The House of Sleep (24 page)

Yes, that was a possibility. He was by no means certain, yet, that Sarah suffered from narcolepsy, but the thought had once or twice occurred to him, when he contemplated her disturbed nocturnal sleeping patterns, her strange hallucinatory dreams, and her occasional tendency to drift into sleep at odd times of the day. The word fitted nicely into this line, at any rate.

‘I mean – supposing that’s who the letter was from?’

She had lost him now: his concentration had lapsed for too long.

‘Pardon?’

‘Supposing the letter was from her – Celia?’ said Sarah, her voice taut with exasperation.

‘Well…’ Robert knew it was unfair of him to feed this suspicion, but found that he couldn’t help himself. ‘I suppose it might have been. Did you see the postmark?’

‘I barely even saw the envelope. She snatched it off Terry as soon as he brought it into the kitchen, and stuck it in her pocket. Then when I went upstairs and found her reading it…’ Everything was falling into place: it was all too horribly plausible. ‘Yes, it probably
was
from her. Her face was flushed. It was glowing. I’ve never seen anybody look so happy.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘I asked her who it was from, of course. And she just said that some things were private and put it away in her desk. Very purposely. I didn’t want to get into a row so I said I’d only asked because I thought it might be something to do with the theatre group. I knew she’d been writing away for funding. And she was obviously really embarrassed because then she started rambling on and we got into this weird conversation about –’

‘About history?’

Sarah laughed, with the self-mocking laugh he knew so well but which never failed to take him by surprise: it was uncanny, mercurial, this ability to turn on herself in an instant, irrespective of mood. It was a quality only women seemed to be blessed with, and Robert envied it fiercely.

‘Oh God,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m turning into an old bore, aren’t I? I’ve probably told you all of this before. You’re going to tell me now that we’ve had exactly this conversation a couple of days ago, word for word, and you’ve just been humouring me.’

‘No, it’s not that. Not at all. Only Terry did mention – yesterday, I think it was – that you’d asked him a funny question. To do with Zeitgeists and… historical moments, or something.’

‘That’s right. I had to ask him what a Zeitgeist was. Embarrassing, isn’t it? Nearly as embarrassing,’ she reflected, ‘as going out with someone who uses words like Zeitgeist in everyday conversation. Anyway, all of a sudden this is the main problem about setting up the theatre group, apparently. The Zeitgeist. According to Ronnie, this may not be the right quote historical moment unquote.’

‘She’s having second thoughts?’

‘From what I can gather, her thoughts don’t enter into it. History’s against her: it’s as simple as that. Priorities are changing. Values are in a state of flux.’

‘“A state of flux”? She said that?’

‘Incredible, isn’t it? I wondered if she might have been stoned, actually. But it was a bit early in the morning, even for her.’ The flippancy in her voice was strained. She dropped it quite abruptly. ‘Oh, Robert, what am I going to do?’

A bus appeared over the horizon and rattled its way towards them. It was almost empty, so Robert was to be denied the pleasure of sitting next to her. Instead, she took the seat in front of him, reclining with her back against the window, her legs stretched out into the aisle, staring past him vacantly.

‘Do you think I should sneak in, and take a look at the letter?’ she asked.

Narcoleptic eyes
, Robert thought: that was definitely the phrase. He still didn’t know if it was quite accurate – medically speaking – when applied to Sarah, but the rhythm and the sound of it were perfect. Which meant, at long last, that the poem was finished. It had taken him months, but now he could take it down to the Café, and tell her to look for it between the pages of their special book. She was bound to go there in the next few days, if only for old times’ sake.

‘Yes,’ he said; and wondered, in passing, whether he would ever cure himself of this vice – this refusal to say to her anything but what she most wanted to hear. ‘In the circumstances, I think that would be fully justified.’

‘Good.’ She rewarded him with a wide, grateful smile. ‘Then that’s what I’ll do.’

∗

On the train, Terry tried to concentrate on looking for errors and misprints in his article for
Frame
, the proofs of which had arrived that morning. But he was too distracted by the presence of his companion, Joe Kingsley, who was sitting across the table from him. For one thing, there was the hat. If there was one kind of hat Terry despised above all others, it was the baseball cap. There was nothing wrong with children wearing it, of course, but whenever he saw it on the head of an adult it seemed to symbolize everything that he most hated about America, even more potently than the figure of Mickey Mouse or the latest Coke adverts or the hordes of giant yellow ‘M’s which were even now beginning to advance across Britain like an unchecked virus. And even worse, Kingsley was
wearing it back to front.
This, without doubt, was the ultimate badge of imbecility. On this account alone, Terry felt personally embarrassed to be sitting with him. And the other thing distracting him was the way Kingsley sat there reading a film magazine – not a proper film magazine, but the sort you got given free at the cinema, full of colour pictures and semiliterate
articles lifted from press releases. His lips were moving as he read, and when scanning a particularly dense paragraph he spoke the most difficult words aloud in a slow whisper.

‘Hey, Kingsley,’ said Terry, unable to bear it any longer. ‘Shut up, will you? I’m trying to work.’

‘I wasn’t saying anything.’

‘You were muttering to yourself. I can’t concentrate.’

Kingsley glared at him, then went back to his magazine, saying: ‘Loosen up, why don’t you? I’m doing you a big favour here.’

Terry was aware of this, but he wasn’t going to let his gratitude show. He rebelled at the thought of being indebted to Kingsley, who had been his personal
bête noire
ever since his arrival in the Film Department at the beginning of the spring term. Young, unshaven, spotty and possessed of a peculiar vocal whine, he was the son of an American businessman currently working in England on a six-month contract. Kingsley Jnr, who had been midway through a film-making course at some minor Midwestern college, took the opportunity to accompany his father on this trip and was promptly billeted on the university for two terms, the arrangement being secured – as was well known – by the gift of substantial funds towards a new hall of residence. He was loud, self-confident, inarticulate, rich, and universally despised by the other students. He had also (and this was where an element of envy crept in) already made two short films back home, financed in part by his father: and judging from the video copies he had brought with him to England, they gave every indication – on a technical level, at least – of being gallingly proficient. In fact the second of these, a thirty-minute stalk-and-slash movie with a loud and violent climax, had impressed even that select band of film pundits who liked to gather round the corner table at the Café Valladon: with the single exception of Terry, who maintained that all the spectacular closing sequence amounted to was ‘just a lot of buildings exploding’, and that there was ‘no coherent vision’ behind the film as a
whole. (If the others thought that he was being self-important, they kept quiet about it.) He was all the more annoyed with himself, therefore, for having got drunk one night in the Union bar and told Kingsley all about his ambition to write a screenplay that could be shot over a period of fifty years. From this brief, alcohol-sullied conversation, Kingsley had formed the impression that Terry was something of a visionary, and thereafter insisted on referring to him simply as ‘the writer’ whenever his name came up in conversation. And it was for this reason, it transpired, that he had asked to see him so unexpectedly a few weeks ago.

‘My dad’s been getting friendly with this producer,’ he had explained. ‘Seems he’s in London to shoot this film, and Dad’s shown him my stuff, and now he wants to meet.’

‘Well, that’s great, Kingsley. I’m really happy for you. Why are you telling me this?’

‘Because now I need a writer. It’s Joe, anyway. Joe Kingsley.’

‘I still don’t quite see where I fit in.’

‘You’re a writer, aren’t you? You write.’

‘Well, yes, but what – you mean my screenplay, the one I told you about?’

‘No, this guy, he’s already got a couple of properties. We just need a writer. Someone who writes.’

Terry was still not sure why he had accepted this invitation. He was convinced that it would end in disaster. In the end he had succumbed to pressure from Robert and Sarah, who had done their best to argue that it might provide him, at the very least, with the opportunity to show some of his own work to an influential figure within the industry: for which an entire day spent in the company of Kingsley did, on reflection, seem a small enough price to pay.

‘What are you staring at me for?’

Terry shifted guiltily in his seat, aware that for the last few minutes his eyes had been fixed in a hypnotic gaze on the offending item of headgear.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was miles away.’

Kingsley snorted and turned a page of his magazine. A few minutes later he said, frowning: ‘They’re talking here about this thing called
The Third Man.
Have you heard of that?’

‘Yes, it’s a film.’

‘I never heard of it. It must be really old.’

‘Nineteen forty-nine.’

‘Wow. You mean it’s like a silent film?’

‘Not quite that old, no. I’m surprised you never heard of it, actually. It’s quite famous. Directed by Carol Reed.’

‘I didn’t even realize they had women directors in those days.’

In truth, Terry wasn’t at all surprised that he’d never heard of it. The depth of Kingsley’s ignorance of film history (pre-
The Godfather
) never ceased to fascinate him.

‘By the way, I was meaning to ask you,’ he said, ‘what do you think of Hawks?’

Kingsley put the magazine down, looking pleased that they were about to have a proper talk at last.

‘I like them,’ he answered, after a little consideration. ‘Hawks, buzzards – especially eagles. All the birds of prey, I think.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Terry drummed his fingers on the table, and waited a while before asking: ‘Don’t you think that Welles is rather overrated?’

‘Definitely. I went there with Dad last month, and Bath’s a lot nicer. No contest.’

‘That’s very true.’ The train flashed through a station. ‘Tell me, Kingsley – do you think that the answer to the crisis in the British film industry lies in a return to the principles of Free Cinema?’

He had to think about this one. ‘No, not really,’ he said finally. ‘I think people should be made to pay for their seats here just like everywhere else.’

Terry burst out laughing. ‘You’re priceless, you know. You really are.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Hawks and Welles are film directors,’ said Terry, still laughing. ‘And Free Cinema is the name of an influential movement from the nineteen-fifties.’

‘And
you
,’ said Kingsley, rising to his feet angrily and giving him the finger, ‘are a stuck-up prick.’ He stormed off to the buffet car.

Delighted to be left alone for a while, Terry turned his attention to the proofs of his article.

He had good reason to feel pleased with his first foray into journalism: not only had
Frame
immediately accepted it for publication, but it had led the editorial board to offer him a job as a staff writer on the magazine, starting in a few weeks’ time, at the beginning of September. They seemed to be quite satisfied that, despite his complete failure to locate a print of
Latrine Duty
, or even to have found any production stills or a copy of the screenplay, Terry had written an interesting and worthwhile piece which brought together for the first time a great deal of previously scattered information. There was, for example, the curious case of the British film reviewer who had flown to Italy for a private screening of the film, only to be found twelve hours later dead in his hotel room on the outskirts of Rome, shot clean through the head, with a revolver by his side and clutching in his hand a sheet of notepaper on which was scrawled the brief message: ‘Life cannot be endured.’
Variety
had reported this incident later in the week, under the headline ‘Sick Pic Nixes Brit Crit’, and although it added that there was an alternative explanation for the suicide (the reviewer had recently been abandoned by his wife and children), there seemed little doubt that exposure to Ortese’s nihilistic
tour de force
had been a major contributing factor. Terry was baffled and tantalized by this report, which still gave very little indication of what exactly was shown in the film or why it might have had such a profound and immediate impact on one of its spectators. Equally mysterious was an eight-year-old article from a Canadian academic journal called
The Quarterly Review of Urinary Medicine.
This
presented the case history of a representative (since retired) of an Italian distribution company who had seen the film and, while he adamantly refused to disclose its contents, had forever afterwards suffered from a bizarre bladder complaint which made him unable to urinate in the company of other men.

The more Terry read about this movie, the more fascinated he became. What perverse mixture of scatology and radical politics could Ortese possibly have contrived, to give rise to all these strange myths and rumours? He was not the first person to have become interested in this question, but previous researchers seemed to have uncovered very little. The film’s alleged director of photography had since denied any connection with it; its editor steadfastly maintained that it didn’t exist; its costume designer, now well into her eighties and no longer in full possession of her faculties, believed that every print had been destroyed but remembered it as ‘essentially a tender and romantic film’; while in 1973 the leading actor – apparently in direct response to the experience of making the movie – had joined a remote monastic order which observed a strict vow of silence.