by Neil Mcmahon
“I took some physics a long time ago, and I wasn’t much good at it. I remember a few basics, but that’s all.”
“Atoms and molecules have electrons orbiting around the nucleus, right? They’re constantly bombarded by quanta, tiny bundles of energy. If an electron absorbs enough of them, it jumps to another orbit—a quantum leap. Gunnar realized that it’s the same in our lives, except the energy is personal power. We can learn to accumulate it and make our own quantum leaps.”
“It’s science,” Paul interrupted emphatically. “That’s the key.”
Huh.
My first hit was an obvious one—that this had a cultlike ring. I was reasonably familiar with cult mentality in general and with several specific variations. I’d encountered all that fairly often both in clinical work and with the college kids I counseled, and it tied in to one of my major interests, the strange psychology of cognitive dissonance. Quasi-scientific spins weren’t unusual in cults, especially in the more sophisticated ones. My own take on that tended toward cynical; by my lights, the object was precisely what Paul seemed so enraptured by—to give members a sense of superiority because they weren’t buying into not just unfounded and often outlandish beliefs, but an intellectual system.
But the quantum physics angle was new to me, and at first glance it did seem to have some logic, backed by Kelso’s impressive credentials. He sure didn’t come across as the kind of messianic raver that tended to crop up in that field.
Then again, first glance also brought up a string of questions, starting with just what this “personal power” was, along with how you were supposed to acquire and apply it.
But before I could ask anything, Cynthia ended the conversation, nudging Paul with her elbow.
“Let’s quit babbling—Tom’s supposed to be enjoying himself,” she said.
“Right, right,” Paul agreed. “How about a drink, Tom? I’m ready.”
“Not just yet. Thanks.”
“Dig into the buffet, then. It’s a choice spread.”
It was certainly that—caviar, pâté de foie gras, prosciutto, iced bowls of giant prawns, a dozen exotic side dishes; a steam table with grilled salmon, prime rib, and coq au vin; and a full bar with a wine selection that looked like it came from the Palms.
Tempting as it was, the burger I’d wolfed a couple of hours ago was holding me fine. I wasn’t about to have a drink, either. Paul’s involvement with Cynthia was troubling enough, but the double whammy of that and Parallax, with the two deeply intertwined, raised a serious red flag. I wanted my radar as sharp and clear as I could keep it.
Well, coming here had accomplished what I’d hoped for—taking my mind off Nick and Erica.
Thirteen
I poured myself a glass of sparkling water and stayed at the fringes, in the kind of fly-on-the-wall observer role I’d often found useful in my work. What I gleaned was oddly comforting. None of the usual cult signs showed in any obvious way—no sense of passiveness, constraint to obedience, or a rigid moral code. Nobody approached me in that phony friendly way that was a lead-in to proselytizing. The conversations were bright-toned, the behavior energetic; alcohol flowed freely, and I suspected there were other party drugs around; and there was plenty of openly sexual flirting.
If Parallax was a cult, there was probably a waiting list to get in.
Then, after a few minutes, Lisa DiFurio came stalking through the door.
Dustin, the outback-hatted man she’d been with, walked in behind her, but it was clear that they weren’t together; he had a sulky expression, and she was pointedly keeping her back to him. Apparently, the tone of their conversation had not improved. She didn’t waste any time getting to the bar and grabbing a glass of Pouilly-Fuissé.
She wasn’t the prettiest face in the room—mouth a little wide, nose thin and aquiline, cheekbones almost harsh—but she had a sensuous quality that glowed like a fire in a roomful of fluorescent lamps. The other women knew it; I caught several cool sidelong glances at her as she passed. That was oddly comforting, too. The Parallax philosophy wasn’t putting any damper on plain old jealousy.
Then Lisa did the last thing in the world I’d have expected—walked over to me.
“I’m hoping you’re the one person here who won’t talk about film or art,” she said. “Or God forbid, film as art. Deal?”
“That’s easy. I don’t know anything about either one.”
“I do—he’s been lecturing me about it all morning. I feel like a torture victim. Every time he said the word nuance, it was like needles under my fingernails, and he said it a lot.”
“I couldn’t help noticing that the two of you seemed to have a difference of opinion,” I said.
“We sure do. He thinks he’s going to get laid.” She sipped her wine, looking as nonchalant as if she’d just mentioned that she enjoyed sailing.
Dustin had been watching us all this time; he was clear across the room, and he couldn’t have heard, but from his glowering face, he might as well have.
“Who is he?” I said.
“Dustin Sperry—the director. I’m Lisa.”
“I know. Tom Crandall.”
“Nice to meet you, but let’s go back to the ‘I know.’ Is it a good ‘I know’ or a bad ‘I know’?”
“It’s just from seeing your movies, and I confess I haven’t seen them all,” I said. “What I have seen, I liked a lot.”
“Then you definitely haven’t seen them all—I believe you there. But we’re not going to talk about film, right?”
“Sorry. Short attention span.”
“So what did you like? About the ones you saw?”
I grinned. “Mostly the nuances.”
“Prick. I was just starting to trust you, and you twist the knife.” Then her gaze darted off to the side. “Heads up,” she whispered. “Here comes Chris, high as the moon on mushrooms and ego.”
The guy she was talking about was a real hunk, with shaggy blond hair, teeth so white they could blind you, and a suntanned, chiseled physique. He was the one other face in the room that had seemed most familiar to me, and now I made the connection—he was Chris Breen, a hot young action-adventure star. Several of the babes were hovering around him with their body language saying it all; he seemed not just used to that, but oblivious to any other possibility. He was also obviously stoned out of his skull. As he walked toward Lisa and me, he actually gave the impression of floating, and I was sure that his wide, dancing eyes were seeing things I wasn’t.
He managed to focus on us, looking mysterious and a little perturbed. “I’m starting to feel the nahngs—I’ve got to chill out,” he said. Then, to me, “Dude, somebody said this is your place. Anywhere good to go swimming?”
“Go out to the road you came in on and head back a quarter mile, just past that little bridge,” I said. “There’s a pool in the creek—where you were earlier, Lisa.”
“Excellent. How about it, Leese?”
“Sorry, Chris. Swimming’s not my thing. But I’m sure you’ll have plenty of company.”
His eyes went back to that glitter of seeing into another dimension. “Hey, yeah, like—water nymphs!” He returned to his harem, this time moving more purposefully.
“Water nymphs,” Lisa murmured wryly. “It’ll be more like the beach at Rio—Brazilians everywhere you look.”
I smiled again. “His riff about—what did he call them, nahngs? Did that actually mean anything?”
“Sort of. It’s Nhangs, capital N-h. They’re in the movie. The part about him feeling them’s in the mushrooms. Hey, are you leaving here anytime soon—like back to L.A.?”
“As soon as I can. I’m supposed to have a talk with Dr. Kelso, but I wouldn’t think it’ll take too long.”
“Could I follow you to the freeway? When I was coming in, I saw one of the limos ahead and just tagged along the last few miles—I wasn’t really paying attention, and I’m afraid I’ll get lost.”
“Of course,” I said. “You really want to m
iss the rest of the party?”
“I’m not much of a party girl these days. I did my share of it, back when. And Dustin’s just waiting to corner me again.”
“I’ve got a feeling you can handle him. But yeah, sure—I’ll come look for you when I’m done.”
“I’ll be right around here. Unless I kill him first.”
“I’ll hurry. I wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”
That wry look came back onto her face, but with more of an edge this time—like a beautiful cat with a glossy coat that you yearn to touch, even though you know there are fangs and claws attached.
“Not much conscience in this business, honey,” she said.
Fourteen
By now a half hour had passed; it was time to meet up with Kelso. I found him outside chatting with Chris Breen’s swimming party. They were loading a couple of car trunks with iced coolers of drinks and urging Kelso to come along. He had the amused look of a parent dealing with a bunch of kids who were up to harmless mischief. There did seem to be a summer-camp element about it.
“Not just now—I’ll wander by later,” I heard him say. He didn’t seem inclined to bask in the adulation that came his way, although he clearly didn’t mind it, either.
When he saw me, he split away from the group, and the two of us started walking. I followed his lead; it looked like he was taking us toward the bizarre city set.
“Does our party seem bacchanalian to you?” Kelso said.
“No, it actually strikes me as pretty tame, at least from what I’ve seen so far.”
“It will get livelier, I assure you. I don’t care to drink much or use drugs myself—they impair my thinking. But I don’t see it as my role to play nursemaid to my associates, and it would be futile to try. I insist only that they stay within safe limits.”
“Associates” was an interesting choice of words. He’d also tacitly confirmed his authority in a way that went far beyond the mechanics of making a movie.
“I don’t want to play nursemaid either, but I hope nobody’s going to get hammered and drive back to L.A.,” I said.
He shook his head. “We’re very careful about that sort of thing. Some of them will stay here for the night; there are chauffeurs and designated drivers for the others.”
We reached the security fence that surrounded the set—eight-foot-high chain-link angled out at the top and monitored at intervals by cameras on stalks. There was a kiosk for a guard outside the main gate, but it was vacant, presumably considered unnecessary today with all the people around. Kelso opened the gate, a complicated procedure that required inserting an electronic key card and punching a numbered code. Parallax didn’t want anybody inside that fence who didn’t belong there. The gate closed behind us automatically, and I got a memory flash of places like the Napa state hospital. There was a sense of finality—once you were in, you were in.
“I’ll activate some of the features,” he said, stepping into a trailer. “When we film we’ll use auxiliary lighting and other effects, but this will give you an idea.”
While I waited, I scanned what I could see of the actual set, which started a hundred feet ahead. Besides the clashing architecture and deliberately seamy construction, it was darkened to twilight by the shade of the cliffs.
The effect was striking and a little eerie—then, abruptly, it got eerier still. The ground started to exude a soft luminescent glow, enhancing the surreal hues. Dim lights appeared in windows and along the narrow streets; inside toward the center, I glimpsed the flash of a neon sign. Indistinct shapes seemed to be moving in the shadows.
The sense was that the city had its own subtle life.
Kelso came back a minute later, and we started toward it, crossing from sunlight into the darker, cooler artificial dusk.
“We’ve tried to bring together several elements in this project,” he said. “One is the detective-noir genre—I’m a great fan. Yourself?”
Well, here was another intriguing facet to the scientist-philosopher-filmmaker.
“I don’t know a lot about it, but some,” I said, with the feeling that I’d already said that a lot today and I probably wasn’t done yet.
“What interests me most about it are the true-to-life ambiguities. No one is all good or bad, nothing can be trusted, the hero must battle his own weaknesses, and so on. That’s the overall context we’re working in.”
As we entered the grounds of the city’s first major structure, a faux-marble ancient temple, I tried to get a fix on the noir aspect. The general ambience fit the bill and even went over the top—but how did the temple, with neighbors like a jungle village and a street with a futuristic sci-fi look, fit in?
“The design doesn’t seem exactly traditional,” I said.
“It reflects the nature of this place,” he said. “It’s like our own world in many ways, but also merges into otherworld and the realm of dreams. The unexpected is everywhere; it’s dangerous, but exciting and alluring. Shall I give you a sketch of the story?”
“Please.”
“It begins with a young soldier on a reconnaissance patrol,” Kelso said. “He falls into an ambush, an explosion knocks him unconscious, and he awakens in this place. Right away, he encounters a ravishing woman.”
That would be Lisa DiFurio, with gallant Chris Breen as the soldier.
“But then she’s suddenly abducted by a band of creatures called Nhangs—treacherous, vicious shape-shifters,” Kelso went on. “He tries to save her, but he’s overpowered. From there he’s thrown into the role of the detective-noir figure, searching for her through a series of adventures, continually finding her and losing her again. He comes to realize that he’s in a sort of maze, and the adventures are tests where he wins or loses power. Each time, he ends up back at the center, with the bartender dispensing advice.”
Kelso pointed ahead at the flashing neon sign I’d noticed. Now I could see that the place was a tawdry tavern, and the sign read THE VELVET GLOVE—the film’s title. Along with it was a logo of a black-gloved hand raising a martini glass. At first glance, this seemed as traditionally noir as it got, right out of Chandler and Hammett.
Then I realized that the bit of wrist protruding from the glove had a metallic gleam—the proverbial iron fist—and that the glass stem it held between thumb and forefinger was actually a long, slender human neck, which it appeared to be toying with, perhaps about to snap. The upper part of the glass wasn’t exactly a face, but it was skillfully twisted in a way that suggested a sense of angst.
Wow.
I metaphorically scratched my head at this curious blend—a familiar quest-type story line, a structure that suggested certain board and video games, an alternative universe setting imbued with Freudian-Jungian concepts of underlying consciousness, all with noir overtones, including a bartender making sage remarks while he polished the glasses.
Whether that would fly at the box office, I couldn’t begin to guess.
Now we were coming to the tall columned entrance of the temple itself. The interior was dark, flickering with low firelight at several places—and as my eyes adjusted, I realized that fine white mist was swirling in the air.
“This is another important site in our story,” Kelso said, stepping inside. “The home of an oracle like at ancient Delphi—a priestess who foretells destinies. It’s our single most lavish set.”
I followed him in. The mist, rising from a ragged narrow chasm in the stone floor, gave the sense of being in a sauna; it wasn’t that hot, but warm enough to bead my face with sweat, and it had a pleasantly pungent aroma like eucalyptus.
I recalled once reading somewhere that the vapor at Delphi was believed to have mystical properties that gave the sibyl her visions, and that she induced them by straddling the chasm to absorb the vapors vaginally. I’d never run into any evidence to back that up, and this mist, of course, was artificial. But it definitely had penetrating power—I could feel the sharp aromatic tingle reaching deep up into my sinuses like a menthol cold med
icine.
Then Kelso gave the conversation a twist that had an eerie feel to it, as if we were edging into this world ourselves.
Fifteen
“I mentioned a question I’d like to ask you—it has to do with the story’s outcome,” Kelso said. “You’re experienced in how people think, and you’re not bound by the conventions of the film world.”
I shrugged. “Sure.” I seriously doubted he was really looking for advice—so what was this about?
“The script is essentially settled—we’ll probably make minor changes as we film. But I’m not satisfied with the ending. As it stands, we’ve gone with the opinion of experts who agree that a feel-good triumph would be best for marketing purposes. But I’m a stubborn Swede, and I’d prefer the two-edged approach of noir—the victory has tragic overtones.
“In my view, the hero is faced with a final dilemma. He can leave this hazardous existence and go on to a safe and pleasant future. Or he can stay, but no longer as a pawn. He’ll become a master, one of those who battle to control this world. His power will be greatly heightened; he may be able to accomplish much good. But he also may be forced to do harm, and his danger continues—including defeat that could cost him everything.”
Kelso paused, apparently waiting for a response.
“What happens with the woman?” I said.
His head moved in a slight nod, as if that was what he’d expected me to ask.
“That adds to the tension,” he said. “She must make the same choice. But they’re separated, with no chance to talk about it—each can guess only what the other will do. To me, the most intriguing resolution would be for the man to choose safety because he thinks that will be her choice—but instead she does just the opposite, and they lose each other forever.” He gave me another glance like he was gauging my reaction, but this time he went on talking.
