Windwhistle Bone

by Richard Trainor

  So what? What was so cataclysmic about all this? An editor stiffed him on an assignment, left him in the lurch in a place where he knew no one, and caused Ram some embarrassment and discomfort from which he managed to extricate himself? How did that compare with the cuckoldry Vera had visited upon him? But like all truly cataclysmic acts, it didn’t happen in a vacuum and it wasn’t just the act itself but its intrinsic meaning, its broader context that caused Ram to unravel as spectacularly as he had over the past few years. Javert didn’t chase Valjean simply for the mere act of stealing bread; the anxiety of Beckett’s tramps isn’t truly tied to Godot’s failure to appear; Kurtz isn’t the true object of Marlowe’s search; and Bartleby’s declaration that he would prefer not to, didn’t pop out of the blue. It wasn’t Budapest that sheared off the lug nuts of Ram’s wheels. He had been heading for a reckoning like this for longer than he cared to admit…

  Ram remembered that unearthly night from years before, when he and Vera’s conjoined paths truly seemed most jeopardized. He had just returned from Paris covering the terrorist story and Vera had come to the airport to pick him up and take him home. Ram knew she had been cheating again; there were allusions in her letters to him, but Ram didn’t confront the issue until she was standing in front of him at the airport. Then, he saw it in her eyes. It was only a formality when she finally admitted it during dinner an hour later at Chez Panisse in Berkeley. The ride home through the San Gregorio Mountains was mostly silent; Vera wouldn’t offer much other than the admission and told him that she hadn’t decided what to do about her new lover yet; whether or not she would go with him or stay with Ram. She didn’t seem to regard it with the same fervor that Ram did. Maybe she thought he would leave her without question, but he couldn’t. He had too much tied up in the very idea of being with her. It was partly who he was, Ram thought. By the time that they reached Refugio, they were emotionally wrung out from arguing. When Ram entered the house, Vera directed him to the desk. “There’s some letters for you that looked important,” she muttered, before heading outside to smoke on the lower deck.

  Ram opened the two letters. The first was from the New American Library, offering him a contract for a new collection of poetry which they wanted by the spring and were pledging to publish a run of 5,000 while paying him a $10,000 advance. For poetry, that was a huge run and a large advance. The second was from a noted film director who had heard about a screenplay that Ram had written based on Robert St. John, a famous wartime correspondent. Somehow, the director managed to obtain a copy of it and wanted to meet Ram to discuss a development deal. Usually, such feelers from Hollywood were bullshit, Ram knew, but the fact that this letter had come from the director himself gave it a credence that Ram couldn’t casually dismiss.

  ‘They seemed to be signs of some kind,’ Ram thought, as he sat on the top deck for the better part of the night, wondering what to do about Vera. His purest literary direction, his original muse, seemed to be beckoning him again, and Ram was thrilled by that seeming incongruity, which maybe wasn’t; maybe it was a godsend. Ram had had enough of journalism by then, and he had never truly considered it his path in the first place. He remembered what Oso told him that Hemingway had said about journalism being a worthy exercise for a while but also one that could dull the instrument if it were practiced for too long. The thoughts of his crumbling relationship and the dead-end nature of his career whipsawed Ram emotionally, and his internal turbulence was reflected in the powerful storm that arrived in Refugio that evening.

  It was a night of ball lightning scribbles and thunderclaps that sounded like cannon fire persisting all through the night. ‘Just let her go,’ he told himself. ‘You’ll never be enough for her; nobody will. Bag these news stories and go back into the woods until you find the fork where you diverged, then start plodding along the other, who cares where it leads, at least you’ll be more gratified in a professional sense…’ But then the thought of permanently losing Vera became too bitter to bear. Maybe they could find a way to work through it. So Ram decided to stay with her, damn the consequences, whatever they might be. And when he turned in the Paris terrorism story to The Stinger the following Monday and watched his career as a newsman take off, Ram knew that he had committed a choice that seemed to have a certain finality to it; the other option, the other fork, was soon smothered by a tangle of bylines and press conferences and junkets. Ram made the right career choice, he told himself then, and he believed that for most of those intervening years until the disaster in Budapest.

  In the arc of Ram’s downfall, Budapest represented the cinematic equivalent of the beginning of the end of Act Two, with the opening of the act fading in on him living and working in The Arbor with money in the bank, more work than he could handle, and a beautiful and successful wife whose career path was even richer than his was. Now the denouement found him struggling toward the light—bloodied and battered but scratching toward something that might be redemption…

  “…Excuse me,” a voice said, calling him back.

  Ram rose up on one elbow and saw a long drink of a woman standing opposite him. She was in her thirties, attractive and auburn-haired in a beige linen jumpsuit.

  “Do you have business here?” she asked him directly.

  “…Not really,” Ram stuttered as he turned around. “My name is Ram, Ram Le Doir. I used to know the people who lived in this house, but I guess they’ve moved.”

  “Dixon and Donna Carter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You don’t know then?”

  “Know what?”

  “They’re long gone, split up and moved out about four years ago. It’s a long story.”

  “They usually are.”

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” she asked. “I’m Sara Dutra. I was a friend of Donna’s—I worked for her and I met you at one of their Christmas parties.”

  “Oh yeah,” Ram said, not recalling her. The woman laughed and held out her hand. Ram shook it but declined the invitation to follow her inside. When she returned, Ram was standing at the railing.

  “Are you busy now?” she asked.

  “I’ve got about an hour or so. Why?”

  “I got some things from Greenblatt’s and thought I’d go to Lake Hollywood, have lunch, and take a walk. You’re welcome to join me if you’d like.”

  Ram paused. “Sure,” he said. “Sure, why not?”

  “Just ride with me. I’ll bring you back here in an hour.”

  Ram followed the woman to her car, a gold Lexus. He got in and strapped the harness over his shoulder.

  They wound through the green-gray hills and turned left onto the street that ended at the reservoir. It was sunny now and the woman removed her jacket, picked up the picnic basket, and asked Ram to follow her. They walked up a hillside of lupine and poppies and spread out a blanket in the shade of an oak tree. The woman popped the cork of the champagne split and Ram laughed. “Crystal,” he said.

  “Only the finest,” said Sara, lifting her glass in toast and smiling broadly.

  “Nozderovya. A votre santé,” Ram replied.

  “La mème a toi.”

  He raised his eyebrow and the woman laughed.

  “I speak a little French,” she said, shaking her head affirmatively. “Actually, you inspired me.”

  “How so?”

  Ram listened as Sara Dutra told her story. Sara was twenty-five when she met Ram, she said, fresh out of the Fashion Institute and working for Donna, designing stage costumes for pop stars. At the party where they’d met, she said Ram told her that he was planning on moving to France. She said they talked of Paris and French literature and cinema.

  “I knew who you were by then. Everybody was always talking about you and what a great writer you were, and of course, I knew you were married—to Vera Dubcek, who I just used to adore, her films I mean. Are you still together?”

  Ram closed his eyes, looked down, and shook his head. “No.”

  “Sorry to hear that… B
ut you seemed an odd pairing. She was Ms. Fabulous Film Star and you were… I don’t know, somehow more serious than a trophy husband.”

  “Thank you, I think. Maybe I should have concentrated more energy on that trophy stuff, spent less time chasing around after whatever it was I was chasing.”

  “She was doing most of the chasing, wasn’t she?”

  “Well, what can you say? That was her image.”

  “I felt bad for you—especially at that party where it was obvious what she was doing. I mean, Michael Mannheimer? What a lightweight,” she said, raising her glass and tipping it up. “I thought you deserved better. You were so handsome, so alive.”

  Ram laughed.

  “Really,” she said. “I had a huge crush on you and hoped you’d take me as your lover.”

  Ram looked away.

  “Good thing it didn’t happen for you,” said Ram. “I’d have disappointed you. Between then and now has been a long slide downhill.”

  “Maybe you need a hand up. Or a good woman who sees you more for who and what you are rather than the way you look or what you do for a living.”

  “Maybe,” Ram muttered, wishing he believed it. “And that’s you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I wish maybe was good enough, but it’s not anymore.”

  An uneasy moment passed before she recovered and finally spoke again.

  “What are you doing this evening?”

  “Tied up, not in fun though,” Ram laughed. “Some business, some personal.”

  “I understand.”

  “I wish you did. It’s a little heavy.”

  “Dangerous?”

  He nodded. “Possibly,” he sighed.

  She leaned over, squeezed his hand and looked probingly into his face. “You really look like shit,” she laughed, her eyes twinkling. “Here,” she said, writing down her phone number. “Call me, day or night. Come over and let me feed you and give you a hot tub and massage. It’ll make the world seem bright again.”

  Ram laughed. “Really?”

  “Yes, really,” she said.

  “I’ll take you back to your car,” she finally said. “I know you have things to do.”

  They drove back in silence to Laurel Canyon along the same route. At the house, Ram squeezed Sara’s hand and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Call me later?” she asked.

  “We’ll see,” he said. She nodded, pulled down her shades and drove off. Ram stood watching the gold car vanish into the green of the canyon lushness. He looked at his watch, noting the time, and thought: “Are you crazy or stupid? Call her. Take it where you find it and when it’s offered.” Then he remembered he’d be seeing Vera in twenty minutes. Ram drove down the bougainvillea hills, descending into the black flatlands by the museum along the La Brea Tar Pits where he was to meet her, but Vera never showed.

  …Back at the motel, Ram checked his messages with Paul and found one from José which read: “E lunching at the Bel Age, tomorrow, 1 p.m.” Ram flipped on the television to a news channel discussing a new celebrity murder. He turned down the sound, stripped off his clothes, took a shower and went next door to The Speakeasy for a Mai Tai.

  When afternoon faded into evening, Ram went back to his room, collected his things, and nosed the car into the growing nighttime. He parked in the lot next to the pier and walked toward the turning Ferris wheel…

  … It was Midsummer, midday, hot and sticky, and Vera, Phil, Jill and Ram were standing on the pier looking down at three hundred fellow citizens who seemed to be exercising to music. They gestured with one hand, then the other, crossed themselves with one arm, then the other, slapped themselves on one hip, then the other, then did a quarter turn, shimmied, and called out something unintelligible. “What is this?” Vera wanted to know.

  “Haven’t you heard?” Jill asked, incredulous. “It’s a new dance called the Macarena.”

  Phil and Ram looked at one another and laughed. “Beats the Watusi, I guess,” said Ram. The women looked at them disdainfully and shook their heads. Eventually, they all descended the pier and danced with the throng, following the steps as best they could.

  They spent the rest of the day riding the rides and playing games, trying to win plush toys for the girls who were girls no longer. As the day grew toward evening, the women took another ride on the Ferris wheel while Phil and Ram watched from below.

  “You’re really moving to Paris?” asked Le Gris.

  Ram nodded affirmatively.

  “Why, when all your work is based out here?”

  “We decided we needed a change, Phil.”

  “Who decided that? You or Vera?”

  “Mostly her. It’s always been her dream to live there. Part of her lore, I guess… maybe a fantasy. Who knows?”

  “You think it’ll be good for you?”

  “I don’t know, Phil. I’ve kind of played this hand out here, I think. And God knows I am tired of Sagrada and political reportage.”

  “That’s really not such a bad thing then. Maybe you’ll go back to poetry again. I wish you would.”

  “Maybe I will. Who knows?”

  …He sat on the bench near the head of the pier until nine-forty-five, knowing that Phil would not show either. Phil had been making it clear that he preferred to be left alone by Ram. He had a wife and kids that needed his attention, he’d say. He wasn’t comfortable around Ram any longer, especially so now given that Ram was rattling the cage of Big Louie Verde and his bunch. The moon was bone-white in the southwest, the sky a midnight blue. At ten, Ram called Phil’s number and got the answering machine. There was a memo on it for him apologizing that Phil had to do something with his kids and asking Ram to call him at the office the next day. When he hung up, Ram reached into his breast pocket and fished out Sara’s phone number.

  She picked up on the first ring. “Hello,” she said.

  “This is Ram Le Doir.”

  “I knew it was you.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  He laughed. “Maybe I’m just trying to be cute, or coy, or something.”

  “You don’t have to play that game with me. Besides, you are cute, very cute. Handsome really.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So what are you doing? Did you think about my suggestion?”

  “I did, and I’m not doing anything now, but it’s been a long day for the most part, the only exception being that lunch we had together. I called to thank you for that.”

  “You’re welcome. I enjoyed myself as well. What about my suggestion? Come over and visit me. I’ve got two bottles of Crystal chilling and the hot tub is yummy.”

  Ram hesitated a long moment, not sure of what to say.

  “Do you want me to come get you?” she asked.

  “No. No. Not tonight. Tonight’s not good. I have some pressing business until tomorrow afternoon and I have to prepare for that.”

  “Just what is this business? It sounds so cloak and dagger,” she cooed.

  Ram exhaled, “Kind of.”

  “Well, I’m dying to find out what it is. You have me on pins and needles, Mr. Le Doir, and not just for your mystery.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  “What do you propose then?”

  “Well, I hope that my mystery resolves itself tomorrow. I should be done sometime in the late afternoon. Then I’ll call you and maybe we can get together if you’d like.”

  “I’d like. You have my mobile number don’t you? It’s on the card I gave you. Call me when you’re ready.”

  Ram smiled at the innocence of it all; at the simple business of desire for human interaction; the suffusing warmth generated by the courtship dance. “Yeah, I’ll do that,” he laughed. “Sometime before five I will. Until then.”

  “Until then it is.”

  Ram hung up and Sara’s image rose up before him—young, sweet, ambitious, and successful. It conjured up an image of his past self when he was that way, and, besides,
perhaps it was just an image. For conjured images and what they suggest was part of the courtship dance, and they too could be illusory, and illusions were an extravagance Ram could no longer afford. Still, it did make him happy, however brief that feeling might be. Then Ram called José and arranged a meeting for coffee at noon the next day at the Marmont. When he got off the phone, he turned on the television and ordered a movie from pay-per-view…

  …It was The Man who Fell to Earth, an old favorite of his and Vera’s from their first days together in Refugio. He thought it might be apropos, but it was just the opposite. It seemed badly dated now, shopworn and clichéd, and for the life of him, Ram couldn’t now see why he thought so highly of it then. He watched it until the moment when David Bowie and the car he is being driven in enters a time warp, seen by settlers from a hundred years before in a wagon train, pointing at it and remarking in wonder as it transits through the fourth dimension. “Try to remember that kind of September, when leaves were green and grass was yellow. Try to remember, and if you remember, then follow…”

  …The alarm sounded and it was day again. Ram got up, showered and shaved, then walked to the patio where the coffee was waiting, aromatic in the dewy air. He drank two cups, made some notes, loaded his box of files in the trunk and drove north to Santa Monica beach. He lingered there a while, then rose from the sand, dusted himself off, and walked to a payphone. He called Phil at the office, but he wasn’t in yet. Ram left the number for the Bel Age on his voicemail and said he could be reached there after two. He got in the car, drove the Pacific Coast Highway to Sunset Boulevard, turned right, and headed into LA.

  The sky was gray, the air misty. The Santa Monica Mountains on Ram’s left were deeply shadowed and almost black. Past Westwood, Ram noticed how silent it was for this time of day and it made him restless.