Flickers

by Arthur Slade

  The door closed and soon the car was humming quietly along. I am going outside, Beatrice thought. Outside! The guards opened the iron gates to the estate long before they arrived, so the Lincoln didn’t have to slow down. She couldn’t decide if the lump in her throat was from fear or excitement. As they turned away from the ocean and rumbled toward the hills, Beatrice sat closer to the window, the buildings reflecting in her eyes. In a relatively short time they were out of Santa Monica and into Los Angeles. There were several little cities packed into this part of California, bumping into one another, yearning to bloom into full-sized cities. The heat of the sun failed to get into the car. The sand-coloured buildings cast the occasional shadow across the vehicle.

  “Enjoying the sights?” Isabelle asked. “Just wait, things only get better and bigger.”

  “I’m sure they do.”

  The massive white letters Hollywoodland stood above them on a hill. “Everything has to be named, doesn’t it?” Beatrice said. “That’s how you possess things.”

  “Ah, you are thinking big thoughts today, Beets.”

  “Don’t tease her, Isabelle,” Mr. Cecil said. “Beatrice is a creature of logic and observation. And she’s partially correct. You name things to make them something that can be owned. But it’s a contract that allows you to have the actual possession.”

  “And is that how you got Uncle Wayne and Aunt Betty?” asked Beatice. “A contract?”

  “That’s how I got everything,” Mr. Cecil answered. “Except you two. For that I owe a debt to the hand of fate.”

  “We’re very lucky,” Isabelle said. “I’ve always felt very lucky. In everything.”

  “Do you remember the exact moment you fainted?” Mr. Cecil asked. “That wasn’t about luck.”

  The slightest hint of a grimace appeared on Isabelle’s face. She shook her head.

  “You did some of your finest work right before that. Truly breathtaking. I’ve not properly thanked you.”

  “You don’t need to thank me, Mr. Cecil. It’s my job.”

  He patted her on the leg. “You did more than your job—you excelled. You overcame. I’m proud of you. And as a reward I’m taking you both to Café Montmartre.”

  Isabelle clapped her hands. “I adore the Montmartre! The food is divinely French. Everyone goes there to be seen! Don’t you love it, Beatrice?”

  “I’ve never been there,” she said.

  “I know that. But I’m sure you’ve heard me talk about it.”

  “I’ve arranged a private table,” Mr. Cecil said.

  Isabelle clapped again. “It’s like it’s my birthday and Christmas all rolled up into one!”

  “You’re repeating yourself,” Beatrice said.

  Izzy stuck out her tongue. “I just so adore dining out.”

  The car pulled up to Isaac’s Haberdashery, one door down from Café Montmartre. There were other fancy cars a block ahead of them and a small crowd had gathered across the street—people hoping to see acting royalty, to glimpse in real life a face they had only seen on the screen. There were several photographers, too.

  “Now, neither of you draw any attention to yourselves,” Mr. Cecil said.

  Beatrice tightened her scarves and made certain her black veil covered her face properly. Mongo opened the car door and Mr. Cecil guided the two girls down an alley and up to a red door. It opened, and a man in a white suit led them up a set of narrow hardwood stairs.

  “I wonder who we’ll see?” Isabelle whispered. “Everyone comes here. Everyone!”

  Another door was opened for them and a waiter in a white vest and white shirt and trousers bowed and silently ushered them to a lone table in a semi-dark room. An ornate chandelier hung from the ceiling, a red curtain covered the wall. There were no other tables.

  “This is very, very private,” Beatrice said.

  “Where are we?” Isabelle asked. “I thought we’d be part of the scene.”

  Mr. Cecil smiled. He motioned and the waiter pulled the curtain back. On the other side was a window that showed the interior of the Café Montmartre. Diners were packed into the room, at small tables with white-and-blue tablecloths. All the men were in suits, most of the women wore fashionable hats and dresses. The dance floor had two golden curtains and a turquoise fabric ceiling. Only two couples were dancing. Light tinkling laughter echoed from one of the nearby tables, the sound coming in through tiny holes above the window.

  “It’s a two-way mirror,” Mr. Cecil said. “I had this room built for me.”

  “You spy on people here?” Beatrice asked.

  “No, I observe. Make decisions about who should be in my films.”

  Beatrice and Isabelle took their places at the table, pink drinks with candied cherries already waiting for them. A plate covered by a silver lid also waited. Mr. Cecil sat with his back to the wall. “I’ve ordered your favourite meals.”

  Beatrice removed the silver lid to discover rolled chicken. Isabelle lifted her own lid and gasped. “Strawberry prawns! Oh, this is sinfully delicious and I’m so famished.”

  “Please don’t wait for me,” he said. “Dig in.”

  The two girls began to eat, Isabelle quickly and with a ravenous attitude, and Beatrice much more slowly. Mr. Cecil watched them lunch without saying a word, his eyes seeming as lidless as those of ancient Egyptian statues.

  “Tell me,” he said after a few minutes, “what’s the most powerful weapon mankind has created?”

  “Those big bombs,” Isabelle answered, shaking a prawn at him. “The cannon things. And airplanes. And warships.”

  “Yes, they are powerful,” he agreed. “And Beatrice, do you have a guess?”

  “Scientific knowledge.”

  He smiled. “You’re close. Human imagination is mankind’s most powerful weapon. Picture that first painting on a cave wall, seen in the flickering torchlight. The visual memory of humanity. That was the first step toward films. The flicker shows we create now are just an extension. They are dreams writ large. The capacity to dream is stronger than any blockade of ships or regiment of soldiers. Not every sentient creature gets such a rich gift. An architect dreams of a building and the building becomes real.”

  “Imagination is what allowed Darwin to think up evolution, then set out to prove it,” Beatrice said.

  “Exactly!” Mr. Cecil said. “Imagination is what feeds the film industry. We use it to create our stories. People leave our theatres with new thoughts, new feelings, and new emotions in their hearts. What if that power could be harnessed?”

  “You can’t harness imagination,” Beatrice said.

  He wagged his index finger. “Not true, Beatrice. It’s a problem I’m very close to solving. How to harness fear. But once you’ve harness it, what can it be used for?”

  Beatrice didn’t know what to answer. She’d been swept up in his intellectual argument. But as she considered the idea of Mr. Cecil somehow harnessing imagination a chill settled in her stomach.

  “I’m sorry, I’m going on too long,” he said.

  “It all sounds very fascinating and interesting,” Isabelle said. “Very much so.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “Anyway, let’s set those imaginary thoughts aside. I brought you here for one other reason. See through that mirror? There are actors at each of the tables, there are waiters hoping to be actors serving them. This whole café is polluted by their desperation. How many late nights do they dream of being on the silver screen, of crowds shouting their names as they walk between the velvet ropes to the opening of their films? So few of them become stars. But not one of them is sitting in this private room, Isabelle.”

  “No, they aren’t,” Isabelle agreed. “It’s just us!”

  “Once in a generation a natural actor comes down from the heavens. Mary Pickford is just such a person. Charlie Chaplin, too. And you, Isabelle Thorn. It isn’t just that the people out there in America and beyond our waters know your name. The audience looks at you and sees each character you’ve
played. The Girl Threatened. The Girl Distressed. The Girl in Danger. The men want to protect you. The women want to nurture you. The young boys wish to befriend you. The young girls wish to be you. You’ve become a symbol to them. Other faces as beautiful as yours soon are forgotten but your face stays in their minds, burning like a sun.”

  Isabelle nodded as though receiving it all as a sudden revelation. Beatrice frowned. Why is Mr. Cecil blowing all this hot air?

  “But there’s one more reason you’re above all of them. I’m guiding your every move. I understand the visual metaphors. What each scene, each image means. How it affects the mind and soul of each human who watches. I can make feeling flower in the coldest heart. Ideas mushroom in the dullest brain.”

  “Yes, you do,” Isabelle agreed. “You can. You are so good at that . . . that flowering.” Beatrice watched her sister accept all of this without question. She wanted to argue with him, to somehow wake Isabelle up, but his points were valid. He was the best filmmaker of his generation.

  “The change from silent to sound movies will grind most of today’s generation of actors into dust. There will be music that plays at the exact moment an actor weeps, not depending on some fumbling half-drunk pianist. But more important, the actors will speak in a film and the people will hear the words. The actresses will sing and the audience will vibrate to each note. Imagine that. Every word you speak will travel to the ears of every man, woman, and child who sits in the theatres of the world. Those performers who have plain voices, who whisper, who rasp will be left to moulder. But you, Isabelle, you have a voice.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes,” he said. “And the strongest aspect of your voice is that primal scream. It’s the wailing of the lost child. The fear of the dark. All in that scream. They will speak about Frankenstein as the movie that changed everything, and you as the actress who brought that transformation to the world.”

  “It does sound wonderful,” Isabelle said. “The change that changed the world.”

  Beatrice dropped her fork and it clattered on her plate. “Why did you bring me here?”

  Mr. Cecil turned those seemingly friendly eyes to her. “I brought you, Beatrice, because I wanted to do a test run, so to speak. To take you away from the protective walls I’ve made for you. Just to see how you behave in the open. And . . . I have an announcement.” Two envelopes appeared in his hands. Beatrice peered down his sleeves, not certain how that trick had been done. He handed one to each of the sisters.

  They opened them at the same time, tearing the paper. Beatrice read the words inside:

  Beatrice Thorn,

  You are cordially invited to the premiere of Frankenstein this Friday, September 17, at 8 P.M.

  “I’ve never been invited to a premiere,” Beatrice said. Is this because he somehow feels sorry for the pain he caused me? But he was an eloquent man and if he intended to apologize he would use words. She knew that.

  “It’s time you went to one,” Mr. Cecil said. “You’ll be one of the stars of the evening.”

  “It’s tomorrow night!” her sister said. “I really have slept.”

  “I finished the editing much faster than I believed possible. We’ve moved up the premiere. I don’t want anyone else to nab this historically important moment. And I thought it only suitable that both of you be there. You see why I’m inviting your sister, don’t you, Isabelle?”

  Isabelle nodded. “Oh yes. I get it. It’s very symbolic. And fun!” She shared a knowing glance with Mr. Cecil.

  What’s this all about? Beatrice thought.

  “Ah, it will be a night of surprises.” Mr. Cecil gestured to the table. “Now enjoy your just ‘desserts.’” He winked.

  A waiter, as if on cue, approached and set a dish in front of each twin. Beatrice couldn’t eat her soufflé but Isabelle finished hers easily. When it was time to leave, Isabelle stood to stare down at all the other patrons.

  “I’m above them, Beets,” she whispered. “Isn’t it wonderful? I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy as I am now.”

  24

  On the day of the premiere Annie, the costume designer, and Megan, the makeup artist, arrived at noon and began their work on the twins. Beatrice had met them both several times because they often came to the mansion with new dresses or new batches of makeup for Isabelle—they were two of Mr. Cecil’s most trusted employees.

  “Hold still, sweetie,” Annie said to Beatrice, a line of pins in the older woman’s mouth. “Hold still. I won’t poke you too many times.”

  Then Mrs. Madge brought in two green dresses with galaxies’ worth of sequins. Both had long satin sleeves.

  “Is one of those for me?” Beatrice asked.

  “Of course, silly,” Isabelle said.

  “But how did you know my size?”

  “Sweetie,” Annie said. “You and your sister are within a hair of the same size.”

  “No, we’re not.”

  “A tape measure never lies,” Annie answered.

  That’s not scientifically possible, Beatrice almost said. We are dissimilar twins.

  “You look like a scared rabbit,” Isabelle said.

  The green dress fit her as if it were a layer of perfect skin that had grown over her flesh. The sleeves covered the birthmarks scattered across her arms. It was a dress designed to draw eyes toward her. Her hair was still hidden by a tight scarf, her face that same lopsided visage.

  “Sit in the chair,” Megan said. Her voice was cigarette-smoke hoarse. She expertly layered white napkins around Beatrice’s neck.

  “I don’t need makeup,” Beatrice said. “I want to be me.”

  Megan lifted a brush with white powder on it. “Everyone needs makeup, girl. Some more. Some less. And I can do it all, from madams to monsters. I’m the absolute best. And makeup brings out the real you.”

  Megan began dusting her with so much white powder Beatrice nearly sneezed. Then other small makeup brushes followed.

  “Don’t squishy up your face,” Isabelle said. “Relax. I’ve had to do this every day for years. Technicolor greasepaint, face powder, lining colour, moist rouge, under rouge, dermatograph pencil, dry rouge, masque, and liquid makeup. I’ve had them all. Munitions, that’s what we call it.”

  “This stuff is explosive?” Beatrice asked.

  “Only in the way it makes you look,” Megan said.

  Isabelle sighed. “It’s going to be such a grand adventure today, Beets. I can’t wait to see the new theatre. I love theatres! And this’ll be the best of them all. I just know it.”

  “I’m certain it will.”

  “And the crowds, Beets! It’s such a rush when they roar your name. It makes your heart flip. They’ll adore you.”

  “No they won’t! They’ll just see you, Izzy. They’ll be there for you.”

  “Perhaps.” She fluffed her hair. “But you are the surprise. My fans know I have a sister—I’m sure they gossip about you all the time—but none of them’ve ever seen you. Now, they’ll see us together in public for the first time.”

  That was what Beatrice was beginning to fear the most. The moment of stepping out of the Lincoln. All the photographers and fans waiting, restrained by golden ropes from even touching the red carpet. People would be staring at her! Watching as she rose out of the car, as she walked down the carpet. Her sister had been born to be the focal point of so many stares. But Beatrice had been born to be in the background. Maybe they would give her an opera mask to wear. Then it really wouldn’t be her the crowd was staring at.

  “Why is Mr. Cecil letting them see me?” Beatrice said. “After all these years of hiding?”

  “I’ve been sworn to secrecy about that,” Isabelle said.

  “What secret? Don’t keep secrets from me!”

  Isabelle put a finger to her red, red lips. “Mum’s the word. We’ll have a smashing good time, I promise.”

  Beatrice was about to argue the point, but Megan, without asking, whipped off Beatrice’s scarves. A moment late
r something landed on her head and was tugged into place.

  “Voila and all that,” Megan grunted. She stepped away from the chair and gestured at the mirror.

  Beatrice went slack-jawed. The white powder had been used to make her birthmarks disappear. A blond wig rested naturally on her head—looking completely real—the hair falling to near her shoulders.

  “You have the same lips as me,” Isabelle said.

  “And the same face,” Beatrice whispered.

  “We’re twins, silly. It’s supposed to be this way. You look just gorgeous. Gorgeous!”

  The makeup matched the exact colouring of Isabelle’s skin. The two of them stared at the two of them in the mirror.

  “I never knew,” Beatrice said. “I never knew we looked so much alike.”

  “You saw the blemishes, girlie,” Megan said. “That’s all. I took them away.”

  Isabelle grabbed Beatrice’s hand and clutched it tightly.

  “This is going to be such a grand evening, Beets. A perfect evening. And there’s one more big surprise that Mr. Cecil and me have for you. For everyone. I can’t wait until you see it.”

  25

  At six fifteen in the evening, the sun was turning crimson and inching toward the horizon, colouring the grounds of the Cecil Estate red. Uncle Wayne opened the double doors of the mansion and led Aunt Betty and the twins onto the driveway. Beatrice stumbled once and Isabelle reached out to hold her steady on her new T-strap dress shoes.

  “These shoes!” Beatrice said. “They aren’t meant for human feet.”

  “Just keep your back straight,” Aunt Betty said. She adjusted the strap on her blue satin dress—the dress could have come out of the pages of Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar. “I should’ve been training you with a book on top of your head since you were a toddler. I never dreamed I’d ever see you this dressed up and going to an opening.”

  Uncle Wayne whistled. He was in a double-breasted tuxedo with a bow tie, his hair slicked back and his face shaved. “I still don’t know which is Beets and which is Izzy. It’s amazing!”