Mirror, p.32
Mirror, page 32
Mr Capelli didn’t answer, but tapped the paper with his finger. ‘That’s the date, November twelfth. That’s when I get my Emilio back.’
Martin pushed back his chair and went across to the telephone on the kitchen wall. He punched out Morris Nathan’s number. ‘Morris …?’ he said at last. ‘Yes, it’s Martin. Listen, did you see how Fox is going to launch Sweet Chariot?’
‘I saw it,’ said Morris. ‘And if you want my candid opinion, I think they’re out of their tree. They’ve kept this whole picture secret. Nobody’s seen any rushes; nobody knows whether it’s good, or half good, or terrible. Still, they want to burn their fingers, who am I to tell them what to do? They’re taking a hell of a chance. June told me the final production cost was $32.4 million. So I said, what’s this, Heaven’s Gate with music?’
‘And what did she say?’
‘She said, wait and see, that’s what she said. And I said, just remember, I didn’t have anything to do with this. If you lose $32.4 million because of some untrained juvey, don’t come whining to me.’
‘Do you know whose idea this was? This simultaneous premiere?’
‘The kid’s, or that nanny of his, who do you think?’
‘And they gave in to him? June Lassiter gave in to an eight-year-old kid?’
‘They had to. That’s the way I heard it, anyway. They were three quarters of the way through shooting the picture and the kid appears in ninety percent of the scenes and sings every single song, and then he turns around and says they have to open worldwide in four hundred theaters and that’s it, otherwise he walks. They could have sued him, but what for?’
‘Okay, Morris, thanks,’ said Martin.
‘Did you finish that rewrite yet?’ Morris demanded.
‘Oh, sure, I’ll run it up to you later this afternoon.’
Morris cleared his throat. ‘You’re a good writer, Martin. One of these days you’re going to be a better than average writer.’
‘Morris, you’re an angel.’
‘Don’t talk to me about angels.’
The night before the premiere, Martin stood by his open window, looking out over the lights of the Hollywood Hills. Ramone turned the corner of the street and came walking toward the house, brandishing a large bottle of red wine. ‘Hey, muchacho, fancy a little nerve suppressant?’
Ramone came upstairs and they stood side by side, drinking wine and feeling the cool night air blowing on their faces. Ramone lit a cheroot and blew smoke, and the smoke fled around the corner of the house as if it were trying to escape from something frightening.
‘Sometimes I don’t know why I stay in this town,’ said Ramone. ‘It’s tatty and it’s tawdry and where the hell are its values? Sometimes I feel like finding myself a small place in Wyoming and raising horses.’
‘You’d hate that,’ Martin remarked.
Ramone nodded. ‘You’re right, I would. Shit.’
They drank in silence for a long while, and then Ramone said, ‘What are you going to do if he doesn’t let Emilio go?’
Martin shrugged. ‘I haven’t thought about it. I don’t think I’ve even dared to think about it. He promised after all.’
‘I was thinking about it this afternoon, though,’ Ramone went on, ‘and I couldn’t quite get the whole deal to balance in my head.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well … what I’m trying to say is, as far as we know, Boofuls can’t stay in the real world, can he, unless Emilio stays in the mirror-world? So the only way that Emilio is going to get free from that mirror is if Boofuls goes back into it?’
Martin nodded. ‘I guess that’s true.’
‘Right,’ said Ramone, ‘but what I’m saying is – if this mirror-world is as disgusting as it appears to be from where we’re standing, why should Boofuls agree to go back at all? I mean, I wouldn’t, if I were him, would you? I’d say forget it, no matter what I promised. Unless – and this is what I was trying to get my brain around – unless he doesn’t need to go back, once this movie’s been premiered. Do you see what I’m trying to get at? Maybe there’s something in the movie, maybe the movie changes things. Maybe Boofuls is going to become real, once people have seen his picture on the screen, and the reason he wants a worldwide premiere is that the more people who see it, the more real he gets. I don’t know. This whole thing’s got me baffled, I really hate to think, Martin. It’s bad for my sinus. But this thing’s making me think.’
Martin swallowed wine and nodded. ‘I don’t know, Ramone, maybe you’re right. Boofuls was real anxious to start remaking Sweet Chariot – right from the moment he stepped out of the mirror.’
‘So it was important to him, right?’ said Ramone.
‘That’s right; it was crucial.’
‘And if it was crucial, if it was life and death, maybe it was more than just a comeback, right?’
‘Well, maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t,’ said Martin. ‘It depends whose comeback you’re talking about.’
‘You mean –’
‘Ramone, for Christ’s sake, I don’t know what I mean. But maybe this movie is like an up-to-date equivalent of the rituals in the Bible, the rituals that are supposed to resurrect Satan. I’ve been reading it and reading it and I still don’t understand it, but the Bible talks about the great red dragon with seven heads and ten horns, and how his tail swept away a third of the stars from heaven and threw them to earth. But who the hell knows what it’s all supposed to signify, because I don’t?’
Ramone turned around and stared at the mirror. ‘Maybe we ought not to wait. Maybe we ought to try getting Emilio out of there now.’
Martin shook his head. ‘Too dangerous. Boofuls said we might kill him.’
‘Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he?’
‘Supposing we did kill him?’ Martin retorted. ‘Would you tell Mr and Mrs Capelli?’
Ramone thought for a while, then chucked the last of his wine down his throat and wiped his mouth. ‘Let’s watch some television. I’m tired of thinking.’
*
Up at his house on Mulholland Drive, Morris Nathan was working late, reading over the boilerplate of a television contract with MTM. He sat in his study under a circle of light from his desk lamp, a cigar perched in the ashtray beside him. Alison didn’t allow him to smoke anywhere else in the house.
He was almost finished when the doorbell rang. He took off his reading glasses, tightened the belt of his peacock-blue bathrobe, and walked through to the Mexican-tile hallway. Alison was just coming down the curved stairway, dressed in nothing but a loose pink T-shirt with Andy Warhol 1928-87 printed in red over her breasts, and a red silk scarf knotted around her hair.
‘It’s okay,’ said Morris. ‘It’s Benny Ito, he promised to call by this evening. And in any case, I wouldn’t let you answer the door dressed like that.’
‘Dressed like what?’ Alison protested. ‘I’m not dressed like anything.’
‘Exactamundo,’ Morris agreed.
The bell rang again. Morris pressed the intercom button and said, ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Benny, Mr Nathan. I brought the stuff you wanted.’
‘Come on in, Benny.’
Morris opened the door and a young Japanese with a spiky black haircut and a black cotton jumpsuit came into the hallway, carrying a large padded envelope under his arm. ‘Here you are, Mr Nathan. None of it’s terrific; just outtakes. But you can’t get near to the finished footage with a Sherman tank.’
‘You promised me a complete print,’ Morris protested.
‘Believe me, I tried. But the Fox lot is up to its ass in security guards. And they won’t deliver the prints to the movie theaters until one hour before they’re due to start screening. That’s what Walt Peskow told me, anyway, and he should know.’
Morris opened the envelope. Inside was a single can of movie film. He prized it open and looked inside disparagingly. There couldn’t have been more than three hundred feet of stock in it, little bits and pieces spliced together to form one single reel.
‘You expect five hundred dollars for this chazzerei?’
Benny, shrugged and sniffed and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘Maybe two-fifty.’
‘Two-fifty? Half? For what? For not even half of a movie?’
‘Hey, come on, man, the risk was the same. I could have lost my job.’
‘For this, you should have lost your balls.’
Nevertheless, Morris reached into the pocket of his bathrobe and took out a thick roll of twenty-dollar bills, neatly held together with a rubber band. He stripped off two hundred dollars and handed it to Benny Ito without a word.
Benny counted it and said, ‘Two hundred? Is that it?’
Morris slapped him on the back and guided him toward the door. ‘There’s an old saying, Benny. Half the failures in life are caused by pulling in your horse, just when he’s leaping. You know who said that? Well, neither do I. But you just did it. Good night.’
He closed the door, locked it, and then walked back across the hallway with the can of film. Alison had been watching him from the staircase. ‘What’s that, Morry?’ she wanted to know.
‘The one and only piece of Sweet Chariot that isn’t in the vaults of 20th Century-Fox. It’s not what I wanted. This is all shtiklech und breklech, and I wanted the whole damned movie. But at least we’ll have some idea of what June Lassiter got for her $32.4 million, and if it looks like a real stinker we’ll make absolutely sure the press get to see it first thing tomorrow morning.’
Alison came down the stairs, her breasts double-bouncing under her T-shirt. ‘I wish you hadn’t,’ she told him.
‘You wish I hadn’t what? You wish I hadn’t gotten hold of this footage? Did you think I was going to let that eight-year-old faigeleh treat me like a dumb stupid idiot, introducing him to June Lassiter, here you are, June, look at this hotshot kid, June, and what happens, all of a sudden I’m not his agent at all. Do you know what they paid that kid to appear in Sweet Chariot? Nine hundred eighty thousand dollars! And do you know what ten percent is of nine hundred eighty thousand dollars?’
Alison stared at Morris for a moment, dumbfounded. Then she whispered, ‘No. I flunked math at school.’
Morris put his arm around her and led her through to the sitting room. ‘Let’s just say that “Pip Young” or “Lejeune” or whatever he calls himself has cut me out of enough profit to keep myself in new Ferraris for the rest of my natural days.’
‘I thought you said you didn’t like Ferraris.’
Morris went across the room and flicked two switches on the wall. With a low hum, a movie screen unrolled itself from the ceiling, and a 35-mm projector rose out of the middle of the coffee table. He pressed another switch, and the beige velvet drapes jerkily closed themselves, all the way around the room.
‘Do you want to pour me a drink?’ Morris asked Alison as he took the movie out of its can and began to thread it into the projector.
Alison went over to the liquor cabinet and fixed them both an old-fashioned. Then they settled down together on the beige velvet couch, and Morris pressed the switches to dim the lights and start the movie running.
On the screen, there was a brief flicker of numbers; then without warning the face of Boofuls appeared, slightly unsteady, slightly out of focus, but staring intently into the camera.
Morris watched this impatiently for a moment, sipping his drink, and then said, ‘What the hell is this? Two hundred dollars I paid for this! A screen test!’
Alison patted his arm. ‘Wait a minute, there’s probably more.’
‘There’d better be probably more,’ Morris declared. ‘Otherwise Benny Ito is going to suffer good, believe me!’
He was just about to switch the projector off when the voice of Boofuls came out of the stereo speakers, high and clear.
‘You said you never wanted to see my face again, didn’t you, Morris? You said you never wanted to see my face and you never wanted to hear my name.’
Morris stared at the screen in shock and then turned to Alison. ‘Did you hear that? He’s talking to me personally!’
Alison said, ‘Morris, switch it off, please!’
‘But he’s talking to me, out of the screen, just like he’s here! What the hell is that Benny trying to pull? A joke, already?’
‘Morry, please –’ Alison begged him. ‘That boy Lejeune – he’s bad, Morry, he’s evil! There’s something about him! Martin thinks so, too!’
‘A kaporeh on Martin! Listen to this! Did you ever see such cheek? Benny must have gotten together with the kid and filmed this on purpose!’
‘You said you never wanted to see my face again, Morris, never ever! Well, now your wish has come true! And you said you never wanted to hear my name again, Morris, and you shall have that wish, too!’
Morris stood up and switched off the projector. ‘Did you ever hear such garbage?’ he asked Alison. ‘Two hundred dollars I paid for that! I’ll strangle that Benny Ito, with my bare hands!’
Alison finished her drink.
‘How about another?’ Morris suggested. ‘Then we’ll go to bed. I finished that contract for MTM.’
He went across to the liquor cabinet, turned his back to Alison, and poured out whiskey.
‘Are we going to the premiere tomorrow?’ Alison asked him. ‘I bought this beautiful gold dress today at Alluci’s.’
Morris reached out for two cocktail stirrers. ‘Spending my profits again, hunh?’
‘Oh, it’s beautiful,’ said Alison. ‘I’ll try it on for you when we go upstairs. It has a very low front, very daring, but a fantastic bow on one hip, and it’s kind of split down the same side, all the way to the hem. It’s very sexy but it’s very chic.’
Morris turned around, a drink in each hand. ‘Everybody’s going to be looking at you, hunh?’
‘Oh, Morry, you know it’s all for you.’
‘No point in doing it for me,’ said Morris; and for the first time Alison caught the odd, tight tone in his voice. She turned and looked at him and at first she couldn’t understand what he had done, but as he shuffled nearer with the two drinks, grimacing as he came, she suddenly realized in utter horror that Boofuls’ mocking prediction had come true, and that Morris had fulfilled it.
A sharp cocktail stirrer protruded out of each of Morris’ eyeballs. He had prodded one directly into the iris of each eye, as far as it would go, blinding himself instantly. Now he was groping his way toward Alison with thin glutinous runnels of optic fluid dripping down each cheek.
Alison screamed. A high-pitched genuine theatrical scream. ‘Morry! Oh, God, Morry! What have you done! Morry, your eyes!’
Morris hesitated, stumbled, and dropped both glasses of whiskey. One of them rolled on the carpet, the other caught the edge of the coffee table and smashed.
‘It was the only thing I could do,’ he said in bewilderment. ‘It was the only thing I could do.’
Alison stood up, but she was so appalled that she couldn’t go near him. ‘Morry,’ she wept, ‘take them out, Morry. Please, Morry, take them out! I’ll call for the ambulance, please, Morry, Please!’
Morris groped forward, trying to follow the sound of her voice. ‘Alison, honey, I –’ But then he stopped and turned his head around, as if he were listening to something. And at that moment, the projector clicked and whirred into life once again, all by itself, frightening Alison so much that she screamed and screamed and this time she couldn’t stop.
Boofuls’ face appeared on the screen yet again, that white, expressionless face, and his voice whispered from the speakers. ‘You have one of your wishes, Morris. You will never see me again. What do you say, Morris? What do you say? Don’t you ever say thank you when somebody gives you what you want?’
Morris bent his head slightly forward and took hold of the sticks that protruded from his eyes. Shuddering, gasping, he drew them out, and when he did so a large clear glob of fluid swelled out of the punctured holes that he had made in each iris. Alison’s screaming quietened to a high endless whimpering, but she couldn’t take her eyes away from him, she couldn’t move, she couldn’t do anything to help him.
And all the time the high, childish teasing of Boofuls continued to pipe from the movie speakers, and Boofuls’ bright face continued to stare at them out of the screen. ‘You couldn’t be nice, Morris, you couldn’t be nice! You couldn’t be sugar and spice. Now you’ll get it, whatever you want, blind as a bat and deaf as a post!’
‘Shut up! Shut up! For God’s sake, shut up!’ Alison screamed, and rushed across to the movie screen and tugged at it and tore at it until it came tumbling down from the ceiling. Then she turned to the speakers, and lifted them up one after the other, and smashed them against the coffee table.
The projector, however, continued to run, and Boofuls’ flattened-out face appeared on the back of the white-leather couch, silently mouthing the same words over and over. Alison hysterically threw herself at the couch and tried to drag the image of Boofuls off the leather with her fingernails.
Morris meanwhile had sunk slowly to his knees onto the white carpet. Between the finger and thumb of each hand, he held up the two cocktail stirrers.
‘Alison, honey, I couldn’t do anything else. There wasn’t any choice, honey-pie.’
Alison threw back her head and sobbed, one harsh, strangulated sob after the other. ‘Oh God, Morry, what are we going to do? What are we going to do?’
But Morris couldn’t hear her. Morris’ head was filled with the lisping monotonous voice of Boofuls, like an old silk dress being dragged across a floor, saying, ‘You never wanted to see me, Morris; you never wanted to hear me. I can give you your wish, Morris! I can give you your wish!’
Morris slowly raised the two cocktail stirrers and blindly prodded them against his cheeks until he found his ears. Then he inserted the points deep in each ear, so that he could feel them pricking painfully against his eardrums.
Alison had stopped sobbing and was messily wiping the tears from her face with her hands. ‘Oh God, Morry,’ she told him. ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t stand to see you that way. I’d better go call for an ambulance.’
