There’s a protocol to be followed in these cases. You alert the MPs, you get witnesses, you deal with it through the proper channels. What you don’t do is go all kung fu on the poor unsuspecting bastard, break both his arms and legs and put a crack in his skull so hard he’ll never quite think right again. All of which, without really considering the consequences or the logic of it, is what I did to that poor cracker son of a bitch, right there in front of his wife and kids, who looked upon me not as their rescuer but as an assailant, a turn of events which, though predictable and quite understandable, made me sad.
In the brig I had some time to think it over. I was more than a little bit frightened by what I’d done, particularly by the speed with which my rage had overtaken me, and after some words with my commanding officer and with an army shrink I came to the conclusion that maybe a little bit of psychiatric work might be in order. My CO was a standup guy, and though he couldn’t pull enough strings to keep me in the unit (this was during peacetime—there’s no way today’s U.S. military would have kicked me out), he did manage to get me the option of a discharge instead of prison time.
Once out, I thought about pursuing therapy, but instead I managed to lie my way through the application process well enough to find myself accepted into Southwest Minnesota State University, where I promptly signed up for a theater course on the assumption that this would be where the good-looking girls were.
And the assumption wasn’t wrong. The thing was, though, I discovered that there was something else I was really good at. Before long I was the star of the department, was stringing along a half-dozen nubile beauties, and had discovered that acting was for me a means of controlling my anger as well as a path to self-knowledge. Since that time, I have never instigated a fight (though I’ve never run from one, either).
•••
I had an interview and photo shoot scheduled with Télérama at eleven o’clock at the Musée Rodin. I had a reputation in the press for being an intellectual, at least by the standards of television actors, and the editors thought it would be a good visual joke to get me posing beneath The Thinker. The joke was probably on me—God knows, a few years of covering television would have made me hate the medium and everyone involved in it—but press was press, and I had a good working relationship with the reporter. We spent half an hour on the photos and then hunkered down in the restaurant in the garden for the interview.
Here I was at a loss: to mention the movie or not? Bad luck to talk about a project too early, certainly, but Télérama has a lot of readers, including no small number in the industry, and a casual allusion to the thing might cause some ears to prick up. And of course the film was about a piece of sculpture, and here we were amidst one of the great sculpture collections of the world.
“So what brings you back to Paris? Just a vacation, promoting the show?” my interlocutor asked.
“A little of both,” I said, cagey. Then I thought, what the hell. Let’s make this thing happen. “Truth to tell, I’m in the early stages of a film project, a Franco-American coproduction.”
“You don’t say. Who’s attached?”
“There’s a brilliant script by a young French novelist named Frédéric LaForge, he wrote a terrific book called Squirm, Baby, Squirm, and we’ve been working on getting the deals finalized.”
“What’s it about?”
“All I can say is that it’s about an archaeologist who makes an incredible discovery.” It sounded lame and incomplete as I said it, but Henri seemed very interested.
“That’s great. Is the network involved?”
“It’s not official yet, so don’t quote me, but it’s looking good.”
•••
If I’m going to be talking up Fred’s book, I thought, I’d better read the damned thing, so I spent a good chunk of the afternoon absorbing it in the day room of the suite. It was well written—the kid could sling a phrase with the best of them, no question—but it was beyond the pale in terms of content. The main character, Jim, is so promiscuous and amoral that it was hard for me to picture my soft-spoken, mild-mannered new friend and collaborator as his creator. In the book’s Thai section, for example, Jim fucks eighteen prostitutes, nine of them underage and four of them boys. Each of the prostitutes is described in detail, along with those of Jim’s couplings with him or her, and by the end of that part of the book he’s actively seeking those who show the most advanced signs of disease:
The pathetic wraith struggling beneath me, her breath stinking of her own impending demise, wheezed and rattled as though the withered flesh on her meager frame were insufficient to keep her dried bones from cracking together with each thrust; by the time old Thanatos finally arrived to claim his due from her I would be back in France, an enthusiastic vessel of her contagion.
When he leaves Thailand and returns to France he lives a life of outward bourgeois respectability, faithfully attending mass as an almost daily communicant and reveling in the blasphemy of receiving the host under false pretenses, his confessions consisting of trivial lies. He tends to his family’s business and maintains an air of conservative respectability, all the while diligently attempting to infect his sister with a lethal venereal disease (the novel is set in the 1990s, before the medicinal cocktails that have prolonged so many lives in the West). The high point of his depravity comes when he blackmails a pharmacist friend into confecting a placebo pill in the shape and color of his sister’s birth control pills, which he then substitutes for the real thing.
The replacement of the changeling pills into their circular dispenser was a more complicated and time-consuming affair than I’d imagined, but the task was completed before Valerie returned from her ballet lesson. My extensive readings on the subject notwithstanding, and despite my intimate familiarity with the timing of her menses, I couldn’t determine her precise date of ovulation without arousing suspicion, and so I determined to make love to her every day until such time as I could be certain I’d infected her with an additional unwelcome passenger to accompany the first.
My God. I’d assumed I was working with an eccentric, because let’s face it, the guy was a writer and they’re all a little goofy, but this one was out of his fucking mind. Shaking hands with him the next time we met would be fraught with bacteriological worries.
Still, I couldn’t deny that the book had a certain narrative pull to it, and not simply because of the ghastliness of its subject matter and the appalling depravity of its central character. Marie-Laure was right, Fred really did have the knack for structure and character and all the other things that make a screenplay filmable. And of course I’d be there to make sure the archaeologist didn’t end up fucking his sister or some mummy he dug up in the desert, so where was the harm?
There was a knock at the door and I put the book down, unsure of whether I’d have the stomach to pick it up later. Outside stood a bellman with a large gift basket from Fouquet’s wrapped in cellophane. After he put it on the coffee table I signed for it, tipped him ten euros, and closed the door. In the basket was an assortment of fine cheeses and two bottles of champagne, themselves wrapped in orange cellophane: Louis Roederer Cristal Brut, ’99. I didn’t recognize the label, but I had a strong sensation that it wasn’t cheap.
The card attached read simply
FROM ESMÉE
LOOK FORWARD TO WORKING WITH YOU
Mixed feelings abounded. Spectacular creature that Esmée was, I had high hopes for her husband’s money, and any entanglements would have to proceed with the greatest of delicacy and tact. Not that the gift of a couple of bottles of expensive booze necessarily indicated any inclinations toward adultery, but I couldn’t help noticing that the basket also contained two champagne flutes, not one.
JEUDI, CINQ MAI
CROSSING THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS I stopped to watch the little children pushing their toy sailboats in the fountain. There weren’t many adults around and those present showed no interest in me, which for once came as a relief rather than a d
isappointment or a blow to my ego. A boy of about eight with oddly wide-set eyes frowned at me in a puzzled way as though trying to place me; he elbowed the frail lad next to him, who looked at me and shrugged, indifferent, and they both turned their attention back to their boats, relaxed and happy in a way I only dimly remembered from my own benighted, violent childhood. The breeze that billowed in those toy sails was cool on my forehead, and I wandered over to a bench in the shade and opened up the Herald Tribune to the crossword.
I was well into it when to my annoyance I felt my phone vibrating in my trouser pocket. The display identified the caller as my agent, and I came very close to not answering, but there was always the off chance he had something interesting, so I picked up.
“Hello, Bunny,” I said.
“Don’t call me that.”
“What’s up, Ted?”
He heaved a long sigh. “You’re up for a part on Blindsided. Guest shot with potential follow-ups.”
“What’s Blindsided? I never heard of it.”
“It’s a detective who’s blinded in an accident, and afterward she can see who did that week’s crime.”
“She sees it? Thought she was blind.”
“She sees it in her mind, okay?”
“Network or cable?”
“Network.”
“So even if my character gets to fuck the star, it’ll all be off-screen. Who’s the detective?”
“Mary Margaret Casterlin. Jesus, even if you don’t read the trades you should at least watch television so you know this stuff.”
“Really? She’s doing TV?”
“Hadn’t done a feature in four years when she got the offer. And she’s a client, which is how I got the strings pulled to get you the offer. So you need to be back here in a week.”
I thought about it. Mary Margaret Casterlin was a rare beauty and a truly gifted actress, and despite the fact that she was well known to be happily married to a real estate mogul from Santa Barbara and mother to a litter of four charming moppets, she was also strongly reputed to be an adherent of the “eatin’ ain’t cheatin’” school of thought on marital fidelity, particularly when on location away from home for more than a night or two. My old pal Dan Needles had shot a movie of Mary Margaret’s a few years back, a romantic comedy set in San Francisco, and when she discovered that her co-star (no, I won’t name him) was uninterested in the ladies except when the paparazzi were around, she approached Dan for a bit of commiseration. Mary Margaret spent the next five weeks sucking Dan’s cock in her trailer, in his trailer, in the grip truck, and twice on sets closed for the night. He spoke of those blowjobs with genuine awe and said that even a garden-variety handjob from her was better than full-blown intercourse with most women. And though in all that time he never gave up hope that she would acquiesce and allow him entry into her pussy, every makeout session ended in the same manner, with him ejaculating down her throat (or, as indicated, onto the back of her hand).
“I just happen to think that’s for marriage only,” she told him once when he pressed her about her reasons for refusing normal intercourse with him. “I would never do that to my husband.”
So there was that prospect to consider. Plus there was the fact that the role might be recurring, which might lead to something regular on another show, which might eventually get me my own show, and by that I mean a prime-time gig, not another fucking daytime soap. There was a lot to be said for the deal.
And yet.
“I can’t do it, Ted.”
“What the fuck do you mean you can’t do it?”
“I’ve got a project I’m working on over here at the moment. A lead role.”
“In what?”
“It’s too soon to talk about it.”
“Too soon? I’m your fucking agent, for Christ’s sake.”
“I’m developing it myself, Bunny.”
I could hear him slowly exhaling on the other end of the line. I was sure his face was getting red, and equally sure that some subordinate was going to get verbally reamed as soon as I hung up.
“Listen up. I stuck my neck out with another client to get you this gig. You make damn sure you’re back here in a week.”
“Goodbye, Bunny.” I hung up, and as soon as I did I felt a little guilty about that last “Bunny,” which for all I knew might cause him to hemorrhage. An old lover of his, a set designer named Giorgio, kept referring to Ted as “Bunny” at a dinner party, and ever since I’ve been tormenting him with it.
Sometimes, when I really think about it, I can be a bit of an asshole.
VENDREDI, SIX MAI
THE MEETING AT THE NETWORK WAS INFORMAL; besides Fred and me there was just Marie-Laure, Jean-Pierre, and some assistant-level note-takers. I mentioned Esmée, and Marie-Laure nodded.
“She was in a Dutch film last year. Not a bad performance for a model. What’s your angle?”
I squirmed a bit, certain that the real question being asked was “Are you planning to fuck her?” But I pressed on, outwardly oblivious. “Her husband has a lot of money, and he’d like to see her in a leading role. We could be talking about a theatrical release, if he sees the project as worth her time and his money.”
Jean-Pierre nodded. “We could make that happen, if the money’s there.”
“How did you meet her?” Marie-Laure asked.
“Her husband owns a nightclub in the fifth I’m going back there tonight, if you want to join me.”
“I’m having dinner with my husband and his boss. We should be done by midnight, write down the address.”
One of the assistants raised her hand. I called on her by raising both eyebrows inquisitively.
“What’s her role?”
I looked over at Fred, and so did the rest of the attendees. “What?” he said, looking and sounding slightly panicked. “You’re asking me?”
“Fred’s unaccustomed to these kinds of meetings. Being a novelist he’s used to keeping his counsel until the work is completed. Esmée’s character would be a sort of femme fatale, who’s orchestrating things behind the scenes. We’re even toying with the idea of having her be the one who planted the arms where Troy finds them.”
“Who’s Troy?” Jean-Pierre asked.
“That’s my character.”
“Don’t be a fuckhead,” Marie-Laure said. “That’s a number, not a name. Change it. I want you two to get cracking and get me a synopsis I can show the brass. I’d also like you to start the script itself, so we can start breaking it down and sending it around to other funding entities.”
“Will do,” I said, and as Fred sat there looking stunned I wrote down the address of the Hanoi Hilton and handed it to Marie-Laure, who glared down at the slip of paper as though it were an enemy to be vanquished.
•••
Annick showed up at the hotel unannounced again, and though I chided her for it I was actually glad to see her. I also took her to task for failing to show up last night at the club.
“What club?” she said.
“You sent me a text.”
“I did no such thing.”
“It was from your number.”
“Oh, my God.” She looked stricken. “Bruno.”
Bruno. Where had I heard that name in the last day or two? “Who’s that?”
“My boyfriend. He took my phone, the dirty fucker.”
Now I remembered Bruno. “He’s not a stupid-looking white kid with long blond dreadlocks, is he?”
“Not anymore. He cut them off this morning.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. He was upset, he got home really late last night.”
The thing was getting more complicated than I liked. I made a solemn vow to myself that for the rest of the trip I was going to be faithful to Marie-Laure, at least to the degree of staying away from any woman having anything to do with young Bruno.
Just as soon as I finished up with Annick. One last time; after all, it would have been rude to kick her out.
SAMEDI, SEPT
MAI
I STOPPED BY FRED’S APARTMENT ON THE WAY to the Hanoi Hilton and it was—I’m not kidding—smaller than my bathroom at home. It was on the sixth floor of a building in the tenth, a building whose stairwell smelled overpoweringly of a hundred years’ worth of dust and ammonia, whose railing rattled and creaked as I mounted the floors. Two elderly women were screaming threatening obscenities at one another through the door of the apartment at the end of the hallway as I knocked on his door, and when he opened it I was shocked at the size of it.
“Hey,” he said. He pointed at the table, where an old electric typewriter sat. “Take a seat.”
I couldn’t help but notice that there was only one chair. “Where are you going to sit?”
“I know a place I can get another chair when we work.”
“You know what, this is awfully small and I get a little claustrophobic. Why don’t we work back at the hotel?”
He gave me a blank look, not sure whether to be hurt or not. “This is where I do all my work,” he said.
“Do you work on a typewriter?”
He nodded. “When I can. I hate using the computer.” At that moment the screaming started up again, and even through the closed door every filthy syllable was completely clear.
I nodded in the direction of the shouting. “That ever get a little distracting?”
“Sometimes. They’re a mother and daughter. They’re at it every day since I moved in.”
Scanning the apartment, I saw no bed. “Where do you sleep?”
He pointed to a chest of drawers, atop which lay a pair of blankets and a pillow. “I bed down on the floor. It’s good for your back.”
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