She saw several books on the table, among them an interesting one that looked as though it was made from birch bark. Brenda knew Indians used to build canoes out of birch bark, but she’d never known books to be printed on it.
She picked up the book. It contained poems by a gentleman called Charles F. Lummis, whose name she recognized from a collection of photographs she’d seen once at an exhibition, and she commenced leafing through it. She was engrossed in one of the poems, which concerned the preservation of America’s wildlife, when the door opened. When she looked up, she beheld Colin Peters in his evening garb.
Holy cow. While she’d noticed his dark good looks before, what had at first intrigued her was his brain. Now, since he didn’t see her standing in the corner, she was able to observe his physical attributes in more detail.
They were considerable. Brenda, who knew better than most people how much good looks counted in the world—far too much—was impressed. While she would have cultivated his acquaintance even if he’d looked like a toad in order to satisfy her insatiable craving for knowledge, she knew good and well it would be more fun to get her education via a source as handsome as Colin Peters.
“Martin,” Colin said before the door closed, “I’d like to talk to you about something.” He noticed Mr. Cadwallader’s presence for the first time and his step hitched. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize you were engaged.”
Brenda, watching, grinned. She’d noticed before that very intellectual people didn’t pay much attention to the world around them. She might have anticipated Colin’s social ineptitude had she been anticipating much of anything.
It was also true, she knew, that men in general paid little attention to anything beyond their particular fields of interest. Most men, for instance, wouldn’t have cared enough about Martin’s conversation with Mr. Cadwallader to hesitate interrupting them. But she also knew that men like Colin, who lived in their heads, were especially obtuse. She sighed inside, wondering why Colin, of all the men in the world, should appeal to her so blamed much.
“Oh, hello there, Colin,” Martin said in his customary genial manner. “We’re almost through here. Please allow me to introduce you to Mr. Cadwallader, who’s going to be importing our Indians for us.” He chuckled softly.
As much as she liked Martin, Brenda wasn’t sure she admired his choice of words in this instance. She didn’t approve of speaking about people, even red Indians, as though they were mere merchandise. Not that she herself wasn’t merchandise, to be used and exploited for as long her looks lasted. She sighed, and decided she and the American Indians—or whatever they were, according to Colin Peters—had a lot in common.
“Oh. How do you do, Mr. Cadwallader?” Colin frowned. “Actually, Martin, it’s regarding the Indians that I wanted to speak to you.”
“Very well, Colin.” Martin turned to Mr. Cadwallader. “Is there anything else we need to discuss, Septimus?”
Mr. Cadwallader, who kept darting glances into the corner where Brenda stood—Colin was as yet oblivious to her presence—jerked his head toward Martin. “What? I mean, I beg your pardon?”
Martin, who understood these things, having worked with Brenda before, said kindly, “Is there anything else we need to discuss before you leave?”
“Oh.” Mr. Cadwallader shook his head like a setter emerging from a steam and gulped. “Er, no. I don’t think so.”
“Actually, I have some questions,” Colin put in.
Both of the other men looked at him Martin nodded. “All right, but I don’t think any of your questions have to do with transportation, do they?”
“Transportation?” Colin frowned more deeply, giving his face a dark, fierce expression that Brenda hadn’t anticipated. She found it curious. Perhaps there were untapped depths of passion inside Colin Peters. On the other hand, he might well be as dry and dull as he looked. Both possibilities suited her. She craved his brain.
“Yes,” said Martin. “We’re discussing the number of vehicles necessary to transport fifteen Indian men from Los Angeles to the Cedar Crest Lodge. Septimus here operates a motorized transport service. The men will arrive by train, and it will be much faster to drive them up here by motor than by horse-drawn wagon.”
“Oh. I see.”
Colin pushed his glasses up his nose. It was a gesture, Brenda realized, that was useful for several reasons. There was the practical reason of placing them properly so that he could see through them. But the gesture was also good for giving him something to do with his hands when, for example, he needed to think or stall for time. Brenda respected such gestures. She had quite a few in her own repertoire, although she’d wager her, last dollar that Colin didn’t understand the significance of his own signature gesture.
“Er, no. I don’t need to talk about transportation.”
“Good.” Martin gave him another smile and resumed with Mr. Cadwallader. “Then I guess we’ll see the Indians tomorrow afternoon. Thank you for your help, Septimus.”
“Oh, sure. That’s what I do.” Mr. Cadwallader shot a fairly desperate glance into Brenda’s corner, as if he knew the moment of parting was at hand and wanted to forestall it but didn’t know how. “You’re welcome. Sure. Any time.”
Martin took Mr. Cadwallader tenderly by the arm and led him to the door. “There. We appreciate your care in the matter.”
Brenda knew he was trying to ease Mr. Cadwallader out of the room without hurting his feelings. She considered Martin Tafft a true jewel among men. He tried always to treat people as he would like to be treated. Brenda’s mother had taught her the Golden Rule in the cradle, and Brenda often thought that if the world operated by this simple principle, the world would be a darned sight nicer place to live in. Martin was one of the few people in it whom she’d found shared her belief.
Colin stood scowling as he watched the two men walk to the door, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers, thereby ruining the elegant lines of his dinner suit. Brenda, who had studied such things, knew the suit must have cost him a pretty penny. She found it amusing that he cared so little about his appearance, he didn’t even think about sticking his hands in his pockets. Deciding it might be interesting to watch and listen unobserved for a few more minutes, she sat in one of the armchairs, holding the birch-bark book.
It was an odd and rather pleasant experience for Brenda to be a spectator. As a rule, she was the spectacle. She’d come to tolerate it, but she didn’t enjoy it. The adulation of the theater-going public had provided her with a great income, and she honored it for her family’s sake, but it played hob with her own personal needs and desires. She wondered if Colin was in as sour a mood as his expression indicated.
She didn’t have long to wonder. Before Martin had eased Mr. Cadwallader out of the room and returned to his side, Colin said, “I say, Martin, have you read this drivel?” He waved what Brenda recognized as the script of Indian Love Song in front of Martin.
Martin blinked at the pages flapping before him.
“Drivel? I’d hardly call it drivel, Colin. It’s a fine story.”
“It’s absurd!” Colin’s voice had risen.
Martin transferred his puzzled gaze from the script to Colin’s face. “What do you mean? It was written by a very competent fellow, John Pinkney. Why, he’s had six plays produced on Broadway.”
Again waving the script, Colin said, “But his facts are all wrong.”
Martin’s look of befuddlement intensified. “Facts? What facts?”
Colin started flipping through the script angrily. “Why, just look at this.” He folded back several pages of script, held the document in front of Martin’s nose, and tapped at it with one slender, elegant forefinger. “Here. Where the woman is captured. Why, it’s idiotic! No self-respecting band of Sioux warriors would ride into a town in a pack like wolves, pick a woman up from a crowded thoroughfare, and carry her off like that.”
“Actually, they abduct her from a party.”
Colin rolled his
eyes.
“That’s even worse. For one thing, they’d be shot on sight, and for another, they just didn’t do things like that. During the time period in which this story is supposed to be set, white people feared and hated Indians, and Indians feared and hated them back—and for good reason on both sides.”
“Hmmm.” Martin rubbed his lower lip as he peered at the script. Lifting his head, he shrugged sly “It makes for a fine story. Colin.” The words were simple, the tone was gentle, and there was a good deal of puzzlement still in Martin’s face.
Brenda felt sort of like giggling, although she also felt sort of like cheering Colin’s indignation on behalf of a defeated people. How strange.
Colin sputtered, “But—but—”
Martin laid a hand on the other man’s arm and guided him into a chair. He sat in another and leaned over so he presented a picture of interested intimacy, as if he understood Colin’s qualms—although Brenda would bet anything that he didn’t—and wanted to calm them. “See here, Colin. You’re the expert on Indians, but I’m sure read somewhere that Indians used to take white captives occasionally.”
“Of course they did.” Colin threw his hands in the air and exploded. “But not like this!” This time he whacked script with his open palm, making Martin jump. “This is idiotic!”
The gesture didn’t do much for Brenda’s nerves, either, but she didn’t make a noise. She found Colin’s outrage fascinating.
Colin leaned over, too, so that the two men were almost nose-to-nose. “Listen, Martin, when various Indian tribes took captives, they were almost always children. Very seldom were adult women taken, and never adult men. The warriors would sooner kill the adults, and often the children. Later on, they’d take children as a matter of course, and they’d either integrate the children into their tribal life or use them as bargaining tools with the whites.”
Ew. Brenda wasn’t sure the American public would enjoy seeing a picture about that sort of thing. Evidently Martin felt the same way. “Colin, nobody’s going to go to a picture if it depicts blood and gore and captured kids. It’s much cleaner to have the woman captured in town, off the porch of a house, without any bloodshed, and then rescued. It also provides plenty of scope for the love story.”
“The love story?”
Colin was incredulous, although why he should be was a mystery to Brenda. He must know that most moving pictures were romances of one sort or another. She was only glad this particular one was going to end happily. Half the time the heroine died in the end, and Brenda didn’t consider that much of a romance.
“Yes,” Martin said mildly. “This picture is a love story. A romance, if you will.”
“But—” Colin’s brow furrowed, revealing two deep vertical dents above his nose. He shoved his glasses up absently.
“I’m afraid we’re taking a little poetic license here, Colin.”
“A little?”
“Only a little. For the sake of the story. Surely you understand poetic license. If it weren’t for poetic license, where would Sir Walter Scott be?” Martin laughed at his comparison.
“This isn’t Scott,” Colin muttered, sounding stubborn. “It’s more like rot.”
That was a good one. Brenda approved. If a guy was going to argue, it was good to disarm his opponent with word play.
Martin chose to ignore the “rot” part. “No. It’s more like H. Rider Haggard, I suppose. It’s an adventure. A romance. A high-spirited lark.” He thought for a second. “Like Tom Sawyer, only for adults.”
Colin’s lips pinched together, and he said, “For adults? I’m sure.” He took in a deep breath and, letting it out on a long sigh, seemed to collect himself. “I beg your pardon, Martin. I don’t mean to be a stumbling block for you. I’m here to assist you. It’s only that I hate to see misconceptions perpetuated like this. “He went back to tapping on the script, which was much less jarring to his listeners than whacking it.
Martin patted him on the knee, and Brenda was reminded of a father administering gentle guidance to a high-spirited son. Martin was going to be a wonderful father someday—if he ever had time enough to find himself a woman to wed.
“It’s all right, Colin. I understand your protest springs from your own integrity, and I appreciate it, believe me. But in this case, we’re filming a story. A fantasy. A romantic romp. The public won’t actually believe it just because they see it on celluloid. People are smarter than that.”
Horsefeathers. Brenda could have disabused dear Martin of that misconception in a minute if she chose to do so. But she didn’t. She owed too much to the public’s gullibility.
Colin appeared doubtful, and Brenda was glad. He might be really smart, but at least he could recognize hogwash when he heard it. Most of the smart men she’d known didn’t recognize anything beyond their own desires and were perfectly happy to bend the truth to fit their wishes. While she valued the public’s credulity because it provided her family with a good income, she neither trusted it nor approved of it. Most men, for example, considered her a featherheaded fool because that’s what she led them to believe. Which went to prove that it was they, and not she, who were dim-witted.
“Do you really think so?” Colin eyed Martin, clearly skeptical.
Martin nodded with enthusiasm. “Certainly! Why, they know exactly what they’re getting when they visit a motion-picture house these days. They’re going to get a rip-roaring tale of adventure and an hour’s worth of holiday from the everyday drudgery of life.”
“I thought you wanted to bring the world together,” Colin said, his voice traced with darkness and suspicion.
But Martin laughed again. “I do. Of course I do. And the pictures are the way to do it. Why, imagine it, Colin. The entire world will see future Peerless pictures. We can educate, enlighten, entertain, and encourage people of all nations. We can make the world come together as one. The possibilities inherent in moving pictures are infinite.”
“I don’t understand how perpetuating a silly myth about Indians capturing white women will promote world understanding.”
Brenda didn’t, either, and she was glad Colin had mentioned it.
“Oh, well, this is different. This is a story. An escape, if you will, from life’s little problems. No one will take it seriously, but it will make Peerless a lot of money, and then we can use that money to film more ambitious projects.”
Brenda, who had known Martin for several years, could see he was warming to his favorite topic. He was such a dear man, really, even if he remained remarkably naive, to Brenda’s somewhat jaundiced eyes.
“Think of it, Colin. With the success Peerless is having, we’ll soon be able to produce some truly sweeping projects. Mr. Lovejoy and I have been working on a picture idea for The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and plans are already underway for a production of Cleopatra.”
“Really?” Colin’s dark eyebrows lifted, and he looked less dubious. “That’s better, I suppose. At least the Hunchback’s good literature.” He eyed the script he clutched with something that looked mightily like loathing.
“Oh, yes. And we’re not merely looking to great literature, either. Think of the magnificence of this vast country of ours, Colin. Don’t you think people the world over would flock to see some of its glories? New York City! The Grand Canyon! The Pacific and Atlantic oceans! The sweeping plains and the bleak deserts! Think of the possibilities.”
Colin thought. “Hmmm. We’re already having trouble absorbing all of the immigrants flocking to the United States. We’d better not look too grand and glorious, or we’ll have even more problems.”
Brenda could tell that Martin didn’t fully appreciate Colin’s practical approach to the moviemaking process. He frowned. “That’s not the point. The point is that pictures are the first universal means of communication ever invented.”
After thinking about it for a moment or two, Colin nodded slowly. “I see what you mean. They’re purely visual, and the human story is more or less the same the world
over, I suppose. Very well, I’ll grant you that point, but the point I want to make is that this script is nonsense.”
Martin heaved a gigantic sigh. “Colin, when you were a boy did you ever read The Adventures of Robin Hood?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Tom Sawyer?”
Colin shook his head.
Patently confounded by such lapses in his companion’s early childhood education, Martin said, “Horatio Hornblower? Five Weeks in a Balloon? A Tale of Two Cities? David Copperfield?”
The dents above Colin’s nose deepened. “I didn’t read fiction as a rule. I was too busy studying.”
Martin sat back in his chair, lifted his hands in the air, and let them fall, stunned. “I can’t believe you grew up without stories.”
Brenda couldn’t believe it, either. Heck, the only thing that had kept her going during her early years were the books her father read to her. The wonderful, fantastic stories she still loved today.
“Oh, I had plenty of stories,” Colin said quickly. “But they were true. They weren’t—made up.”
Shaking his head, Martin muttered, “How bleak your life must have been.”
Colin sat up as if he were offended. “Not at all. Merely because my parents didn’t believe in filling their children’s heads with applesauce didn’t make my childhood bleak. It was quite interesting, actually.”
“I see.” Martin considered Colin in silence for a second.
“Um, I don’t suppose you had much use for fun when you were growing up?’
“Fun?” Colin had taken to scowling again. “I’m not sure what you mean. We went to the zoological gardens to study the animals quite often. And we all enjoyed going to the Museum of Natural History when we visited my aunt in New York City. The Boston Symphony is famous for its quality, and we always had season tickets to hear the symphony.”
“I see.” With an enormous sigh, Martin rose from his chair. “I’ll tell you what, Colin. If you can try to remember that this picture we’re doing is only for fun—er, that is, that it’s fiction, since you don’t understand fun—and doesn’t have much to do with reality, I think we’ll all be better off.”
Beauty and the Brain Page 3
