The Dream Lover

by William Boyd

  Aurélien No was directed to Lanier Cross’s table in the dark rear angles of the Hamburger Haven. Another man and a woman were sitting with her. Aurélien shook her thin hand. She was beautiful, he saw, but so small, a child-woman, the musculature of a twelve-year-old with the sexual features of an adult.

  She introduced the others, an amiable, grinning, broad-shouldered youngster and a lean, crop-haired woman in her forties with a fierce, strong face.

  ’This is my husband,’ she said, ‘Kit Vermeer. And this is Naomi Tashourian. She’s a writer we work with.’

  ’We love your work,’ Kit said.

  ’Beautiful film,’ echoed Lanier.

  ’You’ve seen it?’ Aurélien said.

  ’We saw it two hours ago,’ Lanier said.

  Aurélien looked at his watch: Nancy had made sure he was punctual – 7.30 a.m.

  ’I called Berger, said I had to see it before we met.’

  ’We tend to sleep in the day,’ Kit said. ‘Like bats.’

  ’Like lemurs,’ Lanier said. ‘I don’t like bats.’

  ’– like lemurs.’

  ’It’s a beautiful film,’ Lanier said, ‘that’s why we wanted to meet with you.’ She reached up and unfastened a large plastic bulldog clip on the top of her head and uncoiled a great dark glossy hank of hair a yard long. She pulled and tightened it, screwing it up, winding it around her right hand, piling it back on the top of her head before she refastened it in position with the clip. Everyone remained silent during this operation.

  ’That’s why we wanted you to meet with Naomi.’

  ’This is a remake, right?’ Naomi said.

  ’Yes. I think so.’

  ’Excellent,’ Lanier said. ‘I know Kit wants to put something to you. Kit?’

  Kit leaned across the table. ‘I want to play the waiter,’ he said.

  Aurélien thought before answering. ‘The waiter is only in the film for about two minutes, right at the end.’

  ’Which is why we thought you should meet with Naomi.’

  ’The way I see it,’ Naomi said, ‘is that Nathalie has been in a relationship with the waiter. That’s why she goes to the restaurant. And we could see, in flashback, you know, their relationship.’

  ’I think it could be extraordinary, Aurélien,’ Lanier said.

  ’And I know that because of our situation, I and Lanier, our marital situation,’ Kit added, ‘we could bring something extraordinary to that relationship. And beautiful.’

  Lanier and Kit kissed each other, briefly but with some passion, before resuming the argument in favour of the flashback. Aurélien ordered some steak and French fries as they fleshed out the relationship between Nathalie ‘X’ and her waiter-lover.

  ’And Naomi would write this?’ Aurélien asked.

  ’Yes,’ Lanier said. ‘I’m not ready to work with another writer just yet.’

  ’I think Bob Berger has another writer – Matt Friedrich.’

  ’What’s he done?’ Kit said.

  ’We have to let Matt go, Aurélien,’ Lanier said. ‘You shouldn’t drink beer this early in the morning.’

  ’Why not?’

  ’I’m an alcoholic,’ Kit said. ‘It’s the thin end of the wedge, believe me.’

  ’Could you guys leave me alone with Aurélien?’ Lanier said.

  They left.

  Lanier Cross I have a theory about this town: the money doesn’t matter. THE MONEY DOESN’T MATTER. Everybody thinks it’s about the money but they’re wrong. They think it’s only because of the money that people put up with the godawful shit that’s dumped on them. That there can be only one possible reason why people are prepared to be so desperately unhappy. Money. Not so. Consider this: everybody who matters in this town has more than enough money. They don’t need any more money. And I’m not talking about the studio heads, the top directors, the big stars, the people with obscene amounts. There are thousands of people in this town, possibly tens of thousands, who are involved in movies who have more money than is reasonably acceptable. So it’s not about money, it can’t be, it’s about something else. It’s about being at the centre of the world.

  ’She loved you,’ Kaiser Prevost said. ‘She’s all over you like a rash.’

  ’Any news of Delphine?’

  ’Who? Ah, no. What did you say to her, to Lanier? Bob called, she’ll do it for nothing. Well, half her normal fee. Sensational idea about Kit Vermeer. Excellent. Why didn’t I think of that? Maybe that’s what swung it.’

  ’No, it was her idea. How are we going to finish the film without Delphine?’

  ’Aurélien. Please. Forget Delphine Drelle. We have Lanier Cross. We fired Friedrich, we got Tashourian writing the flashback. We’re in business, my son, in business.’

  Naomi Tashourian I have a theory about this town, this place. Don’t be a woman.

  * * *

  Aurélien sat in the cutting room with Barker Lear, an editor, as they ran what existed of Seeing Through Nathalie on the Moviola.

  Barker, a hefty man with a grizzled ginger goatee, watched Delphine sit down at the pizzeria and order a beer. She drank it down and ordered another, then the sound boom, which had been bobbing erratically in and out of frame for the last few minutes, fell fully into view and the screen went black.

  Barker turned and looked at Aurélien who was frowning and tapping his teeth with the end of a pencil.

  ’That’s some film,’ Barker said. ‘Who’s the girl, she’s extraordinary.’

  ’Delphine Drelle.’

  ’She a big star in France?’

  ’No.’

  ’Sorta hypnotic effect, she has . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Shame about the boom.’

  ’Oh, I don’t worry about that sort of thing,’ Aurélien said. ‘It adds to the verisimilitude.’

  ’I don’t follow.’

  ’You’re meant to know it’s a film. That’s why the end works so well.’

  ’So what happens in the end? You’ve still got to shoot it, right?’

  ’Yes. I don’t know what happens. Neither does Delphine.’

  ’You don’t say?’

  ’She gets drunk, you see. We watch her getting drunk. We don’t cut away. We don’t know what she might do. That’s what makes it so exciting – that’s the “Destiny of Nathalie ‘X’”.’

  ’I see . . . So, ah, what happened at the end of the first film?’

  ’She goes to the café, she drinks six or seven beers very quickly, and I can see she’s quite drunk. She orders another drink and when the waiter brings it she throws it in his face.’

  ’You don’t say? Then what?’

  ’They have a fight. Delphine and the waiter. They really hit each other. It’s fantastic. Delphine, she’s had this training, self-defence. She knees this guy in the couilles. Boffl’

  ’Fascinating.’

  ’He falls over. She collapses, crying, she turns to me, swears at me. Runs off into the night. The end. It’s amazing.’

  Barker rubbed his beard, thinking. He glanced at Aurélien covertly.

  ’Going to do the same thing here?’

  ’No, no. It’s got to be different for the USA, for Hollywood. That’s why I gave her the gun.’

  ’Is it a real gun?’

  ’Oh yes. Otherwise what would be the point?’

  Barker Lear I definitely had him for a wacko at first, but after I spent an afternoon with him, talking to him, it seemed to me he really knew what he was doing. He was a real calm guy, Aurélien. He had his own vision, didn’t worry about other people, what other people might think about him. And it was the easiest editing job I ever did. Long long takes. Lot of hand-held stuff. The walk had a few reverses, a few mid shots, dolly shots. And the film was kind of exciting, I have to admit, and I was really quite disappointed that he still hadn’t shot the end. This girl Delphine, with this crazy blonde fringe over her eyes, there was definitely something wild about her. I mean, who knows, once she got loaded, what she might have done. Maybe Aurélien
wasn’t a wacko, but she definitely was.

  You know I have a theory about this town, this place. I’ve been working here for twenty-five years and I’ve seen them all. In this town you have very, very clever people and very, very wacko people, and the problem is, and that’s what makes this place different, our special problem is the very clever people have to work with the very wacko people. They have to, they can’t help it, it’s the nature of the job. That doesn’t happen other places for one simple reason – clever and wacko don’t mix.

  Aurélien stood by the pool with Nancy enjoying the subdued play of morning light on the water. Today Nancy’s hair was white blonde and she wore a tutu over her leotard and cowboy boots with spurs. She handed him a pair of car keys and an envelope with a thousand dollars in it.

  ’That’s the new rental car. Celica, OK? And there’s your per diem. And you’ve got dinner at Lanier Cross’s at 6.30.’

  ’6.30 p.m.?’

  ’Ah, yeah . . . She can make it 6.00 if you prefer? She asked me to tell you it will be vegetarian.’

  ’What are all those men doing? Is it some kind of military exercise?’

  ’Those are the gardeners. Shall I make them go away?’

  ’No, it’s fine.’

  ’And Tim Pascal called.’

  ’Who’s he?’

  ’He’s an English film director. He has several projects in development at Alcazar. He wanted to know if you wanted to lunch or drink or whatever.’

  The doorbell rang. Aurélien strode across the several levels of his cool white living-room to answer it. As he did so the bell rang twice again. It was Delphine.

  Kaiser Prevost I have a theory about this town: it doesn’t represent the fulfilment of the American dream, it represents the fulfilment of an American reality. It rewards relentless persistence, massive stamina, ruthlessness and the ability to live with grotesque failure. Look at me: I am a smallish guy, 138 pounds, with pretty severe myopia, and near-average academic qualifications. But I have a personable manner and an excellent memory and a good head of hair. I will work hard and I will take hard decisions and I have developed the thickest of thick skins. With these attributes in this town nothing can stop me. Or those like me. We are legion. We know what they call us but we don’t care. We don’t need contacts, we don’t need influence, we don’t need talent, we don’t need cosmetic surgery. That’s why I love this place. It allows us to thrive. That’s why when I heard Aurélien had never showed for dinner with Lanier Cross I didn’t panic. People like me take that kind of awful crisis in their stride.

  Aurélien turned over and gently kissed Delphine’s right breast. She stubbed out her cigarette and hunched into him.

  ’This house is incredible, Aurélien. I like it here.’

  ’Where’s Holbish?’

  ’You promised you wouldn’t mention him again. I’m sorry, Aurélien, I don’t know what made me do it.’

  ’No, I’m just curious.’

  ’He’s gone to Seattle.’

  ’Well, we can manage without him. Are you ready?’

  ’Of course, it’s the least I can do. What about the pizzeria?’

  ’I was given a thousand dollars cash today. I knew it would come in useful.’

  Matt Friedrich I have to admit I was hoping for the Seeing Through Nathalie rewrite. When Bob Berger fired me and said that Naomi Tashourian was the new writer it hurt for a while. It always does, no matter how successful you are. But in my case I was due a break and I thought Nathalie was it. I’ve missed out on my last three Guild arbitrations and a Lanier Cross film would have helped, however half-baked, however art-house. Berger said they would honour the fee for the synopsis I did (obfuscation takes on new meaning) but I guess the check is still in the post. But, I do not repine, as a great English novelist once said, I just get on with the job.

  I have a theory about this town, this place, this spielraum where we dream and dawdle: one of our problems – perhaps it’s the problem – is that here ego always outstrips ability. Always. That applies to everyone: writers, directors, actors, heads of production, d-boys and unit runners. It’s our disease, our mark of Cain. When you have success here you think you can do anything and that’s the great error. The success diet is too rich for our digestive systems: it poisons us, addles the brain. It makes us blind. We lose our self-knowledge. My advice to all those who make it is this: take the job you would have done if the film had been a flop. Don’t go for the big one, don’t let those horizons recede. Do the commercial, the TV pilot, the documentary, the three-week rewrite, the character role or whatever it was you had lined up first. Do that job and then maybe you can reach for the forbidden fruit, but at least you’ll have your feet on the ground.

  ’Kaiser?’

  ’Bob?’

  ’He’s not at the house, Kaiser.’

  ’Shit.’

  ’He’s got to phone her. He’s got to apologize.’

  ’No. He’s got to lie.’

  ’She called Vincent.’

  ’Fuck. The bitch.’

  ’That’s how bad she wants to do it. I think it’s a good sign.’

  ’Where is that African bastard? I’ll kill him.’

  ’Nancy says the French babe showed.’

  ’Oh, no. No, fuckin’ no!’

  ’It gets worse, Kaiser. Vincent told me to call Tim Pascal.’

  ’Who the fuck’s he?’

  ’Some English director. Lanier wants to meet with him.’

  ’Who’s his agent?’

  ’Sheldon . . . Hello? Kaiser?’

  George Malinverno I got a theory about this town, this place: everybody likes pizza. Even the French. We got to know them real well, I guess. They came back every night, the French. The tall black guy, the ratty one and the blonde girl. Real pretty girl. Every night they come. Every night they eat pizza. Every night she ties one on. Everybody likes pizza. [Bitter laugh.] Everybody. Too bad I didn’t think of it first, huh?

  They film one night. And the girl, she’s steaming. Then, I don’t know, something goes wrong and we don’t see them for a while. Then he comes back. Just the black guy, Aurélien, and the girl. He says can they film, one night, thousand bucks. I say for sure. So he sets up the sound and he sets up the camera behind the bushes. You know, it’s not a disturbance, exactly. I never see anybody make a film like this before. A thousand bucks, it’s very generous. So the girl, she walks up, she takes a seat, she orders beer and keeps on drinking. Soon she’s pretty stewed. Aurélien sits behind the bushes, just keeps filming. Some guy tries to pick her up, puts his hand on the table, like, leans over, she takes a book of matches, like that one, and does something to the back of his hand with the corner. I couldn’t see what she did but the guy gasps with pain, shudders like this, just backs off.

  Then we get a big party in, birthday party, they’d already booked, fourteen people. She sits there drinking and smoking, Aurélien’s filming. Then we bring the cake out of the kitchen, candles all lit. Whenever there’s a birthday we get Chico to sing. Chico, the little waiter, tubby guy, wanted to be an opera singer. Got a fine strong voice. He’s singing ‘Happy Birthday to You’ – he’s got a kind of drawn-out, elaborate way of singing it. Top of his voice, molto vibrato, you know. Next thing I know the girl’s on her feet with a fuckin’ gun in her hand, screaming in French. Nobody can hear because Chico’s singing his balls off. I tear out from behind the bar, but I’m too late. POW. First shot blows the cake away. BAM. Second one gets Chico in the thigh. Flesh wound, thanks God. I charge her to the ground, Roberto jumps on top. We wrestle the gun away. She put up quite a fight for a little thing. Did something to my shoulder too, she twisted it in some way, never been the same since. Aurélien got the whole thing on film. I hear it looks great.

  Aurélien sat outside the Alcazar screening room with Kaiser Prevost and Bob Berger. Berger combed and recombed his hair, he kept smelling his comb, smelling his fingertips. He asked Prevost to smell his hair. Prevost said it smelt of shampoo. Prevost
went to the lavatory for the fourth time.

  ’Relax,’ Aurélien said to them both. ‘I’m really pleased with the film. I couldn’t be more pleased.’

  Berger groaned. ‘Don’t say that, don’t say that.’

  ’If he likes it,’ Kaiser said, ‘we’re in business. Lanier will like it, for sure, and Aurélien will apologize. Won’t you, Aurélien? Of course you will. No problem. Lanier loved him. Lanier loved you, didn’t she, Aurélien?’

  ’Why are we worried about Lanier?’ Aurélien said. ‘Delphine came back. We finished the film.’

  ’Jesus Christ,’ said Bob Berger.

  ’Don’t worry, Bob,’ Kaiser said. ‘Everything can be fixed.’

  Vincent Bandine emerged from the screening room.

  Aurélien stood up. ‘What do you think?’

  Vincent Bandine I believe in candour. I have a theory about this town, this place: we don’t put enough stock in candour. I am into candour in a big way. So I take Aurélien aside, gently, and I say: ‘Aurélien, or whatever your name is, I think your film is goatshit. I think it’s a disgusting, boring piece of grade ‘’A’’ manure. I wouldn’t give the sweat off my balls for your goatshit film.’ That’s what I said, verbatim. And, I have to give it to the kid, he just stood there and looked at me, sort of slight smile on his face. Usually when I’m this candid they’re in deep shock, or weeping, or vomiting by now. And he looks at me and says, ‘I can’t blame you for thinking like this. You’re not a man of culture, so I can’t blame you for thinking like this.’ And he walks. He walks out jauntily. I should have had his fucking legs broken. I’ve got the biggest collection of Vuillard paintings on the west coast of America. I should have had his fucking legs broken. We had to pay the waiter fifty grand not to press charges, keep the Alcazar name out of things. The girl went to a clinic for three weeks to dry out. . . Aurélien No. Not a man of culture, eh?

  Kit Vermeer Ah, Lanier took it badly. I don’t think that. Do you mind? Thank you. Bats and lemurs, man, wow, they didn’t get a look-in. Bats and lemurs. Story of my life. Weltanschauung, that’s what I’m up for. No, Weltschmerz. That’s my bag. Bats and lemurs. Why not owls and armadillos? No, I’m not looking at you, sir, or talking to you. Forsooth. Fuckin’ nerd. Wank in a bath, that’s what an English friend of mine calls them. What a wank in a bath. Owls and armadillos.