by Arthur Slade
“I’m Beets,” Isabelle said, raising her hand. “I’m Beets.”
All of them laughed except for Beatrice. She glanced around the grounds.
“He’s in the trees over there,” her sister whispered, pointing secretively. “Oh, this is just like a romance movie.”
Beatrice looked where her sister had pointed. Raul was partly hidden by a mulberry bush, watching them. He didn’t have a smile or a grimace on his face. Only shock and wonder. The way she had been primped up somehow was making her feel a different kind of power. A confidence. This must be how actors feel when they become a character. She winked at Raul.
A long black Lincoln pulled up to the front of the mansion and they all got into the back compartment. The driver was one of the guards from the front gate. Raul was still staring at the darkened windows as they pulled away.
“We’re going to a magic place,” Uncle Wayne said. “Where the fans scream your name.” His eyes glowed with anticipation.
“You look gorgeous,” Aunt Betty said to Isabelle. “Gorgeous, child. They’ll eat you up. That sleep brought colour to your cheeks. I wish I looked half as yummy as you.”
“You are one hundred percent yummy, dear,” Uncle Wayne said.
Beatrice felt her stomach turn.
“I forget most of the film already,” Isabelle said. “That always happens. I forget the story. It takes place in a castle, I remember that much.”
“And I play your father, you haven’t forgotten that.” Uncle Wayne tickled her under her jaw. “Brilliant idea from Mr. Cecil, to have me play a role I already know so well. It makes it all so natural.”
“Don’t you die?” Isabelle said.
“I die to protect you. It’s a very brave sacrifice. Noble.”
“I kind of remember that. Whenever I see any of my films it’s like it’s a brand-new story!”
They rounded the corner of the road and raced full speed out the open gate. Then the car sped past rows of mansions: the homes of oil barons, bondsmen, doctors, lawyers, other movie producers, and the occasional movie star. The traffic grew thicker as they entered Los Angeles: an abundance of automobiles, an abundance of people, the sun setting behind them. They turned right on Wilshire Boulevard. The buildings vanished, and it became a flat area with grass and oil derricks along the road—a park in the middle of the city. Beatrice stared out the window at the La Brea Tar Pits. The pits themselves were bubbling beside the road. “There are monsters in the tar,” she said. “The bones of ancient dinosaurs and sabre-toothed tigers.”
“A good place for them,” Aunt Betty said. “Gives me the chills. Maybe the driver doesn’t know the best route.”
The car turned north a few blocks later, passing several apartment buildings. Crowds doubled, then tripled. At Hollywood Boulevard they had to slow down for people who were packed together on the sidewalks, spilling out onto the street: men dressed up in suits and tuxedoes and dark hats, women in flashy dresses and dainty little hats. A clown was juggling burning batons. He brought one to his mouth and as the car passed he shot flames into the air.
All those eyeballs turned to watch the car as if they knew who was in there. Beatrice leaned away from the window and scrunched farther into her seat.
They passed a tall building. Down one side was a full-colour banner for the movie. It had the title Frankenstein on it and an image of Isabelle covering her mouth with a look of fear. At the bottom were the words: Now with Cinétone sound!
“I’m a hundred feet tall,” Isabelle said.
“If you’re impressed by that, then take a gander over there.” Uncle Wayne was pointing out front. “Mr. Cecil has outdone himself!”
Ahead of them was the Theatre Eternal, lit up by spotlights situated along some of the taller buildings next to it. The theatre was made of black stone, and larger than any of the structures around it. It was as if a giant replica of Stonehenge had been fused together and dropped from the air—a place of primeval worship. An electric FRANKENSTEIN sign was stretched across the street from one tall building to another. A burst of fireworks shot through the sky, announcing their arrival.
Isabelle grabbed her sister’s hand. “It’ll be wonderful. This is what I live for. Now I remember why I do all that hard work.” She gave her another squeeze. “You’re a star tonight, too. A mysterious, amazing star.”
The long car pulled up to the red carpet, the driver opened the door, and Uncle Wayne was the first to step out, taking a moment to enjoy the applause of the crowd. Then he turned and extended his hand to help Aunt Betty. There was more applause, but it seemed muted. Uncle Wayne reached in a third time and took Beatrice’s hand. She fought him for a moment, pulling back, then, after a push from Isabelle, she half-stepped, half-stumbled out onto the sidewalk. Her fancy shoes caught in the carpet, but her uncle kept her upright. A spotlight from the top of the theater lit her up and blinded her.
“Oh, now they flick on the spotlights,” her uncle hissed.
Immediately, Beatrice felt the eyes of the crowd upon her, their cheering filled her ears. There was a flood of Ooohs.
“Isabelle! Isabelle Thorn!” a man shouted.
A child squealed, “She’s really real!”
The eyes were everywhere. Several cameras flashed, and she raised one hand. She stood as straight as she could, but her legs threatened to buckle.
“How do you feel?” a reporter shouted. It was Robert Russel! She almost went running over to him. But when she blinked she saw that her mind had tricked her. He just had the same colour hair and a similar hat.
“We love you!” a young man shouted. “I love you!”
“Step over to the right,” Uncle Wayne whispered, his face locked in a glowing smile. He spoke between his teeth. “Give Isabelle lots of space. Your sister has to come out now. People need to see her clearly.”
When Uncle Wayne let her go to reach for Isabelle, Beatrice nearly fell over. She hadn’t expected the crowd to be such a physical presence. They were there. Right there. Sucking up all the air so that she couldn’t breathe. Isabelle rose out of the car and all the eyes shifted away from Beatrice. She felt it physically. They all sucked in their breath at her sister’s beauty.
Isabelle seemed to grow taller, the adulation made her back straighter.
“There are two of them!” a woman screeched. “Two of them!”
The flaring of camera flashes became a storm of light. Isabelle waved and many in the pressing mass waved back. Then they all began to applaud. “Let’s go, Beets,” Isabelle said, latching onto her sister’s hand and pulling her along the carpet. People were shouting out about twenty things at once: “Isabelle, stop!” “I want to touch your hair!” “Iwantyoutosignthis!” A hundred pieces of paper were shoved toward them. “Are you twins?” “I love you!” “You’resobeautiful!” The words all ran together. But Isabelle just glided onward, cutting through the words, giving the crowd a perfect smile as their reward.
The twins climbed the stone steps toward the obsidian pillars and the entrance to the Theatre Eternal. Two large doormen swung open the doors and the twins and Aunt Betty and Uncle Wayne swept into the theatre, where the air was cave-cool and humid. The doors closed, muffling the cheering, but there were more people inside staring. One of the ushers led the group through a door marked Private Balconies, and soon they were climbing a set of stairs and charging through a set of swinging doors to their private balcony, with eight red velvet chairs and a view of the screen and the audience below them. It was the kind of balcony that royalty would sit in. The audience looked up. Isabelle waved again, but still held her sister’s hand. “That was a wonderful entrance,” Isabelle said. “It’s quite the amazing rush, isn’t it? It wasn’t so bad for you, was it?”
“No. No,” Beatrice said. “I’m breathless, though.”
“Ah, of course. I was breathless the first time, too.” She tightened her grip. “But it wasn’t the same, Beets. The clapping. It just wasn’t. It was like hearing the sea in a seashell. I
t’s not the real sea.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing. I’m just getting jaded.” She gestured to Uncle Wayne and Aunt Betty and whispered: “As long as I don’t turn into them.” Then she lifted her hand again. “Now wave again to our adoring fans. Let them know that we love them and always will.”
Isabelle gently waved at the faces below them. Over a thousand of them were down there and every one of them was looking up at the balcony. Many of them waved back.
Uncle Wayne gave a few waves and Betty did the same beside him, giggling with each movement of her arm. “This is the life,” Uncle Wayne said. “Any time I feel a little bit older, a little bit more tired, this reminds me of why I do it. All the sacrifices are worth it.”
“Yes, they are,” Betty said. “So worth it.” She ran a finger over her lips.
Beatrice didn’t wave.
Hypothesis:
If a crowd has mental energy, then that energy can be sent to an individual.
Proof:
Kings, queens, generals, and presidents have certainly been empowered by the roar of a crowd. But that does not mean a real or measurable energy exchange occurs.
The lights, which were designed to look like torches, dimmed slightly and Beatrice followed the others as they took their seats.
There was no orchestra pit. Not a sign of a musician. The Cinétone would replace all of that.
The door opened behind them. A large obelisk—Mongo—stood there for a moment, then moved aside. Mr. Cecil stepped onto the balcony, his smile catching the light. “Ah, my stars, my stars,” he said as he came around to stand beside Isabelle. “You’re here to witness your ultimate success.” He placed a hand on Isabelle’s shoulder. “Enjoy this. Each moment is yours. Your dreams have been fulfilled and every one of those people down there wishes he or she could be in your lives. Your skin.”
He looked directly at Beatrice. “And your skin, too, Beatrice. For they all are wondering who you are. Which of you is Isabelle. Minds crazed by curiosity. The stories of the twin revealed will be in every newspaper across the world tomorrow morning and that will fill this theatre and others for months.”
Beatrice’s breath had caught in her throat. Was it possible that Mr. Cecil had planned this revelation of her—of the twin sister—since the first time he’d seen them as children?
“What did you tell the press about me?” Beatrice asked.
“That Frankenstein will answer their questions.”
“People wanted to see me, too,” Isabelle said. “They know me.”
“Yes, Isabelle, they’re all here to see you.” He patted her shoulder. “You’re a dream in each of their heads. A symbol of purity and beauty. An ideal. They absolutely wanted to see you.” He rubbed his hands together. “Well, there are a few final gears to set in motion. A hundred years of planning will come to fruition tonight. And you are part of it. I want to thank you.”
A hundred years? Beatrice thought.
“We’ll have a party, right?” Aunt Betty said. “A big party like last time. I so like the parties.”
“In a way, yes, there will be a party,” Mr. Cecil answered. “And it’ll be unfathomably big. Unlike any you have experienced before. But I must go. This will my greatest film. Each moment is perfectly placed. You’ll see. And you’ll experience what perfection can summon.”
He strode toward the door, it opened, almost of its own accord, and he walked through and was gone.
“An un—unfathomably big party,” Aunt Betty said. “Oh, that’ll be so grand. So very grand.”
Uncle Wayne nodded. “Yes, it will.”
Beatrice sat back in the plush red seat. The crowd below them continued to whisper, faces looking up at the balcony, glancing back at the screen. But it was not as loud as she thought it should be with so many people. They were talking quietly, in reverence, as they waited for the film.
The torches along the walls of the Theatre Eternal slowly went out.
The large black screen shivered with light and life and everyone fell quiet.
26
The film began with the inkblot symbol of Cecil Productions, and that symbol made the crowd shudder. It was immediately followed by: FRANKENSTEIN, in large white letters on a grey screen that showed a scene of fog. Dramatic symphonic music played from all directions.
Next came:
STARRING:
WAYNE THORN
ISABELLE THORN
A moment’s pause, then:
AND INTRODUCING
BEATRICE THORN
“Is that a joke?” Beatrice asked.
“The surprise! The surprise!” Her sister nearly busted out into a giggle. “Just you wait.”
The fog cleared, followed by a slow-moving shot that revealed an ancient castle in the distance under a blood-red moon. The viewpoint of the camera travelled high along the ground, over a wooden bridge that led across an impossibly deep crevice. The screen flashed green and the image of the bridge was burned into Beatrice’s retinas. The camera continued along at speed, moving faster and faster toward the castle. Then the camera’s eye lifted from that low height and soared into the sky, as if on the back of a giant bird. The crowd below them sucked in their breaths as the camera darted toward the one window in the keep that flickered with light, and into the story.
Inside the room was Dr. Frankenstein, a tormented, mad, and brilliant man. It wasn’t until she saw a certain shift of his face that Beatrice recognized that Uncle Wayne was playing the part, so adept was his acting.
The intertitle flashed: DOCTOR FRANKENSTEIN’S BEAUTIFUL WIFE, THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE, WAS DEAD.
He pawed at her portrait on the wall. He wept. Uncle Wayne was watching himself on the screen, tears running down his face. The door behind Dr. Frankenstein swung slowly open and a bright light filled the room, so bright that Frankenstein had to cover his eyes. Then Isabelle walked into the chamber. It seemed the very sun was lighting the room she came out of and she walked on the beams of light.
HIS DAUGHTER, ROSELLA, COMES FROM HER STUDIES TO COMFORT HIM. SHE NEEDS A MOTHER. A FATHER. SHE NEEDS LOVE.
Isabelle, the real Isabelle, was staring at herself. As equally entranced as everyone else. “Is it really me?”
Beatrice took her hand. “It is. A part of you. A reflection that is real.”
“I’ve never looked like that before. I have never looked so real. So believably real.”
The camera drew tentatively closer, viewing her through a soft focus. Her eyes had never been more expressive. Her face was flawless.
Another door opened behind the two of them and another Isabelle walked into the room, indistinguishable from the first except that she was wearing a dark dress. She stood beside the first Isabelle.
AND HIS SECOND TWIN DAUGHTER, RONA, COMES FROM HER STUDIES TO ALSO OFFER HER COMFORT. SHE, TOO, NEEDS A MOTHER. A FATHER. SHE NEEDS LOVE.
“How is this possible?” Beatrice asked.
“Mirrors,” Isabelle answered. “Splices. Mr. Cecil’s magic.”
They interacted as if they were standing on the same set, in the same castle. It was seamless. Members of the audience looked to the balcony and back at the screen as if they couldn’t believe their eyes.
Beatrice joined the story. Became the story. She wanted Dr. Frankenstein to succeed in finding a way to save his wife, to save her sister’s mother. Her mother. She wanted the monster to rise, but she knew the doctor was playing with forces that no human should ever toy with—the power to resurrect the dead. What he was doing was wrong, but she cheered for him anyway. For he had his wife’s body on ice and if his experiment succeeded, then he could bring her to life and the family would be whole again. He needed his one true love. His daughters needed a mother. The universe had been so unfair to them for taking her away. And his wife, on ice, was Aunt Betty, but she didn’t look like Aunt Betty. She gave the impression of a woman who had once been full of love and life. The perfect mother.
This is what my mother
must have looked like, Beatrice thought.
To finish his creation, Dr. Frankenstein had murdered a man—a horrible, horrible man who had come to the castle to rob him—a murderer most foul. The poisoned wine hadn’t worked, so Dr. Frankenstein had choked the vile criminal. The death was shown in shadow, reflected on a wall by the firelight. But it was the most awful thing to witness. The act of murder was wrong and would taint the monster, dooming the experiment to failure.
The music was rising here, falling there, drawing the watchers deeper into the film, warning them of the coming horror and heartbreak. For now Dr. Frankenstein was truly mad. And he would finish his project at any price.
The screen shimmered and a green light appeared. It was enough to startle Beatrice, to snap her out of the story. It angered her to be aware of herself again, of her quickly beating heart, to again notice that there was a crowd of people below her. All the eyes on the screen, all the minds experiencing the same story at the same time. They were perfectly still, immobile. Statues. So that only their eyes moved, though occasionally a woman would bring a hand to her mouth in fear. A green mist had formed in the theatre, running along the walls and the aisles. Mr. Cecil wasn’t beyond those sorts of tricks to create atmosphere. The mist did appear to be coming out of the bottom of the screen, the same fog that permeated every scene of the film.
THE DOCTOR HAS GONE BEYOND THE PALE. HIS HEART ACHES FOREVER. HE LOVES HIS DEAD WIFE FOREVER. AND SO HE PUSHES THE SWITCH.
The switch went up and the lightning came down from the sky, arcing across the highest tower of the castle and sparking along cables and into the form beneath the sheet on the table. The doctor laughed like a maniac. Then something began rising from the slab of stone, but the lighting didn’t show exactly what it was.
THE MONSTER RISES. IT IS ALIVE. BREATHING THE SAME AIR AS HUMANITY, IF SUCH A THING BREATHES. IT MOVES. IT SLITHERS. IT SHAKES. IT SLOUCHES TOWARD LIFE AND IS BORN FULL-BODIED.
Here the camera, Mr. Cecil’s eye into the story, showed only Rosella and Rona. It’s Isabelle, Beatrice thought, but she also wondered if this was how they could have been in real life, both so beautiful and perfect.
