Captors

by Farris, John

  Even so, Dev sees something in him. Since I've known Dev he's antimovie (I can drag him out about once every three months to see one, if I'm lucky). He can be a bore about it. I suppose it's due to his family's involvement with the business in Hollywood: there's nothing glamorous or inspiring about making movies when you've grown up hearing shoptalk. But Dev knows a great deal about the mechanics of filmmaking and editing. It's possible he and Kobrak can achieve something worthwhile. At least Dev is intrigued and involved—and much easier to live with.

  They spent the better part of an hour debating the central metaphor of somebody else's film. Dev got very fidgety but he stuck it out. I couldn't, so I went into the kitchen to wash glasses, displacing the obligatory pair of lovers. All parties in our neighborhood are depressingly alike. People drifted in and out of the kitchen and I had to tell a couple of fridge raiders to keep their hands off our food. They'd walk off with the furniture if you didn't watch.

  A man I know vaguely—he's a teaching assistant in the English Dept. and works for the Berkeley Barb—established a position with his back to the stove. He must have been talking for twenty minutes before I really noticed. He has this thing for me and is convinced that if he shows enough soul he'll lure me away from Dev. So he was working hard at projecting soul, lots of body English and so forth; but I wasn't paying attention. I had a headache coming on and it looked as if everybody was going to be there until the earlies. After a while he just shut up and looked at me mournfully. I confess I felt a little sorry then. I put another beer in his hand; that brightened him up. "So," he said, "when may I have the pleasure of meeting your delightful sister?"

  "Believe me," I said, "I would like to introduce you, but I don't have a sister."

  "No?" he said, and pretended to be nonplussed. Then he smiled and hooked a hand inside my elbow and showed me to the door.

  "Standing by the Larry Rivers litho—a very fine litho, by the way." (It was Claes Oldenburg, by the way. Somebody swiped it two nights later.) The girl he was talking about hadn't been there earlier. She didn't look as if she knew anyone. She was smiling rather vaguely, as if she were listening to two conversations at once. I didn't see any family resemblance. She was my height and we were built the same. (Altogether there were four girls in attendance Sunday night who could have stepped from the same mold. Let's face it, I have a very common body.) Her hair was deep red; she wore it long and it looked clean. She had very pale, delicate skin. She'd overdrawn her eyes, I couldn't tell much about them.

  I stared at her too long and she became aware of us and stared back, curious and friendly, as if she were slightly myopic and couldn't decide who we were. I smiled, caught—what can you do?—and she made her way through the bunch. By then I was tired, headachy, feeling a little silly, so I said, "Hello, Sis. I haven't seen you since we were separated by the Great Blizzard of Fifty-one." That set her back on her heels, but only for a couple of seconds. She blinked and glanced at the Soul Man and seemed to realize this was for his benefit. So she said with a straight face, "I never dreamed when Mummy plunged back into that snowdrift that the two of you would come out alive."

  "You'll be happy to hear," I said, "that she finally thawed out and is running an authentic Turkish bordello in Fall River, Massachusetts. Do tell me, how's plucky old Dad?" She arched her eyebrows. "Well, I'm only allowed to visit him once a year—rules of the monastery, you know. But in that saffron robe, with his head shaved, he is the sexiest thing you've ever laid eyes on!"

  Pretty silly stuff, but not any worse than the general run of conversation at these parties, and it got us started. We hit it off well and somewhere along the way what's-his-name got to feeling excluded and left us. Fortunately.

  She had a Danish name, Lone, which is pronounced something like loan-ah (that's as close as I can come to spelling it). Lone Kels. It turned out she knew Kobrak, had acted in an earlier film of his. She wasn't a student. It was difficult to find out anything about her, really, because she was high on something, although far from being stoned. I could believe she was an actress, though. A good one. Basically we had the same equipment, as I said, but she was sexier. (Somehow redheads are always sexier.) It was not a matter of posture or display; Lone wasn't obvious at any time. But she could focus her sexuality and beam it anywhere in the room. She gave me a couple of offhand demonstrations, from a sense of rivalry, perhaps, or merely because she thought I might be interested. I caught Dev giving her some lengthy speculative looks. Next to Miss Kels I felt as if I were still wearing a ponytail.

  And, while giving the man of her choice a good zapping, Lone could simultaneously make it plain that she didn't want him wandering over and horning in on us girls. She was not much more than a year older than me. I wondered where she came by her education; maybe some women are just born turned on like that. Fascinating, and all this while on a high.

  As the night got a little older it occurred to me she was playing a part, playing it expertly. But I didn't know who she was supposed to be. Or wanted to be. Then she mentioned that she had seen Vivien Leigh the week before, in Gone with the Wind. Twice. So that was it. She was fooling around with Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O'Hara, improvising, having a marvelous time, adapting the qualities of actress-in-character to her own specifications and potential. I wondered if she'd had her hair dyed for the occasion.

  And still later when the high wore off and she found herself out of character, from fatigue, perhaps, I had a few glimpses of Lone herself: not a very private person but still she has moments of shyness which are appealing. She's been wounded, even brutalized, but not hardened yet. There is something unnaturally wild in her too, held tightly most of the time, guarded with a fanatic's strength.

  I don't really know why—nothing's passed between us, at least not on a conscious level. But I received the impression that sexually she's taken on all comers, and if I wanted her I could have her. She has that flavor of utter wantonness that doesn't seem tainted, it's almost like innocence.

  We could be friends. But it was up to me to say Come around again, and I didn't. I was noncommittal. She seemed to expect that. When it was time for her to go she left alone. Does she have friends? Or just pursuers? I'm sorry for her. But I'm afraid too.

  I don't know what time they all went home. I took myself down to Beth Liska's pad and spent the rest of the night there.

  Dec. 9

  A dull, briny day and Sam was here early by way of Oakland AP. But looking as if he had just come off Death Row at San Quentin. He has that greenish haunted appearance they must get over there. Just when Dev was beginning to show signs of vitality the men in my life! Sam drove on to San Francisco. Stopping at the Mark as usual. He's here for a three-day sociopolitical conference at SF State. Michael Harrington and Herb Marcuse are on a panel with him; should be interesting if I can get away, but I think tonight is all the time I can spare. Couldn't think about going over if Dev hadn't started his week at the Bevatron. Maybe I can be of some use to Sam. We'll save Enrico's and North Broadway for last and do all the corny tourist things and have a stupendous feed and drink to excess. I can always stay overnight with Sam if he gets the suite he likes. Or even if he doesn't. Now that I'm a Mature Woman and all over the terrible urge to be laid by Samuel Holland, I could sleep very peacefully in the same bed with him—as long as it's a big bed. Hard to believe how badly I was hung up on Sam a few years ago. Growing pains, or something. Lord, the daydreams! I'm sure he's competent in the sack, like a billion other men. Maybe I'll ask him. Poor Sam, the shock would all but kill him. I'm quite confident he's never entertained any improper ideas about me. Despite my arrangement with Dev I would count myself as pretty square, and Sam is even more so. To be cont'd.

  Well, it cleared during the afternoon and the show at dusk from the Top of the Mark was sufficiently glorious to give even Sam a huge lift. We had quite an itinerary planned, Fisherman's Wharf, everything, but we just sat there in the lounge drinking and talking and canceling plans right and left. And in th
ree hours' time I got pretty close to the heart of Sam Holland. But even with a batch of double martinis in him he wasn't ripe for exorcism. I'm not sure I was up to it anyhow, or knew the right incantations.

  Fact one about Sam: his marriage is going bad and he can't do anything about it.

  Fact two: he's very close to a nervous breakdown. He's been driving himself extremely hard for two years and the engine has overheated to the point where he can't turn it off. I would say, although I loathe amateur shrink stuff, that fear is behind his drive. Fear evolving as a ferocious sense of urgency. He's afraid for the future of this country. We all are, of course, but Sam is obsessed by the increasingly deadly cynicism and moral failures of government, by the critical lack of communication between hostile and destructive forces (i.e., the black and white power structures in America), by unsubtle and punitive pressures on those who wish to exercise their right to dissent. And he particularly fears the collective paranoia (as he calls it) of the Far Right crowd.

  It took some doing, but I got him to talk about something that happened in Texas a few nights ago: he was shot at on the streets of Lubbock, probably by some idiot who labels people without bothering to find out what they really stand for. Sam was in a rental car. He had just left the Texas Tech campus, where a student political group had invited him to speak.

  "Army training," he said. "When I see anything that even looks like a gun pointed my way I flatten out. If I had gawked for a second or so he would have nailed me. Square in the face."

  He tried to smile about it, but came up with a pretty ghastly smile. No wonder he looks haunted! Several times during the evening he mentioned the incident again. He would stare into space or just shake his head, horrified. "I don't get it. So he disagrees with me. Fine. But kill me?" I was having my share of martinis (undoubled), and feeling pretty well insulated. Even so something in his voice chilled me to the bone.

  Instead of going to Enrico's we had a late dinner at a little place on Powell Street. I doubt if Sam ate more than a few bites. He apologized frequently for brooding. I could tell he just didn't feel well. But he seemed to want my company. We walked back up to the hotel and he suggested a nightcap in his suite. We talked for another hour at least; I tried my tactful best to get him to open up about his troubles with Felice but he stayed vague on the subject. It got late and I wasn't enthusiastic about making the long trip back to Berkeley that time of the night, so I didn't argue when Sam suggested I stay there. The sofa in the sitting room made a very comfortable bed.

  I woke up early, first light almost; Sam wasn't in the suite. He might have slept for a while on top of his bed—the spread was badly rumpled. And the fifth of gin he'd had sent up for our "nightcap" was less than a third full.

  I found a note. He said he'd gone out for a walk and probably wouldn't be back before I left. I wrote on the back of his note, thanking him, trying to be cheerful and breezy. But the effort was flat.

  Home to Berkeley, and two classes I couldn't afford to cut.

  About three this afternoon Sam called. The conference has been canceled, for a number of reasons, leaving him with a five-day gap in his schedule before a flock of speaking engagements in S. California and Arizona. Not really worthwhile to fly back to New York and then out again. He sounded disconsolate, not knowing what to do with himself.

  I had an inspiration. One of Dev's uncles owns a place below Carmel, near Pt. Sur. They seldom use it during the winter. It's isolated but not impossible to find. The coast there is rugged and often cold and shrouded in Dec., but you can count on a fair percentage of good days. I thought Sam would enjoy and benefit from a spell of beach walking and thought collecting away from all distractions, including telephones.

  He was doubtful when I mentioned it, but I can be persuasive for the right cause. Called Dev at the lab, who called his sister in L.A. She's the unofficial keeper of the keys and knows the family's migratory patterns well. She assured Dev it would be all right to loan out the house. (Dev had explained that Sam would be working on a book; his sister has a weakness for authors and things literary.)

  Gave Sam directions. He left immediately so he could arrive before dark.

  Dec. 14

  Four wet days in a row. I'm struggling along trying to ignore the flu. I think it's going to catch up to me, though.

  Dec. 18

  If I stay in bed another minute I'll go nuts. Dev has been around the house most of the afternoon. We're putting a severe strain on each other's nerves. I can stand a messy house but not Dev in a messy house. It looks as if Dev is losing interest in The Oakland Method; he isn't particularly diplomatic, and he's lost his temper a couple of times trying to reconcile Paul Kobrak's visions and lack of craft.

  Sent him out to do some shopping while I tried to put a shine on the humble old place. I'm very wobbly, nose dripping, etc., but anything is better than staying in bed. This spell of sickness knocks out a trip home for Christmas: I'll have to spend six hours a day at the library over the holidays trying to catch up. Jolly, jolly holiday.

  Felice called around five. She was very concerned and wanted to know did I know where Sam was. To be cont'd.

  Dec. 20

  Yesterday, thank God, was a sunny, gusty day, almost warm, perfect for a drive. I didn't really have to talk Dev into it. We got to be friends again, sort of, on the way to Big Sur. The sea air scoured out my wheezy lungs and opened up my nose. I would have felt priceless if I hadn't been so worried about Sam, the Wandering Boy.

  The beach house was locked up tight. The key was right where it always is, in a little moisture-proof box buried in the sand between two beach pines. The house was stuffy, as if it had been closed for days, and faultlessly neat. It was obvious that Sam was gone. But we prowled around anyway. I don't know what we expected to find—blood in the sink, perhaps. (As a matter of fact there were three drops of blood in the basin in one of the bathrooms. Sam must have cut himself shaving and missed the spots when he was cleaning up.)

  Dev prowled around outside and came in looking odd. He hadn't found anything except a dead seagull on the south patio, badly torn up as if an animal had gotten to it. He found a shovel and buried the remains—Dev is very tenderhearted about birds and animals. Then he scrubbed the patio with sand and a stiff brush.

  During the drive down I'd half convinced myself that we'd find Sam there, thoroughly under the spell of the Big Sur country, just wandering the beach or sitting in the sun, not even aware of what day it was. Now I didn't know what to think. What most worried Felice—aside from not hearing from him—was the fact that Sam had abruptly canceled all of his West Coast speaking engagements a few days ago. The lecture bureau didn't know where he was, either. And he'd given no reason for the cancellations.

  We drove back to Cannel and had a late lunch. And finally Dev said what we'd both been thinking: it was only sensible to go to the Monterey County Sheriff's substation and report Sam missing. It's wild country down there. Sam can certainly take care of himself, but he might have gone back into one of the canyons and broken a leg or something. Or misjudged the tides and—

  I was happy to find the flaw in those arguments. If he'd had an accident, where was his car?

  Dev still wanted to report him missing, which would have meant publicity. I couldn't make myself believe anything serious had happened to Sam. Then I thought about the shot that had been fired at him in Texas and wasn't so sure. But I didn't think we should put Sam on the front pages because he'd been out of touch for a few days.

  Before dusk we returned to the house and walked the beach until it was too dark to see anything but the cold spill of the surf; we said not a word. But we didn't need to talk. It was our place, we had fallen in love there. Later Dev built a driftwood fire and we drank mulled ale and sat very close, knees and fingertips touching, and passed most of an hour seducing each other with our eyes. First the cold walk and the wind and the surf, then a searing fire and just enough ale and an orgy of anticipation— When we finally made love it w
as the fastest thing that ever happened to either one of us. Half a minute later I passed out in his arms with a blanket wrapped around me.

  When I woke up, the wind was banging a loose shutter and the fire had fallen in on itself, a few red vines still clinging to gray walls of ash. Dev was holding me. I could tell he hadn't closed his eyes.

  "I'm going to study painting," he said. Just like that. He has less than a year to go to earn a doctorate in particle physics.

  I knew he wasn't just talking about a nice hobby for his spare time. When Dev decides he wants to do something, he wants it to the exclusion of everything else. At fifteen he set out to become a chess master; he devoted a year and a half to nothing but chess. He didn't go to school, but then he wasn't required to. He'd already completed a full year of college work.

  Eventually two things happened: he found out that he didn't possess that final degree of exquisite fanaticism it took to be the best in the world. Also he discovered girls. So he gave up chess, and he doesn't play now.

  At nineteen, after he completed college, Dev took up Group 7 racing cars. He might be the best in the world now—or dead—but a hair-raising accident put him in the hospital for a couple of months, distorted his vision just enough to keep him off the tracks forever.