Ex. 1. Identifying aspects of communication. Read the story “After the Movie” by R. Rayner and get ready to dwell on the main elements of the communicative episode described in the text.

After the Movie

By R. Rayner

Ed Vickery and his wife, Kate, came home late from the movies. They’d seen that big hit about ancient-Greek guys making a last stand against the Persian hordes. Ed’s mind had been elsewhere, however, with the I.R.S. and dodgy A.R.Ms, not severed heads in C.G.I. He felt flat, exhausted. His back hurt. His athlete’s foot itched. The rich, sickly smell of night-flowering jasmine swamped his lungs, and all of a sudden he had trouble breathing.

“You’re in a lousy mood, and you should go to bed, ” Kate said, and Ed grunted.

“I’ll do that, ” he said, but before he did he looked in on the boys. Luke and Denis, twelve and ten now, had been only too happy to be left without the babysitter that Ed could no longer afford. They’d watched a couple of DVDs, scarfed a rub of Ben & Jerry’s, probably forgotten to brush their teeth (for sure, in Denis’s case), and were busy feigning sleep. From one side of the room, Ed heard a suppressed giggle, from the other a silence that was too deep to be genuine. He went along with the game. In truth, he couldn’t face talking to his children. He said nothing, not even the usual “Good night, lads, ” and pulled the door closed with a soft click. He brushed his teeth, showered quickly, and, while Kate was opening her laptop on the kitchen table, went to their bedroom, at the back of the house. He slipped on a pair of boxers, clambered beneath the covers, and started to weep. Here it comes, Ed thought. The Great Flood. Another one. His face screwed up. His chest was shaken by sobs. He knew he made a comical picture, a middle-aged man, still slim, with a full head of graying hair, sitting up in bed, letting himself go, blubbering, wailing, indulging in wild, spontaneous woe. He was beyond worrying about it. He didn’t feel like Spartan or stoic, or whatever. Instead, he surrendered to the full tsunami of his anxious terror. Hot tears gushed from his eyes, spangling the beam of the bedside lamp into rainbows, coursing down his cheeks, touching his lips with a salty taste, and splashing the yellowed pages of the book he hadn’t been aware he’d taken from the shelf, a collection of stories by Ivan Bunin, one of those writers he’d been meaning to get to for years.

“The weird thing, ” Ed said to himself, thinking of his friend Muldoon, “is that once I held your hand and told you not to give up.”

This was true. Years ago, Muldoon, tortured in love and with his career in disarray, had been the one on the skids and failing. Now it was Ed’s turn.

“And it’s different when you’re fifty, ” Ed said, choking back a sob. “I’m a dead man.”

Muldoon was a movie director. His small films were nominated for Oscars these days. His big ones grossed three hundred million worldwide. Muldoon no longer flew commercial, not even in first class, but soared above the roof of the world in private jets provided by the studio. He was on first-name terms with air-traffic controllers at J.F.K. and Charles de Gaulle. Muldoon was unassailable. Until a little while ago, his career and Ed’s had been on a par. They’d been comrades and peers. But things had changed.

Ed was a writer. Used to be a writer, until his life started reverberating to the sound of doors slamming. Now he was a worrier, a weeper, a specialist only in the art of freestyle distress. He’d never been clever about money, but he’d always been able to earn it. Not anymore. His failed novels hit the remainder bins. Editors ignored his calls. And the teat of Hollywood had turned mean and dry. Ed’s scripts were unmade, his treatments ignored, his options no longer picked up. One product was currently paying him not in cash but in unsliced Finnish rye bread shipped via Vermont. “I don’t want Luke and Denis to go hungry, ” the producer said, uncannily remembering the boy’s names. Was this a fiendish joke or a sadistic gambit? Or did the guy, maybe, think the gesture was kind and would be appreciated? The loaf arrived weekly, resembling gold only in its bricklike weight. Ed’s revolving credit cards were maxed out. He’d been using the house like an A.T.M. He tried not to think about the mortgage. The low five-year interest rate, such an attractive idea five years ago, was about to expire, and spike. They’d lose their home. He saw no way to keep it. The prospect woke him nights in a flop sweat. It seemed to Ed that his world had changed in some awful and perhaps final way.

“I’m at the end of my rope, ” Ed announced to the empty room. To nail the point, he hurled the Bunin book against the wall and watched while it fluttered earthward like a stricken bird. “I am a corpse.”

Ede thought often of suicide, of checking into a Las Vegas hotel room and finishing himself off in some spectacular way, slitting his throat in a tub or spattering his brains with a pistol shot. Trouble was, Kate would be left with nothing. Then, there were the boys, old enough to sense that all was not well with Dad but still laughing at his jokes, loving him, depending on him.

“Let them fend for themselves, ” he said. “They can starve, for all I care.”

The anger released some juices and perked him up. He remembered that once he’d seen Muldoon, in a dark moment, slap a smaller member of the burgeoning Muldoon brood. How many kids did Muldoon now have? Nine, or was it ten? Muldoon seemed to average two per marriage, and he was into his fourth marriage. “Way to go, Muldoon, way to treat the awful little buggers! ”

Muldoon had called him from Amsterdam earlier that day. It had been late in the California afternoon, three in the morning Dutch time. Muldoon had been on a night shoot, between takes on his latest action thriller. Ed – an Englishman who didn’t drive in L.A., a peculiarity understood by nobody, least of all Ed himself – had been wobbling back from Albertsons, a bag of groceries suspended from each side of his bike’s handlebars. He’d lurched almost into the path of a BMW while scrambling to retrieve the warbling cell from his jeans pocket.

“Hello! Hello! ”

Would this be his agent, with news of a gig, a miracle? No. It had been Muldoon.

“It’s the writer. His name is James, ” Muldoon had said, dispensing as usual with the preliminaries, success having freed up his always considerable admiration for role models like Napoleon and Stanley Kubrick. On his Berkshire estate, Muldoon liked to patrol the legions of trees he’d planted to guard his marijuana plants from prying eyes. “I’ve done him the synopsis. Done him the beat sheets. Done most of the bloody work, in other words, but still James won’t write my scenes. Know what he said? ”

By then Ed had heaved himself and his bike up onto the curb, where, with one hunched shoulder jamming the cell phone toward his ear, he’d failed to save a stalk of broccoli that had thumbed from an Albertsons bag and plopped down on the sidewalk, perilously close to a pile of dog shit.

“James said, ‘Writing. It’s hard.’ Can you believe it? He said he was going to fly to New York for the weekend. To recharge his batteries. Stock up on some inspiration. I said, ‘James. The only place you’re going is back to the hotel. To write my scenes.’ Know what happened then? ”

Muldoon’s voice rose in sincere outrage.

“Check this out. Bastard did go to the hotel. And two hours later he was on set again, with these two girls. Preposterously young. And there was James, squiring them about like he owned the place.”

For a few wild, deluded seconds, Ed allowed himself to wonder whether Muldoon had fired the miscreant James and was about to ask him to come to Amsterdam – because, of course, it was Muldoon, the director, the supremo, who owned the place.

“I said, ‘James, what is going on? ’ He said, ‘I met them in the hotel night club.’ He did go back to the hotel, you see, like I’d told him to, and he went to the night club. ‘They wanted to see the set, ’ he said, ‘so I bought them out.’ I said, ‘James! Did there have to be two? ’ A hundred and twenty-five grand a week the studio’s paying this lazy sod, and I still don’t have my scenes.”

Ed reeled. “A hundred and twenty-five grand! ”

“Dollars, not quid.”

“Jesus! Just give me a week for that, ” Ed said, trying to sound casual.

“Nah, you’d hate it, mate, ” Muldoon said, as if Ed really had been joking. Muldoon had power, and people dogged him for favors. He expected Ed not to do that. He relied on Ed’s not doing it, the uncharged nature of their friendship being important to Muldoon’s sense of the whole story of his life Muldoon had survived, prospered. Reclaimed, resurgent, Muldoon now needed Ed at the other end of the line to assure him of the fiction that they were no different. They’d met thirty years before, playing football – soccer, as the Americans insisted on calling it – slogging through the rain and freezing mud, chests out against the chill winds that gusted from Siberia across the desolate flatlands of eastern England. They’d been at university together. They’d ported on the green.

“That James. He does make me laugh, ” Muldoon said. “United are doing great, aren’t they? Read anything good lately? ”

Ed had been unable to say, “Listen, I’m desperate, I can’t stop crying, I can’t do this anymore.” Muldoon, with his astute generalship, his instincts for self-protection, his radar attuned to the mood and ping of dialogue, had headed him off the pass. Abuzz with shame and humiliation, Ed had gritted his teeth and regrouped his groceries. He’d retrieved the broccoli stalk and lifted it to his nostrils. Could he save this? It didn’t smell of dog shit, or no worse, anyway, than when he’d taken it off the refrigerator shelf in the store. He’d talked carelessly to his old friend about Ivan Bunin.

“Yeah, I read something by him once, ” Muldoon said. “That famous story about the bloke dying abroad. They stick him in a crate and shove him in the hold of a ship to take him home. Quite spooky, really.”

There was this thing about Muldoon: he knew movies, his craft, but he read everything, too. Muldoon was, in his eccentric and loopy way, tireless and a bit of a genius. Ed wished he could say the same for himself. Instead, he was on a filthy L.A. sidewalk, worrying about broccoli.

“Great goal by Michael Carrick against Roma the other night, ” Muldoon had said, signing off. “The first one. Magnificent! ”

Ed wiped his eyes and blew his nose. He clambered out of bed and retrieved the book from where he’d thrown it. He smoothed the cover, which showed a neat, bearded man with his face in shadow. Bunin. Hadn’t he fled the Nazis and killed himself? Or was that Walter Benjamin? Ed’s memory was getting sketchy. Probably they’d both topped themselves. Most people died in exile, one way or another.

Wearily, Ed hitched up his boxers and padded to the bathroom. He needed to piss so often now, his prostate having swollen in recent years to the size of a fist. At least he wouldn’t have to hear about that anymore, the Writers Guild health insurance having run out. His prostate could grow without fear of medical supervision or intervention. Muldoon was right. Life was a farce. But Ed felt sure that his own particular version of the commedia would be finita all too soon. He was a beast being shuffled across the threshold of the slaughterhouse. How had this disaster happened? All those millions of words he’d written, all the forests of newsprint – they’d somehow amounted to nothing.

Kate was still in the kitchen, seated in the breakfast nook, surrounded by books and CDs that she was listing for sale on eBay, trying to keep some cash trickling in. She was testy with Ed, and small wonder, but she refused to give up. She was amazing, still beautiful. Ed took a knife from the magnetic rack and cut into one of the Finnish loaves. The rye bread was thick and moist, like cake, and Ed dropped a couple of slices in the toaster.

“Muldoon called today. From Amsterdam. I told him we were going to see the Greek movie. He said it was crap.”

“Afraid it will make more money than his new one, probably, ” Kate said.

“He was complaining about his writer. The production rewrite guy who’s being paid a hundred and twenty-five grand a week to do bugger all.”

“And? ” Her question hung out there for a moment, Kate being in the business of believing that something, maybe even in the shambling, looming shape of Muldoon, would turn up.

“Just that. Nothing more.”

She hid whatever disappointment she might have felt. “He was checking that you’re O.K., ” she said.

“Why would he worry? ”

Kate’s eyes regarded him coolly, “Muldoon cares for you.”

“Sure he does. He’ll speak movingly at my funeral.”

“Don’t talk like that, ” Kate said. “He loves you.”

Ed knew that she was probably right. He was thinking of the time, years before, when Muldoon himself, weeping, had seen no way forward. Ed had taken Muldoon’s hands and stroked his forehead, telling him he must walk toward the light. “Don’t give me that New Age bullshit, ” Muldoon had said, but he’d laughed.

Ed smiled at the memory. With regret he found that something like hope was flooding his heart; at this point the despair was almost easier to deal with. “Oh, heck, ” he said, tears springing to his eyes. He was starting again.

“What? ”

“It’s nothing.”

The rye bread popped up in the toaster. Ed took out the hot slices and buttered them slowly. Though Kate tried to be resolute, his panic sometimes infected her. And that wasn’t right. She was his best girl. “It’s Ivan Bunin, ” he said, noticing on the countertop the book that had travelled with him from bedroom to bathroom to kitchen. What had Muldoon said about that one story, “The Gentleman from San Francisco”? “It’s about death, matey, about the indifference of death, about how you die, and death, basically, doesn’t give a shit.”

Ed stopped his crying and suddenly shivered, as if a nameless vessel, carrying his own corpse, had just passed. “Here, ” he said, handing Kate the book. “Sell this. Should bring a few bucks.”

The New Yorker. 2007, April 30

1. How many communicative episodes are there in the story? What communicative channels are used in each case?

2. What expectations did Ed have regarding his conversation with Muldoon? Did they come true? Who failed to communicate the message and why?

3. Should Ed have spoken his mind to Muldoon?

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