Christian Bale (13 page)

On the inside, though, the hotel was an amazing replica of a Victorian manor—paneled walls, a plush red parlor. I felt as though I had stepped into Professor Higgins's house from
My Fair Lady
. I checked into my elaborately decorated room, admiring the four-poster bed.

I promptly called David, but no one was home. I left a message that I had arrived, and settled in to wait.

After an hour, I decided to go across Sepulveda for a bite of dinner. Airlines still served meals in those days but the portions were notoriously small and I was famished. I had a quick bite at the California Pizza Kitchen and hurried back to Barnabey's to find a message waiting for me.

“Welcome to L.A.! Giving Christian his dinner. Shall ring again soon.”

I had missed the call.

Another half hour passed before I heard a knock at the door. Nervously, I peered through the peephole. I opened the door and found myself staring up at a giant of a man. David Bale was an extremely tall man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Adam West, the actor who played Batman in the 1960s TV series. Tanned, with a deeply lined face and graying hair, David wore a blue denim shirt and black trousers. He smiled broadly, shook hands, and took out a handkerchief to blow his nose.

“Hullo, Harrison! At last we meet! Look at you! Definitely Chinese! Come, my car is outside.”

We headed out to David's VW Jetta.

“Christian just arrived last night from London and he is still a bit peevish,” David said. “Atrabilious. Pay him no mind. It's just jet lag.”

“Oh.” I was impressed and a little intimidated by David's vocabulary.

“But he is looking forward to meeting you, Harrison. He's talked about nothing else all day. Absolutely nothing else!”

We drove just a few blocks from Barnabey's, and made our way onto Oak Avenue, a tree-lined street that didn't have sidewalks, making the line of large homes look as if they were on a remote country lane. It was December in L.A. and each house was garnished with enough Christmas lights to guide an airplane for landing and displayed holiday flags with figures of Santa, snowmen, and reindeer.

David made a hard turn into a driveway, and I got my first glimpse of The House of Bale. It looked like an overgrown two-story villa, large, colorful, and sun-bleached. The faded stucco walls, arched and recessed entryway, and slate tile roof seemed homey, and not foreboding. A balcony, painted steel gray and looking like something Evita would stand on, jutted prominently from the second floor. The front yard was wild with tropical plants, flowering bird-of-paradises, orchids, and vines threatening to grow across the stone walkway. Randomly placed throughout
the front yard were assorted bowls of what looked like cat food. A giant mature palm tree marked a natural barrier from one neighbor, while a high hedge bordered the other neighbor's yard. Overall the effect was definitely more shabby than chic.

“Welcome to our home!” David had jumped out of the car and was making his way quickly to the front door.

I hurried to keep up; David was already across the yard and fiddling with his key at the door. Stealing a quick glance up at the house's façade, I thought I saw a dark figure at the window at the balcony, but it could have just been my imagination making shapes out of the curtains shifting in the breeze.

By contrast to the house's striking exterior, the inside of the house was a disaster. I first noticed the sharp smell of cat litter. A dirty wall-to-wall gray Berber carpet had clearly seen too much traffic. As if on cue, two cats raced by. A staircase was immediately to the right of the front entrance; each step had a pair of shoes or a pile of scripts. The bannister was covered with sticky notes. In the corner was a small fireplace. A large golden retriever, in obvious need of a bath, was sitting in front of the fireplace, its tail thumping in welcome. I heard a scrabbling noise and saw a Jack Russell terrier racing down the stairs. The little dog ran straight to me, sniffed my leg, and then ran back upstairs.

“That's Mojo checking you out,” David explained. “He's Christian's dog. Over by the fire is Codger. They're both rescue dogs. Do you like dogs? We've always had dogs ever since Christian was a baby!”

David beckoned me down the hall to the kitchen. It was a fascinating place. Books, more scripts, and unfinished plates of food were piled on one counter. There were word and phrase magnets on the fridge where someone apparently spelled out their creativity. “He hates to be kept waiting” read one line across the fridge.

Empty cans of dog food were arranged on another countertop. I noticed a line of ants marching steadily from a windowsill to
the cans. A large butcher-block kitchen table was covered with boxes and papers and dirty mugs with used teabags still in them. A small moldy block of cheese sat on the table. Although there was an old dishwasher, the sink was piled with dirty plates—it looked like someone loved ketchup.

David directed me to sit at the kitchen table while he put on a kettle.

“Tea?”

“No thanks.”

“We love Manhattan Beach. My son, Christian,
loves
the water. We're just a walk away from the beach. You can go to the pier and go surfing or swimming or ride a bicycle on the trails, if you like.”

Mojo suddenly ran into the room. He ran to me and put his paws up on my leg.

David laughed. “There's Mojo! There's a boy! Christian named him from The Doors song “Mr. Mojo Rising”? Christian found him. Poor little guy, love him! He had been wandering on the streets of North Hollywood for weeks! His little paws were bleeding from running on the asphalt! Christian stopped his car and chased little Mojo down until the poor little thing could run no more. Then, Christian scooped him up into his arms and brought him home. He wrapped those poor little paws up and nursed Mojo back to health.”

I looked at Mojo's eager brown eyes. He seemed like a very happy little dog. Mojo jumped down, rolled over on his back, and looked up with a silly doggy grin, his tongue lolling and tiny white paws waving in the air.

David was thrilled.

“Will you look at
that
, Harrison? He likes you! He trusts you! Animals can sense these things! No animal would expose its stomach to a potential predator!”

I playfully grabbed at Mojo's paws and rubbed his round belly, thankful for the vote of confidence.

“Christian and I are very involved in animal rights. Do you eat meat?”

“Uh, yes.”

David's face crumpled.

“What a shame! We can cure you of that illness. Eating meat is a mortal sin, Harrison! How can you eat the flesh of animals to save your own life? That's just wrong! Dead wrong! ‘Thou shall not kill,' remember? Did you know that human teeth were never designed to chew meat? Only fruits, nuts, and vegetables! Fruits, nuts, and vegetables! Our teeth are flat! Like our gentle cousins, the gorillas.”

I nodded politely. I normally didn't like being lectured about my eating habits but David's charm was irresistible. I got the sense that he might've said the same thing to anyone.

“Ah, here comes Christian now.” David turned eagerly to face approaching footsteps. I followed his look, eager for my first glimpse of the young actor.

A lean, lanky figure appeared in the kitchen doorway. Good-looking with short-cropped brown hair, his angular face was immediately recognizable. Though he was tall, standing next to his giant of a father, Christian looked short, almost elfin. Wearing a tight white T-shirt and baggy cargo pants, his skinny body arched slightly with poor posture. His long pale arms were dotted with freckles and moles.
English complexion
, I thought. He seemed tense, almost uncomfortable. His brow was ever so slightly knitted, and his lips were pursed as if he were sucking a sour candy or pretending to be a duck. With his oddly tentative stance at the doorway, he looked like a moody male model, impatiently waiting for his turn down the runway.

Father and son were both staring at me now. David was grinning expectantly. Christian was not.

David made the introductions.

“Christian, this is Harrison, come all the way to visit us from
Canada! And this, of course, is my son [small pause for dramatic effect] Christian Bale!”

“Hi.” I stood up to shake his hand. “I'm very pleased to meet you.”

Christian mumbled something in reply and we shook hands. I was surprised to hear that his voice was so light and high-pitched. In the movies, his voice sounded a little deeper. And with his refined, almost delicate facial features, I was also surprised that Christian's hands were rough and calloused and his fingernails were chewed to the quick.

Christian turned to his father.

“What does a guy have to do around here to get a clean towel?”

“What? Oh dear! Oh dear!” David scurried to another part of the kitchen toward a small laundry nook. “No worries, Moosh, there are some clean towels in the dryer!” He pulled a couple of gray towels from the dryer and handed them to his son.

Moosh was an odd nickname that I had never heard before. I chalked it up to something English.

Christian grabbed one towel and turned his attention back to me, staring with his penetrating hazel eyes with all the thrill of a botanist examining some new kind of weed.

David jumped in, presumably to cover for Christian's obvious silence: “Harrison, are you hungry? Would you like some chowder? A neighbor down the street made us this huge pot of homemade—”

“I thought she made the chowder for
me
,” Christian interrupted.

“Yes, Moosh. But there's plenty left. You already had a couple of bowls, so I didn't think you'd want more.”

“I might want more later, Dad.” Christian glared at his father and I decided to look out the back door that led to a kidney-shaped swimming pool.

“Of course, Son, of course! There's plenty of chowder for you! Plenty!” By the sound of David's voice, he was clearly used to calming Christian.

“I'm going to take a shower. I'll be right back.”

“Don't you want to sit and chat with Harrison?” David pointed to the kitchen table. A copy of my marketing proposal was on the table.

“No, I need to take a shower, Dad. If I had had a clean towel in my bathroom, I wouldn't be keeping our guest waiting, would I?” At that, Christian turned and marched back upstairs. For a moment, there was an awkward silence but David brought over a mug of tea.

“Sit, Harrison! Christian won't be long.”

“I think I'll take a stroll outside, David.” I headed to the backyard and started to walk around the pool. A curious Mojo followed me.

I walked around the pool fifteen times, trying to process everything I had seen this strange and wonderful evening, until I heard Christian come down the stairs again. He was wearing tattered blue dress socks and a blue terrycloth bathrobe that was shockingly short. If he had sat down or bent over, his modesty would have been lost completely. Christian stomped over to the dryer and pulled out a clean T-shirt and a pair of boxer briefs. He then made his way back upstairs.

I made my way back to the kitchen table while Mojo ran over to the foot of the stairs, waiting for his young master. David smiled.

Christian came back down, now showered and fully dressed in clean clothes. He automatically turned to the kitchen counter where David had a steaming mug of tea waiting for him. Mojo was just at his heels. I was impressed. Clearly David anticipated his son's every need.

The three of us sat around the kitchen table. While David began extolling the benefits of the marketing proposal, Christian was flipping through the pages, looking at each page intently. He read slowly and purposely.

“Christian,” David was saying, “you have no idea how revolutionary this is! To use the Internet for publicity is brilliant! Your
fans could visit a Web site or message board and always know when your movies are coming out or when your videos are to be released. Tell him, Harrison! Tell him how this works.”

I cleared my throat. “Well, you see, there are different places on the Internet where movie buffs can post questions. On AOL. On CompuServe. Or in a newsgroup. Thousands of people ask questions like: ‘Where are they now?' or, ‘Can you help me ID an actor?' That sort of thing.”

“Astonishing,” David muttered.

“With you, Christian,” I suddenly felt awkward as that was the first time I was addressing him by name, “with you and your movies, we often see people posting questions like: ‘Whatever happened to the boy from
Empire of the Sun?'
We reply and tell them your name and let them know that your current movies can be rented at the video store. So, you see, we expand your word-of-mouth that way.

“Someone else will post: ‘That guy from
Newsies
? Wow, I can't believe it's the same kid from
Empire of the Sun
!' And that gets people curious, so you now have people renting your other titles. They connect the dots and see that you're one and the same person. And that works for
Swing Kids
, too. People who've seen
Swing Kids
may not know about
Newsies
or
Empire
. People who've seen
Newsies
may not know about
Swing Kids.”