Blood is Pretty

by Steven Paul Leiva

  “Yes,” Rand said. “Yes, that could be the explanation. But in any case, the bottom line is, I’m better at my job than anybody else in Hollywood. ”

  “Well, you see, that’s factual. That can be proved by the data,” I said, wanting very much to make him believe that I very much wanted to believe.

  “So why did I quit?” It was a dare.

  “Uh, sometimes,” I offered, “the best at what they do get bored. No challenges. ”

  “Oh, you can’t get bored in Hollywood. Not if you’re successful. Too many people hate you for that. And to have people hate you for your success is always—interesting. But you can begin to think that your life is a little frivolous. After all, what are you doing? Nothing more that constructing little strips of escapism for the masses. That’s all. Have you ever noticed how people in film are apologetic about what they do? They are arrogantly apologetic, of course, but apologetic nonetheless, almost to the point of nausea. How many times have you heard someone in film say in an interview, ‘well, what we do isn’t rocket science,’ or, ‘it’s not brain surgery,’ or, ‘we aren’t finding a cure for cancer. ’? Too true, filmmaking is none of those things. It’s just a frivolous little occupation that pays us millions of dollars so that we can live a thousand times better than the millions of people who give us their hard earned cash in exchange for 90 to 120 minute samples of our frivolity. ”

  “I—I’ve always liked movies,” I said, somewhat disappointed.

  “Yes. ” Rand looked up to the ceiling. “Yes, me too. ” Then he looked back down at me. “But put together a list of your ten favorite films and I’ll bet most of them were made before 1980. ”

  “Well… ”

  “And now the pressure is on to make animation. Animation! Fucking cartoons! Now what kind of a job is that for a grown man?”

  “I like cartoons,” I rose in defense.

  “Do you, Einstein? Well, I like a good fart now and then, but that doesn’t mean I want to manufacture them for the masses.

  “Masses, by the way, which are suffering one indignity after another, indignities of disease; handicaps; poverty; hunger; oppression. And what few people there are who are doing their best to alleviate those indignities are paid next to nothing compared to what we make, and are given the weakest of resources. Whereas the world will move mountains to accommodate a Star. ”

  “I can see were EarthPeople came from,” Anne said.

  “Yes. Are you disappointed in me?”

  “Disappointed?”

  “You were attracted to an aura of power about me, weren’t you?” Anne began to protest, but Rand cut her off. “I don’t fool myself that you were attracted to my physical presence. But now I have shown you a—soft side of me. ”

  “Men will never understand just how sexy that can be in a man—coupled with that aura of power,” she said.

  I cleared my throat.

  “Oh, Tom, grow up. ”

  “Don’t make Einstein nervous, Anne. I need him. ”

  “You need me?”

  “Are you a genius, Einstein?”

  “A genius? Uh, no, I don’t think so. But I’m real good at what I do. ”

  “That’s good. Because Craig here—Craig is a genius. He has created something that will benefit mankind on an unimaginable scale. But sometimes genius can be blinded by its own light. At the moment, Craig is a blind man—a stumbling blind man groping in the dark. And he very much needs a man good at what he does, to guide his way. Don’t you Craig? Don’t you need someone who can help you?”

  Craig looked up from his glass, now empty of orange juice. He looked up from the small bits of pulp clinging and drying on the inside of the glass.

  “Uh, yeah. Help. I need help. ”

  *

  Rand wanted to show us the grounds. First he took York aside and gave him some silent instructions. After which York gratefully scurried out of the room. Then Rand led Anne and myself out of the dinning room and into the living room, then out the French doors. The air was cool and brisk with that invigorating snap that belongs exclusively to Mother Nature. The view of the lake, even through the mini forest of pine trees, was all blue and a texture of ripples, giving the body life. As Rand led us through the pines, he started to rattle off facts and statistics. The trees were Jeffrey Pine and Ponderosa

  Pine. He admitted that they were not as lush as the trees in the Pacific Northwest, but not at all bad for being only a hundred miles from L. A. The lake was man-made, created when a dam was built around the turn of the century. It was two miles long and a mile and a half wide. There were fourteen miles of lakeshore. It was all the standard stuff coming from a recently converted resident, the kind of stuff that you nodded at in wondrous awe to help friends feel their manufactured pride. Then he told us about the fishing: Trout; catfish; carp; big mouth and small mouth bass. Both fly-fishing and reel fishing were popular.

  “Do you do any fishing, Einstein?” he asked.

  “Uh, no, not really. ”

  “What? You growing up a Middle America boy?”

  I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Comic books. ” He seemed to accept the logic of the answer.

  “I sometimes fish down there on the dock. The fishing is great in this cove, they gather here to get away from the wind. I stand there in a big floppy hat, the lonely, exiled Central American politician. ” He chuckled. “Sometime the locals boat by and try to engage me in conversation. I just stare back at them in my dark glasses and say nothing. I think it pleases them. Brings a little dark drama into their resort lives. ”

  We now came out of the pines and stood on the bluff by the tram. The view was spectacular. The sky was big above us, and a blue not often seen in the city. And through the crisp, clean air we could see in detail the pine crowded hills that surrounded the lake, and that admitted only occasionally to civilization.

  I looked down to the dock. The helicopter was there, as was Miguel puttering away at the engines.

  “I notice you don’t have a boat at the dock. Don’t you do any boating?” I asked.

  “Oh, I have a boat. You’ll see it. But that’s part of the second half of this tour. ”

  “Well, it’s all so beautiful,” Anne said. “You must be very comfortable up here. ”

  “It’s serving its purpose. ”

  “Much nicer lakes in Bulgaria. ”

  Anne caught her breath, startled. It was Batsarov. Rand gave him a look of displeasure. They had obviously not heard him walk up behind us. Yet there was no other approach but over fallen and dry pine needles. Training tells. I, of course, had heard him. Training tells.

  “Except they all polluted. Stupid communist fucks!”

  “Oh, were you a fighter against the Communists?” I asked, wide eyed.

  “No. I was stupid Communist fuck too!” He laughed.

  “Zhelyu, why don’t you go down and help Miguel,” Rand suggested strongly.

  “What I know about fucking copter?”

  “Hand him things. Make his life easier. ”

  Batsarov smiled. He jumped into the tram, turned to face us, and then smiled again. Smiled hard. Smiled at me. Then he hit the down button and slowly descended out of sight, his smile never once fading, his eyes never stopped boring into mine.

  Anne shivered. Rand assumed it was from the wind off the lake. “Are you cold? May I?” He removed his jacket and draped it across Anne’s shoulders, leaving his arm around her.

  She leaned in to him, comfortable. “Oooh, that’s nice. Thank you for your warmth. ”

  Rand did not expect that. He may have desired it, but he didn’t expect it. Possibly had it been any other woman than Anne, he would have doubted her sincerity, having gotten use to doubting sincerity in his life. But this was Anne. When you looked into those aquamarine eyes, it was too painful to doubt. “Uh, why don’t we go inside,” he said getting back to business. “The real wonders are there. ”

  “Whatever you say,” Anne answered. “We’re in your hands.
”

  We walked back to the house; Anne nestled in Rand’s arms. Rand, I was sure, was a man in love. But hoping to control it, I suspected. I walked behind them, trying to ignore the electricity in the air. Like a proper third wheel brother should.

  Rand took us directly to the study and went to the back bookcase. “You want to see something that’s right out of a movie?” he asked with enthusiasm.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “See this?” He pointed to one of the many leather bound volumes. “It’s A Thousand and One Nights. ” He took his index finger and laid it right at the embossed title on the spine of the book. “Open Sesame,” he said with anticipated delight as he pushed the book. There was the click of a latch being undone and the whole of the bookcase swung towards us, revealing a dark, concrete stairwell beyond. “A secret passage. Neat, huh? Built by the bootlegger, of course. Come on down. ”

  He hit a switch and the stairwell was now lighted and revealed to be spiral. It was claustrophobic and narrow; I had to pull my shoulders in to avoid scraping them as we went down. There was a wooden door at the bottom. Rand opened it and ushered us into a large, well-lighted room full of computers, electronic equipment, a chalkboard, and York, at a bench, bent over, scribbling in a notebook. To the right was a series of rooms, none with doors. All but one was empty, and it had just a bed, a night table and a small dresser. Obviously this was York’s “cell. ” I now knew why he did not hear the early morning commotion. One end of the room was completely occupied with the Veritas equipment.

  “Bootleggers are no good unless they have something to bootleg. This is where they brewed the hooch. We found the most elaborate old still down here, very high tech for the 1920’s. And now, as you can see, we’re very, very, high tech for the 1990’s. ”

  I, of course, showed fascination with the equipment. And I looked at some of the calculations on the chalkboard. “Wh—what are you working on?” I asked, doing my best to show wondrous confusion.

  “Truth, Einstein,” Rand declared. “We are working on Truth. And that Truth shall set the world free. ”

  *

  The hot Mediterranean sun beat down on the harsh landscape of rocks and olive trees on which Athens sat. Funny, standing here on the Acropolis, looking down on my city, I was somehow disappointed. Although, here in 425 BC, Athens was still a relatively new city, having had to be reconstructed a mere twenty-some years ago after the devastation of the Persian occupation, the new council chamber, the new prytaneum, the new homes, the new porticoes, all looked—primitive to me, not as grand as I expected, not as grand as I think Rome is—is? Will be? Rome, what and where is Rome? 425 BC? BC? It is definitely 425 BC. But that is not a date that means anything to me.

  Music—drums and pipes. I am reminded of my purpose. I turn around.

  Ah, the Parthenon. No disappointment here. 228 feet by 101 feet by 65 feet, the rectangular temple of translucent white marble from Mt. Pantelicus—as warm as human skin—sits in welcome, bidding me to come, bidding me in.

  I walk towards it. It is Athena’s feast day, and I must, if my faith is not to be questioned, I must go to her temple to show my reverence. As I approach I can see physics in the Parthenon, I can see that every straight line is a curve, that the curve—very, very subtle—of the temple steps, gives you a feeling of the grace and strength of the building. How lovely that strength has grace. Physics?

  I walk up the steps, feeling ennobled. Yes, ennobled. Large. I can walk with the gods! In the gable pediment far above me, the birth of Athena in a heroic statuary group reminds me that Athena was not born of woman, but sprung in full armor from the head of Zeus, her father. In the metopes, just below the pediment, were panels depicting the battle of gods and giants. Oh, for those days, my heart cries, those days when you could do battle with giants!

  I pass the columns before the entrance. Not one piece! Of course, how could they be? Each column is a stack of drums. No mortar. All the blocks in the temple, all the drums in the columns, so accurately squared, cut like jewels, so finely finished, division between them is nearly invisible.

  The great doors open! The sun streams in, moves in an instant to the back to fall upon and illuminate the great goddess Athena, standing 36 feet high, in a robe of gold, with flesh of polished ivory, with spear and shield, and holding aloft in her right hand, the winged figure of Nike, Victory, as tall as myself, offering up a giant gold garland to the goddess. Made by Pheidias, our finest sculptor, but, really, could this have been made by the hand of man? No. No, this is the goddess; this is wisdom, reason, and purity.

  I start to walk towards Athena. I don’t want to take my eyes off her. But they are caught by something. Something frivolous. Colors. Why do the colors surprise me, the bright yellows and blues and reds of the inner frieze? How can I expect them to be white, shorn of color, I, a child of the Mediterranean sky? Is this faithlessness in front of the goddess?

  Slowly Nike twists her head down, her face as serene as the goddess’ as she first notices me. Then, suddenly, it becomes the face of hell, and she launches herself of Athena’s hand, down, directly towards me, her wings beating with a horrible screaming. I am paralyzed with disbelief and fear! Her expansion mocks my horror as she comes closer—closer. With gaping mouth I allow Victory to dump the huge, heavy garland of gold on me, knocking me to the ground, knocking the wind from me.

  The triumphant scream of Victory echoes within the temple. Cut, bruised, I claw my way out from under the giant garland. I cast my eyes up to plead to my goddess, and my mind screams to see no wisdom there, no reason, no purity, but rather the fierce and ruthless battle-goddess our ancestors knew. She steps towards me—thunderous pounding—another step, another, soon she is but a gold and ivory tower above me. She lifts her foot. She means to crush me. She means to crush me for the insect I am. I roll. I roll with pain out of the way. The foot crushes; the wind it causes blows past me. I stand and run. Why, why is my goddess angry with me? The thunderous crashes behind me impel me on. I shoot out the door. I’m going too fast when I hit the steps. I lose my footing. I fall. I tumble. I strike my head hard twice. I come to a rest three steps from the bottom, on my back. Athena crashes through the front of the temple. The front of the temple collapses. Dust. I can see the dust of disintegrated stone billow up to surround the ivory and gold head of my goddess.

  Who hates me!

  I turn to crawl. But—no—more—strength. Blood. My blood is flowing down the last three steps. It is bright red in the Mediterranean sun, bright red against the translucent white steps. Pretty, I seem to recall—blood is pretty.

  Dark.

  Light!

  “So, are you astonished?” Rand said.

  York had just taken the Veritas glasses off me. I looked around. There was Rand, hovering above me, eager in wanting a report. I turned my head. Anne was sitting over by the blackboard, watching me. “Wow!” I managed to make myself say. “That was neat!” But it was not neat. It was not anywhere near neat. This was the problem with Veritas I wasn’t sure they understood yet. It allows your brain to fill in too many of the gaps. Not gaps in the landscape. Not gaps in the faces. Psychological gaps. But this I could not report on. I had to be an enthusiastic convert. “It was—god, talk sensory overload! I got information. I got facts. No! I didn’t get them. I knew them. I saw and I felt. Then, suddenly, the damn statues attacked me like it was a Harryhausen movie. ”

  “Yeah,” Rand said with pride, “I made Craig add that. ”

  “But—but it wasn’t—what’s the word— total. You told me when you put on the glasses that the next time I saw you, I would have this memory of being a citizen of ancient Athens visiting the Parthenon. But I knew things I shouldn’t have known then. ”

  “That’s one problem, among several, that we’re still having with Veritas. And that’s where we need help. In solving those problems. ”

  “Well, yes,” I stood up and started to pace. “Yes, if you can get it right, it has so many applications. �
��

  “That’s right,” Rand said.

  “I mean, last night you talked about helping the blind and stroke victims. ”

  “And more. And more. Far beyond that. ” Rand was glowing with excitement, consciously trying to make it contagious. “Never has my gut been so golden!”

  “But, but gosh, it’s going to be hugely expensive, isn’t it? Would people be able to afford it?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. Veritas will create enough money to support philanthropy. ”

  “How?”

  “Simple. Simple to anyone who understands how the entertainment business works. Look, forget for a moment about the educational and—charity aspects of Veritas. Just think of the entertainment aspects. ”

  “Yes, well, of course. Games. Experiences. Fly a jet. Climb Mt. Everest. Go to Mars. ”

  “Win the Olympics. Conquer evil. ” Rand stopped and smiled and subtlety nodded towards Anne. “Make love to a movie star. No offense, Anne. ”

  “None taken—as long as I get my residuals. ”

  *

  Rand was too busy being too evangelical to appreciate the humor. “All things most people will never be able to do—couldn’t do; don’t have the ability to do. But the inclination, yes, they have the inclination; the inclination is there in gross amounts. Why else has there always been a market for manufactured fantasies? Why is everybody investing in virtual reality?”

  “Oh, this is way beyond virtual reality. ”

  “Leaves it in the dust. ”

  “Way in the dust. But still, what about the cost? Research, manufacturing? Is it going to be just a rich man’s toy?”

  Rand smiled with the satisfied smile of a man with the key, the concept, the answer. “Einstein, you say you like movies. What almost killed the movies in the 1950’s”

  “Uh, I don’t know. TV I guess. ”

  “No. Government interference. A little thing called the Paramount Consent Decree that forced the studios into divesting themselves of their theaters. No longer could they be the manufacturer, the distributor, and the exhibitor. No longer could they pull profits from every stop along the way. It practically gutted the studios. They couldn’t support a full range of films, all types, A and B films. No longer could they afford to keep stars, directors, and writers under contract. No longer could they afford—power. The power went to the stars, the A-List directors, or to their representatives. That’s diffused power. That’s almost a form of democracy!” I don’t think Rand meant it as a compliment. “And then video came along. Saved the studios financially, but really didn’t give them any more power. And videos can be copied. Piracy—the worse crime, Einstein, the worst crime of all, taking my product and making money off it and not giving me my cut. The worse crime of all. ”