The main feature came on, and Clifton forgot everything except what was up on the screen. He leaned forward in his seat, concentrating on the face of each actress. The plot was about a young college professor who smuggled his female students into his bedroom for night classes. All of them were young, surprisingly attractive and incredibly endowed. They went through a variety of sexual exercises, oral, vaginal and anal, until the professor was as satisfied as his pupils.
But none of the girls was Jill. She has to be there, Clifton thought. This was the only chance he would ever have to avenge himself for what she had done to him. He would arrange for Toby to see the film. It would hurt Toby, but he would get over it. Jill would be destroyed. When Toby learned what kind of whore he had married, he would throw her out on her ass. Jill had to be in this film.
And suddenly, there she was—on the wide screen, in wonderful, glorious, living color. She had changed a great deal. She was thinner now, more beautiful and more sophisticated. But it was Jill. Clifton sat there, drinking in the scene, reveling in it, rejoicing and feasting his senses, filled with an electrifying sense of triumph and vengeance.
Clifton remained in his seat until the credits came on. There it was, Josephine Czinski. He got to his feet and made his way back to the projection booth. A man in shirt sleeves was inside the small room, reading a racing form. He glanced up as Clifton entered and said, “No one’s allowed in here, buddy.”
“I want to buy a print of that picture.”
The man shook his head. “Not for sale.” He went back to his handicapping.
“I’ll give you a hundred bucks to run off a dupe. No one will ever know.”
The man did not even look up.
“Two hundred bucks,” Clifton said.
The projectionist turned a page.
“Three hundred.”
He looked up and studied Clifton. “Cash?”
“Cash.”
At ten o’clock the following morning, Clifton arrived at Toby Temple’s house with a can of film under his arm. No, not film, he thought happily. Dynamite. Enough to blow Jill Castle to hell.
The door was opened by an English butler Clifton had not seen before.
“Tell Mr. Temple that Clifton Lawrence is here to see him.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Temple is not here.”
“I’ll wait,” Clifton said firmly.
The butler replied, “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Mr. and Mrs. Temple left for Europe this morning.”
32
Europe was a succession of triumphs.
The night of Toby’s opening at the Palladium in London, Oxford Circus was jammed with crowds frantically trying to get a glimpse of Toby and Jill. The entire area around Argyll Street had been cordoned off by the metropolitan police. When the mob got out of hand, mounted police were hastily summoned to assist. Precisely at the stroke of eight o’clock, the Royal Family arrived and the show began.
Toby exceeded everyone’s wildest expectations. His face beaming with innocence, he brilliantly attacked the British government and its old-school-tie smugness. He explained how it had managed to become less powerful than Uganda and how it could not have happened to a more deserving country. They all roared with laughter, because they knew that Toby Temple was only joking. He did not mean a word of it. Toby loved them.
As they loved him.
The reception in Paris was even more tumultuous. Jill and Toby were guests at the President’s Palace and were driven around the city in a state limousine. They could be seen on the front pages of the newspapers every day, and when they appeared at the theater, extra police had to be called out to control the crowds. At the end of Toby’s performance, he and Jill were being escorted toward their waiting limousine when suddenly the mob broke through the police guard and hundreds of Frenchmen descended on them, screaming, “Toby, Toby…on veut Toby!” The surging crowd held out pens and autograph books, pressing forward to touch the great Toby Temple and his wonderful Jill. The police were unable to hold them back; the crowd swept them aside, tearing at Toby’s clothes, fighting to obtain a souvenir. Toby and Jill were almost crushed by the press of bodies, but Jill felt no fear. This riot was a tribute to her. She had done this for these people; she had brought Toby back to them.
Their last stop was Moscow.
Moscow in June is one of the loveliest cities in the world. Graceful white berezka and Lipa trees with yellow flowerbeds line the wide boulevards crowded with natives and visitors strolling in the sunshine. It is the season for tourists. Except for official visitors, all tourists to Russia are handled through Intourist, the government-controlled agency which arranges transportation, hotels and guided sightseeing tours. But Toby and Jill were met at the Sheremetyevo International Airport by a large Zil limousine and driven to the Metropole Hotel, usually reserved for VIPs from satellite countries. The suite had been stocked with Stolichnaya vodka and black caviar.
General Yuri Romanovitch, a high party official, came to the hotel to bid them welcome. “We do not run many American pictures in Russia, Mr. Temple, but we have played your movies here often. The Russian people feel that genius transcends all boundaries.”
Toby had been booked to appear at the Bolshoi Theatre for three performances. Opening night, Jill shared in the ovation. Because of the language barrier, Toby did most of his act in pantomime, and the audience adored him. He gave a diatribe in his pseudo-Russian, and their laughter and applause echoed through the enormous theater like a benediction of love.
During the next two days, General Romanovitch escorted Toby and Jill on a private sightseeing tour. They went to Gorky Park and rode on the giant ferris wheel, and saw the historic Saint Basil’s Cathedral. They were taken to the Moscow State Circus and given a banquet at Aragvi, where they were served the golden roe caviar, the rarest of the eight caviars, zakushki, which literally means small bites, and pashteet, the delicate paté baked in a crust. For dessert, they ate yoblochnaya, the incredibly delicious apple charlotte pastry with apricot sauce.