The Master of Happy Endings (22 page)

It was not as though Thorstad hadn't been thrown plenty of curveballs in his day—by principals, colleagues, students, secretaries, parents, school boards, and temperamental audiovisual aids. Though the flight had tired him more than he'd anticipated, he was confident he would think of something to bring Travis's attention to exams. At least he didn't have to compete with the journalist today.

When Travis had gone off to the makeup trailer, Thorstad made the mistake of sitting on the couch and closing his eyes while he considered a study schedule, if such a thing were possible. He took the elevator down to the foyer of last night's hotel and went outside where he tried to cross the busy road without being killed, yet stood frozen before a gigantic freight truck bearing down. In the nick of time he wakened to the rustle of Travis changing his clothes.

He was barefoot, in a pair of jeans torn at the knees and a striped shirt far too large for him, its tail irregularly scalloped and charred as though flames had been extinguished on their way up his back. The tidy head of fair hair had disappeared beneath a shaggy wig. Dark hollows had been painted beneath his eyes. “There are viewers who find me sexy, believe it or not.”

He explained that for this afternoon's short scene his fellow squatters had sent him to the home of the old woman who owned the derelict building. “All we want is, you know, to convince her to make it a legitimate shelter before winter kills more of us off.”

“You think it would help to tuck in your shirt?”

“I'm ahead of you.” He shoved the charred shirttail down behind his belt.

Thorstad left his bag in the trailer and followed Travis past a row of small bushes trimmed to resemble grazing deer, and entered a massive building with STAGE 5 printed in large gold letters above the door. They followed a cluster of cables ducttaped to the concrete floor, past stacks of furniture and partial walls, and down a narrow passage to an open space where a group of men and women in jeans and T-shirts appeared to be in a state of passive and indifferent waiting.

“The maid let me in,” Travis said. “She said . . .” He consulted his script. “She said she'd get Mrs. Bradshaw but she didn't come back.”

Two of the men shook Travis's hand and welcomed him back. “We heard you had a brush with bin Laden's friends.” Laughter followed this.

The director was a young man named Paolo who gave up reading a newspaper behind a monitor to shake Thorstad's hand and invite him to sit on one of the canvas chairs where he too could see the screen. Once a makeup woman had touched up his forehead, Travis handed Thorstad today's small script and followed the director through a narrow entrance to a room visible only in the monitor. Though the walls were rough plywood with two-by-four studs on the outside, the interior appeared in the monitor as professionally finished as a room in Mrs. Montana's house. White walls with gold trim. Behind the couch where Travis and the director settled into conversation hung an abstract painting as wide as the couch itself.

Lit by powerful standing lights, the living room was a small intense arena of brilliant colours—the painting bright with powerful reds and yellows, the couch a dazzling white, the leafy plants a garish tropical green. Travis's fire-damaged shirt was a far more vivid blue than it had been in the trailer, his face and hands a much healthier colour than they were in real life. The world outside the lighted set was now a drab cluttered storage barn on a chill concrete pad, a rough workshop where just behind that plywood wall you might find stacks of lumber and half-built sets waiting for the workers to return.

Men and women paced back and forth outside the set, or stood to chat, while one man with a heavy tool belt at his waist sat engrossed in a Harry Potter hardcover. Whatever their jobs, they obviously weren't needed yet, but neither were they free to disappear. They nodded to Thorstad, if they noticed him looking their way, but seemed preoccupied with actively waiting. The director came out and looked into his monitor, and then talked briefly with a woman holding a clipboard, who drew his attention to something in the script. He explained to Axel Thorstad that they had set everything up with the stand-ins while waiting for Travis to arrive. “So we're ready to go.”

Thorstad put on his glasses to read the half-size stapled-together sheaf of pages Travis had given him. This was the script for today's scenes only, but the front page listed the names of the numerous producers, the writer, and even the address of the nearest hospital—presumably for emergencies. The scheduled rehearsal time for Scene 4 had passed while they were travelling in from the airport. Apparently this was the second of eight days of shooting.

The dialogue was surprisingly sparse. What was an actor supposed to do with
Ella's not a maid
.
She's a nurse
. Of course it was realistic enough. Glancing through the scene that would follow he came upon
He was layin' on the road like he was dead
. Also realistic, of course, but it caused an involuntary cringe in a lifelong teacher of English.

A young woman appeared suddenly and hurried in to the set where she sat on the couch Travis had just vacated, brought her legs up under her, and lifted a magazine from the coffee table. “Oh hell,” said Paolo, and hurried back in, steering his lithe body around a passing crew member and in through the entrance to the set—all with the elasticity of an eel. Thorstad could see their images engaged in a conversation he could not hear. A man with a brush smoothed the woman's hair into place, tucking strands behind the ear nearer the camera, himself made bright and more vitally alive by the intensity of light.

Thorstad might not have realized who this young woman was if the camera hadn't zoomed in on her face as she gave the retreating hairdresser the same almost-contemptuous look she'd given Thorstad outside the trailer. Makeup had given the transparent skin a healthy glow, and the hacked-off hair had disappeared beneath a carefully shaped blonde wig. As the camera moved back, he saw that the smart tight-waisted dress had been designed to give the impression of a womanly figure inside.

Once Paolo had returned to his seat behind the monitor and examined the image in his screen—the young woman glancing through a magazine, an open door beyond her, a glimpse of leafy conservatory beyond the door—a stocky young man passed by shouting “All right. Here we go! Positions please! Quiet now! Quiet!” Then someone else, unseen, shouted, “Background!” Another: “Rolling!” Then Paolo: “
Aaaand action!
” After a moment in which the young woman turned pages, Travis appeared in the open doorway, obviously nervous and uncertain. She looked up, apparently alarmed, but he quickly explained: “The maid let me in. She said she'd get Mrs. Bradshaw but didn't come back.” His voice, coming to Thorstad from the headphones, was distant and thin.

“Ella's not a maid, she's a nurse. And she's probably calling the police.” She got to her feet. “If you've come to bully my grandmother, I can tell you she won't be threatened.”

Travis did not retreat. For a moment the two looked at one another as though neither knew what to say next. Had someone forgotten the next line?

“I didn't know,” Travis eventually said, though what he didn't know remained unspoken. “Your surname . . .”

“She's my mother's mother,” the girl said. “Are you going to threaten me? You probably told your folks you were off to make something of yourself. Wouldn't they love to see where your plans have brought you? At least I have a roof over my head.”

Travis did not move, his character evidently uncertain how to react to this. Then, after a few seconds, he turned away without speaking and disappeared into the shadowed leaves of the conservatory. “Okay,” the director shouted.
“Cut!”

Again, Paolo left his seat at the monitor and navigated his way around others and into the set. The camera people had not come out. The man with the tool belt perched on a stack of wooden blocks and took up his book. Of course Thorstad should have known that once would not be enough. As the first-time director of a stage play he'd needed six weeks of rehearsals before deciding it was “ready.” For a television director, perhaps there was always a possibility something might be salvaged from even the worst of the takes.

Once the scene had been shot three more times and Paolo had reminded everyone that they'd be shooting Scene 13 in an hour, Travis walked with Thorstad back along the cables to the exit. Before going up the three metal steps to the trailer door, he stopped, and asked to be left alone for a while. Already a Greta Garbo. “This is a tough scene. I've got to get it right!”

Thorstad could not recall having a door shut in his face before. Still, he'd learned long ago not to be insulted by the words or gestures of a preoccupied adolescent. He'd known better than to imagine himself the centre of his students' world.

“A word?” Elliot Evans was at Thorstad's side, indicating with a tilt to his head that they step around behind the trailer to have their “word” in private.

“I have the impression you expect to come onto the lot every day.”

Because he recognized the impatience in this man's voice, Thorstad determined to be calm and reasonable and, if possible, unimpressed. He'd had plenty of practice at this. “He expects me to be here. His parents expect me to be here so we can take advantage of the times he isn't working.”

Evans's fleshy face was surrounded by a halo of wild and nearly colourless curls. Brown eyes blinked behind dark-rimmed rectangular glasses. “Look. In case you've been misled, I'd rather you weren't here. We need the boy's undivided attention.”

“I understand.” Despite an immediate flush of alarm, Thorstad made sure he sounded unperturbed by the hostility of someone with so much power. “But his parents would be here if I weren't.”

“His parents would not expect to be on the lot every day.”

“I'm sure they would when there are exams on the horizon.” Alarm had become indignation. This man had decided to be an obstruction.

Because Evans had begun to walk, Thorstad had little choice but to walk with him if he was to state his case. “It is important to them, and to him, that he graduate. It is up to me to make sure he studies every available minute, on the lot or off.” He had raised his voice a little, and paused to take a deep breath.

“I understand.” Evans stopped again and turned to confront his pursuer. “But I'm telling you that in expanding his role we've made it more difficult.” They were face to face now, standing amongst the pedestrians—people with clipboards, briefcases, and folders. A white electric cart whizzed by, its tires hissing on pavement. “If he doesn't measure up, there won't be more. Just so you know.”

Just so you know that Travis's future was at stake and Axel Thorstad was the one who could ruin it.

Thorstad had little doubt this young man in faded jeans and dirty tennis shoes regarded him as a nuisance, an inconvenient old man who ought to be resting in an easy chair somewhere, reading the newspaper and drinking mugs of tea. He was probably one of those short men who resented having to look up while speaking to someone tall. Right now he'd like to cut Thorstad off at the knees. To poke him in the chest at least. “I know
this
,” Axel Thorstad said. “He's a minor, and expected to finish his schooling. I have the impression the parents would prefer he not be down here at all.”

Evans's smile suggested pity for the misinformed. “Don't kid yourself. If you think they'll be furious if he doesn't pass his exams, just wait till you see how they react if he's written out of the show. There are others I could replace him with if I have to.” He turned away to leave, then turned back, his eyes blinking rapidly behind his glasses. “Look. I get it. You want to cram in a bit of study whenever he's got the time. But you need to understand he won't have much.” He looked to either side, as though hoping for someone to support him in this. “I intend to put the pressure on, to make sure he doesn't take anything for granted. If I decide you're in the way you won't get past the gate.” His voice had gradually grown louder, his tone more impatient. “I don't have the time to argue! There's an actor waiting in my office who's about to hear that I won't renew his contract if he doesn't get his shit together soon. Then I have to meet with a bloody network Suit with both the power and the will to chop my budget.”

He started off again but again turned back. “Every day eats up another three hundred thousand bucks. Understand?” Then he strode off again, the back of his neck a dangerous red. Perhaps he resented being forced to admit that it all came down to money.

Travis hadn't wanted a tutor—he'd made that clear the day they met. But then, in the days that followed, he seemed to have decided he could handle this one. Perhaps he'd simply assumed that Old Man Thorstad would be powerless once he came up against the strong-willed Elliot Evans.

He had been left in an alley between glaring white buildings where he recognized nothing. There were no street signs—the “streets” were not named, were not even strictly speaking streets but simply paved gaps between buildings, some of them wide enough for vehicles to pass by, and for trucks and trailers to park, while others were barely wide enough for a person to walk. This “lot” appeared to be a collection of buildings in the way Alvin White's field was a collection of wrecked cars, arranged in rows but with a lack of uniformity in size or shape that made it impossible for the rows to look ordered.

Couples strolled past, deep in conversations. Individuals rushed from one building to another, though one woman paused long enough to tell him she'd enjoyed his performance during last week's episode. She did not say which show he'd been in. A cyclist in white shirt and tie tilted a head in a sort of friendly nod, and wished him a good afternoon. A man in overalls was down on hands and knees yanking weeds from beneath the animal-shaped bushes against a white wall. Outside a portable snack canteen two men, dressed in jeans and short-sleeved shirts and runners, interrupted their conversation to watch him pass. Perhaps it was clear, even to them, that he didn't know where he was.