Mirror, p.33
Mirror, page 33
She turned, and there he was, kneeling on the floor with his hands up to his ears, and a cocktail stirrer in each hand. His injured eyes were closed, so that he looked almost normal, and there was an expression on his face of curious calm.
‘Morry?’ she questioned him. Then she saw the cocktail stirrers. ‘Morry!’
With a small suppressed gasp, Morris pushed the points of the sticks straight through his eardrums, puncturing both of them at once. He stayed quite still for a moment, holding his breath, and then gave each stick an extra twist, so that his tympanic membranes would be completely torn open.
Alison, trembling, picked up the cordless telephone and dialled 911. ‘Mr Nathan’s house,’ she whispered. ‘That’s right, Mulholland Drive. Please, quickly.’
Then she put down the phone and went over to Morris and knelt down in front of him.
‘Oh, Morry,’ she said, and held him tightly in her arms, her deaf and blinded husband, and rocked him, and swore to herself that if she never did anything else in her life, ever again, she would have her revenge on Boofuls.
The morning of the premiere of Sweet Chariot, the Los Angeles basin was filled with thick sepia smog. Because of its elevation on the lower slopes of the Hollywood Hills, however, Franklin Avenue was clear of pollution, and when Martin looked out of his kitchen window he felt as if he were staring out over some strange and murky Sargasso Sea.
He drank two cups of hot black coffee, ate a little muesli sprinkled with wheat germ, and then dressed in a white T-shirt and khaki slacks and went downstairs to see if Mr Capelli would like to take a walk down to Hollywood Boulevard.
‘A walk?’ said Mr Capelli. ‘You mean that thing when you put one foot in front of the other and don’t stop till you get home again?’
They walked arm in arm, not saying much, but friends, brothers in crisis. They went downhill on La Brea; and then east on Hollywood Boulevard as far as Mann’s Chinese Theater, where half a dozen workmen were dressing the marquee for tonight’s opening. A huge 3-D billboard had been erected with a fifty-foot acrylic painting of Boofuls, flying through the clouds with a sweet smile of innocence. That scene came from the very end of the picture, when God decides that the young street Arab has done enough good deeds to redeem himself, and accepts His errant son into the Kingdom of Heaven.
Martin and Mr Capelli stood in front of the theater for a long while, watching the electricians connecting the klieg lights. Mr Capelli said, ‘You know something, I saw the Kliegl brothers once, when I was a kid. They were arguing in the street about something really technical, like carbon arcs or something. And one of them said to the other – well, I don’t know which one it was, John or Anton – but he said, “If it wasn’t for me, movies wouldn’t even exist.” And the other one said, “Maybe that would have been a blessing.”’
Martin smiled. ‘You actually saw that?’
Mr Capelli nodded. ‘That was a long time ago. Maybe things were more innocent then.’
Martin said, ‘I don’t think things have ever been innocent, Mr Capelli.’
Mr Capelli squeezed Martin’s arm. ‘I guess you’re right, Martin. I wish you weren’t.’
They went into Maxie’s for a cup of coffee. They said very little; but then they didn’t need to. They were both thinking about Emilio.
When they returned to Franklin Avenue (both perspiring, because the morning was growing hot now), they saw a pale blue Rolls-Royce Corniche convertible parked outside. The license plate was 10 PC.
‘That’s Morris Nathan’s car,’ said Martin in surprise. ‘I thought Morris wasn’t speaking to me – not after I went round to the Fox lot and tried to tell Boofuls what a bastard he was.’
‘Just so long as he doesn’t keep that heap of imported junk cluttering up my driveway,’ Mr Capelli complained.
‘Mr Capelli, that’s a Rolls-Royce Corniche!’
‘Listen, Martin, one day you’ll learn. All automobiles are a heap of junk. What are they, plastic, chromium, foam rubber, bits and pieces. This one is a heap of imported junk, that’s all.’
‘But you love your Lincoln.’
‘Sure I love my Lincoln. Do you know why? I always kid Emilio it turns itself into a robot, you know, like Transporters.’
‘Transformers,’ Martin corrected him; but kindly.
‘Sure, that’s right, Transformers. He loves it. He keeps telling me, Grandpa, I saw it happen, I saw it change. The wheels turned into hands and the hood turned into a hat and the trunk opened up and two legs came out, and who knows what?’ There were tears in Mr Capelli’s eyes. ‘Martin, he’s just a little boy. I love him so much. Can’t we get him out of there?’
Martin said soberly, ‘Boofuls did promise. So did Miss Redd.’
Mr Capelli shook his head. ‘Those people,’ he said. ‘Those people.’
When they entered the house, however, they were surprised to find not Morris but Alison, sitting on the stairs in a tight white cotton suntop and a wide 1950s skirt and strappy high-heeled sandals, waiting for them.
As soon as she caught sight of Martin, she came up and flung her arms around him and burst into tears.
‘Hey,’ said Martin. ‘Hey, what’s happened? Alison? What’s happened?’
‘It’s Morry,’ she wept. ‘Oh, Martin, it’s Morry.’
Mr Capelli laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Hey, now, don’t get upset. Look at you, you’re all upset! And look at me, I’m all upset, too!’
Martin asked Alison, ‘What’s happened? Alison! Is Morry okay?’
Alison choked out, ‘He’s blind, Martin. He’s blind! And he did it himself, with two cocktail stirrers, just like that! And then he stuck them in his ears and made himself deaf!’
‘What?’ said Martin. ‘Are you kidding me, or what? Morris blinded himself? He deafened himself? Alison – he works in the movies!’
‘Is that all you care about?’ Alison screamed. ‘He’s my husband! I love him! He gives me everything! And now he’s blind and he can’t ever see me again, and he’s deaf and he can’t ever hear me again!’
Martin held Alison close. Mr Capelli, despondent, sat down on the stairs. ‘I don’t know, what the hell. You sometimes wonder if it’s worth living.’
Martin said, ‘Come on upstairs. There’s another bottle of Chablis in the fridge. The very least we can do is get drunk.’
*
Alison drank two large glasses of cold Chablis one after the other and then told Martin and Mr Capelli everything that had happened last night, the way that Morris had pierced his eyes and ears. ‘I couldn’t do anything to help him,’ she said; and the tears ran freely down her face. ‘I broke the screen, I broke the speakers, but it didn’t make any difference.’
Martin said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Whatever arguments I ever had with Morris.’
Alison wiped her eyes with a crumpled tissue. ‘Morry never did anything worse than speak his mind. Nobody deserves to be blind and deaf, just because they spoke their mind. You know, Morry was always speaking his mind, and he was rude sometimes, but he never deserved that.’
‘But you really believe that Lejeune did it?’ Martin asked her.
Alison nodded. ‘I wouldn’t have come here otherwise. It was his face, it was his voice. And you remember what he said to Morry, when he was auditioning at Fox? When they had that argument? You never want to see my face again, you never want to hear my name. Well, that’s just what he said on the movie. Exactly that – like he was talking to Morry face-to-face.’
Martin said, ‘I’m sorry, Alison. I’m really sorry. But there’s nothing I can do. I tried to get to Lejeune, but they wouldn’t let me.’
Not long afterward, Ramone appeared. He stood in the doorway with his thumbs hooked through the belt loops of his jeans, looking like Carlos Santana on his weekend off. Martin told him, ‘There’s nothing. There’s no news.’
‘Maybe you should switch on the television,’ Ramone suggested. ‘They’re showing an hour-long program, “The Making of Sweet Chariot”, just about now, Channel Four.’
‘I don’t want to watch that,’ said Mr Capelli. ‘Maybe I’ll get some pizza.’
‘Pepperoni, deep-dish, with extra chilis, mushrooms, onions, and sweet corn,’ said Ramone, easing himself onto the couch.
Mr Capelli stared at him in astonishment, but Martin gave him a nod to tell him that Ramone never took anybody for granted. ‘I’ll have whatever,’ he told Mr Capelli.
Alison said, ‘I’ll pass. I’m sorry. I don’t feel very hungry.’
For some reason, all four of them turned toward the mirror, where the gold-painted face of Pan grinned at them in silent triumph. They looked like a group portrait printed on sun-faded paper; an evanescent photograph of four people who had been brought together by pain and friendship and circumstance, and who would soon have to face the most harrowing experience of their entire lives.
As if to mock them, the mirror seemed to darken and dim, until they could hardly see their faces in it at all.
Mr Capelli watched the mirror for a moment, and then angrily and with great determination went off to buy some pizzas.
Just before six o’clock that evening, Martin said, ‘Come on, I can’t stand waiting around here any longer. Let’s go down to Mann’s and see the damn thing for ourselves.’
‘You go,’ said Mr Capelli. ‘I’ll wait here. Just in case – you know – Emilio gets to come out of the mirror.’
‘I’ll stay, too,’ said Alison. ‘You don’t mind if I stay?’
‘Sure, go ahead,’ Martin told her.
At that moment, however, Ramone said, ‘Look, on the television, there it is!’
It was a CBS report by Nancy Bergen, transmitted live from Hollywood Boulevard. In the background they could see the crowds of fans already assembling – even though the first stars weren’t expected to start arriving for at least an hour – and the huge triumphant marquee picture of Boofuls.
Nancy Bergen was saying, ‘– motion-picture event of the decade – unknown child star discovered by June Lassiter at 20th Century-Fox – extraordinary natural talent for song-and-dance – won him the lead role in a thirty-five-million-dollar remake of a musical that was actually never made in the first place – or at least never completed – Sweet Chariot –’
Martin put in, ‘Notice how she hasn’t mentioned Boofuls, not once. He’s still bad karma in Hollywood, always will be.’
Ramone said, ‘Bad karma? He’ll be catmeat if I ever get my hands on him.’
Nancy Bergen went on, ‘– such confidence in Sweet Chariot’s success that they are holding simultaneous premieres throughout the United States and Europe – which means that in London they’re holding their first screening in time for an early breakfast, and in New York it’s going to be a one-o’clock-in-the-morning affair – so sought after have the premiere tickets been, however, that –’
‘You want some more wine?’ Alison asked Ramone.
‘Oh, sure, thanks, just a half glass,’ Ramone told her.
‘– thousand people will see Sweet Chariot simultaneously –’
‘How many did she say?’ Martin asked.
‘What?’ said Ramone.
‘How many people did she say would be seeing Sweet Chariot tonight?’
Ramone shrugged. ‘I don’t know, man. I didn’t hear. Must be quite a few thousand.’
Martin quickly pressed the remote and flicked the television from station to station, but none of the other channels were carrying reports about Sweet Chariot.
Martin told Mr Capelli, ‘Give me the phone book.’
‘Sure,’ said Mr Capelli, ‘but what’s the problem?’
Flicking quickly through the pages, Martin found the number of CBS Television News. ‘I thought I heard Nancy Bergen say a particular number, that’s all. It rang a bell.’
He picked up the phone and dialed CBS. The switchboard took endless minutes to answer, and then endless more minutes to connect him with the news desk.
‘Chuck Pressler,’ announced a laconic voice.
‘Oh, hi, sorry to bother you,’ said Martin. ‘I was watching Nancy Bergen’s report on the Sweet Chariot premiere. She mentioned how many thousands of people were going to be watching the first screening simultaneously. Do you have that figure there? I missed it.’
There was some shuffling around, and then the laconic voice said, ‘I don’t have that information here, right now. Nancy’s going to be back later tonight, around eleven o’clock. You could try calling her then. Or tomorrow morning maybe.’
Martin put down the phone and dialed 20th Century-Fox. This time there was no answer at all. ‘Damn it,’ he said. ‘Come on, Ramone, let’s get down there and ask Nancy Bergen for ourselves.’
They left Mr Capelli and Alison at the apartment and jogged down La Brea in the sweltering evening heat. When they reached the intersection with Hollywood Boulevard, they found that it was already crowded with thousands of fans and sightseers, and that there were police trestles all around the Chinese Theater. Inch by inch, sweating, alternately elbowing and apologizing, they forced their way through to the front of the lines, as close as they could to the CBS outside-broadcast truck. It took them almost ten minutes to get there, and when they did they found two cops standing right between them and the CBS crew.
Martin glimpsed Nancy Bergen, with her brushed blond hair and her shiny cerise evening dress, and shouted out, ‘Ms Bergen! Ms Bergen!’
The girl standing next to him scowled and said, ‘That was right in my goddamned ear, you freak.’
Martin ignored her, and cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled, ‘Ms Bergen! Over here!’
At last, catching the sound of her name amid the bustle, Nancy Bergen turned around and frowned toward the crowd. Several of them waved, and she smiled and waved back. The noise around the theater was already tremendous: talking and laughing and shuffling of feet, and even when Martin bellowed, ‘Ms Bergen!’ one more time, she turned away because she obviously hadn’t heard him.
Martin checked his watch. There were fewer than eleven minutes to go before the premiere. The first guests were already arriving, and there was a long line of shining limousines all the way up Hollywood Boulevard. With a cheer from the crowd, the klieg lights were switched on and stalked around the night sky on brilliant stilts.
Ramone said, ‘Why is this so important, man? I’m getting my feet jumped on here.’
‘Listen,’ Martin told him, ‘I want you to create a diversion so that I can get under the police trestle and across to the television truck.’
‘Create a diversion? How the hell do I create a diversion?’
‘Well, go farther down the line there and try to push your way through.’
‘Oh, that’s great, and get myself arrested?’
‘Pretend you’re sick, then. Pretend you’re just about to have a heart attack.’
‘That’s right, and get myself carried off to the hospital.’
‘Well, think of something, for God’s sake. I have to talk to Nancy Bergen, and I have to talk to her now!’
Ramone rubbed sweat from the back of his neck and nodded, ‘Okay. But you’d better have a damned awesome reason for doing this, amigo.’
‘Have faith, will you?’ Martin told him.
Ramone jostled his way through the spectators who were crowding the police trestles until he was twenty or thirty feet away. He bobbed his head up and down a few times and then turned toward Martin and made a circle between finger and thumb, Watch this, buddy. Then he suddenly started flailing his arms and shouting out, ‘Thief! Thief! You stole my wallet! Thief!’
Everybody around him backed away. Either he was crazy and he was going to attack them, or else he wasn’t crazy and somebody was going to be accused of taking his wallet, and either alternative was about as attractive as catching AIDS.
At first, the two police officers didn’t see him, they were too busy standing in camera shot and trying to look groomed and tough, but then two or three girls stumbled and fell because of the commotion that Ramone was causing, and they hurried down the police line to see what was happening. Martin immediately ducked under the trestle, dodged around the back of the CBS truck, and approached Nancy Bergen from behind. She was listening to her producer talking to her over her earphone, and saying, ‘Yes, Farley; okay, Farley; but they won’t be arriving for at least five minutes.’
As soon as she had finished, Martin tapped her politely on the shoulder.
‘Ms Bergen?’
She stared at him blankly. That hostile don’t-bother-me stare that he had seen on so many faces of so many TV personalities when the grubby public came a little too close.
‘Listen, you don’t know me, Ms Bergen, my name’s Martin Williams.’
‘You’re right,’ she said, marching back toward the television truck. ‘I don’t know you.’
‘Ms Bergen, I’m a screenwriter, I wrote most of the Sweet Chariot screenplay. Actually, I updated it from the original. They probably haven’t given me credit on the screen, but –’
‘– but now you’re angry as all hell and you’re going to sue. Well, believe me, Mr Wilson, it happens all the time, and if I were you I’d save your money. The only people who make money out of law are lawyers. I’ve been there, I know.’
‘Ms Bergen, I’m not complaining about that. But there’s a whole lot more to this production than meets the eye.’
Nancy Bergen’s red-haired personal assistant came up with a glass of Perrier water, a clipboard, and a lit cigarette in an aluminum-foil ashtray. Nancy swallowed two mouthfuls of water, propped the cigarette in the corner of her mouth, and began to scribble notes on the clipboard. ‘Do you have something to tell me, Mr Wilson? Otherwise I’m going to have to say hasta luego, you know?’
‘Do you mind if I ask you a question first?’
Nancy Bergen continued to scribble, ignoring him.
Martin said, ‘You mentioned that x-thousand people were going to be watching this premiere simultaneously all over the world.’
