Sex & Genius

by Conrad Williams

  Later, when he had returned to his hotel and started to prepare for the Coburn meeting, he could hardly believe he had made love to her. The memory dissolved in his hands, was part of sliding off time, and this seemed to evoke still stronger feelings, as if emotion could substitute for the material presence of a person and thereby keep alive the reality of what had happened. The lid had been flipped and there was extreme urgency in his desire to confirm the miracle, to go through the threshold again and be on the other side of things, naked in her arms, basking in the plenitude of her body. He was terrified by the thought that what happened to them was an accident, a sexy one-off, caused by things that would not be allowed to run out of control again – a prospect as unnerving as its opposite: namely, that he now had a lover in the person of Adela Fairfax.

  He reached for his room key over the concierge desk. Hilldyard's note came back between fingers from the pigeon-hole.

  The old man had written one page in an italic hand of tattered distinction.

  Dear Michael,

  I beg you, as soon as you get this letter, give me a ring or come to the villa. I came this morning in the hope of finding you because I am frankly miserable at the unfinished state things are in with regard to our last conversation, which must have left you with some awful thoughts about me, and which I am most keen to counterbalance and explain to the best of my ability, and of course I would dearly like to see you for your own company. I am not an unfeeling old man and I do understand the nature of your difficulties and I would like to help in any practical way other than to grant the option, which I'm sure you finally understand is impossible for me, and I'm glad to have made a clean breast of that. There are, of course, more things I may tell you about myself, and in their general light I am sure we can remain true confidants and friends and colleagues, though of course what I have told and will tell you must seem very unexpected.

  Unfortunately, Frances is now very upset about the film not going ahead, really quite frantic, and it may well be that she seeks you out as she thinks she has rights in the matter. If this does happen, I implore you to support me by telling her that this was not my decision, and I know this is a fib, but that the money fell through, or some bromide about Shane Hammond not being available. I know it is a terrible imposition to ask such a thing. Please help your old friend. These are difficult times for me, and it is a blessed relief to know that, after everything, I can call on your support.

  Come and see me.

  Trustingly,

  James

  Michael re-read the note and then jogged upstairs. He would now call Adamson or Curwen.

  Standing in his hotel room, paid for by Hilldyard, and gazing through the shutters to the mountain, he sensed the deed ahead as a kind of revelation. The means were being offered to him, as if breaking Hilldyard was a necessary development in his knowledge of the man, the last stage in a unique interview.

  He wondered how much pain Hilldyard could resist. The man had high thresholds. Pain was a writer's friend.

  He did not brace himself much for the telephone call to Curwen, but just dialled away, heard the agent's secretary on the line and learned quickly that Curwen was ill. Joy was a little hushed, vague about when he would return and not responsive to Michael's urgency. There was no contact number. All calls were going through the office. His earlier message had been relayed, and, yes, the Americans had been leaving calls, too. She knew that a film was involved and was quite definite that Curwen, when he called, would call Michael first. Michael pushed for Curwen's home number, detected evasion, and became suddenly angry.

  'He's in hospital,' said Joy.

  The agent had collapsed at a drinks party, been driven by ambulance to the Brompton Chest Hospital, spent a wretched night on the ward before transferring to the oncology wing of a private hospital the next day.

  'Isn't he taking calls?' It seemed impossible that Curwen would cease to operate from wherever he was based. 'Where is he? Which hospital?'

  'He's not at all well.'

  His lungs were dissolving, his heart was faint, there were advanced secondaries in the liver, his skin was covered in blotches, his eyes were sunken. Curwen the impresario was suspended by the thinnest thread of life.

  'Who handles deals in his absence?'

  There was something curious about the death of a middle-man, so pivotal in health, so empowered by the interests he brokered, so inessential on his demise.

  'He's dying, Mr Lear.'

  'He can get me on this number at any time.'

  It seemed impossible that Curwen should cease to be; uncanny that he should time it so well.

  Strange things were being given to Michael, implements placed just so in his hand. He had not killed Curwen, albeit Curwen's collapse played into his hands as though he had actually poisoned him. Curwen had to go some time, of course, and it need not make Michael guilty that he had chosen this moment of optimum convenience not to be around for the Americans' enquiries. The reverse, in fact. Curwen's withdrawal encouraged chance-taking. If the poor man was going to the trouble of dying, Michael had better make the most of it.

  He stood on the balcony's edge, gazing at the sea and the mountains and the zigzagging houses dropping sideways across the ridge. Glassy light played on the lines and textures of things. The air was fresh, breezy. One became too easily fascinated by the plethora of forms defined by sea light, even in overcast weather.

  The scenery clawed at him. The prospect was painful to behold. Every purity was out there in the uptilted mirror of the view showing him his better self. He was keyed up, now, leaking with feeling. It seemed as though all beautiful things were in sympathetic vibration with his inner self.

  He felt pity for Curwen. Curwen's life had been meaningless.

  He shed a tear and rested his eyes on the terrace's chairs and tables. Everyone was level before a view, he thought. One busied oneself with daily things, schemes and ambitions, money and love in some convolution or other, and all along the view was there, waiting to be noticed, offering to steal you away from the hours and minutes of a busy life and reveal what it was you had for a soul.

  One took in the scene like pure oxygen. Its purity stung the inner eye. He could drag in everything now, the chairs and terracotta urns, the blue awning running from the wall to the balcony posts, and the head of hair at the end of the terrace, rising up the flight of steps.

  Adela waved at him, walking swiftly, carrying towards him a sense of energy and freshness which spun up his excitement. And as she sped across the terrace, he saw again the immense system of delights she offered and thought it impossible that anyone so consummately pleasing to every nerve in his body could not be destined for him.

  She had waved a bunch of flowers at him, and he had gone down to join her on the terrace.

  She was striking in jeans, sweater and lipstick, and all-welcoming as he approached her. She wore her variety well, showing herself lovely in different clothes. Her smile and colouring and mouth softened all resistance.

  He kissed her lightly and received the bouquet and stood there as she went to the balcony. She was happy today. She sensed her future and it made her exuberant. She had a springiness on her feet, a readiness to run and jump. Her hair smelled of blossom.

  He put the flowers on the table and joined her by the balcony. At first he kept his hands to himself. Restraint was dynamic. She pointed at this and that, held it all appreciatively in an open gasp, as if to show that she had taken in essences to do with where he was staying and what he had come here for.

  She faced him suddenly, drawing back a strand of hair. 'How did it go?'

  He shrugged and smiled. 'Fine!'

  'Really!'

  'They bullied me, and I blackmailed them.'

  'What!'

  Her beauty was exhilarating, especially when stirred by indignation.

  'Coburn's a gorilla.'

  She was taken aback. 'But why should he be? You've got the option.'

  'That brings out th
e gorilla in him.'

  'Michael!'

  'Don't worry.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'We're having lunch on the beach.'

  'They shouldn't be nasty to you.'

  He took her hand. There was no virtue in coyness. His feeling for her was true. Everything was being swept along and there was no time to tarry. Why not show feeling? Show her what he could express?

  'You look lovely today.'

  He kissed the knuckles firmly. She watched him execute the kiss with due sense of occasion, following Michael's style in these matters. It was one style amongst many; a perfectly good one.

  'Don't let them get to you. They're only agents.'

  'I'm not letting them get to me.'

  He encircled her waist with his hand.

  'Michael.' She twisted out of his clasp, keeping hold of his hand.

  He nodded.

  Her face was set. 'D'you want the good news or the bad news?'

  His heart leapt and that was proof in itself.

  Her lips were parted. She looked at him directly. 'I think you ought to know.'

  He tried to cover his alarm.

  'Listen here,' she said, patting the rail. 'The good news. You have a movie star on your hands.'

  'What!'

  'I called Shane last night. He's in Paris this morning but is flying here this afternoon . . .'

  'Here?'

  'Naples, then coming for dinner.'

  'He's coming to Positano?'

  'Yes, Michael!'

  He tried to control his panic. 'Why?'

  'Why d'you think?'

  'What did you tell him?'

  'Like I said, we have to be straight with him. He knows you have the rights. He wants to sit down with both of you.'

  'Both of whom?'

  'You and Hilldyard.'

  He missed a heartbeat. 'We can't inflict James on him.'

  'He has to see your relationship with James.'

  He shook his head. 'That's not easy.'

  'Nothing's easy, but everything's got to happen.' She held his eye, checking his nerve.

  'Does Coburn know he's coming?'

  She frowned, summoning calculation, not achieving it. 'Shane was completely gobsmacked when I told him about Coburn.'

  'Do they know he's coming?'

  'He doesn't want them to know.'

  'What!'

  'So don't tell them!'

  He was very disconcerted. 'Don't tell the agents who say I can't meet their client that their client wants to meet me?'

  She shrugged.

  'Are they still representing him?'

  'I think it depends on this deal.'

  No wonder she was tense. Reality-levels were increasing. All elements were in play, and he felt his own nervousness rising and sinking in waves. Time was now short.

  'Great! So what's the bad news?'

  She closed her eyes first then took his sleeve. Her jaw came forward, an actress's tic: the jut of courage. She struggled to find the right terms.

  'Oh, I think he's a little bit interested.'

  'He?'

  'Shane.'

  He did not follow. 'Meaning what?'

  'Meaning lots, I should think.'

  He shook his head. 'What are you talking about?'

  'I think he's interested in me.'

  He started. 'Shane fancies you?'

  'Possibly.'

  Something subsided within him: the sense of limitless complications.

  She gave him a look of veiled concern.

  'I thought you should know,' she said.

  He was lost for a moment.

  'We'll deal with it,' she said.

  He nodded. They would deal with it. Yes. He realised that.

  'Come to my hotel,' she said.

  'Your hotel?'

  'After your meeting. I'll tell you about things.'

  'What things?'

  'Things you need to know.'

  Michael stared at her, his mind racing.

  'When is your meeting?'

  He glanced absently at his watch.

  'Do the meeting. Then come.'

  Chapter Twenty

  He was visible now, fully in view, and he felt like a high-noon cowboy striding over the beach towards the wooden stilts of the restaurant. The sky was grey, the sea dark. There were no witnesses, just a deckchair that some optimist had abandoned, an overturned fishing boat, and way off, in the shrunken distance, the crow-black figure of Weislob doing calls on the beach. Michael pressed onwards, his heart in his mouth. At least they had come, and as Adamson said to him during a fast phone call, that was proof. They had to do business; their mere attendance gave him the edge. Though now, of course, Frank Coburn knew his man, had taken stock, and would be super psyched up. Michael had meanwhile realised that to have any honour in the matter he had to control the film artistically. An impossible condition for Coburn.

  Adamson was pleased by the venue. 'What is it? Shanty caff, bare boards and chemical toilet?'

  The Marinella was a platform of wood extending on struts to the water's edge. It hugged the boulder that stopped the beach, and its planks and bamboo canopy were cured by the salt breeze and summer sun; as was the owner, a rough old boy with a maestro's glower and an artificial leg that he cranked around tables as he took orders and brought food. He would lay out a tablecloth, clip down its corners, and recite in a drone the meal of the day, as if satisfaction were simply unquestionable if you went with the flow and let him get on with it. Michael had lunched there before, once on his own and once with Hilldyard, and had sat each time on the deck, mesmerised by the sea light and the taste of parsley on sardines, and the coppery rosé in his glass.

  'Eat well,' said Adamson.

  'I'm not hungry.'

  'Be psychological. Nothing you can say will make a bigger statement of control. You'll need a main course, two side orders and a glass of wine. It's the European mode: business as a subset of lifestyle.'

  It was 4 a.m. in Los Angeles.

  He mentioned Coburn's toy gun.

  'No bite, loud bark.'

  'I think it's pretty tasteless.'

  'Coburn is a player. Players play with you.'

  'You don't think he was trying to tell me something?'

  'Look, he's steaming because you nicked the rights and dropped him in the shit bucket. He's going to use every prop in the book before taking the strain on your position. Insult, intimidation, flattery, menaces. You put a top agent on the warpath.'

  'I've certainly fucked with his pride.'

  Adamson hesitated, computing pride. 'Coburn's bottom line is keep Hammond, and the route to that is bend over.'

  He could hardly believe this. 'I just force the deal?'

  'Like nutcrackers on a cashew. He'll fume and rant, but it's soundtrack, because you've got one mother of a crow-bar under that guy's butt, and without the authority of a client behind him he'll come off his position like a hinge out of balsa.'

  Michael had not been reassured, because Adamson had no certain way to know Coburn's resourcefulness at full tilt. If Coburn was good, it was because he thrived in tight corners.

  'Michael, you've got him cheeks wide over a barrel and you can cram every clause in the book up his bottom line.'

  'It doesn't feel like that.'

  'Hey, you're in hell's kitchen with a mad butcher.'

  'I think he takes it personally.'

  'He hands it out. He can take it. These guys swivel on client shit all day. Their sphincters are Teflon-plated.'

  Michael laughed unhappily. 'So what do I do?'

  'Coburn's come to hear terms. Soften him up. Don't go between him and the client. Be his solution to a client problem. Stress collaboration, shared goals.'

  'Then rip off his packaging fee?'

  'It's your greed versus theirs.'

  'I should be taking the moral high ground!'

  'Do unto Coburn what he'd do unto you, and do it sooner.'

  Michael was going to ask Coburn for
five hundred thousand dollars. That's what he was going to do unto him.

  The restaurant seemed empty from a distance. The season had come to a close; perhaps this was its last day. He wondered whether the owner would be there, waiting to serve whatever solitary diners presented themselves at half-past one.

  The beach stones were hard walking, adding weight to one's feet, pulling on one's stomach muscles.

  Adela's news ate into him. There was additional instability in the scheme of things, more variables to keep in control. Acute vulnerability went with high stakes. He was opened up inside, holed in some intimate place, had no choice but to push on.

  Rick stayed on the beach as Michael walked up the concrete ramp to the dais of the restaurant. Up on the boards a tourist in a tennis shirt sat at a table, waiting to be served.

  Coburn was sitting at the end of the platform. He had freed a chair from its table and placed it by the rail so that he could rest his arm and stretch his legs while looking out to sea. He wore a roomy suit and buckled loafers. A chunky watch dangled on his wrist. Even the smooth back of his bald head held body language: tough-guy forbearance.

  Michael sat down at the next table. No pleasantries could be executed. The maestro came out of the kitchen cabin and made his way over to the table. He brought cutlery, oil and vinegar and the morose disposition of a man who lives only for the changing light and a few bikinied bodies (in short supply today). Michael listened to the menu whilst regarding the agent's profile.

  Coburn sat in bulky self-containment. He gazed into the distance and allowed the energy between them to purify and condense, as if he were testing certain instincts for manoeuvre or attack. It was impossible to read him. He had the advantage of such self-knowledge in the realm of brinkmanship that his every move scrambled prediction.