The Cutting Room: Dark Reflections of the Silver Screen (7 page)

He felt at ease here. He had always known it would be this way. This place or something like it had been his destiny since the age of ten, when his life was changed irrevocably by so many glorious Saturday matinees. After that it was clear to him that film would be his life. He had never given up hope. And now it was as if this perfect setting had been arranged especially for his entrance. It had been a long time coming, but he was ready to assume his rightful place at last. The backwork was done; now he had taken the chair that was meant for him alone. It was right as rain. This empty position at poolside, this particular one and no other, had been waiting patiently all these years. He was here to stay.

The wafer of sun angled higher, warming the water. Ripples glinted through his eyelids like silver needles. He heard splashing and raised one hand to his forehead. Now she sat on the edge of the deep end and dipped water over her arms and legs. Her short robe lay nearby, deflated as a shed skin. While he watched she mounted the board and jackknifed into the pool, displacing a high, transparent bell of water. A spatter of droplets fell across his ankles. It was cool and refreshing.

She arched to the center, where she broke the surface with a gasp and a fleeting grin. Was she performing for him? He was alone to witness the audition. As yet no other sunbathers had shown themselves; only an empty cabana tilted in one corner of the enclosure, its tent flap snapping like a flag in the drafts. He enjoyed the privilege.

He sat up as she ascended from the shallow end. The conservative one-piece suit adhered to her slender body, glittered and bled water into a growing spot on the cement. He pushed out of the chair. She slicked her hair back from her narrow face; now, with darkened curls pasted to her skull, she appeared smaller, almost childlike. She clung there to the side bars, younger and more vulnerable than he had imagined. She could practically be my daughter, he thought. If my marriage had lasted. But then his life would have turned out altogether differently. For a while caring for Laurie had taken the place of his career. Now he was back on track. Without her he was free to resume the path that had led him here today. It was just as well this way—incomparably better, in fact.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” he asked. He left his sandals by the chair, approached the rim and squatted next to her.

She grimaced with embarrassment, as though afraid they would be overheard. Her eyes darted to the corner, where a clutch of hyacinths huddled in the shadow of an imposing queen palm. He was surprised at her shyness, and that made her even more appealing.

“You should see some of the girls who come here,” she said self-consciously.

Was that why she was out so early? To avoid the competition? He pictured her withdrawing to her room as soon as the pool filled up, then sneaking out at the end of the day when once again there would be no audience.

“I’ve seen them,” he said.

She trailed her feet in the water, hiding her toes. “How long are you staying?”

“Uh, well, that’s hard to say. Until I close the deal, at least. But I’ll be back. You can count on that.”

“Are you an actor?”

“Me? No, no. I’m a—” He faltered; it was the first time he had dared to let the word pass his lips in casual conversation. “I’m a producer.” Or I will be, he told himself, after today. “I’m here to sign my star.”

“Your star?”

“My leading man.” You know, he thought, the name, the one who brings the money into the box office. For my movie. She did go to the movies, didn’t she? He had an urge to play his role to the hilt. It would be good practice.

“Joe Gillis,” he said matter-of-factly. She blinked at him; incredibly the name didn’t seem to register. He forced himself to go on, overriding his old insecurities. “The picture’s called
Is Anybody There?
It was written for him. We start shooting in the spring—sooner, if we can find the right leading lady.” He neglected to mention that they were already in contact with Susan Penhaligon’s agent in London. No need to burst any bubbles so early in the day. Let her dream a bit, he thought. No harm in that.

He wondered if she could see his pulse speeding, the vein standing out on his forehead. She showed no reaction. The sun nicked the water in expanding circles. He remembered that he had forgotten his dark glasses. They were in his room, packed in the suitcase. He needed them; he needed to see the exact expression on her face.

“In fact,” he went on, “I should be hearing from Joe right about now. He knows I’m in town. You know how it is with actors. They like to sleep late when they’re not on call.”

“Do they?”

This was a rare moment. He would remember this day for the rest of his life. The day it all came together.

“I could give him a call if I wanted to. I have his home number.” Memorized, he thought. “As soon as he can make it over here to sign the contract, we’re in business.”

He didn’t say anything about the answering machine. For seventy-two hours or more Gillis had let his Duofone take all calls. But surely that was to ward off distractions during the last stage of negotiations. For an Academy Award winner the phone must never stop ringing. But it would be back on the hook today. Either that or Gillis would show up here in person, pen in hand. He loved the script as much as Wintner’s guarantors. And why shouldn’t he? It would be the role of his career.

He looked over her head and savored the scene. The setting was made to order. Now the morning was officially beginning; a young Latino with a Walkman dangling from one white pocket entered the enclosure. Wintner watched him walk to the bar, carrying a tray loaded with cocktail napkins and swizzle sticks. He didn’t need to bring the telephone; it was already plugged in by the cash register. Wintner stood.

It was time.

She raised her head. Her eyes were deep and shining. Drops of water evaporated from her complexion in the rising heat, leaving tracks of chlorination on her cheeks. Suddenly he was reluctant to leave her. What is it she wants from me? he wondered. Most likely nothing more than a few minutes of companionship before fleeing all the golden strangers. She’s new to this, too, he thought. Like me, she’s as pale as milk-fed veal. It takes one to know one. But for both of us all that will change in the next few hours.

He checked his watch. I can let her have a few more minutes, he thought. Besides, it will be better if I give Gillis a chance to call first.

He considered stripping down to his trunks and joining her for a brief swim. But he was not quite ready. His body, trim though it was, might blind her with its Eastern pallor. Feeling the first uncomfortable pangs of self-doubt since he had arrived, he flashed her an uneasy smile and knelt once more, gripping the lip of cement with his sandals.

“Did you hurt yourself?” he said casually, to compensate for the empty pause, and instantly regretted it.

Her eyes reluctantly followed his to her legs. There on the inner surface of her thigh was a glistening birthmark a few inches wide. It formed a rough outline of the North American continent. He looked away.

“It’s all right,” she said quickly. “It’s nothing.”

But she inched forward and dropped feet-first into the pool, moving out into the deeper water, covering herself to the neck.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

She bobbed closer. “Did you say something? I can’t hear you.”

“I said, I think I’ll make that call now.” He showed her an all-purpose grin, unbent his legs and stood.

She treaded water, painfully alone in the pool.

“Look,” he said on a last reckless impulse, “maybe we could have some lunch. Together.” When she did not flinch he pressed it. “Let me see how long this takes. He probably won’t be by till this afternoon. I’m going to try to get back to the room and catch a nap. You could meet me there later. Or I’ll give you a call. My name’s Stu Wintner, by the way.”

“Maybe,” she said uncertainly. She kicked and drifted closer. “It depends.”

Here it comes, he thought. I should have known. “Are you here with someone?” He felt the compleat fool. “If you are,” he added expansively, forced into playing it out, “I’d be pleased if you’d both join me.”

“It’s not that. But I don’t know if I can get away.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

He backed off awkwardly and headed for the bar, where the young man in the white jacket was polishing a highball glass. “Nice talking to you,” he called over his shoulder, and waved. “See you.”

Good luck, he thought.

The young bartender took up a stainless-steel tool and began curling the rind off a lemon. Wintner sidled up and exchanged nods with him, as if they were old friends. He ordered a margarita and asked to use the telephone.

The answering machine was still on.

The world-weary voice on the other end had not changed. Like Gillis’s films it would never change, at least not until the oxide wore away on the millionth playing, around the time his photographic image, equally unchanged and locked in the amber of celluloid, finally disintegrated and burned away with the last remaining frame of his last preserved film. With any luck that film would be
Is Anybody There?
His greatest, most memorable performance and his legacy for generations yet unborn. When he was gone, who could take his place? A kind of immortality. Wintner was jealous.

He left another message, reminding Gillis that he was waiting at the hotel. He contemplated leaving word with Gillis’s agent in case the actor was out and called there first. But it was still early. He started on his drink and turned back to the overexposed brightness of the pool.

The girl was no longer in the water. Neither was she anywhere else that he could see. Somehow she had stolen away while he was on the phone. He hadn’t heard a sound. If she had left wet footprints on her way out they were dry by now. There was no clue. He caught the bartender’s attention. “Did you see . . . ?” he began.

The young man glanced up, munching on something round and white. As he bit down Wintner saw that it was hollow, like a shell.

“Never mind.” For all Wintner knew she might be the daughter of an important guest. There was no need to make a total idiot of himself. He paid for the drink, laying down a nice tip.

Before he left the bar his curiosity got the better of him. “Can I ask you a question?”

The young man disengaged the tape player headphones from one ear. A faint cacophony of insect music hissed on the air.

“Where did you get that?” Wintner indicated the crisp snack. “At the restaurant? I’ve seen people walking around with them all morning. I guess I must be getting hungry.”

The young man offered him a piece.

“No, no. I only want to know what it is.”

“Día de los Muertos.”

“I beg your pardon?” Does he speak English? Wintner wondered. He’s not from around here; probably substituting for the regular man. He doesn’t know—

Then he got a clear look at the object. It was a miniature skull, what remained of one, apparently made of spun candy. Most of the face had been eaten away, and the inner surface glimmered with loose granules of sugar.

“The Day of the Dead,” explained the bartender. “You know, the second of November. It’s a big celebration in Mexico. I have one more, sir, if you’d care to—”

Wintner held up his hand. “No, thanks.”

The bartender shrugged, an expression of bemusement in his polished brown eyes.

California, thought Wintner, shaking his head.

Balancing the drink, he sauntered back to the deck chair. On the way he became aware of a muffled rustling. It was the cabana in the corner of the enclosure. The top billowed as the interior filled like an air sock. Then the breeze died and it collapsed inward and hung limp, nothing more than empty canvas, like the umbrellas over the white enameled tables. But the cabana was not anchored securely; when the wind came up again the pole creaked and the striped cloth puffed out in a simulation of breathing. At this angle the sun backlighted the upper half, transforming it into a glowing, translucent orange. Was that a distorted profile inside? Probably only a shadow of the fence rear-projected against the material. Still, it made him uneasy. He ignored it and returned to the chaise.

There, inserted between the plastic weave of the seat: a small square of paper. A cocktail napkin. He reached down to remove it, and noticed that it contained a handwritten note.

PLEASE HELP ME, read the shaky black letters.

He looked around.

Behind the bar, the attendant emptied his hands of the candy skull and resumed stripping the skin off a pungent lemon.

Now he was convinced that there was someone in the tent. Holding his drink in one hand and the flimsy note in the other, he walked back along the edge of the pool.

Wind ballooned the tent once more and moved on, leaving the sides sunken as empty cheeks. In the interval that followed he heard the rustling quite clearly.

It definitely came from inside.

He approached the structure, aware of the bartender’s watchful eyes. He fought down a compulsion to peek directly into the opening and get it over with. Instead he stood there stiffly and shifted his feet.

A groaning.

Was it only the supports? He couldn’t be sure.