Gay Place (53 page)

I wonder by my troth, what thou and I

Did, till we lov’d? Were we not wean’d till then?

But suck’d on country pleasures, childlishly?

— JOHN DONNE

Here at the last cold Pharos between Greece

And all I love, the lights confide

A deeper darkness to the rubbing tide;

Doors shut, and we the living are locked inside

Between the shadows and the thoughts of peace:

And so in furnished rooms revise

The index of our lovers and our friends

From gestures possibly forgotten, but the ends

Of longings like unconnected nerves,

And in this quiet rehearsal of their acts

We dream of them and cherish them as Facts.

— LAWRENCE DURRELL

V
ERY EARLY THAT MORNING
the official party had come down out of the mountains and begun to move across the flat, sun-blasted land. The mountains reappeared from time to time on either side — reassuringly close in the beginning so that one could see the winding goat paths and the stubble of mesquite on the lower slopes; then from a distance of a great many miles that turned the ridges into slagheap shapes, purple and rumpled looking in the low, clouded light of the early hours. The limousine came through and out of the passes, and the lesser ranges gave way to sandhills and these into gray dunes. Then there was only the tortured prairie grass, dust-bleached and brittle, and the perfect stretch of highway with the dark folds of the mountains always out front or in back or on either side, shimmering in the new-visited heat, rising off the floor of the ranchland and collapsing again.

“I keep thinking we’re going back into the mountains,” Sweet Mama Fenstemaker said. She had been sitting quietly in back and studying the bald landscapes for nearly an hour. “I keep thinking we’re going back,” she said, “but we never seem to get there.”

Jay McGown turned sideways in the jump seat and stretched his legs. He was an exceedingly tall young man with a bland and perpetually happy freckled face that reflected none of the discomfort he experienced during the morning’s drive. He had been up late the night before, drinking with the Governor; he had risen earlier than any of the others that morning, checking travel routes, juggling luggage in the car trunk, loafing in the lobby of the Paisano Hotel and reading historical tracts on Pancho Villa’s border raids. Now he sat in the jump seat, sore-eyed and sleepy, his long legs grown stiff in the cramped space. He was delighted to turn sideways for a few minutes and talk to Mrs. Fenstemaker: “It’s because we’re driving between two parallel ranges. It looks like they come together up ahead, but they don’t really — it’s all an illusion. Like going down the middle of a railroad track and thinking the rails come together on the horizon.”

“Fascinating,” Mrs. Fenstemaker said. She made clicking sounds in the back of her throat.

Jay started to elaborate on this thesis. He could make effortless conversation with Sweet Mama for hours at a time; and at this point he welcomed any opportunity to change positions in the jump seat — but the Governor, who had been napping alongside his wife, opened his eyes and said: “All an illusion, all a goddam illusion.” He smiled and pulled on his nose and added: “Let’s have a little drink — little of that Scotch whiskey, Jay. Before our ice becomes an illusion. Let’s all have a little tot.”

Jay opened a zippered bag at his feet and removed whiskey and soda and plastic tumblers. Another bag contained ice cubes. Sarah Lehman, riding in front with Hoot Gibson Fenstemaker, leaned over the seat to fish out the bottle opener for Jay. Hoot Gibson took his eyes off the highway for a moment to examine Sarah’s behind.

“Sarah — you pour the whiskey,” the Governor said. “Jay can fill the glasses with ice. Let’s everybody get organized. Hoot Gibson, you just keep your mind on the goddam drivin’.”

Hoot Gibson laughed and moved his big shoulders around. Sarah was still bent over the seat, her skirt pulled tight round her hips. Hoot Gibson finally shifted his gaze back to the highway. “Jus’ remember old Hoot Gibson,” he said. “On the rocks in that amber glass, Jay. I like that amber glass.”

“Isn’t it awfully early yet?” Mrs. Fenstemaker said. “Maybe we could stop for coffee or a soft drink …”

“We’re out in the ranch country, Sweet Mama,” the Governor said. “Day’s half over. Sun’s been up for hours. Hours. Primitive goddam country. Man needs to be fortified.”

Jay and Sarah filled the glasses and passed them around. Hoot Gibson adjusted the air-conditioning and turned the dial on the radio. There was only static and an occasional fading wisp of rock ’n roll music. He gripped his drink and concentrated on the driving. Sarah switched on the phonograph and played a Morton Gould record. The Governor jiggled his phone receiver.

“Hell of a country,” the Governor said. “Hell of a goddam country. Can’t even rouse an operator.”

“Perhaps you can phone when we get there,” Sweet Mama said. “They’ll have phone lines, won’t they?”

“Half-dozen calls I needed to make …” Fenstemaker mumbled. “We ought to investigate the cost of installing shortwave radio.”

Jay wrote “shortwave” on a yellow pad and reached over to refill the Governor’s glass. Sarah Lehman asked Sweet Mama if she would like a soft drink.

“No … No, I think I’ll wait,” Mrs. Fenstemaker said. “Until we get there. It should be soon, shouldn’t it? We’ve been driving nearly three hours.”

Jay nodded. “Not far now,” he said. “We ought to see them a good distance ahead. They’re supposed to be set up not too far off the highway.”

“I can’t imagine,” Mrs. Fenstemaker said, “I just can’t imagine it.”

The big car drummed along the smooth surface of the highway. The Governor leaned back and closed his eyes again, holding his drink with both hands against his chest. Mrs. Fenstemaker read a magazine. Hoot Gibson opened a window vent to dispose of a cigarette, and they all shifted uneasily in the blast of desert air. Sarah turned to Jay and said: “Suppose you’re excited.”

“More anxious than excited,” Jay said. “They’re bringing Victoria Anne out for a few days. I haven’t seen her in nearly a year.”

“Oh … You’ve talked to the mother, then?”

Jay leaned over and rested his arms on the top of the front seat. He shook his head.

“No. The Governor talked to her. He did all the talking. I got to speak to the girl, though. She told me she was coming out here to visit her mother. She’ll be here a week.”

“I’m happy for you,” Sarah said. Jay traced a line with his finger along the curve of Sarah’s arm until she shifted in the front seat and stared ahead.

“She called me Daddy,” Jay said.

Sarah looked back at him. “That’s an enormous improvement over the last time,” she said.

“Yes,” Jay said.

“There it is!” Hoot Gibson said suddenly. “Godalmighty … That must be it up ahead.”

Everyone strained to catch sight of the prefabricated Victorian mansion towering above the floor of the ranchland. The mansion loomed on the horizon like a great landlocked whale, gingerbread bas-relief against the backdrop of bleached dune and mountain and gunmetal sky. Then as they moved closer the whole fantastic scene came slowly into focus: the Mexican village, simulated adobe huts, plaster on plywood; balsa outbuildings and ersatz oil derricks chained to railroad flatcars; tents and trucks and tractors and trailers, buses and vintage cars and the endless, milling mob of carpenters and technicians and tourists. Off to one side there were perhaps half a dozen handsome beeves huddled together, grazing from a mound of store-bought silage.

“Destruction upon destruction …” Fenstemaker gasped. “The whole goddam land is spoilt …”

“It’s incredible,” Sweet Mama said. “What will they do with it when they’re through here?”

“They already sold the big house to the fella owns the land,” Hoot Gibson said. “Gonna use it for a cow barn.”

“They even dyed the grass green near the mansion,” Jay cried. “It wouldn’t respond to the water they piped in, so they dyed it green.”

Hoot Gibson slowed the car, weaving in and out of stalled traffic, moving past the crowds gathered along the highway: ranch hands and motorists and women in slacks and straw hats and bobby-soxers on horseback. The limousine came to a stop at a wire gate. Hoot Gibson lowered the window and smiled at the guard.

“Guvanah Fenst’makah’s pahty,” he said.

The crowds moved in closer as the guard lowered the wire gate. Hoot Gibson steered the car through the entrance and down a dirt road toward a huge commissary tent and several large trailer houses parked nearby. A press agent flagged them down midway, caught hold of the door handle and tried to ride on the lip of the running board; he held on for a few seconds and then stumbled into the dust. Another studio official got astraddle a front fender and proceeded to direct them, with a flourish of arm and hand movements, toward the trailer houses.

“They’re mad — they’ve all gone mad out here in the heat,” the Governor said. “I’m beginnin’ to think maybe our comin’ here was a mistake.”

No one said anything. They all stared in wonder. The limousine came to a stop in front of the main trailer.

“Jay, you get out and see if they’re ready for us,” Fenstemaker said. “Get everything organized. So we can leave soon’s the work’s done.” Jay got out of the car. “Keep that goddam air-conditionin’ on, Hoot Gibson.” The Governor touched his forehead with a pocket handkerchief and blotted at a film of dust on his blue suit.

Sarah joined Jay outside. The two of them engaged the press agent, attempting to get the visit organized. The press agent assured them everything was arranged.

“Miss McGown and Mr. Shavers are inside the trailer house,” the man said. “They’re expecting the Governor right now.”

Jay signaled, and Hoot Gibson switched off the motor. The Governor and Sweet Mama began moving out of the car. The press agent said: “You say your name was McGown?”

Jay nodded. He introduced Sarah. The press agent nodded.

“McGown, hah? That’s quite a coincidence. Too bad you’re not the Governor.”

Jay said yes, it was too damn bad. The press agent led the way to the trailer house and showed them inside. The trailer was enormous. They stood on the thick carpet of a large reception room while the agent explained that the doors on either side led to the dressing quarters of the actress and the director. The agent knocked lightly on the director’s room and Edmund Shavers appeared almost immediately. He was a tall, thick-shouldered man with a youngish sun-burned face that betrayed middle years only when his smile dissolved into pink folds. He was smiling now, showing remarkable white teeth. He wore cowboy boots and starched khakis; he pulled a red bandanna round his neck and moved about the room, clasping hands.

“Wonderful … Wonderful …” Shavers was saying, and Fenstemaker was saying it right back: “Goddam happy to be here …”

“How long can you stay?” Shavers said.

“I’m afraid —” the Governor began.

“I understand,” Shavers said. “We’ll try to get the picture-taking over with as quickly as possible. These publicity people … you’ve got to stay right on them.”

The press agent asked if he should see about Miss McGown, and Shavers nodded. He turned back to the Governor and said: “Maybe you’ll stay long enough to see us shoot a scene after we’ve finished with the publicity pictures. We’ve got a scene with Vicki scheduled in just about … Ah! Vicki, dear. Come meet the Governor …”

Vicki McGown stood in the doorway for an instant, spectacular in the soft light, vibrantly colored. Her blond hair and painted eyelids and the glow of her young skin combined to produce such an effect of voluptuous good health and vitality that the press agent, standing alongside and gawking at her bare legs, appeared in contrast to have risen just recently from a sickbed. Vicki wore white shorts and a faded blue cotton workshirt. She smiled and walked directly over to Jay and kissed him lightly on the mouth. Then she turned to the others, holding on to Jay’s arm and nodding to each of the guests as Shavers introduced them. The press agent began to describe the photographs of Vicki and the Governor that were planned for the morning. He produced a folder, a “press kit” on the Governor’s official visit, and commented briefly on the news releases and feature stories already prepared.

Arthur Fenstemaker glanced at the material without interest and passed them to Jay. Jay stared at the stories, aware of nothing but the pressure of Vicki’s hand on his arm. Vicki said, “I’ll have to change for the pictures. Only be a minute. You come with me, Jay-Jay?”

Jay looked at Sarah and then at the Governor and then at Shavers, who was flashing his incredible smile. Fenstemaker nodded soberly; Sarah stared out a window. Jay followed the actress into her dressing room.

Vicki pushed the door shut, and then, leaning with her back against it, opened her arms to her husband.

“We bein’ social?” Jay said. He stepped close and Vicki kissed him again, a kiss that began as the one before but soon became something else entirely, stirring another season’s love, an ancient distress signal. Her hips shifted slightly and Jay pulled his head back a few inches, looking at her.

“Godalmighty,” he said.

“You like being social?” she said.

“I guess I do,” he said.

“Long time, Jay-Jay.”

“Long time, all right.”

She let loose of him and moved to her dressing table and looked at herself for a moment. “I liked your Governor,” she said. “He’s better looking than I thought he would be.”

“He’s thinking of having his nose bobbed,” Jay said. “He’s a great, vain king.”

Vicki unbuttoned her denim shirt and threw it across a chair. She reached for a Western costume on the clothes rack, held it up for him to see, and then began pulling off her shorts and underwear. Jay thought at first he would not look, but then, realizing it now was all the world’s prerogative, he came close and circled round, examining her as he would a prize beefstock.

“You got your figure back,” he said.