The Diamond Lane

by Karen Karbo

  “You’ll have the wedding of your dreams,” said Nita.

  Mouse nodded. She blew on her cappuccino, sending tufts of foam scudding to the other side of the bowl. Outside, the gray sky spit.

  Nita went out.

  Britty, the bride, had come to pick up her favors. There was a major problem. A major, major problem. Britty’s voice quaked with emotion. “What about the fucking doilies! Blind Irishwomen tatted those doilies!”

  The secretary’s voice was too low for Mouse to hear. Mouse hefted the saucer from her knees onto the coffee table and went out, curious.

  Britty was short and stocky, a feature she tried to mitigate with elegantly manicured hands and purple eye shadow. A stack of gold bracelets ascended up her thick arm.

  The doilies sat accusingly in a small pile on the secretary’s desk. They were supposed to go under the chocolates, They were the size of a quarter, the same champagne shade as the tiny silk boxes, the same champagne shade as the piece of paper under which the pile had been accidentally hidden. Everything was ruined, moaned Britty. These favors were her mother’s idea. Her mother would accuse her, now, of trying to sabotage the one thing Britty had allowed her to do for the wedding.

  “There are four of us,” said Mouse. “Can’t we just take out the chocolates and –”

  “Oh God! It’ll take forever. The truffles’ll look all, all finger-printy.” Tears dribbled out of Britty’s purple-mascaraed eyes.

  The phone rang. The secretary jumped. “Nita Katz Creative Moments!… who?” She covered the receiver with a wrinkled brown hand, “Are you Mouse FitzHenry?”

  Only Mimi knew she was seeing Nita this afternoon.

  “Yes.”

  The secretary thrust the receiver at her impatiently.

  “If we are going to do this film you should not be there.”

  “Ivan, what –”

  “– Her reaction to you will be tainted. You have never met, remember? We need her selling you on what a wedding coordinator can do for you –”

  “– wait, wait, wait. What are you doing? How’d you get this number?”

  “– it is her reacting to you and you reacting to her. For the first time. I don’t want to direct two old friends acting like they are meeting for the first time. Get out of there now. Come over.”

  “I don’t know where you are,” Mouse stalled. She did not want to go over there now. She was afraid to go over there ever. Ivan’s apartment. Ivan’s bed.

  “Four-twelve Eastwind, apartment B2. You know where Eliot lives? Bomarito?”

  “Not him.”

  “In the basement, past the laundry room.”

  IVAN’S APARTMENT WAS next to the laundry room, once a storage room. Even Mouse, no stranger to squalor, was appalled. She stood in the hallway, sweat breaking out on her temples, rapping on Ivan’s unfinished plywood door. The noise of the washing machines echoed off the dingy walls. You’d think, you win an Oscar. You’d think, you get kudos in a major magazine for finishing a film. You get that, and this is all you get. Before Ivan opened his door Mouse had a final fantasy that he actually lived in a subterranean penthouse.

  He came to the door without his pants, only a T-shirt, Jockey shorts. He was on the phone, the receiver pinned to his shoulder with his jaw. His face shone with sweat. The dishwater-blond hair at the base of his scalp, too short to fit in the ponytail, was wet.

  “– the lights will be set up before anyone arrives – two camera operators in addition to – yes, five-thirty – talk to you then.”

  “Catching you at a bad time?” she said.

  “It’s a sauna in here.” He pointed to the dusty hot-water pipes which lined the ceiling. “I got dressed for you.”

  “I’m honored.”

  “Come in. Another project.” He nodded at the telephone. “Something very easy I’m getting paid a lot of money to do.”

  “I’m jealous.” She looked around the apartment. There were no windows, save a barred, cutting board-sized slot near the ceiling, which afforded a nice view of ankles promenading on the Venice Beach Boardwalk. The window was wide open, but did nothing for the heat. If you pulled over the single chair, a wobbly folding chair with ripped upholstery, and stood on tiptoe, you could see past the ankles, to the blue-gray slat of the Pacific.

  There was a hot plate, convenient storage for several abandoned pans of aging soup. There was a bed, less than a twin. A pallet, fit for the writhings and midnight thoughts of a monk or a madman. No love happened on this bed, Mouse thought, surprised at her relief. Somehow the size of Ivan’s bed was supposed to protect her from … then she flashed on the times with Tony in the Land Rover, in tents, on random uncomfortable floors. If one person could fit on that bed, two could too. Two people could fit anywhere. “I like your place,” she said.

  Posters from Ivan’s movies were stuck to the walls with silver tape. The rest was a nest of books and newspapers: books towering armpit high against the walls, books stacked to form a sort of nightstand. Newspapers as an area rug. Dust coated everything.

  A black and white guinea pig ran on a wheel in its cage atop the small refrigerator. Fresh wood chips lined the bottom of his cage, making the apartment smell like a hot, dingy pet shop.

  “Does he have a name?” asked Mouse, putting her finger between the bars. He scuttled over and bit it. She blotted the pearl of blood with her tongue.

  “Dostoyevsky,” he said. Ivan unhooked the bottle from the holder on the side of the cage and filled it with bottled water from the refrigerator.

  “Dostoyevsky’s too good for tap water, huh?” Mouse said over the roar of a spin cycle next door.

  “If that stuff will kill us, just imagine the effects on someone his size,” said Ivan. “Please, sit down.” He pulled out the folding chair and wiped the seat off with his palm.

  She sat. On the card table were books on weddings. The history of. In America. Emily Post’s Guide To. The modern. The budget. Bridal magazines Mouse thought no one but Shirl bought. It was slightly hilarious. There was a letter on crisp white parchment, the names of the board of trustees of somewhere marching down the left-hand margin. “Dear Mr. Esparza: It is with great pleasure…” She picked up the letter. “May I?”

  “It’s our money for post-production. Without that we would be forced to post on videotape, something I am loath to do. I loathe videotape. I need to edit on a Moviola, to feel the film in my hands. It’s erotic, the feel of film, the smell of film. To me, videotape is one more sign of the end of Western Civilization.”

  “Is that what you told them?” Mouse laughed nervously. “No wonder I never get grants. I always go for the ‘why the world needs this film’ angle.”

  “The world needs nothing,” said Ivan. He was standing behind her. She heard the crunch of denim sliding on, then a zip. “Except Wedding March, of course.”

  “Of course!” said Mouse. She was afraid she agreed a little too quickly.

  “Is it safe to say we’re in pre-production?”

  “There are some things we need to talk about.”

  “That’s why we’re meeting. There is a nice place on the Boardwalk that has a salad bar. Can I take you to a late lunch?”

  “Oh, no, I’ve already –”

  “Then come with me. We can at least do the production schedule. We need to think about crew members, assistants. I have someone very good – Eliot, E., you know E. – he can roll sound, assistant edit, do anything. Documentary is a religion for him.”

  “I know how that is.”

  “I know you do.” Ivan smiled, held open the door. His teeth were very straight and hard looking, like bathroom tile.

  THE SALAD BAR was all-you-can-eat and didn’t look particularly good. Ivan went back four times. Mouse drank enough coffee to make her thighs shake.

  There was the issue of Tony. It was very difficult to do a ninety-minute movie about a wedding without a groom. As he ate, Mouse noticed Ivan had a tattoo on his wrist. She had thought it was a bracelet but saw it
was a ring of film frames, green and blue.

  “You get that in prison?” she asked, pointing to his thick wrist with the end of her teaspoon.

  “You have been talking to your neurotic sister.”

  “You did get it in prison?”

  “I have never even had a parking ticket.”

  “You don’t have a car.”

  “I guess that’s enough to make someone seem psychotic in this city.” He speared a radish.

  “I talked to Tony,” she blurted out.

  “So did I,” said Ivan, “When I called for you.”

  “Oh God. What did he – what did he say? When?”

  “He told me about the insurance settlement. Otherwise you would have planned the wedding yourself. He was proud. He is into it, which is good. The wedding. I like that he is English. It will give the piece a slightly different feel. A little class. A little storybook feel. An opportunity for social irony.”

  “Irony,” said Mouse. Tony reserved, Tony polite, had not said word one to Ivan. She could just hear him, “Oh hallo, sport. No, Mouse is out and about seeing to wedding matters.” A chilly edge to his voice, nothing more. He saved his tantrums and threats for her.

  “I had an idea. I think the movie might be better from the bride’s point of view, from my point of view.” She rolled her lips inside her mouth, waiting.

  “Tony is balking, isn’t he?” Ivan pushed away his plate, lit a cigarette, exhaled adroitly through his high-cut nostrils, passed it over to her and lit one for himself.

  “No,” said Mouse. “Did he say something?”

  “No. It seems natural he would. A man captured on film getting the harness slipped on.”

  “Ivan, he’s the one who wants to get married. It was his idea. In Africa. I can’t tell you how many times he – Anyway, don’t put it on me, the scheming woman. I hate that.”

  “This is good,” said Ivan. “I like this.”

  “Don’t work me. I know what you’re doing.”

  “Have I ever said how much I miss our old talks? You were the best friend I ever had.”

  “Ivan.” She didn’t want him to say anything more.

  He leaned back in his chair, dug in his pockets for money to pay the bill. He counted nickels and pennies. He didn’t have enough for both the tip and her coffee. Even though he ate there nearly every day, he was happy to stiff the waitress.

  16

  MIMI HAD PASSES TO A CAST AND CREW SCREENING OF a lesser movie by one of Talent and Artists’ lesser clients. She could always tell how lesser a movie was by how many times the passes got passed on. If she had passed them on to the guy in the mail room, the movie was beneath “lesser,” probably low enough to qualify as career-ruining. She had only two passes and invited Mouse. Her sister. They didn’t do enough together, she thought. They hadn’t been to a movie since Mouse had been home. Mimi overapologized to Tony. That was quite all right, he said, not to worry. He was going to take in a Lakers game with Ralph.

  Mouse looked forward to the screening the way she looked forward to getting some much-needed dental work out of the way. She and Mimi needed to have a talk. Now that she was entering into a partnership of sorts with Ivan, it was important that she and Mimi clear the air.

  This would be as easy as picking up a ball of mercury with tweezers while blindfolded. For one thing, so much time had elapsed since the summer of Ivan that Mouse sometimes thought she only imagined Mimi had seduced him right out from under her nose. After all, nothing had ever actually happened with Ivan. No dates, no kisses, no promises. And since Mouse had never actually had him, how could Mimi “steal” him? There was no tangible evidence that Mimi had done anything wrong. Still, Mouse had loved Ivan and Mimi knew it. Mimi knew it, and she did what she did anyway. You’re so dramatic! Dramatic, paranoid, and self-pitying. You’re just jealous because Mimi had boyfriends when you never did, said The Pink Fiend. Don’t be difficult. Be nice. Mimi loves you so much. She would never hurt you intentionally. Mouse could not eat for two days before the screening.

  The movie was at an eighteen-plex in Universal City. Mouse had never been to a – plex of any kind; when she left for Africa they still showed one movie per movie house. It was nicer than she expected. The walls were fairly solid, so only wordless love scenes were accompanied by the rattle of submachine guns from the theater next door. There were purple velvet seats – made especially in France, said Mimi. Cappuccino was sold at the snack bar. The theater sat atop a steep hill, secluded from neighboring Universal Studios by artful landscaping.

  Mouse hoped that she and Mimi would go for a cup of coffee after the film. She would apologize at long last for not coming to Mimi and Ivan’s wedding. She would apologize for not answering Mimi’s letters. But she would not apologize for being angry.

  The movie was a political thriller, featuring the usual cast of look-alike bureaucrats in dark suits having too many cryptic conversations in the backs of limousines. There were many scenes of the same men outwitting complex alarm systems, sneaking into computer rooms at the Pentagon and, in pitch darkness, planting high-tech explosives and wiretaps. There were the usual evil-incarnate assassins anxious to double-cross either side for a few dollars more.

  Mimi and Mouse shared a bucket of popcorn and a large Diet Coke. They slouched in their seats, their legs slung over the backs of the seats in front of them. They kept leaning onto each other’s shoulder and whispering.

  “What’s he doing now?”

  “Is that the same guy?”

  “Who’s he calling?”

  Mouse was chummy, sisterly, unhappily anticipating the unpleasant and unsisterly scene that would follow.

  Near the end, when the plot was uncovered and leaked to the New York Times and the explosive, which Mouse had lost track of due to a sudden flurry of love scenes featuring full-frontal male nudity, was dismantled, Mimi asked loudly, “What bomb?”

  For the rest of the movie, people stage-whispered to one another: “What president?” “What top-secret papers?” After the final confusing image faded, before the credits rolled, there was a moment of black during which, Mouse supposed, they were to reflect on the import of what they’d just seen. Mimi yelled out, “What director?” The audience roared.

  The response put Mimi in a generous mood. Didn’t it prove her timing was good, just as Bob Hope had said? She decided then to look into taking another acting class, but only after she finished her blockbuster, which she promised herself she would begin on Saturday. She strutted out of the theater scrunching her blond mop, waving to people she knew from the office. She was proud to be seen with Mouse. A lot of the people from the office knew her sister had lived in Africa. That was impressive. To some people.

  At ten o’clock at night the freeway was a parking lot, a sea of red brake lights, people cursing over their bone-rattling car stereo systems. There must have been construction or an accident.

  Mimi’s good mood deteriorated the second they hit the diamond lane. The car ahead of them had no passengers. The diamond lane was supposed to be for cars with two or more people. No one in this town had any morals, Mimi thought angrily.

  “I bet this jerk parks in handicapped parking places,” she said. “I bet he doesn’t recycle.”

  “Want to get a drink or something, a cup of coffee?” asked Mouse. She glanced over at her sister’s unremarkable profile. She felt bad for Mimi, suddenly. That contrived hair, all that expensive makeup. Mouse wished Mimi suspected something. She would be crushed when Mouse accused her of being a narcissistic, undermining, manipulative man-chaser.

  “I can’t drink coffee anymore at night, keeps me up. You shouldn’t drink so much either. It gives you cysts. I just want to get home. Look at this traffic. I hate this city.”

  “Cysts?”

  “In your boobs.”

  “I’m going to do that film with Ivan,” said Mouse.

  “You are?” Mimi’s voice was slow and kind. Too kind, thought Mouse, like an adult addressing a child who
says he wants to be president.

  Mimi coaxed the car out of gear, tipped her toe off the gas. They rolled forward a few inches. The brake lights on the sports car ahead of them lit up like the slanted eyes of an exotic cat. “I think that’s great. I mean, Ivan’s a madman, but I guess you have to be to do documentaries. Not that you’re mad. You’re sort of more eccentric is what it is. If you need any help on it. I’m more into features, but if there’s anything.”

  “I’d love you to help.”

  “Just don’t do anything like sleep with him. I know how it gets working on a film. It’s the Love Boat without the boat.” Her toe tipped on the gas. They rolled forward.

  Mouse chewed the inside of her mouth. To her knowledge Mimi had never worked on a film, she had worked only in an office. “That was my exact plan, Mimi. Sleep with him, then co-produce a movie about my wedding to Tony.”

  “I’m just saying…”

  “I think we have to talk. I want to discuss this. About Ivan, I mean.”

  “I’ve just been so busy. With Shirl and my blockbuster and my job and Ralph and everything. Ivan is great with women, I have to say that for him. He makes a big thing of asking what you want. But I guess guys that look like that have to be sensitive to the woman. It’s their only choice. Ralph’s the same way.”

  “Ivan’s not bad-looking,” said Mouse, trying to check the indignant tone in her voice. “You thought he looked like James Dean.”

  “Did I ever tell you about this? It was right before we broke up. Really the last straw. This was to finance some movie, his first one, I think. Every Sunday he read the car want ads, looking for cars being sold by women. He’d go and check it out. He’d schmooz with them, pretend he was really interested. The women would let him look under the hood. He’d steal some part of the distributor or fiddle with some wires, then hop in. Guess what? It wouldn’t start! The women would be embarrassed. They’d say, it started this morning. He’d say, look, I’ll take it off your hands for x-amount, usually half as much. They’d say okay. They were always glad to have this nice guy take their turkey car off their hands. He’d have one of his lowlife friends from a gas station come and tow it, then he’d turn around, put the wire back in the engine, and sell it for twice as much as he paid for it. He has the soul of a felon, I’m telling you.”