning to my literary work."

Sinclair has a handsome silver head. He was in a grey flannel suit and summer shoes, woven out of narrow strips of leather. In his hand he held a gnarled and crooked stick. He has thus remained in our memory—an old man, standing in the door of his modest old house, lighted by a California sunset, smiling and tired.

The streets of festive Los Angeles were unusually quiet. The railway station seemed empty. At the kiosk were sold newspapers, coloured postcards, five-cent packages of candy. These round candies have a hole in the middle, and they look like a corn plaster. Their taste confirms their visual impression.

Some railroad official snored behind his partition, having pulled his service cap with its lacquered visor down his nose. We entered a Pullman car and sat down on the movable velvet chair which had an antimacassar on its back. The Negro porter soundlessly brought in our suitcases, soundlessly placed them on the baggage rack, and departed without a word.

flight outside the city appeared orange groves. Their bright fruit peeked out of shaggy bearlike foliage. Scores of thousands of trees stood in even rows. The soil between those trees was ideally cleaned, and under each tree stood a kerosene stove. Ten thousand trees and ten thousand stoves. The nights were quite cool, and the oranges needed warm air. After all, winter was on. The stoves produced a greater impression on us than even the orange groves themselves. Again we saw faultless and grandiose American organization.

Unnoticeably orange orchards were supplanted by oil orchards. These were not even orchards, rather thick jungles of oil derricks. They stood on the ocean beach and marched even into the ocean itself.

Then everything was jumbled. Orange and oil groves succeeded each other and into the window at the same time broke the aroma of oranges and the heavy smell of crude oil. Finally, the production of man's hand disappeared from view and before us opened the ocean, vast, proud, and calm. It was the hour of ebb tide and the ocean had retreated far from the shore. The wet bottom of the sea reflected the setting sun. Both suns (the real and reflected one) ran at full speed after the train. The sun descended quickly on the horizon, turned redder than ever, became flat, folded up, lost its shape. Now it was a listless luminary devoid of all splendour. But the ocean continued to run along with the train, rolling a light greenish blue wave without bustling and without pressing for our attention.

The passengers rustled their newspapers, dozed in chairs, walked into the smoking-room, where one could also have a Bacardi or Manhattan cocktail or something else of that kind, talk with a neighbour, chant the ever-recurring "Sure!" or simply doze on velvet divans.

It was already dark when we reached San Diego. At the station we were met by the glad wailing of the Adamses. They were full of Mexican impressions and they simply could not wait to share them with us.

"Gentlemen!" exclaimed Adams before we had a chance to step out on the platform. "Do you know who was the first man we saw on Mexican soil? The first man we met on the way? Yes, yes, he was a Cossack from the Terek! The most genuine Terek Cossack, gentlemen! Speaks excellent Russian. But not a word of Spanish!"

The Adamses led us to the "California Auto Court" (an automobile inn which was also a camp) in which they had been living since the day before, had become friends with its owner, had spent the whole day with him, and had learned from him all the San Diego news—about this year's harvest of oranges, about the oil business, whether the flow of tourists had increased, and many other useful bits of information indispensable to every thoughtful traveller.

The owner of the camp met us as if we were his favourite relatives. We must suppose that the Adamses had presented us in the most favourable light. After glad and lengthy effusions we left our belongings in the room assigned to us and went off to have dinner.

San Diego and San Pedro, which is located a hundred miles north, are the bases of the Pacific fleet of the United States. Sailors strolled about the streets. Solemn, lanky, and taciturn, they escorted their girls arm in arm. The happy little chits clung to their cavaliers, chattering and laughing.

We circled in our automobile around the restaurant we had selected, without finding a place where we could park our car. All the sites were occupied. There was no end of automobiles. Looking for a place to park, we drove farther and farther away from our restaurant, migrating from street to street. But the city was so full of automobiles that we could not find a place for just one more little, respectable, mouse-coloured automobile. It was one hell of a situation!

We drove to the very end of San Diego, where even the noises of the city did not reach, and in the darkness we heard only the roar of the ocean. Here we finally parked and went to the restaurant. We had to walk a half-hour to it. This is what happens occasionally in a country where there are twenty-five millions automobiles.

In the restaurant, holding on the fork a large piece of pale Christmas turkey, Mr. Adams solemnly exclaimed :

"Now, gentlemen, we have come to the very end of the United States. We cannot go any farther. From now on, no matter what we do, no matter where we go, we are going home, to New York! Let's eat this turkey to our health! We have already driven six thousand miles! Hurrah!"

PART V

BACK TO THE ATLANTIC

40 On the Old Spanish Trail

THE GENEROUS December sun poured its light on the gay city of San Diego, on its bright yellow bungalows built in the Spanish style with iron balconies and wrought-iron grilles over windows, on mowed lawns before houses, and on the decorative trees with their thick dark-green leafage at the entrance doors.

In the sheen of the clear morning stood the fleet in its roadstead. The torpedo boats were side by side, four abreast, as close together as bullets in a revolver clip. The bright grey lines of the old cruisers and battleships stretched to the edge of the horizon. The warm winter somnolence shackled the bay, and the high thin masts of the naval boats stood motionless in the pale blue sky. There were no dreadnoughts and none of the newest boats in sight. Perhaps they "were at the moment standing in San' Pedro, or maybe they had gone into the ocean for manoeuvres.

On the way to the ocean we saw beautifully cut streets with wide asphalt pavements, with sidewalks, with street lamps painted in aluminium paint. We saw a whole town, with canalization and water system, with gas and electricity brought to every part of the city; in a word, we saw a city with all its conveniences. But without houses. There was not a single house in this little town, where even the streets had been named.

This is how building lots are sold in America. Some large company buys the land where it supposes a new residential section or town will arise, brings it into the state we have just described, and sells the lots at a profit. Another company, which is occupied with the building of houses, will rig up for you in two months a wonderful Spanish house with striped awnings, with a bathroom on the first floor, with a bathroom on the second floor, with balconies, with a lamp before the house, and a fountain behind it; it will do everything; give them only your ten thousand dollars, if you have it. You don't have to pay cash; you can pay on the instalment system. But the great American God forbid that you lose your job and stop making payments!

"Gentlemen," Mr. Adams was saying solemnly, "you must remember that all the plants you see here—palms, pines, apple and lemon trees, every blade of grass—have been planted here by the hand of man. California was not at all a paradise; it was a desert. California was made by water, roads, and electricity. Deprive California of artificial irrigation for one week, and it will be impossible to repair this misfortune for years. It will again become a desert. We call California the Golden State. But it would be more correct to call it the state of man's remarkable labour. In this paradise it is necessary to toil endlessly, uninterruptedly; otherwise it will turn into a hell. Remember that, gentlemen! Water, roads, and electricity!"

At the ocean itself stood a lovely villa. On its doors shone a brass plate cleaner than the California sun: "Headquarters International Theosophist Society."

"No, no, gentlemen," cried Mr. Adams, "don't be surprised at that. Where you have water, roads, and electricity, it is easy to live. As you see, theosophists are not at all fools."

Opposite the beautiful beach which stretched for many miles stood long rows of cabins. Even now, in the winter, some of them were occupied. On their porches girls were sunning themselves, girls with insouciant faces, touchingly wild women who had run off to nature from their strait-laced and wealthy parents, from the madness and the clatter of large cities.

At the Old Spanish Mission we turned back toward the east, homeward.

A high brick cross stands here on a hill in honour of the Spanish monk whose name was Junipero Serra. At one time he had seized this land " for the glory of God and the king of Spain." From this hill one can see the entire city and the bay.

We drove over the Old Spanish Trail. Concrete, asphalt, and gravel have changed the old road considerably. We dare say, the conquistadores would not recognize these spots today. Where the feathered arrow of the Indian had whistled stands a petrol station, and the compressor breathes heavily, forcing the air into the automobile chamber. And] where the Spaniards, breathless under the weight of their leather and steel armour, dragged themselves along the scarcely noticeable trail now stretches the usual American highway, a road of high calibre, veering at times on turns.

Although we were now moving toward the east, the sun was becoming smaller each day. Again we saw the distant mountains, blue and lilac on the horizon. Again the evening twilight of the road came down and night began and the headlights gleamed. It was rather late when we arrived at El Centro.

The nasty little town of El Centro lies in the Imperial Valley. The entire valley is thirty by thirty miles in size. Lemons are picked here three times a year, oranges twice a year. In December and January vegetables, which do not grow anywhere else in the United States, are grown here. Now they were beginning to harvest lettuce, later they would harvest melons. In this paradisiacal valley, where large pale grapefruit ripen, in the valley permeated throughout with the opiating odour of lemons and oranges, in this valley goes on the most cruel exploitation of Mexicans and Filipinos in the entire world. And more than for its lettuce and oranges, this valley is known for its brutish treatment of strikers, of the unhappy, pauperized, always hungry Mexican seasonal workers and their numerous children. It is only twelve miles from here to Mexico.

Las Palmas Camp, where we stopped, was something of a cross between a camp and a hotel. It already had a hall with decorative plants in tubs, with swings and soft divans. This made it resemble a hotel and justified the traveller's filling his heart with pride. (Remember? "Let your heart fill with pride when you utter the name of the hotel in which you stopped!") On the other hand, the price of the room was not high, which made it clear that Las Palmas was, after all, a camp. In short, it was a convenient haven. Its owner was an Austrian German who thirty years ago had come to America in a third-class cabin. Now, in addition to the camp he owns also the California Hotel, a four-story building with a cafe and a table d'hote. Therefore, the optimistic American smile, which makes him kin to Mr. Max Factor and other fortunate ones, never leaves his face.