Memphis Movie (27 page)

“Huh.”

“Yeah. And then Dan's other girlfriend showed up.”

67.

“Hello, Eden.”

“Hello, Eric. How's Memphis, eh? How's the old hometown?”

“Not seeing much of it, Eden. Not many of the old stomps anyway.”

“Good, good. How's the timetable? We on schedule? You can't go over, you know, not if you want to hang onto the scraps of your reputation. Ha, right?”

“Right, Eden. Ha. We're on schedule. That is, if you want us to finish the thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Joke. Just a joke, Eden.”

“Oh. Ha. Ha ha. Listen, who's the new starlet? Do I know her? Is she single?”

“Friend of Dan's. Sue—something. Did damn good work yesterday. I am very impressed with her.”

“Ah, good, good. Long as it's not the Angel of Death, right?”

“The angel of death, Eden?”

Eric's heart hurt suddenly. Mortality with its small awl.

“Sue Aside, they called her. The Angel of Death, they called her. She couldn't get work in the movies because everyone was afraid of her. Born under a caul. Black arts her calling card. Real name—no, can't think of it. Who was her agent? Anyway—”

“This is some actress from a commercial. Dan wanted her.”

“And Dan gets what he wants.”

“Yes. Yes, he does.”

“Good. Good, Eric. Wish I had that power, eh? What am I saying? I have that power. It's why I wanted to make a fucking movie. Right?”

“I suppose so.”

“Listen. As long as we're adding cast. How about this Capucine? You know her? I'd love to meet her. Can you write her in? I'm sure Sandy can do it. Eh? Can you get Capucine?”

“I don't know. Time constraints now, you know.”

“I guess so. Still. She's quite lovely, isn't she?”

“Yes, Eden.”

“Prettier than this new Sue, I'll bet you.”

“You're going to like her, Eden. Her scene, well, it might be the best film I've gotten so far. She shows up. She shines like a damn jack-o'-lantern.”

“Right, then. You know best. Love to Sandy.”

“Goodbye, Eden.”

68.

When Dan realized his gun was missing he assumed it had been lifted by the hotel staff. Damn nosy maids, going through his things. Not the first time. One of the casualties of stardom, nothing private. They'll root through your damn trash cans.

Meanwhile, he had to contend with a ferocious teenager and her broken heart. Dudu had shown up on set, a wild gleam in her eye, an eye like a lynx. She made a beeline for Sue Pine and had security not restrained her God knows what she would have done.

“You had a part for me!” she kept screaming. Dan let the security guards drag her out. He didn't even turn to look. Not the first time he'd had two women go after each other in his presence. Still, he didn't relish it.

And what about Suze Everingham, who didn't report to work? Perhaps it had been a bad idea to bring Sue Pine to Memphis. He could have waited for the next movie. No, no he couldn't. One thing about overpowering desire is its immediacy. It couldn't wait. He was hungry for her instantly and he made her appear. His personal magic. His own genie-conjuring.

And wasn't he surprised when she turned out to be such a powerful actress? He swore she read through that scene no more than once and then delivered her whole scene-stealing speech dead solid perfect. How did she do that? What was that kind of memory called? She read it once. Very impressive.

The evening after that momentous shoot Dan took his new canary out to dinner at Chez Philippe in the Peabody Hotel. There they dined in a private corner on pheasant and champagne. She deserved it. What was this new feeling stirring in Dan? Surely not love. It was something else. He had been in love before and it didn't feel like this. This was—necromantic. Necromantic instead of romantic.

“You were magnificent today,” he found himself saying, raising his glass.

“I followed. That's all. You're like a powerful magnet. I was drawn along in your wake.”

“Kindly put,” Dan said.

“It's true. I loved the scene they wrote for us.”

“Yes.”

There was a pause. Dan thought the muzak was Dylan played by a klezmer band.

“Do you think you could get them to do another for us?”

There it was.

“I don't know. We're awfully close to wrapping. I think Eric is under the gun. You know, on a short leash, especially money-wise, time-wise.”

“Right.”

“I think this one scene is going to be the making of you.”

“Do you? Really?”

“Yes. I've known careers started with less. You were—
electric
.”

“Hm.”

“And, you know, it doesn't hurt that naked you look like a goddess. Audiences won't just remember you—they will seek you out. Your private life is probably over.”

“Hm.”

“At any rate, there is reason to celebrate. Today, you were reborn.”

“Yes.”

“My Streep.”

“Was I that good?”

“Yes, you really were.”

“Then you can get them to write another scene for me.”

69.

Sandy found herself alone at the house, alone as the sun set, and she found herself, for whatever reason, missing Eric. She and Eric, well, this had been going on forever. From the start they had understood each other's private proclivities and it was not much discussed, the desire to keep the relationship open.
Open
, with its stink of 1970s pop-psychology.

She also was thinking that her part of the picture was over. She had finished the script, and barring any unforeseen changes, she wasn't really needed on set. Which left her feeling somewhat deflated and disheartened. While Eric was humming along, gaga over his new actress, proud of how Dan's part had coalesced into a thing of power and importance, and seemingly in love with someone new, Sandy was planning her return flight to L.A. The Memphis part of her life was over. Was it over for Eric? Would it be soon? Would it ever be? Had he rediscovered home? These thoughts troubled Sandy.

She decided to watch TV to try and take her mind off things. She also didn't want to think about her new paramour, the man who had suddenly appeared to take up space in her already overcrowded heart. She didn't want to analyze that. She didn't want to think about him and how it reflected on Eric. She knew it was betrayal. Betrayal beyond what their loosely structured relationship allowed. Because of who it was.

On TV there were men and women talking about the movies. Quick snippets of interviews that lasted about 15 seconds each. Sandy hated this, this new way of presenting things to an audience whose attention span was shrinking daily. Everything moved too fast; nothing was absorbed, or it was, but not digested. Everything was absorbed because the human mind is a sponge and it cannot filter things too quickly, so pulses of light and sound enter and take up residence, like cancer. TV works this way. MTV, CNN, VH1, all the initials, sent their information to their audience in scraps, explosive little scraps of sound and fury, each blast no longer than the initials by which they are known. Humans no longer had time or patience for anything that took longer than 15 seconds to develop. Would anyone still sit still for Bergman or Tarkovsky? Sandy doubted it.

Then, there he was on screen, the man she was seeing secretly. There he was, one more talking head.

And what was he talking about? About Eric Warberg and his mire down in Memphis. Eric Warberg, rudderless by the Mississippi. Sandy squirmed. She knew that at least part of his information came from her, little secret confessional whisperings in bed, little winks between two lovers. Now she felt ill.

“And the question remains,” he was saying, “can Eric Warberg pull it together and make a coherent film again? Or was this another
Spondulicks
? The skinny out of Memphis is that he is flying by the seat of his pants, that this film will not come together at all, and that the money behind it, mogul Eden Forbes, was nervous. Moviegoers: Eric Warberg has not made an important film in decades. There is reason to believe he is not capable of it even now. The word I have is that he is allowing Dan Yumont to run wild, that he is constantly off on his own, disappearing at night with no explanation, and that he is relying on his girlfriend, Sandy Shoars, and his cinematographer, the estimable Rica Sash,
to pull this errant project together. It's the old story, a man losing touch with his muse, wandering around in a town he used to call home, but one that now is only a city of ghosts for him. Literally, a city of ghosts.”

Sandy allowed herself a good cry. She felt horrible. She only hoped Eric hadn't seen the broadcast. Fucker, Sandy thought. Fucking Luke Apenail. He wouldn't return to her warm embrace anytime soon. And, dammit, he was set to return to Memphis to see her the next day. What would she say to him? That he betrayed her even as she was betraying Eric? That he referred to her as Eric's “girlfriend” in such a demeaning way that she felt humiliated and relegated to the sidelines while the film she was working on was dismissed before it was even finished? Sandy was hopping mad.

“What's wrong?” Eric was saying. Sandy didn't even want to open her eyes. She hadn't heard him come in and now he was kneeling next to her while she wept.

“What is it, Ducks?”

Sandy opened her eyes. Eric's face was all loving concern.

Jimbo Cole stood in the shadows, studiously gazing elsewhere.

“I—I—Oh, Eric, tell me the movie is going to be great. Tell me we've made something here,” Sandy blurted.

“Of course, we have, Love. Of course we have.”

Sandy looked around. She returned her eyes to Eric's.

“Ok, Biscuit. Ok. I trust you.”

“And I trust you,” Eric said. “Now, get dressed. We've got the meet-the-media shindig tonight.”

“Oh, fuck, I forgot.”

“Eric says the press loves you,” Jimbo said from the shadows.

Sandy began to cry again in earnest.

70.

“Camel, is this one ready?” Lorax was proffering a dirty carrot.

“Well, if not its life is through anyway.” Camel narrowed his eyes looking at her, the sun behind her like a halo. She was kneeling in the dirt of his yard-sized garden, surrounded by abundance.

Fido was rooting around in the flowers, seemingly in search of something precious. The Treasure of the Knights Templar, perhaps.

“Ha, hm,” Lorax said. She looked at the carrot seriously. “You're ready,” she concluded.

Camel, himself on his knees, was concentrating on his lettuce, which was coming up with streaks of purple in its delicate leaves. He had never seen that before and he was studying it as if it were a knotty poser in a Pound canto.

“Hm, hm,” Lorax said, pulling up another little carrot and adding it to her basket.

“Aunt Lettuce, I want to peek under your skirt,” Camel sang, softly.

“What's that, my parasol?” Lorax asked.

“Poem, Sweet.”

“Is it one of yours, my parasol?”

“No, dear. Wonderful poet named Charles Simic.”

“Oh. Was he a friend of Richard's?” Lorax often asked about Richard Brautigan because she knew it made Camel happy to talk about him. It kept him alive for Camel.

“No, no, I don't think so. And not the past tense. Mr. Simic is alive and well. I think.”

“Do you know him, Camel?”

“No, Sweet, I do not. Wait. Do I know him? Charles Simic. No, no. I only know his poems, his books.”

“A good enough way to know someone, isn't it?”

“It is, My Love.”

“Do you love Lorax, Camel?”

“I do. I do love Lorax.”

“Can we have carrots for dinner?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Camel, I am thinking seriously about becoming an artist. A real artist, not a coloring book one.”

Camel set down his spade and sat in the dirt. He looked earnestly at his love, this creature who came into his life like a benison for his waning years.

“Ok,” he said. “Ok, Lorax. Talk to me about that.”

“Well, I was thinking. First I was thinking that there was enough art in the world. Enough writers, painters, musicians. Enough books, paintings, songs. That they basically drowned each other out, you know? There were too many artists and not enough appreciators. That was Thought One. Then it occurred to me that there are people out there picking up a book for the first time. Hearing a poem for the first time. Looking at a Jackson Pollock for the first time. And, my second thought was, there will always be artists and there will always be art appreciators, even if their ranks shrink and swell with the fortunes of the, you know, tides of time. And my third thought, Thought Number Three, Camel Dear, was that I wanted to be part of that special family,
no matter its fortunes or lack thereof. I want to add to the world, Camel.”