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whiskey; burned his throat; experienced a change in mood, for the better. “Yes,” he said, aware that he had missed a flow of words. “Yes,” he repeated, eyes on a pretty middle-aged lady as she escorted a stocky pale-faced man, plainly drunk, to a chair by the library door.
    “That’s one of J. P. Morgan’s partners.” Griffiths seemed to know a great deal about subjects unrelated to movies. “He has a weakness, as you can see. But he’s been very active in getting us into the war on the British side.”
    The Capitalist, thought Tim; in his head, the word was printed on a title card as in the silent days of film.
    “Were you really stopped by the success of the Andy Hardy movies, by Mickey Rooney of all people?”
    Tim remembered to smile like Gary Cooper, a thin costive smile. “Let’s say Mr. Mayer’s series about
his
America was better box-office than mine. The public likes fantasy.”
    Tim’s crew were now leaving. He made arrangements to meet them the next day at the Mayflower Hotel. “We’ll be working mostly in the Capitol.” He thanked each of them, remembering even the names of the pickup technicians. They left, but Harold Griffiths did not. He hovered near. Tim usually avoided movie buffs, but here in a city where politicians reigned, he did not altogether mind the attentions of someone who actually knew who Timothy Farrell was.
    “Will you make another—I hope you don’t mind me sounding like an eager reporter—of your what-the-people-are-really-like films, or
should
be like, as my friend Jim Agee wrote in
Time
.”
    Tim recalled a flowery but shrewd description of his work in
Time
. Since reviews were unsigned in that Jovian magazine, this was the first time that he had heard that there was indeed a writer and not a committee who had written so warmly of the Farrell populist genius.
    The drunk businessman was now pulling himself together. The lady was carefully arranging his dark curly hair. Suddenly, he blinked his eyes, and gave her a smile of considerable charm; he was sober now. Fast work, thought Tim, enviously.
    “There’s no room right now for one of my pictures. This is the year of fantasy.”
    “Do you still think that what you put on the screen can change the way the audience sees itself?”
    Tim, who had always hoped that this was true, laughed and lied: “Of course not. Except in a very general way. Anyway, Judge Hardy and Andy are the way Americans want to see themselves.”
    Harold Griffiths nodded to show his—disbelief? Tim could not read him, and did not try to. “Would your Hometowners be isolationists today? I mean, if you were making one of your films this minute, what would you show—reflect? About what’s going on in the old hometown?”
    “If I were just
reflecting
, I’d show how indifferent they always are to Europe and its problems. This morning only seven percent want us to go to war against Hitler.”
    Which of his interviewees had just told him that? They were beginning to blur in a comfortable bourbon haze. Blaise approached them.
    “But then, you don’t just reflect, do you? You try to alter the way people see themselves. That’s why I wrote how your
Dust Bowl
was better than
Grapes of Wrath
 …”
    “Alter? Why, I’m not so vain as all that, Mr. Griffiths.”
    But the passionate devotee of film had caught sight of his employer and moved away. Meanwhile, Blaise had paused to say a word or two to the now sober—or apparently sober—Capitalist; then Blaise joined Tim.
    “He’s on the board of Fight for Freedom.” Blaise indicated the Capitalist. As a sometime heavy drinker, Tim recognized a fellow “functionary,” as he thought of himself, an alcoholic who still did his work well. Although drunk through most of the shooting of
Dust Bowl
, he had managed to bring the picture in on time and under budget, and yet, to this day, he had little memory of ever having made it.
    Blaise was on his own track now. “Everyone’s choosing up sides.