Eye Contact

by Michael Craft

  “Thank you, Miss Jenner, most kind.” His funny little accent delights the woman. He puts his key in the lock and opens the door a crack. “I regret to become such a nuisance, but could I ask you to screen my calls again today? I have entered a critical phase of my research, and it is important that I not be disturbed.”

  “Certainly, Professor.” She giggles.

  “Good of you to look after me.” He takes the messages from her, slips into his lab, and tries nudging the door closed.

  “Wait, Professor”—Miss Jenner thrusts a hand through the narrowing crack—“your soda!”

  “Ah, clumsy me.” He takes the can, nods a smile, and pushes the door shut.

  Inside, the room is lit by a dim security light. The rows of computers, the multitude of monitors, and the various other electronics scattered about the lab are all still—no humming, whirring, winks, or flashes. Zarnik flips a bank of switches adjacent to the door, near the fire cabinet. Overhead lighting flickers on, filling the room with its cold, sterile energy. The equipment remains dark.

  He crosses to the desk and sets down his things, putting his lunch bag with the cola off to one side, the messages near the phone. Propping his tote bags on the chair, he removes paperwork from the first—a stack of computer printout, various magazines that include People and Buzz, and the morning editions of both the Journal and the Post. From the second, he removes half a dozen Blockbuster videotape cases. These he stacks atop the VCR that he has used to demonstrate his “graphic realization.”

  Zarnik tosses the totes onto the floor and plops into the chair, sliding the phone and the pink slips in front of him. He puts on his reading glasses, looks at the top message, and heaves a weary sigh. Pausing a moment, he reaches to open the desk’s file drawer. Inside is a two-liter bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He lifts it from the drawer, removes the cap, and downs an eye-opening swig. Shaking his head and flapping his lips, horselike, he recaps the Jack and plunks it on the desk next to his bagged peanut butter sandwich.

  Sorting through the message slips, he arranges two piles. The shorter stack, only three, are calls he must return. The deeper pile consists of messages from the press—local television, national newsmagazines, and scientific journals worldwide. One by one, he crumples the press queries and lobs them blindly, backwards, over his head. There’s a wastebasket against the far wall, but the little pink projectiles don’t even come near it, falling randomly, ticking upon impact with the cement floor.

  The reason there are so many messages is that Zarnik didn’t come in at all yesterday. He had thoroughly enjoyed Saturday night’s party, and Sunday’s hangover was, in the imaginary parlance of his assumed homeland, a drechtzyl. He awoke dry-mouthed around noon with a headache that left him longing for death. Searching his apartment for aspirin, finding none, he asked himself, What would Dr. Zarnik do? Certain that the ancient bromide regarding “the hair of the dog” must trace its roots to Eastern Europe (“the hair of the gmuut”), the course to his cure was clear. Jack and Coke to the rescue. But he had not done his weekly shopping on Saturday—the breaking news of his discovery had kept him busy at the planetarium all day—so there was no cola, diet or otherwise, among the sparse supplies in his pantry. No problem. It wasn’t the pop that bit him. Jack did it. And Zarnik was always careful to keep plenty of Jack on hand.

  By Sunday evening, though, Jack was long gone, and Zarnik awoke sometime Monday with the mother of all drechtzyls. Fruitlessly searching his apartment again for aspirin, he asked himself, What would Dr. Kevorkian do? While clever enough to pose the question, he hadn’t the courage to answer it, so he unplugged his phone and took to his bed.

  Now, Tuesday morning, the crisis has largely passed, and Zarnik feels a sense of accomplishment in being up, dressed, and seated at his desk before noon. To his credit, he hides the residual hangover well, due largely to the fact that the astronomer always looks as if he slept in his clothes. He’s also pleased at the efficiency with which he has dispatched so many inconsequential messages that accumulated yesterday. But the time has arrived to deal with those remaining calls, the three important ones that must be answered.

  The first is from the mayor’s office, asking Zarnik to return the call. There’s no message, only a phone number, but he assumes they simply want to make sure he has seen the new ad campaign. Indeed he has—those ads provided the only bright spot in his dismal Monday, and the new ones that appeared this morning helped to get him out of bed and send him on his way. He opens both newspapers on his desk to peruse them again. He slips off his glasses and stands, stepping back a foot to enjoy their impact. Marvelous!

  He sits again, reaches for the phone, and dials the number on the slip, eager to express his gratitude.

  The other phone rings. A man answers, “Cultural liaison’s office.”

  “Yes, hello. Dr. Pavo Zarnik here, returning your call. Might this pertain to the beautiful advertisements that grace my desk this morning?”

  “Indeed it does … Professor.” The response has a twisted, cynical inflection.

  Undaunted, Zarnik continues. “I’m flattered beyond measure, of course, and wish to thank whoever is responsible.”

  There’s a pause. “I’m responsible, Arlen. Can’t you read?”

  Zarnik yelps, dropping the receiver as if it had bitten him. It lands near the bottom of the Journal’s open page, emitting bitsy bursts of laughter. Zarnik fumbles with his glasses and leans close to read the tiny type of the ad’s credit line. Victor Uttley’s cackling pours from the phone. Horrified, Zarnik watches the laughter spill like mire upon the page, despoiling the tribute with its mockery. The crowing breaks off long enough for a little voice to call from the receiver, “Arlen! Still there?”

  With a gingerly touch, Zarnik picks up the phone. It’s worth a try. “Pfroobst!” he says, feigning anger, laying on the accent. “I have never heard such rudeness. You surely mistake me for another party.”

  “Cut the crap.” Uttley’s voice is calm and emotionless. “It’s been quite a performance, Arlen Farber, but the curtain is about to fall. Unless …”

  One more try. “I do not know what you talk about.”

  “Then let me spell it out. You have been posing for some weeks now as Pavo Zarnik, an astrophysicist, and you have made recent claims of a discovery that has generated widespread interest among the press, the public, and even the military. But in fact, you are not Zarnik. You are Arlen Farber, an actor who’s enjoyed reasonably steady work over the years, but who still awaits his ‘big break.’ I, Victor Uttley, know you well. About five years ago, we were cast together in a couple of summer-stock productions in New England—Are the pieces falling in place now, Arlen? After that run, I returned home to Chicago, and you, as I recall, got into the dinner-theater circuit down in Florida. We didn’t cross paths again till that party on Saturday night. I don’t think you saw me—if you did, you didn’t recognize me—but I saw you. Everyone had their eyes on you, Mr. Instant Celebrity. I intended to approach you, to tell you about the ad series I was planning, so I waited while you hobnobbed with Claire Gray, whom I was dying to spend some more time with—but you hogged her most of the evening. As I waited, watching, I kept thinking that I already knew you, but that was impossible, since we had presumably never met. And I found it strange that you had taken such an interest in Claire Gray, her theatrical background being so removed from the career of a foreign astronomer. And then, well, it clicked. So tell me, Arlen—how’d you fall into this gig?”

  The man posing as Zarnik drops his accent and says into the phone, “I admit nothing. Tell me what you want.”

  Victor Uttley overplays a chummy tone. “I want to know how you’ve been, Arlen. I want to know how you managed to parlay a third-rate acting career into a stint as director of Civic Planetarium. I’d also like to know how you think you can possibly get away with this. And naturally, I’m curious about the whereabouts of the real Dr. Zarnik. But most important, I’m wondering what it’s worth to you if I ke
ep all these questions to myself.”

  Arlen Farber repeats, “Tell me what you want, Victor.”

  “Ten.”

  “Ten what?”

  “Grand.”

  Now it’s Arlen Farber’s turn to laugh. “For Christ’s sake, Victor, you sound like a small-time hood. ‘Ten grand,’ indeed. What have you been up to—rehearsing a two-bit role in some off-Loop mob-land melodrama?”

  “Really, Arlen.” Uttley is getting testy. “Ten thousand dollars—is that better? Precise and proper? However you say it, it’s still the price. Or else.”

  Farber laughs louder than before. “There you go again, Victor. ‘Or else.’ Big man. Big threat. Or else what?”

  “Or else I’ll tell Mark Manning everything I know.”

  That catches Farber’s attention. He doesn’t respond.

  “I called him at the newsroom ten minutes ago. Turns out, he’s not in town today, but he knows I need to talk to him. I’m sure he’ll see me. Soon.”

  Farber needs to explore his options, to weigh Uttley’s leverage. “I’m not sure I can do what you’re asking. If I can’t, and if you talk to Manning, then it’s over—and there’s nothing in it for you.”

  Uttley has planned this conversation carefully, and his tone conveys confidence. “If I tip Manning off, there’ll be a big, splashy exposé, and I’m the source, the hero. It’ll look great for the mayor’s office, and I’ll be sitting pretty for the next thirty years or so. If, on the other hand, you ‘collaborate’ with me, I’ll simply tell Manning what a splendid job he’s done of reporting your discovery, how it’s a boon to the city, how the mayor’s pleased as punch—the usual crap. The ads I’m running will reinforce all this, and the mayor already is pleased as punch. Plus, I can turn a little profit on the side. Comprenez? Either way, I win.”

  Farber has little room to wriggle. “I’ll have to make a few phone calls.”

  “I bet you will. So get cracking.”

  “Hold on, Victor. Some details: When do you need it?”

  “No rush. End of the week. Let’s say Friday—payday.”

  “Cash, check, or credit card?”

  “Don’t be funny.”

  “How do we get it to you?”

  Uttley hasn’t considered the logistics. “Uh …”

  “Shame on you, Victor. The serious extortionist is always prepared for—how do you quaintly phrase it?—‘the drop.’”

  “First things first. You let me know when, and I’ll tell you where.”

  Farber tells him, “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll do my best.”

  “You’d better,” Uttley growls (with attempted menace but lacking impact—he was never much at Method acting), and he slams down the phone.

  “Grrr …!” Arlen Farber mocks Uttley’s bravado, slamming his own phone. The slimy dweeb, the very idea! He rips the Zarnik ads from both papers and crumples them into a single wad, which he serves like a volleyball, hurtling it to the ceiling. The mashed newsprint glances off a light fixture and plummets behind a stack of electronic equipment.

  That was an unexpected crimp in Farber’s morning. He uncaps the Jack Daniel’s and takes a swig, then turns his attention to the two remaining messages. One is from Manning, but Uttley just said the reporter is out of town today, so there’s no point in calling him. The other slip contains only a phone number, no name, no message. Farber recognizes the number—it’s a pager—and yes, they need to talk. He picks up the phone, punches in the number. He hears three short beeps, then punches in his own number and hangs up.

  He waits, checks his watch. It’s not yet noon, but he decides to get his lunch ready. Opening the brown paper bag, he removes the sandwich, unfolds the waxed paper, and smooths it before him on the desk. He picks up half of the sandwich, sliced neatly on the diagonal, and swipes the cut edge beneath his nose, as if sniffing a wine cork or a fine cigar. His eyelids flutter as he inhales the musky rush of peanut butter. Then he lifts the Diet Rite from the pool of its own sweat—the can isn’t cold anymore, barely cool—and pops it open, swallowing three big gulps. Farber isn’t thirsty; he’s making room in the can. He steadies the jug of Jack Daniel’s over the can and drizzles booze through the hole. He reminds himself that he really ought to bring a glass from home.

  The phone rings. Farber spatters whiskey on his sandwich. He answers the phone. “Yes?”

  The other voice echoes, “Yes?”

  “Zarnik here.”

  “Where the hell have you been, Farber? I tried reaching you all day yesterday.”

  He hesitates. “Something came up—at home. I didn’t get your message till now.”

  “Not a minute too soon,” the other voice tells him. “You’ve been booked for a special performance this afternoon, a ‘matinee,’ so to speak—”

  “Listen,” Farber interrupts, “we’ve got a problem. A big one.”

  An impatient sigh. “And what might that be?”

  “Someone in the mayor’s office recognized me. We once worked together.” Farber recounts the call from Victor Uttley, concluding, “He wants ten thousand dollars, or he’s taking the whole story to Mark Manning.”

  “Ten? He’s undersold himself. Pity he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.”

  Farber swirls the cola can, mixing his cocktail. “This is only the beginning, I’m sure. He’ll be back for more.”

  “That’s what you think.” The voice snorts. “That’s what he thinks. When does he want it?”

  “Friday.”

  “Perfect. A cheap price for a bit of time, which is all we need, really. A week from now, this character’s threats will be decidedly irrelevant.”

  Farber drinks from the can. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You’re not supposed to, remember? Just keep up the act—you’re being well paid for this role. As I said before, you’ve got a command performance this afternoon.”

  “I do, huh?” He covers the phone, aiming his mouth sideways to belch.

  “Be at the new Gethsemane Arms Hotel at three. You’ll be expected at the penthouse suite, the temporary encampment of the CFC.”

  “What? The Christian Family Crusade? What in hell do they want?”

  “As you probably know, they’ve set up temporary headquarters in Chicago to mount their protest of that gay-rights rally at Celebration Two Thousand. As long as their board is in town, they’re screening some political candidates—local would-bes and other hopefuls—for recommendation to their membership.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Very little, actually. But all the recent publicity has raised concerns about the anti-fundamentalist implications of Zarnik’s ‘discovery.’ They want to question you.”

  “Now look”—another slurp—“I’m getting a little tired of all these extra demands. Playing the role is one thing, but there’s been way too much dirty work, serious dirty work, that we never agreed to.”

  The other voice commiserates, “I know, I know. Just play along with the CFC. Be respectful. Try not to rile them. We don’t need to incite a religious war over this. Let’s just buy a little time.”

  Farber sets his can down. He asks point-blank, “What are we buying time for? What exactly is this all about?”

  “Tut-tut. That’s off-limits. All you need to know is that, for now, you are Pavo Zarnik. And Zarnik’s mandate is to convince the world, through Mark Manning, that he has discovered a tenth planet. Understood?”

  “Yeah yeah yeah.” Farber thinks of something. “Manning has been trying to reach me. I’m sure he wants to follow up on those technical points I couldn’t provide last week. I need some help here.”

  The other voice is assuring. “Say no more. We’ll get you the information. And we’ll get you some cash, the ‘loot’ for Uttley. Now remember, Gethsemane Arms at three.” And the other voice clicks off.

  Farber sets the receiver back on the phone. It’s almost noon. He has nearly three hours to kill before leaving for his meeting—and
he knows exactly how to spend it. Plucking a cassette from the pile of videos, he switches on the VCR and removes the tape that was in it, labeled planet demo, tossing it to the far side of the desk. He loads the new tape.

  Then he scurries behind the desk to turn on the television monitor and position its wheeled cart so the screen aims squarely at his chair. When the picture tube warms up, those white crosshairs still run through its center. He’s dealt with this before, without success. Once again he twiddles a few knobs on the back of the set, pounds the cabinet, but it’s no use—the crosshairs remain. He’ll have to live with them for the next two hours and twenty minutes, but it’s a small annoyance that he will gladly endure.

  Seating himself, Farber leans forward to tap the “play” button. A few seconds later, he hears the fanfare and sees the spotlights on the Twentieth Century-Fox logo. It’s an old one. It’s black-and-white. It’s … All About Eve. God, what a magnificent film, even on its umpteenth viewing. It’ll be fifty years old next year, made shortly after Farber was born—he wishes he’d aged so well.

  He pushes his chair back, plops his feet on the desk, and watches the opening scene, the awards ceremony, narrated by George Sanders as that sleazebag critic Addison DeWitt. He loves the way the movie freeze-frames on Anne Baxter, Eve, just as she reaches for the award. Then begins the flashback that tells the whole story.

  From one hand, Arlen Farber munches the peanut butter sandwich. From the other, he sips Jack and Diet Rite. Celeste Holm, wearing a big mink, has just bumped into Baxter—dear, sweet, innocent, unspoiled, youthful, star-struck Eve—skulking around like a drowned rat in the drizzle outside the theater, hoping to get a glimpse of Bette Davis. It doesn’t get much better than this.