Ethan’s mouth dropped. Damn. It was like a fisherman whose line takes a big hit and then goes still. “Isn’t that the truth,” he shot back, not about to let the man off the line. “But I’d still like to take you up on that lunch.” He was about to query Irons on the details but didn’t want to sound desperate and bit his tongue. Less is more, whispered in his head. When he was excited, he had a tendency to talk too much.
A pause at Sven’s end of the line made Ethan realize he was considering it. “Vell, I’m zuppozed—”
“Could I meet you around two today?” Ethan interrupted.
“Vell, I don’t zee vy not. I have an early lunch meeting, but I should be done by two.”
“Great,” Ethan replied, flexing his hand as he realized he’d been crossing his fingers. “I’ll see you then.” Not waiting for Sven’s reply, he hung up.
Excited with the twist to his day, he called Christa. Robbie’s answering machine clicked on after four rings. He returned to the table and finished the coffee and pastry he’d ordered, while reading the morning’s paper someone had left on the next table. He kept pushing away the lingering thoughts of his morning.
After calling Sven’s office a second time for directions, the taxi dropped him in front of a refurbished mid-century home on the west side of town. It was a beautiful piece of renewed architecture, fronted by giant marble columns and extensive stonework. Ethan walked up the front steps to the entrance foyer at five minutes to two. Both sides of the stone sidewalk were lined with manicured gardens full of bright summer flowers spanning the color spectrum. The aroma was refreshing and very alive, relaxing his anxiety as he stepped up to the heavy oak entrance doors. A motion-activated intercom announced his arrival, opening the doors automatically. A woman greeted him as he entered. He assumed she was Irons’s assistant. A life-sized Barbie doll—big bust, big blonde hair, and big beautiful tan—she epitomized the California look.
“You must be Ethan,” she said, smiling, revealing big bleached-white teeth and ruby-red lips. Ethan found it difficult not to stare. “I’m Jacqueline. I work with Sven. Very nice to meet you. Sven will be just a few minutes. He’s on the phone.”
“Okay,” Ethan answered.
She tilted her head slightly and touched her cheek with long, red, professionally manicured fingernails.
He answered her unasked question with, “Grazed my cheek on the edge of a door. It’s almost healed.”
“Ah,” Jacqueline replied. “Can I get you a coffee or espresso?”
“No, I’m good,” he answered.
“I’ll bet you are,” she said, holding her smile. “You’re the one Sven met at the party, aren’t you?”
“Yes, we met the other night,” Ethan replied, catching himself looking at her chest. “Sven called me, and here I am.”
Jacqueline turned, retrieved a clipboard from a mahogany desk, and then turned back to face him. In heels, she was as tall as he was. Her emerald eyes were dangerous in their attractiveness and swallowed him up. She passed the clipboard and pen to Ethan. “Sven likes to have new people fill out their personal history, if you don’t mind. You can get started while you wait.” Again, she flashed him her full white smile. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.
Most of the questions were related to his past experience. Also requested were characteristics, like his eye color and hair color, height and weight, and (surprisingly) sexual orientation. His internal warning alarm was sounding, but he went on as instructed. He had nearly completed the form when a gray-haired, middle-aged man opened one of the cherry wood double doors beside the reception desk and approached him.
“Good afternoon, Ezan,” Sven greeted him, extending his hand. Ethan had no recollection of the man. His graying hair was long for a businessman and, as Ethan noted a moment later when Sven turned, tied in a ponytail. On his chin, Sven sported a very thin goatee. “Zo glad you could make it.”
“I’m glad the timing worked,” Ethan said, shaking the man’s hand.
Sven leaned forward, noting Ethan’s bandaged cheek. “Zat doezn’t look good,” he said; his disinterest in how it happened was immediately evident.
“It’s just a scratch,” Ethan said, praying the meeting wouldn’t end because his mug was marked up. Christa’s ex still was fucking him up. “A couple of days and it’ll be gone. I can show you.”
Sven raised his hand. “Not nezezzary, young man.” He turned to Jacqueline. “Could you bring uz zome café.”
Jacqueline smiled. “Certainly, Mr. Irons.” She disappeared through a door to the right of her desk.
As Sven ushered Ethan into his office, Ethan’s eyes were wide. He had seen private offices before but nothing like this one. It was large and stylishly decorated—and immaculate. Sven moved directly to his desk, angled between two adjoining walls. Above it hung two large, coordinated, multicolored abstracts of blood-red, forest-green, and canary-yellow markings, something both beautiful and gruesome. The furniture was red, black, or chrome. The walls were covered in a gray-print wallpaper. His desk was four cylindrical chrome legs, supporting a red-leather desktop and black blotter. The desk fronted a large red-and-black leather chair with chrome tips. Sven sat down in it after offering a similar but smaller version to Ethan. A matching couch lined the wall to his left, with matching armchairs facing the couch on each side, all surrounding an authentic polar bear rug, whose head faced Ethan. Two matching black-and-chrome wall units were positioned as bookends on each side of the couch, one containing an assortment of books, albums, and videos and the other an extensive audio system. On the opposite wall, three oversized movie posters were hung. Ethan didn’t recognize two of them, but one showed a Roman guard and was titled Caligula, which seemed familiar. Positioned on the corner of Sven’s desk, next to a small black-lacquer box, was a lone book titled The Catcher in the Rye.
Ethan sat down, placing his hands on the cold chrome ends of the chair’s arms.
“Zo,” Sven began, with his hands on his stomach, fingers intertwined. “Do you like my offiz? It vas finished juz a veek ago.”
“It’s …” Ethan paused a moment for the right word. “Incredible.”
“You know, I kind of like it too,” Sven said, offering Ethan a cigar from the black lacquer humidor on his desk. “I zink of it az Batman Meetz Daylight.” Sven laughed loudly at his own joke.
Ethan smiled, selecting a medium-sized cigar with a Churchill band. A bronze cigar cutter appeared in his hand. He cut the ends. Ethan enjoyed the opulence of the surroundings yet was wary of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
“You told me zee ozer night you’ve been in California for a vile. Zat you came ’ere to become a movie ztar.”
“That’s pretty close to the truth.”
“Yer prepared to do votever it takez to get zere, no?” Sven asked, and then he continued before Ethan had a chance to answer. “You appear to be very determined young man, no? Zacrifized a lot, haven’t you?”
Ethan thought for a moment as he leaned forward and allowed Sven to light his cigar. He had sacrificed a lot—pretty much his entire past. His entire future depended on his success in the movies. “Yes,” he replied. “I have.”
“Ezan, I know zis iz a perzonal queztion, and you don’t have to anzer it, but how old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.” Ethan was becoming more comfortable by the second.
“Yer juzt a babe,” Sven said, smiling warmly. “And your timing couldn’t be better for breaking into zee Hollyvood.”
Ethan smiled and blew a large plume of smoke into the air.
“Iz good, no?” Sven said, holding his cigar up as if having won it.
Ethan nodded his head as he took another draw from the end. Strange, he couldn’t remember cutting the cigar.
“Vot kind of movie do you hope to ztar in?” Sven asked, standing up and removing his black blazer. “Vot kin
d of movie actor do you plan to be? You muzt have zomezing in mind, yez?”
Ethan thought for a moment. It had been a long time since he’d had a serious conversation about his movie goals. For a change, he felt in the right place at the right time. This was it. The answers were easy. “Action movies with good stories and strong characters—the underdog type, where good prevails over evil in no-win situations. Something that has an edginess to it. Sylvester Stallone, Bruce Willis style, with Norman Bates edginess. I want it to be good entertainment with a point. Suspend the audience’s disbelief.”
“An edgy good guy who breakz zee rulez zee right vay?”
“Exactly,” Ethan agreed. He was enjoying the conversation. Here he was, finally talking about what was most important to him. He hoped his desire and drive were coming through.
“Ezan, vot have you done zinze arriving in California?” Sven asked, leaning forward with his elbows on his leather desk.
Ethan thought for a moment on how to respond. He didn’t want anything to jeopardize his chances, least of all give any indication he might lack experience. “I’ve worked on several movies and done a few commercials,” he replied, doing his best to avoid specifics.
“No,” Sven interrupted, “I mean vot are you doing to pay zee billz. You have a day job, no?”
Confused, Ethan answered before even thinking. “I’m an engineer. Since leaving Canada, my engineering experience has paid the bills, but …” He stopped himself before revealing more than he wanted.
“But vot, Ezan?” Sven prompted him, picking up on Ethan’s hesitation.
“Well, it’s really not that important,” Ethan said, backing off.
“Don’t vorry about it zen.”
But Ethan was unable to hold back. “I lost my engineering job this morning,” he admitted, dropping his eyes in defeat.
“Zaz terrible,” Sven stated without emotion. “Zomezing vill vork out.”
“Yeah, something always works out.”
Jacqueline returned, carrying a tray with a chrome coffee urn and two fire-engine red mugs. Sven looked at the lit end of his cigar and then mashed it into the chrome ashtray on his desk.
“I forgot about zee café. Zankz, Jacquie,” Sven said. His face took on a hard, stoic seriousness. His dark eyes stared at Ethan as Jacqueline placed a coffee mug on the edge of the desk for him. “Okay, Ezan,” he announced, “zee reazon vy I aczepted ziz appointment viz you vaz to zee vot you can do.” Sven stretched back in his chair, holding the hot cup of coffee in both hands. His watchful eyes never left Ethan. Ethan smiled, uncomfortable with being observed so closely and so flagrantly sized up. Sven remained silent, continuing to stare across the desk at Ethan as if he’d asked a question and was waiting for a response.
“What do you want me to do?” Ethan finally asked, finding the silence unbearable.
Sven remained still a moment longer and then leaned forward and placed his cup back on the desk.
“Ezan,” he said as he picked up the book on the corner of his desk, “have you ever read zis book?” He was holding the book Ethan had seen earlier, The Catcher in the Rye.
Ethan’s facial expression gave away his confusion. “Well, yes, everybody who’s gone to school has read The Catcher in the Rye.”
“Exactly,” replied Sven, his face alight with excitement. “Vell, ve’re adapting it into a movie. You ztrike me az a potential player for Ztradlater. Your cut faze might be a good add to the character.”
Ethan laughed. He could hardly believe it. Here was the opportunity he’d longed for.
“Do you know zee ztory?” Sven asked, his tone remained serious.
“Studied it in high school,” Ethan replied, hoping Sven wouldn’t call his bluff. For the life of him, he couldn’t recall what the story was about, outside of sex. He was certain of one thing: if he got an audition, he’d have a copy of the book in his hands that afternoon. He’d read all night if he had to.
“Okay,” Sven continued, leaning over his desk. His serious demeanor remained. “I vould like you to come back tomorrow afternoon. Four o’clock.” Sven pulled a black three-ringed binder from a desk drawer and handed it to Ethan. “Zis iz zee vorking zcript. Zird zcene. Go home and vork it out. I’ll zee you here tomorrow.”
“Definitely,” Ethan replied, taking the binder.
Sven got up and stepped around the side of his desk. Ethan stood and shook his hand. “No more cutz on zee faze,” Sven cautioned, pointing to his cheek.
“Not a chance,” Ethan replied, all but bounding out of the office.
On his way out, he smiled at Jacqueline. “We’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, giving her a nervous wave and nod. “Nice to meet you.”
Jacqueline returned his smile. “Looking forward to it,” she said, giving him a wink and then flitting her long red fingernails in a wave.
Suddenly, a sense of foreboding hovered around him. He shrugged it off as simple paranoia. Once outdoors, he started searching for a pay phone to call Christa. He had to let her know his news. As he walked, he also kept an eye out for a taxi. The taxi came first.
On the ride back, the binder Sven had given him was open on his lap. He started reading the third scene, thinking of ways he could own the audition. He was deep into the scene when the taxi stopped at a red light. When Ethan looked up, the view out the window had changed. The day had turned gray, but it wasn’t raining. Where there had been buildings lining the street, he now saw houses and lawns and flower gardens.
She was standing at the curb, all alone.
He blinked. Can’t be, he told himself. Not here.
She was looking the other way but was as beautiful as ever. Her hair was longer, well past her shoulders and blowing a bit in the light breeze.
He moved to wave but his arm was stuck, restricted somehow inside the car. As the cab moved forward, he watched her, unable to look away. She was looking at something in one of the houses that he couldn’t see.
“Stop! Stop the car!” he shouted, but his words were drowned in a space silent of sound. He watched as Mila walked away from the cab and toward one of the houses. There was something about the neighborhood that looked familiar, but it wasn’t where he thought he was.
He turned away from the window. The door had a small ledge where he would have rested his arm if he could move it. He looked down at his lap, where he’d put what he thought was something to read, but couldn’t remember what it was and couldn’t find it. As he took in more of his surroundings, he realized he was no longer in a cab but in a bed, with white sheets over his legs. He couldn’t remember where he thought he was. As he turned to look at what was preventing him from moving his arm, he noticed a woman standing at his side, wearing a navy blue suit and a light-blue blouse with a frilly collar. It was Beth. Beth was standing beside him wearing a white lab coat over a navy business suit. She wasn’t smiling but thankfully wasn’t crying either. Beth looked very pretty. Behind her were white walls—white walls that were moving. No, it wasn’t the walls; it was the bed he was in with the white sheets. Beth was walking beside the bed. The bed was moving like a boat.
“Did you see her today?” Beth asked. Her lips were red but light in color, a professional red.
Ethan shook his head.
“Are you sure?” Beth asked. “We know when you’re not telling the truth, you know.”
“Then yes, I saw her,” he replied, hoping the truth would set him free from whatever bound his movement. “She was standing on the corner. I saw her from the taxi.”
Beth leaned down, her soft face stern and close to his.
“From the taxi?” she asked. “Where were you going in a taxi?”
“Back to Robbie’s apartment, of course, to tell Christa the good—”
“Mister! Mister!”
Beth still was talking, but it wasn’t her voice he heard. She was bent down in front of
him. Her face almost in his.
“Sir, excuse me!”
Someone was shaking him. It wasn’t Beth.
The sun shone brightly into the car.
An animated man was glaring at him. His mouth was moving, but Ethan couldn’t hear. No. Maybe he could.
“Are you awake? Can you hear me? We’re here.”
He could move his arms. He was in a taxi.
Ethan opened the rear passenger door and stepped out, holding tight to the black binder. His mind was swimming, trying to wake up and make sense of wherever he’d just gone. A dead sleep must have overtaken him in the cab. His mind didn’t quite connect to his eyes. He felt drugged and more than a little mixed up. Maybe he was more sleep-deprived than he thought.
Upon leaving the taxi, he sat down on a wooden bench opposite the apartment and attempted to clear his head. He placed the binder flat on his lap and opened it again to the third scene. The story was not familiar, but he hoped to stir his memory on it. Then something clicked, and he was back. Maybe Robbie had a copy of the book. In the binder, he read that there were two male characters, Stradlater and Holden—Stradlater apparently more magnanimous than Holden. He searched for character traits and mannerisms to help him play the scene but needed the background of the book, a foundation to latch onto and build on.
Still dazed and fuzzy, he sat for a while longer and got a second wind. The fifteen-minute sleep in the taxicab seemed to have helped. Midway through the scene, a girl with whom Stradlater professed to have had a relationship returns. Ethan wondered if she would be part of the audition. Reading further, he was seeking the connecting relationship when an ambulance flew past with lights flashing and sirens blaring. The interruption was enough to distract him. He had yet to share the day’s developments with Christa.
But five minutes later, he was back in a taxi. Christa was asleep, and he didn’t want to wake her. Something else had popped in his mind. Since he’d arrived in California, he’d not been to the location of the Academy Awards. He needed to go. As the taxi approached the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, he envisioned himself approaching the hall in a limousine on the evening of the awards. …
The Actor Page 13
