Americana (31 page)

“Be sixteen in three months.”

“You too,” I said. “A couple of hours.”

“I don’t know anything about reading lines,” Glenn said.

“Everything out of your mouth is a line,” Bud said. “You never mean anything. He never means anything. He tells people he was in the submarine paratroopers during the war. They used to bail out of submarines. They’d drop up instead of down.”

“All right, wise ass.”

“How old are you, Glenn, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I guess I’m forty-seven.”

“Aside from jumping out of submarines, did you actually serve in World War II?”

“He was in the Bataan death march,” Bud said.

Glenn went upstairs for some beer and then we watched the movie until it ended about an hour later. I loved the landscapes, the sense of near equation called forth by man and space, the cowboy facing silent hills; there it was, the
true subject of film, space itself, how to arrange it and people it, time hung in a desert window, how to win out over sand and bone. (It’s just a cowboy picture, I reminded myself.) Owney Pine came down the stairs then, short and slightly bowlegged, ample in his width, roundhead, crewcut, ferrying across the floor now and docking with a bump, belly opening and automobiles pouring out.

* * *

In the morning I took my camera over to the hotel and told the desk clerk I wanted the same room, indefinitely this time. Traces of a sneeze lingered in his mustache. He looked at my camera, wondered whether or not to comment, and then simply pushed the key across the desk.

Upstairs I set the camera on the bed and sat in a chair looking at it. I blew on the tips of my fingers. I unbuttoned each shirtcuff and rolled the sleeves tightly to a point one inch below my elbows. I moved my shoulders back and forth, trying to loosen the muscles. I took out my keychain and cleaned my fingernails with the mailbox key. I blew on the knuckle of the index finger of my right hand. With the other hand I juggled my testicles until they were comfortable. Then I expelled air three times through my nose.

Austin Wakely showed up precisely on time. He was wearing, as directed, a pair of brown shoes, army-issue and spit-shined, and fresh clean summer khakis. Pants and shirt had come from the wardrobe room at McCompex; the shoes were borrowed. Austin asked ten or twelve questions, only two of which I answered—that there was no plot to this thing, that I’d be shooting in black and white all the way. The answers upset him only slightly less than the non-answers had.

“Granted I don’t know much about it,” he said, “but there doesn’t seem to be enough light in here.”

“I want it natural. I brought along some high-watt bulbs. We’ll use those and pray we don’t blow a fuse. I think we’ll make that floor lamp the key light. This whole thing is what is known in some circles as inspired amateurism. Today’s little
task is pretty simple, a sort of signature that could be used as both beginning and end. When we start using sound I’ll give you the words as far in advance as possible. That means twenty-four hours at most. I hope you’ll be able to read my handwriting.”

“I’ll read it.”

“Now listen,” I said.

I gave him final instructions, changed the light bulbs and then set the film rating and f.p.s. dial. I adjusted the eyepiece. Austin cleared his throat although he had no lines to speak. He was standing with his back to a full-length mirror, facing directly into the camera. I moved him slightly to one side. I used a single camera position and shot straight on from the foot of the bed for about twenty seconds, a popular commercial length.

When we were done it became clear that Austin’s mood had changed. He talked enthusiastically of the film and his unknown role in it. His image had been placed in the time bank and this was sufficient cause for elation. For the first time since I’d met him, I felt myself gaining the edge. There would have to be no subtle bloodshed, no long campaign to dominate another individual. I had the camera and that was enough.

* * *

After he’d gone I took a shower and then asked the voice at the switchboard to get me the network.

“I’m naked,” I said.

“How exciting. Who’s with you?”

“The Mormon Tabernacle Choir.”

“Lucky them,” Binky said. “I didn’t think you’d call again so soon.”

“How old is Harris Hodge?”

“David, he’s twenty-six. Don’t get mad. He looks older.”

“Okay, how’s Ted Warburton?”

“He collapsed at his desk and had to be rushed to the hospital.”

“You already told me that, goddamn it, and I think you used exactly those words. When did you become a recorded announcement? I want to know if there’s been any word from the hospital.”

“I don’t know. I’ll ask around.”

“Hasn’t Weede tried to get in touch with Mrs. Warburton?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Well, find out. Next time you’re in bed with Weede, ask him if he’s tried to get in touch with Mrs. Warburton. Use exactly those words. Do you think you can do that for me, Binky?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“So am I, David. I feel terrible about Ted Warburton. I really do. If you want, I can find out what hospital he’s in and you can call him.”

“No, don’t do that. If Ted’s really bad I’d just as soon not talk to him. I can’t stand talking to people who are really bad. Just find out how he is and I’ll call you next week.”

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry about what I said about Weede.”

“It’s okay. Everybody knows anyway. When you said you were with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, did that mean you’re in Utah?”

“Yes.”

“Utah’s right above Arizona.”

“Is it?” I said.

“So you’ll be on location any day now.”

“Precisely.”

“Everybody’s very excited about the project.”

“Don’t talk that way.”

“Are you really naked?”

“Starkers.”

“I’m sorry about Harris Hodge.”

I thought of asking Binky to switch my call to Tana Elk-bridge’s phone. But then she would suspect that Tana and I
were having an affair and since Tana was married this was not a good idea. Of course I could have given her Tana’s extension, not telling her who the number belonged to, but she would have been able to find out simply by going through the network directory. It was better not to take chances. When Binky and I were finished talking I hung up and then had the voice call the network all over again. I asked for Tana Elkbridge. Her boss answered. I hung up immediately. Then I called Meredith at her office.

“Where are you?” she said.

“Out here in the Midwest. How’s everything in Gramercy Park? Bombs, strikes, riots, plague?”

“Everything’s fine here but I’ve had some upsetting news from Turkey. Mother is in a hospital in Ankara. She’s been drinking again. I guess it got really bad. She fell down some steps.”

“I wish I could be with you.”

“So do I, David.”

“I miss you.”

“Yes.”

“I think we’ve both matured,” I said.

“Has the trip been good for you?”

“Whole new perspective.”

“Before I forget, David, I saw my cousin Edwina a few days ago. You’ve heard me talk about her. She’s the cousin I stayed with when I was in London that time. Her husband is here on business and they just spent three days in New York. They’re in Boston now and they’re going to Toronto next and then to Chicago. They’re spending just two days in Chicago and I thought if you were close by you could go and see them. Edwina doesn’t know a soul there and Charles will be going to meetings all day long.”

I wrote down the details and then commiserated with her some more about her mother’s health. I asked if there were any exciting new men in her life. She was noncommittal.

“Listen,” I said. “Guess what? I dream in color.”

“Are you sure?”

“I had a dream the other night about a big blue bus on a desert highway. When I woke up I was absolutely sure the bus was blue. It was the first time I knew for sure that I dream in color.”

“David, that’s great.”

“Yeah.”

“Take care of yourself now. Have a good time. Good luck with the Indians. And do try to get to Chicago.”

“It was nice talking to you, Merry.”

“It was sweet of you to call, David.”

My father’s secretary said he was in a meeting. I told her I was calling long-distance and that it was a matter of some urgency. She said she’d get him.

“What’s up, sport?”

“How are you, dad? Working hard?”

“We just picked up some P and G business. A whole new line of toiletries they’ve come out with. This country is toilet-oriented. You know that as well as I do. We spend all our time in the toilet. We do everything in there but shit and piss. Maxine, go type that call report. The toilet is holy soil. Understand what I’m talking about?”

“Sounds like it might be a good account.”

“What’s on your mind, Dave? Where the hell are you anyway?”

“I’m out here in the Midwest.”

“You need any money I’ll have Maxine wire it right out.”

“No, no, I just called to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“You never talked much about your experiences in the war. All I ever knew was that you served in the Pacific and got wounded a few times and received several decorations for valor. I was just wondering if you could tell me a little more about it.”

“I don’t talk about that,” he said.

“That’s what everybody says. But they all talk about it in the end.”

“Not me, pally.”

“Why not?”

“There’s nothing to say. It’s all over. You want to know what it was like, there are plenty of books on the subject.”

“I want to know what it was like for you, not for other people. It’s for something I’m writing.”

“I buried a man alive,” he said.

“Where was this, dad?”

“Some cruddy island. And don’t sound so mournful.”

“I won’t ask you about it anymore. I’m sorry. It was for something I’m writing. Any word from Jane?”

“The kid’s better. And Jane’s knocked up again.”

“I wonder if Mary has any children.”

“Don’t talk about Mary. There is no Mary.”

“Remember what you told me about the kite-soul? The thing mother said when she was pregnant with Mary? That it was the kite-soul of her mother? You thought there was something Oriental about the phrase. In a way you were right. It comes from one of the children’s books that mother used to keep in the bedroom. The book was so old it was falling apart. I just happened to be leafing through it one day and there was the phrase. It was a translation of a book for Japanese children. Beautifully illustrated.”

“You like to hold on to small pieces of information, don’t you? What else do you know that I don’t? I’ll tell you something, kid—I know more than you think. A lot more.”

“Yes,” I said.

“You better believe it. What’s this thing you’re writing?”

“Filmscript.”

“Back on that kick again, are you?”

“I guess so.”

“I’m growing a beard,” he said. “It’s coming right along. I’m not doing any trimming yet. I’ll let it grow out to a big
white flowing mane. There’s a lot of white in it but it looks good. Wait’ll you get back. It’ll be all over my face by then.”

“What are you growing a beard for?”

“Every man wants to grow a beard before he dies. It’s one way of saying fuck you to everybody. Look, I’m nearing the finish line. I want a beard. It cheers me up just to look at it in the mirror. I’m not doing any trimming for at least another two weeks. If at all. If at all.”

“I can’t picture you with a beard.”

“What do you sound so upset about?”

“I don’t know, dad. It just seems strange. It changes things. I can’t explain it.”

“Look, I have to get my ass into that meeting. Give me a blast on the horn when you get back to the city. We’ll have lunch.”

“Right, dad. Don’t work too hard.”

“Thanks for the advice,” he said.

I got my address book out of my wallet and tried to find some kind of listing for Ken Wild. I found his parents’ phone number and address, which was that of a Chicago suburb. I got his father and told him I was an old college friend who wanted to get in touch. He said Ken was living in Chicago and he gave me both his home and office numbers. He said it was nice to hear from any friend of Ken’s. He said any time I was in River Forest to drop over and use the swimming pool. I called Wild at the office.

“You are cordially invited to a black mass at your local martello tower. Roman collar. R.S.V.P.”

“Oh Jesus,” he said. “It can’t be.”

“It is.”

“Where are you?”

“Nearby I think. At least relatively. I’ve been looking for your name, Wild. The Pulitzer committee has been strangely silent.”

“My muse turned out to be a dike.”

“Too bad,” I said. “What are you doing?”

“I’m a project manager for my father’s industrial systems outfit.”

“I just talked to your father. He said I could use the swimming pool.”

“Guilt,” Wild said. “How long’s it been? Six or seven years, hasn’t it?”

“Seven,” I said. “You married?”

“Divorced.”

“So you’re a project manager.”

“Secret glee in your voice. What are you doing?”

“Making films,” I said. “I’ve made a few documentaries. Sort of working my way up to a feature. I’m doing it all on an independent basis. Tek-Howard’s been distributing my stuff. I’m on location now and I may have to get up there in a few days to pick up some equipment. That’s what made me think of calling. Maybe we can get together.”

“Great,” he said. “Look forward to it, I really do.”

I felt better than I had in quite some time. Once again I got the network. I asked for Weede Denney. I reached over, got a handkerchief out of my pants pocket and put it over the mouthpiece. Then I heard Mrs. Kling’s eternally reproving voice, a model for impeachment proceedings.

“Mr. Denney’s office. He’s nowhere in sight.”

“This is SDS. There’s an invisible liquid device in your water cooler and it’s programmed to explode the very second you put your phone back on the cradle.”

I hung up, checked the address book again and found a number for Leighton Gage College. I asked to be connected with Simmons St. Jean.