Dark Duets

by Christopher Golden

  I have cast talented actresses––and I enjoy working with them immensely––but, in truth, it’s the hacks who have supplied me with the most joy. My ability to take their subpar work and make something magical from it, well, that, too, is an orgasmic feeling.

  I’ve ignored my actress for too long, and now the tears have started. I think unmotivated emotion is déclassé. It must be something they all learn in acting class, because they all do it. I have yet to work with one who does not, at some point, trot out the waterworks, expecting to get my directorial approval but finding themselves the object of my derision instead.

  Actors are a funny lot. Always looking for the director’s praise and willing to subjugate themselves to all kinds of humiliation to obtain that approval. I once called the trade my own, but quickly realized how much better suited I was to directing and producing. I am an auteur, not an actor. I crave capturing my singular vision on-screen. I was not born to be a pawn in someone else’s game, to breathe life into another man’s creation.

  I press the intercom and speak into the microphone again.

  “I’d like to try that once more. But without the tears.”

  The actress stiffens, her long-lashed eyes wide as she tries to figure out where my words are coming from.

  She was the prettiest girl at the audition. Not the best actress, but from her reading I intuited that she would be easy to mold. That she would take to my directing style without the need to fight me––as some of the more talented ones did in the beginning, before I’d refined my casting criteria. I press the button on the intercom and speak slowly into the microphone, my lips almost, but not quite, touching its thatched head. “Do you know what human myoglobin is?”

  She shakes her head, nostrils flaring as she fights the urge to cry. It seems once an actor slips inside the world of a sense memory, it’s hard for them to escape its orbit. But my actress contends admirably with the task.

  As I stare into the monitor for camera A, I can see her internal struggle. I call the view from this camera the “money shot” angle because of its proximity to my actress’s face. I am so tight on her eyes that I can see the jagged red capillaries, like molten tributaries feeding the sclera. They remind me of the bright red streaks of blood I found inside one of my eggs this morning.

  It was a pleasure to watch the blood absorb into the gelatinous whites as I scrambled them for breakfast, my gourmand’s tongue enjoying the barest hint of blood as I slid the first bite into my mouth.

  Delicious.

  “NO,” I SAY, shaking my head. “I don’t—what is—?”

  I can’t even form the question in my head. There are too many and they all bash against each other and I can’t figure out which one to ask first so I go silent, tugging at my bonds, trying to swallow back terror. For the first time, I realize my nausea is not just from fear, but hunger. I rack my brain, trying to remember what I ate last: a bagel. From the twenty-four-hour coffee place near my house. Maybe an hour before I went to the bar. Before the bagel, I’d only eaten breakfast. Greasy eggs and bacon. The memory only adds to my nausea and I push it away.

  “Never mind,” he says, snapping my attention back to the present. His voice has a strange quality to it. I think it’s electronic, like he’s not in the room but somehow broadcasting to me. Which would explain why I didn’t hear anything until he spoke, and still can’t smell him. “Let’s try a little exercise. Show me love. Not lust, not romantic love, but motherly love.”

  “What?”

  “Look, I understand you’re not a mother. But you’ve been a daughter. You’ve seen mothers. Maybe you had a pet, or a doll, something you cared about. Reach inside and give me motherly love.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I try not to scream, to keep the edge of fear and fury from my voice, because a few things are becoming clear.

  I don’t do a very good job of it. “Just let me go!”

  “That’s good,” he says. “I love that complex mix of emotions. Confusion, concern, rage, all telegraphed by those remarkable blue eyes, the tension in your muscles, the almost strangled timbre of your voice. It’s nicely played. However”—and here his voice changes, not as calm as it had been, his words becoming clipped, his tone like that of a schoolteacher disciplining a problem student—“it is not what I asked for!”

  “I don’t know what you want! I don’t know what I’m doing here!” I wrench at the straps around my wrists but can’t tear free. I fight for some semblance of control. “I’m not trying to, I don’t know, disappoint you. But, you know, you brought me here, abducted me or whatever, and it seems like the least you could do is explain what’s going on.”

  A long stretch of silence. Then his voice comes back, still with that disapproving tone. “Just a minute.”

  And it’s quiet again. I try to peer through the darkness. Now that my vision has acclimated, I can see things that don’t make any sense. I’m in a big room. No windows are visible from my admittedly limited vantage point. There are floor-to-ceiling posts, random furniture. None of that is especially surprising. But then there are what look like lights on stands, and others on racks suspended from the ceiling. Way off to my right is a clothing rack, on wheels, with what appears to be a variety of women’s clothes, mostly long dresses, hanging on it.

  So I’ve been abducted by a women’s clothing salesman? I think about the boutique Jen and I had ventured into, on Beverly, where everything looked like it had been made for size zeros and smaller, and blind at that, with no concept that some people wear clothes for comfort and protection from the elements instead of to make a statement on the red carpet and the gossip pages. We were kind of stunned at first, then amused, and finally we laughed out loud.

  The salesgirl was not entertained.

  The image of her—blue haired and impossibly skinny, with black plastic cat’s-eye glasses, using some sort of voice-changing device that makes her sound like a man—flashes through my mind, and I can’t help myself. I crack up. Giggling at first, then guffaws, genuinely hysterical laughter. My body tries to fold, my neck scrapes against the leather band, my hands flail to the extent allowed.

  Through my laughter I hear the scrape of a door, the scuff of feet approaching. I try to look in that direction, but it’s off my left shoulder and I can’t turn that far. I’m straining, and I know he can see that. He stops, just out of view. I can actually see a little of one of his arms, I think: a black shirt, the arm slightly crooked.

  I give up and slump back to my table.

  “We have to get some things straight,” he says. Now I can smell him. Definitely the guy from that bar I wish I had never walked into.

  “We can start with you letting me go,” I say. “I won’t tell anybody about this, believe me. We’ll just forget it ever happened.”

  “You must know that’s not possible,” he says. “Besides, we’re just getting started.”

  “Started with what?”

  “You have to remember that I’m directing this piece. As an actress it’s important that you be flexible. You have to be able to move from one emotion to another, on cue. I realize we haven’t had a lot of rehearsal time, but I’m counting on you to overcome that tiny obstacle.”

  “I’m not an actress!” I cry. “You’ve got the wrong woman! I work in the financial aid office at UCLA. My name is Mad—”

  “Aaaap!” he says, cutting me off. “Louise! You’re Louise. And you’re wrong. I recognized you at the audition. I knew right away that you were the one.”

  “What audition? I haven’t been to any audition.”

  He moves closer, and now I can see him, all greasy hair, nose, and gapped teeth. He puts a hand on my shoulder. I try to shake it off but he holds tighter, his fingers biting into my flesh like he wants to tear off a chunk. “Let’s just try it my way,” he says. “Later on, if you want to try something different, you can. But for now, Louise, do it my way.”

  THEY ALWAYS GIVE themselves stage names.

&n
bsp; My parents were no different. Once under the influence of the glittering Southern California sun, a nobody Jewess from the Bronx named Esther Smirsky became the much-beloved actress Eleanor Smart. The same went for the orphaned kid from Atlanta they called Henry Cohen. Yet my father loved his given first name––given by whom, he never knew, since he grew up with no knowledge of his true parentage. Not that he ever went looking for his birth parents once he had the money to do it. He chose only to excise the Jewish-sounding “h” from his name and call it a day.

  OSCAR-WINNING ACTRESS ELEANOR SMART SECRETLY MARRIES BOX OFFICE SMASH HENRY COEN!

  This was an actual headline from a Los Angeles Times article that ran right after they eloped to Maui without having told a single soul of their intention––not even Eleanor’s only living relative, her mother in the Bronx, who, if Eleanor’s nicotine- and alcohol-fueled tales could be trusted, had cried herself to death over the slight.

  Speaking of slights . . . I’m not an idiot. Of course, while I was filling out her paperwork last night, I had to look at her Ohio driver’s license. The name on it is not Louise, as I’d been led to believe, but Madeleine Newhall. I don’t care one whit she changed her name for her career or that she still hasn’t gotten around to getting her license in California––even though it’s illegal not to apply for a California license within ten days of becoming a resident. Not that I am going to be the one to turn Madeleine Newhall in to the police for her obvious violation.

  An obvious violation, especially if she is, indeed, collecting a paycheck from UCLA for part-time employment.

  I know how it goes. Every struggling artist, be they actor, painter, or musician, must have a day job to support themselves in their endeavor. You’d think the privileged son of two famous actors wouldn’t have an inkling what that’s like.

  But you would be wrong.

  Dead wrong.

  Eleanor and Henry had suffered terribly as children. It made them humble, made them work hard for any success they got. They did not believe in sparing the rod and spoiling the child. They treated me as they had been treated.

  Even when I was a baby none of the creature comforts my parents enjoyed belonged to me. I was relegated to a small back room ostensibly called “the Nursery”––and it is there I still reside. Once they were both dead, I tried to move into the master suite of the old Outpost Estates mansion, but there’s something about the rooms, a moldy-rotten smell, really, that puts me off. Makes it impossible for me to sleep there. So I stay where I feel safest. In the nursery room where I have always lived, alone, like a leper in a paradise I will never be allowed to fully enjoy.

  My actress is struggling against her bindings again. I’m afraid she’s going to hurt herself, so I take the already-prepared hypodermic needle from my pocket, uncap it, and slide her underwear down, gently pressing the tip of the needle into the firm, round flesh of her naked left buttock. Having done this several times already, I have the dosage down. Instantly, her eyes begin to flutter, the bright lapis irises rolling back into her head. I begin to release the restraints, finding her arms and legs flaccid in my hands. I unhook the shock collar from its moorings, leaving it in place around her neck.

  I’ve found the shock collar, on its highest setting, is a wonderful way to control my actors. It helps them quickly learn that I must be obeyed. I don’t know why more directors don’t use the technique.

  With very little exertion, I manage to flip my actress over and worm my hands underneath her limp body, picking her up easily. I wonder if she’s awake, because it feels as though she’s nuzzling my neck, but then I realize it’s just her steady breath wheezing against my skin and the way her head lolls as I carry her across the room. She is heavier than she looks. Though she’s slim, she’s muscular and long-limbed. But I’m up to the task. I lift weights every morning out on the veranda with my trainer, Mike.

  I may not be able to fully enjoy the gated compound my parents left to me when they died, but I’ve discovered a consolation prize. It gives me great, almost physical pleasure to know my parents are silent partners in my filmic endeavors. I think if they knew just how much I’ve grown as an artist, they might finally be proud of me.

  I keep one hard-backed chair in the center of the second basement room. It is the room’s sole occupant––that is, until I bring one of my actresses inside and seat her on it. I have sat in the chair myself and I can assure you that it’s very uncomfortable: perfect for the work we will be doing.

  I step away and immediately, as though she is mocking me, the actress slumps forward in her chair. I sit her back up, draping her arms over the chair back so she won’t slide again, but this position makes her large breasts jut forward under the thin cotton of her chemise. Most men would find the pose erotic. They would spread her legs and touch themselves as they looked at her.

  I am not most men.

  I am an artist.

  I reposition her into a less wanton, more supine, pose and then I inject her with adrenaline.

  My actress wakes with a start.

  MY HEART HAMMERS so fast in my chest that I wonder if I’m having a heart attack or a stroke or something. A panic attack at the very least. I haven’t had one of those in almost seven years, since I got away from Cuyahoga and my lush of a mother and her useless husband, old Wandering Hands McGee. I can’t say I’ve missed them. The ’rents or the panic attacks.

  So it takes me a little while to realize I’ve been moved. I’m sitting in a rigid, straight-backed chair. It’s the only stick of furniture in the room. He, the guy—let’s call it what it is, my abductor, my captor, the man I’m convinced means to be my murderer—stands a few feet away, watching me. He wears a half smile: Mona Lisa in drag. His eyes are wide, expectant. His right hand is buried in his pocket.

  “Good,” he says, in reference to I don’t know what. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”

  “You know I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

  The hand in his pocket moves, and at the same instant I’m jolted by sudden, darting pain. My back arches, my feet come off the floor and slam down again, and I almost fall out of the chair. It’s gone in a moment, just a remnant tingling sensation left behind, and my heart feels like it’s been kick-started again.

  “We’re wasting daylight, Louise. A little cooperation would make this all so much easier.”

  “Why all the drama?” I ask. I know I’m risking another jolt—my neck is burning and I realize that it’s probably the collar around it, some sort of shock device, and he’s holding the remote in his pocket—but I’m scared and I’m pissed and I’ve really just had it with this guy. “If you’re going to kill me, get to it.”

  His hand twitches again and I wince, knowing what’s coming, but it doesn’t. For an instant, I’m grateful. I think about offering him head. That might make him angry, though, and I figure if that’s what he’s after, he’ll tell me. Besides, the idea of him filling up my empty stomach with sperm makes me want to gag.

  “Here’s the scene,” he says. “You’ve been hurtfully, unceremoniously dumped by the guy you thought was the One. The wound is still raw. He told you that he only wanted you for your body, for what you could offer him sexually. That stings, because deep down inside, you always suspected that. So you’re going to make sure that never happens again. With me so far?”

  Not in the slightest, I think. But I’m not looking for another shock. “Sure. I guess.”

  “So how will you accomplish that?”

  “I don’t know. Wear baggy clothes. Hide my figure. Maybe gain some weight.”

  “Temporary fixes!” he snaps. “Sooner or later you’ll be out there again, with your breasts on display like some common streetwalker. You’ve got to take real action. You’ve got to show your commitment to change. This is the emotional meat of the scene, Louise. He’s coming back to see you, and you’ve got to show him your determination to become someone else, someone who’s not ruled by your sexuality. Someone who ca
n break free from the bonds of the flesh.”

  Just when I think I’ve got this guy figured out, I don’t. I’m confused all over again. I thought my flesh was why he snatched me in the first place, and I’ve been waiting for him to make his move. But now it sounds like I repulse him.

  Pretty much the same effect he has on me, so I guess we’re even. Except he’s the one with the remote control and I’m the one in the chair.

  “You’ve lost me,” I tell him. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to convey that, or even what you mean by it. What do you mean, ‘break free’? How do I transform myself?”

  He allows himself a smile, showing me the gap between his teeth. “See? Isn’t this better, Louise? Give and take. We figure out who your character is, what makes her tick, and then you inhabit her. As for your transformation . . .”

  His pocket moves, just the slightest bit, and once again I’m spasming, this time lurching from the chair onto the floor. When it passes I climb back up, and I know I’m giving him What the Fuck eyes but I can’t help myself.

  He reads me like a newspaper. “A gentle reminder,” he says. He shoves his left hand into his other hip pocket and pulls something out. Holds it up for me to see.

  A folded razor.

  He bends forward, sets it gently on the floor, then straightens and gives it a kick.

  It skids toward me, spinning, hits a leg of the chair and stops.

  “I WANT YOU to cut your face,” I say, the words like tiny electrical shocks as they dance across my tongue. I’m so excited about this actress, about all the possibility that lies before us, I can hardly contain myself.

  My actress stares at the straight razor, blinking rapidly. I can see the thoughts flickering like ticker tape through her mind. She has such expressive eyes––windows to the soul, they say—that I can almost guess what is going on in her mind.

  She takes a ragged breath, trying to decide what might be the best way to approach the situation. I am amused by her. She is trying to figure me out. I want to tell her that after five years even my psychiatrist still hasn’t been able to get a bead on me, so I find it highly doubtful the actress who mans the reception desk at the UCLA financial aid office is going to be able to put Humpty Dumpty back together again after five minutes in my company.