Beauty and the Brain (4 page)

“Yes,” said Martin. “We’re discussing the
number of vehicles necessary to transport fifteen Indian men from
Los Angeles to the Cedar Crest Lodge. Septimus here operates a
motorized transport service. The men will arrive by train, and it
will be much faster to drive them up here by motor than by
horse-drawn wagon.”

“Oh. I see.”

Colin pushed his glasses up his nose. It was
a gesture, Brenda realized, that was useful for several reasons.
There was the practical reason of placing them properly so that he
could see through them. But the gesture was also good for giving
him something to do with his hands when, for example, he needed to
think or stall for time. Brenda respected such gestures. She had
quite a few in her own repertoire, although she’d wager her, last
dollar that Colin didn’t understand the significance of his own
signature gesture.

“Er, no. I don’t need to talk about
transportation.”

“Good.” Martin gave him another smile and
resumed with Mr. Cadwallader. “Then I guess we’ll see the Indians
tomorrow afternoon. Thank you for your help, Septimus.”

“Oh, sure. That’s what I do.” Mr.
Cadwallader shot a fairly desperate glance into Brenda’s corner, as
if he knew the moment of parting was at hand and wanted to
forestall it but didn’t know how. “You’re welcome. Sure. Any
time.”

Martin took Mr. Cadwallader tenderly by the
arm and led him to the door. “There. We appreciate your care in the
matter.”

Brenda knew he was trying to ease Mr.
Cadwallader out of the room without hurting his feelings. She
considered Martin Tafft a true jewel among men. He tried always to
treat people as he would like to be treated. Brenda’s mother had
taught her the Golden Rule in the cradle, and Brenda often thought
that if the world operated by this simple principle, the world
would be a darned sight nicer place to live in. Martin was one of
the few people in it whom she’d found shared her belief.

Colin stood scowling as he watched the two
men walk to the door, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his
trousers, thereby ruining the elegant lines of his dinner suit.
Brenda, who had studied such things, knew the suit must have cost
him a pretty penny. She found it amusing that he cared so little
about his appearance, he didn’t even think about sticking his hands
in his pockets. Deciding it might be interesting to watch and
listen unobserved for a few more minutes, she sat in one of the
armchairs, holding the birch-bark book.

It was an odd and rather pleasant experience
for Brenda to be a spectator. As a rule, she was the spectacle.
She’d come to tolerate it, but she didn’t enjoy it. The adulation
of the theater-going public had provided her with a great income,
and she honored it for her family’s sake, but it played hob with
her own personal needs and desires. She wondered if Colin was in as
sour a mood as his expression indicated.

She didn’t have long to wonder. Before
Martin had eased Mr. Cadwallader out of the room and returned to
his side, Colin said, “I say, Martin, have you read this drivel?”
He waved what Brenda recognized as the script of
Indian Love
Song
in front of Martin.

Martin blinked at the pages flapping before
him.

“Drivel? I’d hardly call it drivel, Colin.
It’s a fine story.”

“It’s absurd!” Colin’s voice had risen.

Martin transferred his puzzled gaze from the
script to Colin’s face. “What do you mean? It was written by a very
competent fellow, John Pinkney. Why, he’s had six plays produced on
Broadway.”

Again waving the script, Colin said, “But
his facts are all wrong.”

Martin’s look of befuddlement intensified.
“Facts? What facts?”

Colin started flipping through the script
angrily. “Why, just look at this.” He folded back several pages of
script, held the document in front of Martin’s nose, and tapped at
it with one slender, elegant forefinger. “Here. Where the woman is
captured. Why, it’s idiotic! No self-respecting band of Sioux
warriors would ride into a town in a pack like wolves, pick a woman
up from a crowded thoroughfare, and carry her off like that.”

“Actually, they abduct her from a
party.”

Colin rolled his eyes.

“That’s even worse. For one thing, they’d be
shot on sight, and for another, they just didn’t do things like
that. During the time period in which this story is supposed to be
set, white people feared and hated Indians, and Indians feared and
hated them back—and for good reason on both sides.”

“Hmmm.” Martin rubbed his lower lip as he
peered at the script. Lifting his head, he shrugged sly “It makes
for a fine story. Colin.” The words were simple, the tone was
gentle, and there was a good deal of puzzlement still in Martin’s
face.

Brenda felt sort of like giggling, although
she also felt sort of like cheering Colin’s indignation on behalf
of a defeated people. How strange.

Colin sputtered, “But—but—”

Martin laid a hand on the other man’s arm
and guided him into a chair. He sat in another and leaned over so
he presented a picture of interested intimacy, as if he understood
Colin’s qualms—although Brenda would bet anything that he
didn’t—and wanted to calm them. “See here, Colin. You’re the expert
on Indians, but I’m sure read somewhere that Indians used to take
white captives occasionally.”

“Of course they did.” Colin threw his hands
in the air and exploded. “But not like
this
!” This time he
whacked script with his open palm, making Martin jump. “This is
idiotic!”

The gesture didn’t do much for Brenda’s
nerves, either, but she didn’t make a noise. She found Colin’s
outrage fascinating.

Colin leaned over, too, so that the two men
were almost nose-to-nose. “Listen, Martin, when various Indian
tribes took captives, they were almost always children. Very seldom
were adult women taken, and never adult men. The warriors would
sooner kill the adults, and often the children. Later on, they’d
take children as a matter of course, and they’d either integrate
the children into their tribal life or use them as bargaining tools
with the whites.”

Ew. Brenda wasn’t sure the American public
would enjoy seeing a picture about that sort of thing. Evidently
Martin felt the same way. “Colin, nobody’s going to go to a picture
if it depicts blood and gore and captured kids. It’s much cleaner
to have the woman captured in town, off the porch of a house,
without any bloodshed, and then rescued. It also provides plenty of
scope for the love story.”

“The
love
story?”

Colin was incredulous, although why he
should be was a mystery to Brenda. He must know that most moving
pictures were romances of one sort or another. She was only glad
this particular one was going to end happily. Half the time the
heroine died in the end, and Brenda didn’t consider that much of a
romance.

“Yes,” Martin said mildly. “This picture is
a love story. A romance, if you will.”

“But—” Colin’s brow furrowed, revealing two
deep vertical dents above his nose. He shoved his glasses up
absently.

“I’m afraid we’re taking a little poetic
license here, Colin.”

“A
little
?”

“Only a little. For the sake of the story.
Surely you understand poetic license. If it weren’t for poetic
license, where would Sir Walter Scott be?” Martin laughed at his
comparison.

“This isn’t Scott,” Colin muttered, sounding
stubborn. “It’s more like rot.”

That was a good one. Brenda approved. If a
guy was going to argue, it was good to disarm his opponent with
word play.

Martin chose to ignore the “rot” part. “No.
It’s more like H. Rider Haggard, I suppose. It’s an adventure. A
romance. A high-spirited lark.” He thought for a second. “Like
Tom Sawyer
, only for adults.”

Colin’s lips pinched together, and he said,
“For adults? I’m sure.” He took in a deep breath and, letting it
out on a long sigh, seemed to collect himself. “I beg your pardon,
Martin. I don’t mean to be a stumbling block for you. I’m here to
assist you. It’s only that I hate to see misconceptions perpetuated
like this. “He went back to tapping on the script, which was much
less jarring to his listeners than whacking it.

Martin patted him on the knee, and Brenda
was reminded of a father administering gentle guidance to a
high-spirited son. Martin was going to be a wonderful father
someday—if he ever had time enough to find himself a woman to
wed.

“It’s all right, Colin. I understand your
protest springs from your own integrity, and I appreciate it,
believe me. But in this case, we’re filming a story. A fantasy. A
romantic romp. The public won’t actually believe it just because
they see it on celluloid. People are smarter than that.”

Horsefeathers. Brenda could have disabused
dear Martin of that misconception in a minute if she chose to do
so. But she didn’t. She owed too much to the public’s
gullibility.

Colin appeared doubtful, and Brenda was
glad. He might be really smart, but at least he could recognize
hogwash when he heard it. Most of the smart men she’d known didn’t
recognize anything beyond their own desires and were perfectly
happy to bend the truth to fit their wishes. While she valued the
public’s credulity because it provided her family with a good
income, she neither trusted it nor approved of it. Most men, for
example, considered her a featherheaded fool because that’s what
she led them to believe. Which went to prove that it was they, and
not she, who were dim-witted.

“Do you really think so?” Colin eyed Martin,
clearly skeptical.

Martin nodded with enthusiasm. “Certainly!
Why, they know exactly what they’re getting when they visit a
motion-picture house these days. They’re going to get a rip-roaring
tale of adventure and an hour’s worth of holiday from the everyday
drudgery of life.”

“I thought you wanted to bring the world
together,” Colin said, his voice traced with darkness and
suspicion.

But Martin laughed again. “I do. Of course I
do. And the pictures are the way to do it. Why, imagine it, Colin.
The entire world will see future Peerless pictures. We can educate,
enlighten, entertain, and encourage people of all nations. We can
make the world come together as one. The possibilities inherent in
moving pictures are infinite.”

“I don’t understand how perpetuating a silly
myth about Indians capturing white women will promote world
understanding.”

Brenda didn’t, either, and she was glad
Colin had mentioned it.

“Oh, well, this is different. This is a
story. An escape, if you will, from life’s little problems. No one
will take it seriously, but it will make Peerless a lot of money,
and then we can use that money to film more ambitious
projects.”

Brenda, who had known Martin for several
years, could see he was warming to his favorite topic. He was such
a dear man, really, even if he remained remarkably naive, to
Brenda’s somewhat jaundiced eyes.

“Think of it, Colin. With the success
Peerless is having, we’ll soon be able to produce some truly
sweeping projects. Mr. Lovejoy and I have been working on a picture
idea for
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
, and plans are already
underway for a production of Cleopatra.”

“Really?” Colin’s dark eyebrows lifted, and
he looked less dubious. “That’s better, I suppose. At least the
Hunchback’s good literature.” He eyed the script he clutched with
something that looked mightily like loathing.

“Oh, yes. And we’re not merely looking to
great literature, either. Think of the magnificence of this vast
country of ours, Colin. Don’t you think people the world over would
flock to see some of its glories? New York City! The Grand Canyon!
The Pacific and Atlantic oceans! The sweeping plains and the bleak
deserts! Think of the possibilities.”

Colin thought. “Hmmm. We’re already having
trouble absorbing all of the immigrants flocking to the United
States. We’d better not look too grand and glorious, or we’ll have
even more problems.”

Brenda could tell that Martin didn’t fully
appreciate Colin’s practical approach to the moviemaking process.
He frowned. “That’s not the point. The point is that pictures are
the first universal means of communication ever invented.”

After thinking about it for a moment or two,
Colin nodded slowly. “I see what you mean. They’re purely visual,
and the human story is more or less the same the world over, I
suppose. Very well, I’ll grant you that point, but the point I want
to make is that this script is nonsense.”

Martin heaved a gigantic sigh. “Colin, when
you were a boy did you ever read
The Adventures of Robin
Hood
?”

“I don’t think so.”

“
Tom Sawyer
?”

Colin shook his head.

Patently confounded by such lapses in his
companion’s early childhood education, Martin said, “
Horatio
Hornblower
?
Five Weeks in a Balloon
?
A Tale of Two
Cities
?
David Copperfield
?”

The dents above Colin’s nose deepened. “I
didn’t read fiction as a rule. I was too busy studying.”

Martin sat back in his chair, lifted his
hands in the air, and let them fall, stunned. “I can’t believe you
grew up without stories.”

Brenda couldn’t believe it, either. Heck,
the only thing that had kept her going during her early years were
the books her father read to her. The wonderful, fantastic stories
she still loved today.

“Oh, I had plenty of stories,” Colin said
quickly. “But they were true. They weren’t—made up.”

Shaking his head, Martin muttered, “How
bleak your life must have been.”

Colin sat up as if he were offended. “Not at
all. Merely because my parents didn’t believe in filling their
children’s heads with applesauce didn’t make my childhood bleak. It
was quite interesting, actually.”