by James Morrow
“Yesterday Foreign Minister Togo cabled Secretary Byrnes and told him the composition of the delegation,” Yordan said, flourishing a document. Glimpsing the paper through my isinglass peepholes, I saw that it was stamped TOP SECRET. “Obviously they’re taking our demonstration shot seriously, because it’s a darned impressive line-up.” The admiral scanned the classified communiqué with his solitary eye. “Deputy Foreign Minister Toshikazu Kase, Chief Cabinet Secretary Hisatsune Sakomizu, Director of Information Hiroshi Shimomura, and — here’s the kicker — Marquis Koichi Kido, Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal and principal aide and advisor to the Emperor.”
Cheers and applause reverberated through the hangar.
“The show starts at 1500 hours sharp, Sunday, June 3, 1945, a date that will live in the annals of diplomacy,” Yordan said. “Mr. O’Brien, your ordnance technicians must be in their places by 1400 hours. Mr. Thorley, I want to see you suiting up in the Château Mojave no later than 1100 hours.”
“Get me out of this goddamn iguana,” I said. “A man could suffocate in here.”
Slowly, tentatively, with the shuffling gait of the zombie roustabouts in Monogram’s Voodoo Circus, the exhausted cast and crew of What Rough Beast emerged from Hangar B into the glare of a brilliant sunset, its crimson rays spreading across the desert sky like lacerations wrought by reptilian talons. Here at the Naval Ordnance Test Station, rosy-fingered dawns were doubtless common, but so were bloody-clawed dusks.
Gladys and Mabel loaded the PRR into the cargo bay of the troop transport. Before I could assume the passenger seat, Joy squeezed my arm and said she would like my companionship while she performed “a painful but necessary duty over by the lake.” I arranged for Yordan’s chauffeur to drop the suit back at the Château Mojave, and then my liaison and I took off in her Chevy.
“They’re all dead,” she said abruptly.
“The citizens of Shirazuka?” I asked.
“The first generation of dwarfs — Rex, Evelyn, and Oswald. We lost them two days ago to Hutchinson-Gilford syndrome.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Progeria. Premature aging. Luckily, in April we hatched a second generation — Huey, Dewey, and Louie. They’ve got progeria, too, but they’ll probably live three more weeks at least, long enough for us to exhibit them to the delegation.”
Reaching the lake shore, we headed north through a tract of desert that, Joy informed me, concealed at least twenty species of lizard and almost as many sorts of snake. Every day, as the sun lifted toward its zenith, the creatures would crawl free of their dens to warm themselves on the omnipresent rocks.
“Believe me, it wasn’t easy figuring out how to make the descendants of cold-blooded iguanas breathe fire,” she said. “Once the Knickerbocker Project gets declassified, we’ll publish a dozen papers in the Journal of Evolutionary Biology.”
After a journey of three miles, my liaison pulled over, parked the car, and opened the trunk. Arrayed in purple blossoms, three potted hedgehog cacti sat in a cardboard box along with a red trowel and a pair of canvas work gloves. Together Joy and I bore the cacti toward the lake. Because Rex, Evelyn, and Oswald had loved to swim and dive, Joy had buried them within view of the water. Their graves were marked with crosses and protected by a natural ring of boulders.
“When the time comes, I’ll help you eulogize Huey, Dewey, and Louie, too,” I said.
“I’d appreciate that,” Joy said.
Her voice now acquired a dreamy, otherworldly timbre. I thought of Gale Sondergaard’s eerie performance as the medium in Uncanny, a serviceable supernatural thriller that Darlene once wrote for Katzman between Corpuscula pictures.
“Long ago in Japan, a young woman named Momoko hired a fishing boat and rowed to the most far-flung of the Oki Islands, north of Honshu. She planned to rescue her father, a great warrior imprisoned by the Emperor, whose occasional fits of madness caused him to mistreat even his most devoted samurai. Sailing around the island, Momoko came upon a wrenching scene: a maiden robed in white, standing on a bluff. Her parents knelt beside her, weeping piteously. As Momoko put to shore, she spotted a priest, who explained that each year the locals sacrificed a maiden to the dragon Yofuné-Nushi, ruler of the deep and lord of tempests.”
Availing herself of the trowel and gloves, Joy planted the largest cactus on Rex’s grave.
“To the grieving parents’ infinite gratitude, Momoko offered to take the maiden’s place. She put on the ceremonial white kimono, clasped a warrior’s dagger between her teeth, and leaped into the green depths. Down, down she plummeted, swimming with great skill, for as a child she’d dived with the pearl fishers of her village. Soon she reached the ocean floor, where she came upon a cavern. Venturing into the undersea grotto, Momoko found a sleeping dragon, his scales trailing tatters of his victims’ robes, his serpentine body coiled around a curious treasure: a jade statue of the Emperor who had imprisoned her father.”
Here Joy paused to root the second cactus above Evelyn’s remains.
“Suddenly Yofuné-Nushi awoke and attacked the warrior-woman. They fought furiously, but the battle soon ended when Momoko drove her dagger through the dragon’s right eye and straight into his brain. Calling upon all her remaining air and residual strength, she swam free of the grotto, the jade figurine pressed against her breast. No sooner had Momoko breached the surface than the monstrous corpse came bobbing up behind her. On the beach, the thankful maiden and her parents waited to shower Momoko with kisses.”
Joy allowed me to install the third cactus, a tribute to Oswald, then continued her tale.
“Several days later, hearing that Yofuné-Nushi had been vanquished and his treasure recovered, the prince of the island sent word to the Emperor. The messengers returned bearing extraordinary news. Years ago an evil magician had cursed the jade statue and presented it to Yofuné-Nushi — but shortly after Momoko’s victory, the Emperor’s madness had mysteriously passed. When Momoko and her father returned to Honshu, the chastened monarch, horrified to realize he’d abused his faithful samurai, immediately freed him and arranged many honors for Momoko, slayer of dragons.”
“I like that story,” I said.
“Once this war is over, Syms, I’m going into veterinary medicine.”
“Good idea.”
“If Admiral Strickland approaches me with big plans for another strategic lizard, I’ll kick him in the balls.”
“I hope I’m there to see it.”
“Veterinarians are my heroes. Do you have any heroes, Syms?”
“I once knew a herpetologist named Ivan Groelish who tried to end the Second World War through the craziest damn scheme you ever heard. The odds were against him, but his heart was in the right place.”
IV
MIDNIGHT HAS COME to Edgar Allan Poe’s city. Luckily, I remembered to place an order with room service just before the kitchen shut down for the day. The present writing session will be fueled by a Waldorf salad, two Reuben sandwiches, and more potato chips than a giant mutant iguana has scales — plus my trusty jar of Maxwell House instant and its auxiliary submersible coil.
As the hotel steward wheeled the food into my room, I realized to my considerable chagrin that, having given all my folding money to Tiffany, I had no cash with which to reward his labors.
“You must be with that sci-fi convention, huh?” he asked, pointing to my Raydo. He was a freckled, klutzy kid whose large ears stuck out like radar scoops. “Did you buy that sculpture in the dealer’s room?”
“Actually, I won it.”
Curious now, the steward approached my desk, brushed the statuette with his greasy fingers, and pondered the inscription. “‘Lifetime Achievement’ — that’s terrific, Mr. Thorley,” he said, nervously clucking his tongue. “Not everybody manages to have an achievement in his lifetime.”
“You learn your craft, you play your mummies, you collect your trophy, and then you die.”
“I’m not really a sci-fi fan, but I know all about tha
t big balloon you put on the roof. Gorgantis, King of the Lizards. Mr. Hackett isn’t too happy about it. He says the darned thing should’ve come down this afternoon.”
“I didn’t put it there. Your boss should talk to the Wonderama Committee, if they haven’t skipped town.”
“And this is a rhedosaurus,” the kid said, indicating the pewter dinosaur. “My grandfather loved that movie. He used to call me Ray the Rhedosaurus.”
“This award happens to be nicknamed the Raydo. Ray Bradbury wrote the original story. Ray Harryhausen did the special effects.”
“All those Rays? Really?”
“Ray Bolger did the choreography. Ray Walston played the Martian. Bob and Ray were the caterers.”
“I’m Ray Wintergreen. Grampa and I watched The Beast from 20,000 Leagues together a month before he died.”
“Fathoms, actually. Leagues is distance. Ray, my friend, I’d love to tip you, but I forfeited my last dollar to a lady of the night. Let me accompany you back downstairs, and I’ll cash a check at the desk.”
“That won’t work. They locked the safe at eleven.”
“Here’s an idea. Instead of a gratuity, I’ll give you my dinosaur.”
“Oh, no, sir, that wouldn’t be right.”
“Please, Ray, I want you to have it,” I said, shuffling toward my embarrassed visitor. “In honor of your grandfather.”
“He was a wonderful guy, but I can’t take your award.”
“Of course you can.” I curled my fist around the lighthouse, lifted the prize from my desk, and inserted it in Ray’s grasp. “The inscription contains a typo. If I brought the damn thing home, I’d just stick it in my broom closet.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“This is very generous of you. Mom will be darned impressed.”
Fearful that his good fortune might evaporate if he lingered, Ray hugged the statuette to his chest and made a hasty exit. And so it came to pass that, like the dying dragon in Joy’s story about Momoko, I surrendered my treasure to the next generation. Of course, my gestating memoir now lacked a paperweight, but the Gideon Bible in my night table drawer was easily pressed into service.
Get cracking, Syms. Drain those Bics. If you switch from amontillado to Maxwell House, you should be able to finish your memoir by 11:00 A.M., which means you’ll have no trouble catching the noon shuttle to the airport or, if you prefer, the twelve o’clock window to eternity.
On Friday afternoon, twenty-four hours after the nerve-wracking What Rough Beast run-through, I returned to Monogram Studios with the intention of nailing Corpuscula’s elaborate supercerebrum soliloquy. It was the most carefully written scene in the script — the monster’s protracted and eloquent cri de coeur when he realizes his brain now shares cranial quarters with neuronal tissues pilfered from four different brilliant but arguably insane scientists — so naturally Darlene showed up to make sure Beaudine didn’t fuck with her favorite lines. For once the director decided to give the dialogue its due, and, though he used gratuitously noir lighting and a meretricious low angle, he let the great speech pour forth in one unbroken tracking shot, the camera stalking me like a Doppelgänger as I careened around Werdistratus’s laboratory spouting paranoid non sequiturs in Italian, German, French, and Spanish. I got it on the first take, by God. When Beaudine yelled “Cut!” the crew broke into spontaneous applause.
Thrilled with the success of the shoot and intoxicated by the sheer visceral thrill of that greatest of all human endeavors, moviemaking, Darlene and I decided a celebration was in order. On Saturday night we splurged on front-row seats to see Cantinflas live at the Mason Opera House, doing acrobatics and stand-up comedy, then treated ourselves to a three-course meal at the Brown Derby, washing down our sirloin steaks with champagne that actually came from France. To top off a perfect evening, we decided to enact another episode from our erotic chapterplay about the unorthodox relationship between Fay Wray and Gorgantis, even as we soaked the stage blood off my monster suit in the Pacific’s cleansing surf.
We parked in a secluded spot on Ocean Avenue. I climbed into the cargo bay and slipped into my secret saurian identity, marveling at how routine this whole business was getting to be, my daily habit of turning myself into a dragon more fearsome than Yofuné-Nushi. After locking up the truck, I allowed Darlene to guide me down to the beach and from there to the sheltering pylons of the Municipal Pier. We assumed our customary postures, Gorgantis’s own true love draped across his scaly arms, then headed toward the retreating tide.
The cops converged from all directions, seven frenzied shamuses, pistols drawn, flashlights blazing, fists clamped around a heavy-duty fishnet of a caliber sufficient to snare an orca. Startled, I let Darlene slip from my clutches. She scrambled to her feet and, finding the officer in charge, informed him that I was just a guy in a suit. Sergeant Loomis was unimpressed, and the next thing I knew the ponderous net was dropping over Gorgantis’s massive head. So there I stood, trapped like King Kong on Broadway, terrified that my encrusted stage blood was about to be supplemented by streaming pints of the real thing.
“Freeze!” Sergeant Loomis cried, and I complied instantly. “Did the monster hurt you, ma’am?” he asked Darlene.
“He’s not a monster, he’s my boyfriend!”
“In my profession, you soon learn that those things aren’t mutually exclusive. If he assaulted you, I want to hear about it.”
Now the press arrived, an eager-beaver trench-coated reporter equipped with a spiral notebook and a pencil stub, accompanied by a photographer frantically snapping my top-secret costume with his Graflex, over and over, as fast as he could change flashbulbs — pop, pop, pop.
“Max Kettleby, Los Angeles Examiner,” the reporter told Darlene. “I’ve been hot on the trail of the Santa Monica Beach Monster ever since the first sighting.”
“Why won’t anybody believe me?” Darlene wailed. “This is just a gag!”
“Nobody said we don’t believe you, but the situation calls for a thorough investigation,” Loomis replied. “When people start complaining about annoying visitations from the depths of hell, it’s my job to figure out what’s going on.”
“This is Syms J. Thorley, the horror movie actor,” Darlene said. “Did you ever see any Corpuscula pictures? He’s the star, and I’m the writer.”
“My operating assumption is that if it looks like a sea monster, walks like a sea monster, and bellows like a sea monster, then it’s a sea monster,” Loomis said.
“Syms, tell them who you are,” Darlene insisted.
“I’m Isaac Margolis, recently swallowed whole by a giant mutant amphibious iguana named Gorgantis,” I said.
Nobody laughed. I chuckled timorously. There are three rules of screenwriting, but only one for confronting humorless cops with drawn guns. Don’t try to be funny.
“With your permission, I shall now exit this suit,” I said.
“Okay, but don’t make any sudden moves,” Loomis said.
With excruciating caution I popped the snaps, unhitched the catches, activated the dorsal zipper, and quit my alter ago, leaving the bilious green rig standing upright in the sand. I grabbed the edge of the net and, raising my arms high, walked free.
“Hey, it really is Syms Thorley,” Max Kettleby said.
“Who?” Loomis said.
“Syms Thorley,” Kettleby said. “Curse of Kha-Ton-Ra. Evil of Corpuscula.”
“I’m seriously considering jamming your ass in jail, Syms Thorley,” Loomis said.
“On what charge?” I asked. “Spreading panic without a license?”
“Disturbing the peace,” Loomis said.
“I can explain everything,” I said, praying that Darlene would now step in and explain everything.
“I’m listening,” Loomis said.
“It’s like this,” I said. What was it like?
“Careful, Sergeant, he’s a skilled actor,” Kettleby said. “Don’t let him bamboozle you.”
> “It’s like this,” Darlene said. “Syms and I wrote a script together.”
“A sea monster script?” the reporter asked.
“Curse of the Were-Lizard,” I said. “We got the Rubinstein sisters to make this costume for us. You know their work? Voyage of Jonah? Trials of Job?”
“Those women are geniuses,” Darlene said.
“We figured that if we shopped our screenplay around in conjunction with Gorgantis himself, lots of producers would sit up and take notice,” I said.
“So why have you been disturbing the peace?” Loomis asked. “Testing out the monster’s scare value?”
“Before I put on my lizard for Selznick, Zanuck, Cohn, Katzman, or any other mogul — you can see the logic of this — before I do that, I need to be completely comfortable wearing the thing,” I said. “How was I to know the neighbors were watching?”
“Boy, what a story!” Kettleby said, just like in the movies.
“Being a regular guy, a man of the people, and a friend of the movie business, I’m inclined to let you off with just a warning,” Loomis told me. “But if folks around here want to press charges, I won’t discourage them.” He turned to the nearest cop and said, “Leo, take down the lizard’s address, also his ladyfriend’s.”
Leo did as instructed. When it came to revealing her domestic coordinates, Darlene recited her sister’s address in Brentwood, so we wouldn’t scandalize anybody. Task accomplished, the cop looked me in the eye and said, “Hey, Mr. Thorley, would you mind if I sent you my screenplay? It’s called The Maiden and the Maniac. You’d be great as the maniac.”
“I can’t wait to read it,” I said evenly.
“While we’re on the subject,” Kettleby said, “I have a script, too, an adaptation of that amazing Franz Kafka story about the guy who turns into a cockroach. Once you take out the confusing literary stuff, it’s a terrific yarn. I can see you playing Gregor Samsa.”
“I’m not really a scuttler,” I said. “More of a shambler.”
“Believe me, you were born for the role.”
