The Dissident

by Nell Freudenberger

  “You still get your money, of course,” Steve said. “You know that, right? That’s the great thing about this business.”

  Suddenly there was a glint of golden hair, a parting in the crowd, and from the tinted glass door of a nondescript gray office came a luminous and oddly familiar form. Phil only glimpsed her profile, but in a second he knew: it was Darcy Feyth.

  “What is it?” Steve said. “Are you OK?” But from his vantage, he couldn’t see the star.

  Phil thought quickly. “I’m not feeling very well,” he said. “Can you excuse me a minute?”

  Steve nodded sympathetically, simultaneously looking around at the other tables. By the time Phil was halfway to the door, Steve was waving at someone, getting up and melting into another table across the room.

  “Excuse me,” Phil said, as he pushed through a knot of people and out into the bright sunlight. Everyone but him was wearing dark glasses, not only for style, he was convinced, but as protection against melanoma and macular degeneration. He was as little prepared for this climate as he was for a meeting with an underage movie star, who would probably not even deign to speak to him.

  She was about to climb the steps of a trailer, but had been stopped by a man in a dark blue suit, too heavy for the weather. The people passing by inclined their heads to one another, glanced at her, and kept walking, neither awestruck nor indifferent, as if the star were a prize in a video game you collected as you went along, with a satisfying blippity-blip: Darcy Feyth, 500 points. He was going in the wrong direction; in fact, the entire crowd seemed to be coming toward him, but at this point Phil didn’t see what he had to lose.

  “Darcy!” he called out. Now people stopped to stare. The man in the blue suit turned and gave him a look of horror, the kind of look one might bestow on the town dwarf.

  “Miss Feyth!”

  She was smaller even than he’d expected, and prettier. Her appeal on the screen was a sweet, girl-next-door sort of ordinariness, but it struck him now that she was distinctive, almost odd-looking. Her cheekbones were unusually high, for one thing, Her hair was the variegated shade of blond you saw so often in Los Angeles, the product of years of expensive experimentation, but her eyes were a deep, unfaded cobalt, like an infant’s. Although he could remember her in sexy scenes—most notably one in which she was pulled from a river, her demure cotton dress sopping—she was not sexy in person. She was like a tiny queen: you wanted to bend down and touch her toes.

  Darcy did not seem fazed by his attention, and even smiled at him, although the suit (an agent, he was certain) had stepped in front of her and was holding up his hand in warning, like some kind of bodyguard. Clearly he had seen too many movies.

  “Excuse me,” Phil said. “I’m sorry to bother you. Could I just take a moment of your time?”

  The agent noticed the script in his hand and visibly relaxed. It was clear that Phil was a garden-variety pest rather than a viper; the man’s expression of alarm was replaced by one of confident condescension.

  “Miss Feyth is late for a meeting,” he said. “May I ask what this is regarding?”

  “A movie she’s doing,” Phil began: “Was doing.”

  “Which movie would that be?”

  “Well, I’m not sure—” Phil began.

  The agent rolled his eyes.

  “—because it had a couple of titles. The Hypnotist was one?” He was pleading.

  “Maybe you should get in touch with Miss Feyth’s junior management,” the agent began. “I have a card—”

  “It’s OK, Greg,” Darcy said. She held out her hand to Phil.

  “I’m Darcy Feyth.”

  “Phil Travers.”

  “Are we working on a movie together, Mr. Travers?”

  “We were going to,” Phil said. “I’m a writer—not really a writer, more of an actor-writer.”

  “There aren’t many of those.” Darcy frowned and lowered her voice: “Most of us can’t read.”

  It took him a second to realize she had made a joke. She was charming!

  “I’m sure you can read,” he said. “You’re wonderful! I’m a big fan.”

  “Thank you,” Darcy said, in a practiced yet sincere-sounding voice. “That means a lot to me. I have great respect for writers.”

  “Darcy,” the agent reminded her.

  “I do have a meeting,” she apologized. “Do you want me to look at something?”

  He had almost forgotten what he had to ask her. “I—no. The movie is, um, canceled.” The agent smiled, for the first time. “I was just wondering if you could tell me why you liked it. I mean, it was such a surprise for me—I was just wondering what made you decide, because it changed some things.” There was no point now in holding back: “My whole life, really.”

  The agent opened the door of the trailer.

  “And I’m wondering whether it was just that you liked the title, or the paper it was printed on…” His voice trailed off.

  “I’m really sorry,” she said. “I read so many things. The Hypnotist, you said it was called?”

  Phil nodded. He shouldn’t’ve been surprised. Relationships were never equivalent: that was why it was so hard to find permanent ones. When two people depended on each other, they each had their own reasons. Sometimes the reasons balanced each other out temporarily, and the two of you were suspended gently in air. Then inevitably, one side came crashing down. What had been for him a turning point, an epiphany, was for Darcy Feyth a moment like thousands of others, too ordinary to recall.

  “That’s OK,” he said. “Never mind.”

  “Wait!” Darcy said suddenly. “I do remember. About the guy who falls in love with his brother’s wife?”

  He couldn’t believe it. “That’s right,” he said. “That’s it!”

  “You know we’re not doing this picture, right?” Darcy said. “You’re clear on that?”

  Phil nodded. He even liked the affectation of “picture” instead of “movie.”

  “But if you really want to know—”

  “I do,” Phil said. “Was it that you had some connection to the material?”

  “Was I married to a shrink I cheated on with his brother, you mean?” She giggled, and then suddenly got serious: “Actually I’ll tell you what it was. I liked that woman—wait, don’t tell me—Cecelia. Was that it?”

  Phil felt as if the breath had been knocked out of him. “Celine,” he said.

  “Right, her. I thought you did a good job with her character.” Darcy shrugged. “A lot of men don’t know what women are like.”

  There were crowds of people going by. Phil knew they were looking, but he felt protected from them—protected by her. For the moment he was inside Darcy Feyth’s private force field, and it was like having a mask or a cape or a pair of wings: nothing could happen to him as long as she was there.

  “I have to go now,” Darcy said, extending her hand. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Travers.”

  “Thank you,” Phil said. “Thank you for telling me that,” he called, but Darcy was already up the steps of the trailer, half-waving without turning around. There were people going by, but now that Darcy was gone, they didn’t give him a second glance. They didn’t give him even a first glance, and so he joined the crowd, in the common direction, making his way slowly back to the visitors’ lot.

  72.

  JOAN WAS NOT INTENDING TO BREAK INTO HER BROTHER’S HOUSE. SHE parked her car across the street only so as not to block the driveway. She knew that the whole family would be at the dance concert, since she had declined Cece’s invitation on the grounds that she had other plans. She hoped Yuan Zhao had also turned it down, and that she might find him at home to night, working on his scroll. She wanted to ask him about Tianming’s East Village, and especially about the performance Drip-Drop.

  The lights were on in the living room, as a deterrent, but Joan assumed that the house keeper was in her room behind the kitchen. There was no point in disturbing her. She opened the combination lock
on the gate, which was set to Max’s birthday, and made her way around the side of the house to the backyard. To her great disappointment, Mr. Yuan’s room was dark.

  She thought about knocking on the kitchen door. Lupe certainly would’ve let her wait in the house. If they had all gone to the concert, however, they would probably go out to dinner afterward. She could hardly be waiting for them when they got home, especially after saying she had plans for the night.

  As she was debating what to do, Joan wandered around to the pool house. She found herself idly trying the knob; it was locked, as she’d expected. She glanced back once at the house keeper’s window, obscured by a thick osmanthus, before reaching into a stamped tin lantern hanging above the door: there was the spare key, resting in the empty glass chamber.

  The last time she had seen the dissident’s scroll, the two wandering scholars had just encountered the immortal women. Joan had admired the folds in the women’s garments, the drift and whip of their ribbons in the wind. The men stood stationary on the opposite bank, unruffled, eager, baskets of herbs on their backs. Now, however, the scroll had extended by several scenes; time moved in the Chinese fashion, from right to left. The herb-gatherers had crossed the stream, and the women had led them up a path to their dwelling, where a lavish banquet was set out on straw mats. The men lounged and ate, attended by serving women. Musicians strummed strange long-necked guitars.

  Joan took out her notebook, planning to write a rough description of the scroll. As usual, she was missing a pen. She opened the top drawer of the desk; along with an impressive selection of pens was a large-format catalogue: Along the Riverbank: Chinese Paintings from the Oscar Tang Family Collection. When Joan picked up the book, she saw that one page was marked by the jacket flap.

  Two woman stood by a riverbank, beckoning two men to cross. In the next panel, the men were being led up a stone path, past flowering peach trees. Joan looked back at the dissident’s scroll, but she was not mistaken: the only difference between the painting on the desk and the one in the book was that the book provided an English translation:

  After a brief rest the women prepared a delicious meal of sesame rice and mountain goat, after which the men were no longer hungry. They inquired about the women’s families, but the ladies only laughed and made small talk, refusing to reveal anything. The two men eventually stopped asking. They realized these were strange women, and they observed that there were no men in the house.

  Harry had said that he hadn’t seen the dissident’s new work. Did he have any idea of what Yuan Zhao was doing? What would he think if he found out that his visiting artist had become a plagiarist?

  She heard a noise outside and looked up, expecting the house keeper.

  “Lupe?” she called, and was startled when the artist himself pushed open the unlocked door.

  “Mr. Yuan!” she said. “I thought you were at the concert.”

  The dissident looked wildly around the room, as if he expected things to be missing.

  “I’m so sorry.” She was standing up, clutching the book in front of her chest. “I came to see you, and the door was unlocked, and so I just thought I’d wait and see if you came back.”

  Yuan Zhao was staring at her. She thought he was going to challenge her—certainly he remembered locking the door himself—and then she noticed where his attention was focused. She realized that she was still holding his book.

  She wanted to tell him that it was all right, that she understood. She wanted to say that you couldn’t produce things on demand, just because people wanted you to, and that nothing you made would ever live up to their expectations anyway. Even if by some miracle you wound up pleasing a few people, you would never satisfy yourself.

  “How was the concert?” she asked idiotically. “Is everyone back?”

  The dissident bent and pulled a red suitcase from underneath the bed. Then he went to the closet, and took an armful of clothes from their hangers.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “I have an appointment.” He was moving efficiently, transferring his clothes from the closet to the suitcase. She could hardly ask where he was going.

  “I’ll leave you alone, then,” she said. She was wondering if she could slip out without meeting her brother and Cece, and whether they knew about the dissident’s “appointment.” It was possible that there had even been a quarrel. If only she hadn’t done something so absurd, she could’ve invited Yuan Zhao to come and stay with her.

  She was almost at the door when he stopped her.

  “They went out to dinner.”

  “Without you?” Joan asked.

  “I had some business at the school.”

  “But how did you get home?”

  “Vice Principal Diller was kind enough to call me a taxi.” The dissident was packing his books, distributing them the way you were supposed to, for weight. He zipped the suitcase and retrieved a black drawing tube from underneath the bed; obviously he was planning to take his scroll with him. For the first time it occurred to Joan that he might be leaving for good.

  “I’m worried about how you’ll get to your appointment,” she said. “You could call another taxi, but it might take a while to come. In the past I’ve waited over an hour.”

  “Excuse me,” Yuan Zhao said. “Could I—”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, handing him the book. She thought he would put it in the suitcase with the others, but instead he opened it on the desk and began writing something on the flyleaf. She noticed that he’d taken care with his appearance for the concert: he was wearing one of his black, collarless jackets over a crisp white shirt and tailored gray trousers. His new short hair suited him, she thought, and made him look even younger than before.

  Joan waited while Yuan Zhao wrote his inscription. It took several minutes; he seemed to be concentrating hard. Finally he closed the book and stood up.

  “If you want, I could drive you,” she offered.

  The dissident shook his head, but he glanced at the clock. It was already almost nine, and the concert had finished at seven-thirty. She saw him calculating in his head.

  “Wherever you need to go.”

  “I have to leave a note,” he said.

  “My car is just across the street,” Joan said. “I’ll wait for you.”

  “My note will say that Professor Harry Lin has invited me for the weekend. When you speak to them—”

  “Of course,” Joan said. “You can trust me.”

  73.

  THEY HEADED EAST, YUAN ZHAO DIRECTING HER. THERE WAS NO TRAFFIC on the wide and silent stretch of Sunset that ran beneath her brother’s neighborhood; they drove in silence, flanked by spindly palms. She waited until they’d reached the cheerful seediness of the strip before she asked whom he was visiting. But Yuan Zhao refused to reveal anything.

  “A friend,” was all he would say.

  He had the address written on a slip of paper, but Joan didn’t recognize the name of the street. They stopped at a gas station at the corner of Crescent Heights, and Yuan Zhao insisted on going in; she watched him struggling to communicate with the clerk through the lit-up window of the mini-mart.

  “Now I will direct you,” he told her when he got back in the car. “Go straight across, up that hill.” The farther they’d gotten from Beverly Hills, the more cheerful he had seemed. Now he was positively excited. She knew that this would be her only chance to ask him about Tianming’s East Village.

  “Now go right.”

  They turned onto Hollywood Boulevard and drove for some time. “I went to see your friend Harry,” Joan said. “He showed me his new book.”

  Yuan Zhao didn’t register any emotion. He was staring fixedly out the window, as if this were his first car ride in America.

  “I liked the photographs a lot,” Joan continued. “Especially Drip-Drop.”

  “Mm,” said Yuan Zhao.

  “He was surprised to hear about your project though.” She was glad for an excuse to keep her eyes on the road. “He was t
alking about his last book, on the Southern Song. He said that your generation isn’t interested in any of that. But I told him how your new painting—”

  “Excuse me,” Mr. Yuan said. “Please turn here.”

  Joan made a left onto a side street. They were in a quiet residential neighborhood of modest houses, each separated from the next by a well-lit driveway. Joan slowed down. “I’ve been reading some Chinese history: the Song are conquered by Mongol invaders, but then they have to rename themselves to become a ruling dynasty. They call themselves ‘Yuan’—is that right?”

  “Yuan,” Mr. Yuan said.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “You said: Yuan,” the dissident corrected mildly. “Different tone, different Yuan. Yuan, Yuan.” He craned his neck to see the house numbers. “Excuse me. It’s this one.”

  Reluctantly, Joan pulled over in front of a neat bungalow with an American flag painted on the mailbox. A string of red and green Christmas lights outlined a wide picture window, and an illuminated plastic Santa lifted one arm in greeting from the front step.

  “If you were never interested in those paintings, what made you choose to”—she did not want to use the word copy—“to study that one?” She looked at the dissident, who hadn’t wanted to put the drawing tube in the back seat. He was holding it carefully across his knees. According to Harry, the only young artist who’d wanted to talk about the classical scrolls was the unnamed boxer in the photo. Something occurred to Joan, so unlikely that she almost laughed.

  “Why not?” Mr. Yuan said lightly. He opened the car door, and a light went on inside the house.

  “Wait,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. “Could you just tell me—who was on the right?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “In the photograph, Drip-Drop. You’re on the left, but who was on the right?”

  Mr. Yuan hesitated. A woman had stepped out of the house, and was standing on the doorstep.

  “Do you mean, on the right in the performance, or on the right if you’re looking at the photograph?”