“Rachel?”
“My Little Truth Seeker! To what do I owe the honour of this call?”
Her pronunciation is a little eroded around the edges, liquor having rubbed away enough clarity for me to know she’s been hitting the bottle heavily. And it’s only seven o’clock.
“I need help.”
“What kind of help?”
“Help with a script.”
“You need help? I’m the one who needs help with a script. Bloody Gibson. You know what he’s got me working on now? Do you?”
“No.”
“Another Identical-Twins-Separated-at-Birth Saga. A real doozy,” she proclaims. I can hear the sound of a glass clinking faintly against the telephone receiver as she pauses to take a drink. “It’s based on a novel written by the spinster daughter of an English vicar. What else is new?” She takes a deep breath as preface. “Anyway, diabolical aristocratic parents give birth to identical twins. So as not to complicate inheritance and title, noble parents decide one is a keeper and the reject is set out in swaddling clothes to perish in the forest. Sherwood presumably. Disposable son is found by cretinous peasants who rear Boy Scout in uniform of swineherd – deeply attached to simple life, his hogs, and the Village Virgin whom he hopes some day to deflower within the bounds of holy matrimony. Then, one day, pig boy stumbles upon noble brother slaying deer in the forest. ‘What is this I see, as in a glass darkly?’ exclaims the Dispossessed One, smeared in pig shit presumably, but nonetheless smelling sweet as any rose. You know the rest. Evil brother plots swineherd’s murder. Caretaker of pigs overcomes all odds, gains title. Huge wedding in white in castle.”
“Who are they thinking of for the swineherd?”
“Fairbanks.”
“Village Virgin?”
“Pickford.”
“Sounds like a piece of cake.”
“Yes and no. After writing a hundred of these, mounting self-revulsion can cramp your style. Besides, our glorious story editor has decreed one fundamental change in this anodyne numskullery. He’s ordered me to make Douglas Fairbanks a shepherd rather than a swineherd. According to Jack, sheep are more sympathetic than pigs. It’s a well-known fact. Especially lambs. Everybody loves lambs. He feels the English spinster’s dark vision of life needs tempering with plenty of shots of gambolling, fleecy lambs. I told him, ‘No fucking chance, Jack. It’s got to be hogs or nothing. My artistic integrity is hanging in the balance.’ ”
“What did Jack say?”
“He said he’d put somebody else on the project. I said you were the only person innocent and naive enough to write this picture with all the mindless conviction it deserves. Harry Vincent, Little Truth Seeker. But, unfortunately, you aren’t available. You have a higher purpose. Since it falls on my shoulders, drastic action may be called for.”
“Such as?”
“There’s a new operation for scenarists. They suck out half your brains and then you can write again.”
“Surgery’s a serious business. Don’t make a decision under the influence of alcohol.”
“Is that a criticism or a witticism, Harry?”
“Just a warning.”
“Oh, fuck warnings.”
“Maybe I better let you get back to what you were doing.”
“Harry,” she says, “please come back to work. I miss how your freshly scrubbed and shining brow furrows with serious purpose and concentration each and every time you read another English spinster’s novel for Rachel.”
“Really? I thought you had Mr. DeShane to provide amusement.”
There’s a pause on the line which alerts me I’ve made a mistake. “Fuck you, too, Harry,” she says, a slight catch in her voice.
“What’s up?”
“I’m not seeing him any more. Not since the accident.” She’s trying hard to recover her sprightly air.
“What accident?”
“We had a car crash.”
“God, Rachel, you’re not hurt, are you?”
“No. Not a scratch.”
“And DeShane?”
“Mr. DeShane hit the windshield. His nose got broken. He didn’t take it well. He thinks it was his best feature. He blames me because I was driving. Somebody had to. We were both drunk and I won the toss.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“That’s the trouble with pretty men. They put too much store in their looks.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Well, I should know better, shouldn’t I? So much for a thing of beauty is a joy forever. Joy with DeShane only lasted weeks.”
“Is that the reason for your condition?”
She avoids answering the question. “You really ought to come back to the office, Harry. You cheer me up. We’re the only ones who prefer Thomas Hardy to Scott Fitzgerald. When you’re living the jazz age why would you want to read about it, too? But nobody else gets my point.”
“You better get some sleep, Rachel.”
“Maybe. But you had a reason for calling. Something about help?”
Now is not the time. “It can wait.”
“Come on, Harry. Shyness is one of your endearing traits but you can overplay it.”
Then I recall the book Chance gave me. He even marked passages with a red pen. Georges Sorel’s
“Look,” I say, “Chance gave me a book to read while I work on the script. But my menu French isn’t up to deciphering it. From the number of times the words
“I could give it a whirl.”
“All right, then. Thanks.”
“Come back to the office, Harry.”
“Soon,” I tell her.
I am not entirely satisfied with my photoplay, but I’ve got close, and the deadline for the script is tonight, nine o’clock. Rather dramatic in its precision, but that’s Chance. However, I fear some mistake has been made. The driveway is filled with vehicles parked bumper to bumper and the house is lit up like I’ve never seen it before, brash yellow light streaming from every window on every floor, and the tinny, nasal sound of gramophone jazz trumpeting inside. Lately, Chance’s nerves have been badly frayed. A mix-up over still photographs of prospective shooting locations earned Fitz the dressing-down of his life. I can still see the big Irish moron standing on the carpet, head hanging down like an illustration from a Sunday-school paper – the boy caught pinching nickels from Mother’s handbag. Maybe in the midst of all the planning for the picture, the deadline has slipped Chance’s mind.
Nothing slips Chance’s mind.
Feeling uneasy, I decide to ring the bell, hand the envelope to Yukio, and get the hell out of here. However, in a brightly lit window I see three women with cocktail glasses in their hands – Mary Pickford, Gloria Swanson, Pola Negri. Change of plan, I’ll go around to the back. To dance attendance upon such a big party of celebrities, he’ll have hired caterers. I’ll give the envelope to the kitchen staff and avoid encountering any of his classy guests.
I begin to fumble my way to the rear, brushing past rosebushes emitting a thick, heady fragrance, hugging the darkness like a housebreaker, dodging the splashes of light on lawn and shrubbery where the shadows of Chance’s guests dart, fishes in a pond. From the house, laughter spills, mingled with mirthless shrieks. Blindly feeling my way among the flower-beds I sneak glances at the lighted windows, catch glimpses of revellers inside. Clara Bow,
