Sex & Genius

by Conrad Williams

  Michael let the air out of his lungs. His expression remained blank but he was physically relieved, which meant that he had been successfully toyed with.

  'Michael, we got something you want.' Coburn cleared his throat, replacing the lighter in his pocket. 'We got Shane Hammond rolling up his sleeves to do a part. We got green wave on a movie called Last Muse, which you're going to associate produce for the biggest cheque you've ever banked. We got a case of money for your option expenses and legal costs, plus a sweetener and then some. Bambi? Thank you, honey.'

  Bambi came to the table with two separate attaché cases. She sprang the catch on each opening them wide.

  Michael was surprised to see what he saw. The dollar wads were neat and fresh, toylike.

  'You're looking at thirty thousand bucks which will be yours when these discussions are over.' He winked. 'Plus a roll in the hay with Bambs. OK, Rick?'

  'My pleasure.'

  Coburn laughed. 'And that's just howdy-do money.'

  She was looking at him. He averted his eyes. They were an act, experts at bluff, menace, disorientation.

  'You get associate-producer retainer during development. Ten thousand a month, plus expenses. Then a production fee in any tax shelter of your choice on first day principal p. One hundred thousand dollars.' He walked behind him. 'I repeat: one hundred thousand dollars. One more time, Rick.'

  They both sang. 'One hundred thousand dollars.'

  'You're looking at one fifty plus grand and you haven't said a word. You haven't had lunch. We'll give you points, we'll give you onscreen credit, single card, letters not less than seventy per cent bullshit and major paid advertising. Welcome to Hollywood.'

  'Welcome, Michael.'

  'Rick's got paper. We can sign off now. Your signature buys those greenbacks. Our signature gets us that option. How's about that?'

  'Speak your mind, Michael.'

  He pressed the fingers of both hands into a steeple. His heart was racing. His first realisation was that Coburn had blown his cover by advancing a deal large enough to suggest pragmatism and therefore flexibility, but not large enough to reflect the leverage causing that pragmatism, Michael's leverage. His second thought was that Coburn had calculated he could be bought. If that assumption were true, it would explain Coburn's confidence, his routine with the cigarette lighter-cum-gun prop, his gamble on the offer. But it was not true. His heart quickened. There was an opportunity here, and Coburn had just confirmed Adamson's most bullish predictions.

  'Interesting.'

  'We think so.'

  'The offer is made in good faith?'

  'My friend, we did not come here to procrastinate. We are businessmen and we are busy men.'

  'The figures you mention' – Michael waved his hand – 'I had numbers in mind.'

  'I'm sure you did,' said Coburn.

  'Different numbers.'

  'Hey, bud.' The American was all smiles. 'We'll pay less if you want.'

  He smiled back. 'I'll tell you what I want.'

  Weislob was poker-faced.

  'I'd like to touch on the creative aspect.'

  Coburn blinked.

  'I have a vision of the film.'

  There was silence.

  'And it's important to myself and the author that this thing is done properly.'

  Their faces were expressionless, shadowy with reserve.

  'Unless I can meet Shane and establish that we want the same film . . .'He shrugged. 'No point in talking further. You see, we're dealing with an important novel, and the development should not go forward without your team being clear about the type of film I want to make. A film that is dramatic, cinematic, but true to the book. If we can come together at that level of aspiration, I'm happy to continue discussions. But I won't let the tail of the deal wag the dog of the film.'

  He was conscious of having spoken in a firm tone, of having conveyed a little of his metal to the Americans in a different language to their own. The agenda had moved on.

  Coburn gazed at his lap and rotated his thumbs; the window light caught the scimitar whites of his eyes.

  Bambi was jotting rapidly, turning Michael's sub-clauses into shifty shorthand.

  'What d'you say, Frank?' shrugged Weislob.

  'How many films you made, Michael?'

  'I haven't made any films.'

  'You want to make a film?'

  'Not any film.'

  'You want to get a movie scripted, cast, financed, produced and exhibited once in your life?'

  He said nothing.

  'Get some perspective, Michael.'

  'Shane Hammond is the money, right. Guy pulls twenty million like picking his nose.'

  'Shane's big, Michael.'

  'You're invisible.'

  'Baggage.'

  'No track.'

  'This is not your film, never was, never will be.'

  He was hard. 'It's mine for three years.'

  Weislob grimaced. 'What you got is not yours.'

  'It's ours,' said Coburn.

  'You stole confidential information, read a confidential manuscript. You've acted in gross bad faith and have no right to call this your picture.'

  'You've heard my terms,' said Michael.

  'Don't bluff.'

  'I don't need to bluff.' He held the table-top, fending the pressure. 'I can go elsewhere.'

  Coburn rose bearishly. Michael sensed the anger-point had been reached.

  'We've checked you out,' said Weislob.

  'Due diligence,' added Coburn.

  'Intelligent Productions is a blown-out piece of garbage, no revenue, no capital, big debts. Won't be around by Thanksgiving. See, we've totally researched you, Michael, and we see the logic of your hijacking this movie cos you're up shit creek without a hank of rest-room paper.'

  Coburn rounded boomingly. 'You're opportunistic and desperate, and frankly, my friend, I raise my hat to you readily, because you got our arses out here like greased lightning. But, amigo, if you really think a star like Hammond is going to sit round a table listening to a chicken fuckin' word of your so-called ''vision'', you're out of your jock-strap.'

  'Wise up, Michael.'

  'Sell out, Michael.'

  He caught Bambi's eye and spoke mildly and abstractly. 'The option's in my name. Not my company's.'

  'Your name is bullshit.'

  Coburn hovered above him. He heard the big man breathing.

  Michael looked at his hands in self-consultation. This was the crux moment and he fought against chagrin.

  'Would Shane prefer to wait three more years or talk to me now?'

  'Don't try it,' said Weislob.

  'We do all the talking. Till the deal is sealed and signed.'

  'Shane's time is money.'

  'He'd talk to me.'

  'He's cute with old folks and bums but he doesn't like wannabes.'

  'Stars aren't into speculative de-scussions about the nature of the universe with industry freshmen.'

  'Hilldyard wants to meet him.'

  There was silence. It was a strange thing for him to have said.

  'I think you should inform Shane.'

  'Shane is not sociable.'

  'Why don't you ask him?'

  'Ask him what?' whined Weislob. 'Audition for some pesky old author?'

  'He should be so lucky.'

  'Fuck.' Weislob's palms hit the table. 'Shane Hammond's way bigger than Hilldyard. Hilldyard's just another bookworm scribe. Hilldyard should be touching the hem of Hammond's jacket if he could get within a mile of a man that famous.'

  It was an insight to hear what these men really believed. They spoke ugly words, said crude things and believed them implicitly.

  'Hammond winks, there's twenty, thirty, fifty million bucks on a plate.'

  Coburn shook his head. 'Hammond does not need James Hilldyard. He has the pick of the best Hollywood scripts and can work with anyone he chooses, including authors a lot more visible than Jimmy-boy.'

  Michael's heart was sinking
in his breast.

  'Fact is, Hilldyard needs Hammond, being as right now our scouts say the bard ain't shifting them stateside.'

  'I'd say in the US market James Hilldyard is not only not visible but a complete lemon. Where's that Pulitzer? Where's that Nobel? Right out of sight. What the good man needs is a big, bruising movie opening on twelve hundred screens with a Universal or Sony on a major-spend advertising campaign.'

  'A humungous tie-in.'

  'Get the people readin'.'

  'Bums on seats. Paws on pages.'

  'Not some squirty little English producer trying to play off his literary status against a major Hollywood star.'

  'Won't work, Michael.'

  He was subdued, hemmed in.

  'Take the ransom and sign.'

  He had played it too straight, too respectably, and he wanted to leave them now, leave behind the whole monstrous situation that was as dismal to him as it would be horrifying to Hilldyard. But he had no choice. There was no backing out now, not until all the cards were played.

  'Variety would pay more for this story,' he said, turning an eye on Coburn. It was important to hold his eye.

  'I didn't hear that.'

  'Variety would pay me more,' he said.

  Coburn blinked, came round and sat right before him. 'Dumb, Michael. You'd lose thirty thousand bucks now. You'd lose more later.'

  Balls was what you had to have, he thought. Cojónes.

  'Want to hear more?'

  'Some things I don't hear.'

  'Then read about it. How your agency lost Shane Hammond! Full-page feature. Your face. Hammond's. Hammond's new agent. The screw-up on the option. Hilldyard's views on Rick. Your sweaty trip halfway round the globe and failure to close a deal. The trades would lap it up. Not great for business, but no publicity is bad publicity!'

  Coburn tongued his cheek. His eyes were neutral.

  'Are you blackmailing us?' Weislob was sharp. 'Make a note, Bambi.'

  He saw the cold disgust in Coburn's eyes.

  'We can play it that way.' Michael stood up.

  'Sit down.'

  'You're not leaving this place till the deal's done.'

  'Or we can have a civilised discussion.' He went around the table to the door.

  'Don't move.'

  'I'll be lunching at the Marinella restaurant. On the beach. If you want to talk on my terms, I'll see you there. Otherwise, give my regards to Tinseltown. Pleasure to meet you, Bambi.'

  Coburn rose violently.

  Michael grabbed the handle, pulled the door open.

  'Big mistake, Michael.'

  'We'll see.'

  Coburn let him leave without another word, but in his expression Michael saw a strange absence, a moment of non-being.

  Weislob picked his nose; and then the door was closed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The driver dropped him off at the snake bend in the road. He sprang out of the car and walked downhill, towards his hotel. He had promised to call Adamson. He needed more than advice. On the drive back revulsion had expanded inside him. He felt as though he had stepped out of a bad-trip parallel reality that one shuddered off with every turn of the road while feeling simultaneously exhilarated and hardly able to believe he had threatened them – the audacity, the machismo of it – as though at last he were kicking ass for every rotten thing that had happened to him.

  He sprang up the flight of steps to the hotel thinking of the chaos he had stirred up. He was light-headed, coked up on hazard and impulse, and he came on to the terrace almost too speedily to notice the raincoated back of James Hilldyard, standing on the veranda by the hotel entrance. Michael braked hard, stood staring, then reversed along the terrace and slipped down the steps again, glancing as he went to see Hilldyard's face sweep like a searchlight across tables and chairs to a point above his head.

  He dropped into an alley, fetched his breath back, stared vacantly at two cats eyeing a lizard at the base of a wall. Soapy water slid down the cement path. He had not stood here before. It was not a good place to stand.

  He had arranged to meet Adela at noon. She had wanted first news of the Coburn meeting.

  'Shit,' he said.

  Seconds later he was slipping up the steps, nerving himself to have another look over the stair rail; but on the way he glanced through the weepy remains of an autumn walnut tree and saw Hilldyard at the veranda's edge. Even at ten yards the face was visibly distraught. Hilldyard was staring at the view, hoping for Michael's return.

  He could feel the need in the old man's eyes, and it was with a betrayer's knot in his stomach that he descended the steps and decided to stay in the alley for as long as it took him to lose heart and clear off.

  He went further up this time, stared at the cats, regarded the textures of dilapidated plaster with unfamiliar nervousness and made himself bide time while the old man waited. The minutes dragged. He drew a hand over his face, to clear thoughts. There was nothing to think, actually.

  He could not keep still and walked on, following the alley along its winding route, which he hoped would lead to the Viale. The alley forked and climbed and levelled, produced lampposts, tresses of creeper, and the impassive backs of shuttered villas with their marble steps, entryphone buzzers and associated cats watching his shoes as he passed; and in due course he returned to the second path and went past maritime façades and pots of cactus and geranium to a point where the track ended in grass and he was looking, suddenly, at the back of a girl painting a picture. She stood with her easel at the edge of the terrace. Michael stopped dead in his tracks. She was almost camouflaged by the similarity of her hair to the reddish colour of the vine. She was motionless, brush poised.

  He trod closer, drawn by the glimpse of a flight of steps to her right and then by a need to verify the spectacle of a woman he had never seen in Positano. Quietly, he approached, gaining the sense of what she was intensely regarding as she held her brush aloft. He saw the sea through branches and leaves, the twisted stem of an olive, the facets of a shoreline turret, parting the tones of light and shade, and then her billow of auburn hair, her Doc Martens and dungarees, and when she turned, the calm brow and fine mouth, and the feral way she bared her teeth to bite on a roll.

  She saw him but said nothing. He passed her with a nod and made his quick way down the steps, his astonishment complete, almost frying him with a sense of the nervously unexpected, until a crossroads of alleys approached, and just as he turned, the figure appeared, and he flung himself into a doorway and listened to the shuffle and smack of shoes on steps, and waited an agonised eternity for the old man to pass, which he did, touchably close, with a hand on the rail and his raincoat belt dragging behind him. Michael held his breath and watched Hilldyard sink down the remaining steps. He had soon reached the bottom and turned out of sight.

  Up on the hotel terrace he rubbed his eyes and wondered whether to call Curwen or Adamson. He had to get going again, apply the engine of his mind to the next stage, though the prospect of Adela's arrival sent the distraction of slide-like thoughts across everything, the view, the next telephone call, as though to hold down all that with tight control while anticipating her company was impossible. He sat down hard on a seat. He could not properly visualise Adela; and not being able to picture her made it hard to prepare for her. She brought an energy that worked on him, changing him, making him into someone different. He bit his finger, enjoying the agitation, and thinking that in all probability love had dropped on him out of the sky.

  She had liked him physically; he was sure of it. No first lovemaking was ever solid in memory; too many things were lost in the shock. There had been the uncanniness of flesh, her sharp intakes of breath, the way she moved on the bed, supply voluptuous. In return for his losing control she had granted him all her sexiness. She wanted to be memorable, threw herself into the role. But then things slowed down, the first energies subsiding into entwined reliance. He had his moments of worship and wonder. Their caresses became more pers
onal, as though touching were now a means to locate the emotion of the encounter. He brushed her hip flat-handed, stroked the soft underside of her jaw. And she nuzzled his hand and became collapsible in the crook of his arm, trying to let herself go, striving under his touch. Lying next to him Adela seemed fully possessable, and, as she stiffened around the tenuous thread of excitement, he felt the tension in her desire, the swell of what she was able to summon up, as if she could treat arousal with the unabashed force of a maturely sexual being. And when she came, she rolled on to him to conceal the intensity of her relief.

  She was used to making love, of course, had grooves accessible to Jack and to some extent transferable to a new body. And Michael later wondered whether he had stolen Jack's show or Jack had stolen his.

  When her turn came, she wanted to do something for him and seemed conscious of differences. There was less expertise in her touch, even shyness, and that was more personal. A man had to be satisfied, yes, and a man had to take satisfaction, too, and Michael's responses were unknown to her, as they were unknown to himself in this situation. His long ascetic body had not been offered such luxury in years: the syrupy ardour of her kisses, the plump comfortable lobes of her breasts. He could not really believe it, and the disbelief held him back for a while, until gradually the flowing hair and upturned face and the plush cladding of her arse when she turned rewired desire and soon enough they had before them the coalition of his stiff cock and her dreamy smile. 'Exercise your option,' she had said, adding wit to provocation, and with reverent control and due sense of occasion he had taken some exercise.

  Afterwards, she lay on her front, face away from him. She was silently wondering how much self-control had been leaked.

  In due course she made a comic groan that brought her back into full daylight. She drew up, hair crossing her breasts, and came down with a mattress-creak face to face; and then her look was neutral, as if closeness needed no expression. Her lips parted, hair spilled away from her temple and she gave him the benefit of wide eyes, enormous on the pillow, and boomerang brows. Between them lay the sense of an event having taken place; she sought its implications in his eyes. He gazed back into hers. Before long, he decided to kiss her, as if a kiss would cast light. His lips connected with her passive mouth. She received his gaze unblinkingly; and this restraint, he thought, was her invitation to stay alert and see beyond the moment – which he did not care to do. He ran a thumb across her lip, drove his fingers into the thickness of her hair. She let this pass. He was welcome to see how beautiful she was. Her loveliness went out to the appreciative man, was available to him; and Michael reciprocated with his own intensity of aspect. He was so struck by her, it was too much. She read it in his eyes and laughed softly. She had landed this brooding specimen of a man on her pillow, a character with beautiful dark hair and serious eyebrows, a man of high literary taste and principled feelings, and suddenly it amused her. She smiled brightly.