you a slot.”
As a boy he’d loved the surrealism of the Babelsberg lot, the street fronts and women in Marie Antoinette wigs, and sailing ships beached against a wall at the end of a street. Now what struck him was the blur of activity. Outside, in the dusty orange groves and parking lots, things moved at a desert pace. Here everyone seemed to be running late-grips pushing flats and carpenters and extras filing out of wardrobe, everyone hurrying while the sunny oasis over the wall stretched out for a nap.
The look was utilitarian-no country club flower beds or Moorish towers. Lasner hadn’t even bothered with the Spanish touches the other studios couldn’t resist, the arcades and fake adobe walls. Here buildings were whitewashed or painted a cheap industrial green. The only visible trees were the bottle brush palms up in the hills and a few live oaks behind one of the sound stages, probably the western set.
Inside things were sleeker-modern offices with metal trim and secretaries with bright nails and good clothes. He thought of the offices in Frankfurt, the piles of unsorted papers and drip pails and girls with hungry, pinched faces. This was the other side of the world, untouched, not even a shortage of nail polish. The war had only made it richer. Everyone in the hall smiled at him.
Room 200 was the corner, presumably Lasner’s office, and Jenkins was next door. Ben was shown in and announced without even a preliminary buzz, clearly expected. Or had the guard called up from the gate?
Jenkins was slight, with a boyish unlined face, sharp eyes, and hair so thinned that he was nearly bald. He came out from behind the desk with the easy grace of a cat, as smooth as his camel hair sport jacket.
“I’m Bunny Jenkins. Mr. L asked me to get you settled. He’s on the phone with New York,” he said, implying a daily ordeal.
Ben looked at him more closely. “Brian Jenkins?” he said.
“ Yes, that Brian Jenkins,” he said wearily. “Which dates you. The kids on the lot haven’t the faintest. Not exactly a comfort.”
“But-”
“Well, we all change,” he said, a put-on archness. “I’ll bet you used to look younger, too.”
Just the voice, still English, would have placed him. Faces wrinkle but voices never change. He was still the boy in The Orphan, then the reworking of Oliver Twist and the other fancy dress adventures that had followed. Ruffled shirts and wide liquid eyes, everybody’s waif.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean-”
“Never mind. It has been a while. They don’t know Freddie, either. Funny, isn’t it? They brought me over to keep Jackie in line and then they brought Freddie to keep me in line. I mean, really. Freddie. They could have saved a ton and just let the hair do it.” He touched his head.
“Freddie Batholomew?”
“Mm,” he said, glancing up, as if Ben hadn’t been following. “With all his wavy curls. Still, I hear. And much good it did him. They don’t know him, either,” he said, nodding toward the window and the anonymous kids on the lot. “Well, let’s get you started. I’m the tour guide. He wants me to show you Japan, which means the serious tour. I gather you’re here to give us some class.”
“He said that?”
“I’ve seen your budget. You might want to explain the project to me a little. I’ve already had Polly Marks on the horn. I said, ‘Darling, if you don’t know, how would I? He hasn’t even arrived yet.’ But she’ll be back. Walk with me. Oh, and you’re expected for dinner. Saturday. That must have been some chat the two of you had on the train. He never has line producers to the house-not this soon anyway.”
“That’s what I am, a line producer?”
“Well, you have your own budget and nobody seems to be in charge of you.”
“Not you?”
“Me? Oh, I’m a glorified assistant. Technically, vice-president, Operations, which is a nice way of saying I do whatever he needs me to do. You know, you grow up on a set, there’s not much you don’t learn. About the business, I mean.”
“In other words, you run the place.”
Bunny looked at him. “No. Mr. L runs the place. Every nook. You wouldn’t want to make a mistake about that.”
They were almost in the hall when the phone rang. Bunny stopped, glancing over at his secretary. She covered the receiver, mouthing a name at him.
“Hold on a sec. I have to take this.” He went over to the phone. “Rosemary, I thought you were being fitted.” He listened for a while, concentrating. “But, darling, she’s the best. I asked for her. Have you looked at the sketches? Forget the mirror. We never see ourselves, not properly. I tell you what, I’ll swing by in an hour, all right? But meanwhile all smiles, yes? You don’t want her to- Yes, I know. But she used to work for Travis. She sewed for him.” A pause. “Travis Banton. He dressed Marlene, Rosemary. Now go have a ciggie and calm down and I’ll be over later. All smiles.”
After another minute of reassurance he hung up, facing Ben again.
“A little crise de nerfs, ” he said lightly. “Still, that’s the business. I know, you’re going to make a documentary. Show us how ghastly it all was,” he said, affecting a shiver. “But that’s not the business. You know what it is, pictures? Attractive people. That’s all it’s ever been. So you want to look your best.” He put his hand to his head again, smiling slyly. “Keep your hair. Come on, I’ll show you Japan.”
They made it out of the building without another interruption, Bunny giving a running description as they went.
“That’s Payroll and Accounting. You’d get your check there, but I gather you don’t get a check.” A point to be cleared up.
“The Army’s still paying me.” He looked at the closed door. “They’d have a list, wouldn’t they? Every employee.”
“If we’re paying them. Why?”
“In case I was looking for someone.”
“Check the phone directory,” Bunny said simply. “There’ll be one on your desk.” He looked over at Ben, as if he were hearing the question again, then let it go. “We’ve got you in B building, next door. Mr. L wanted you in Admin, but there’s no room at the inn so you’re out in the stable. Be grateful in the end-nobody looking over your shoulder. I wish I were there sometimes. I’m afraid you’ll have to share a secretary. I wasn’t sure how much help you’d need.”
“That’s fine.”
“Bunny,” someone said, waving hello.
“How’d you get the name?” Ben said.
“You know, no one’s ever asked. All these years. Not rabbits. Pets, I mean. My mother, when I was little. Because I got my lines right away. You know, ‘quick as a.’ Anyway, it stuck. Editing rooms over there. I understand you got Hal back for us. He’s a great favorite of Mr. L’s. An A-list project,” he said, leaving it open, wanting to know how involved Lasner would be.
“How old were you when you started?”
“In the womb. I don’t know, four or five. Before I could read. She’d say the lines, and I’d have to remember them. But then you grow up. Nobody makes it past that. Look at Temple. Who wants to see her necking?”
“How did you end up here?”
“Through Fay. Mrs. L,” he explained.
“Yes, we met. At the train station.”
“Did you?” he said, another opening, then went back to the thread. “A great lady-not exactly thick on the ground out here. And smart. But she started late, so she needed somebody to help. You know, which fork where. How to do this and that. So, me. Anyway, the more I did for her, the more I got to know Mr. L, and he figured there were things I could do for him, too. So it all just happened. Here we are.”
He opened the door to a sound stage and flicked on the light. Ben had thought Japan would mean a Madame Butterfly set, tea house and garden, but this was Japan itself-a huge, three-dimensional model made of plaster, set up table height on a series of trestles that covered most of the floor.
“It’s built to scale,” Bunny said. “Every bay, river. Took months. Mr. L’s very proud of it.”
“But what-”
