We were in a restaurant in Paris. The man next to us was having trouble with the waiter. He turned to us: “You look the sort who could explain to this guy he brought me crab instead of lobster.” The conversation went on: “Are you American.” “Yep.” “Are you an actor?” “I was.” “Are you John Heard?” Pause.
“We worked with you 37 years ago. You were Dmitry in Brothers Karamazov on Broadway. When the bottom fell out of the budget and the production was shelved, you said: “Well, I’ll just do my laundry.” “I’m still doing my laundry.” We spent the rest of the day together. We wandered in Montparnasse cemetery and found a student weeping on the grave of Samuel Beckett, who had cured his depression. Then as the sun was going down, we ate peach melbas on the Left Bank. The next day John was off to see his son in Berlin. We stayed in touch. A year later, he took us to lunch in Los Angeles. He said his back was giving way and also Bernie Sanders, giving way to Hillary Clinton, which could only end in tears. He was the very opposite of the Hollywood actor. He would make the world go his own way, and if it didn’t, he’d do his laundry.
Richard Crane and Faynia Williams
Brighton
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