The Unfinished World

by Amber Sparks

  That year, Set surprised himself and everyone around him by moving forward, something he’d never done by himself before; he took Lana’s advice and started his own company. The company lived and shot in Kenya that first year, and made four pictures for the AMNH: African Adventures, On Safari, Big Cats!, and Welcome to the Wild. Set thought back to that nickelodeon theater and wished Oliver were still living and able to see what he’d done. Sometimes he dreamed of Oliver. He dreamed a great tall tree with a multitude of branches, growing far into the heavens. He dreamed he watched Oliver climbing, climbing, small and smaller still until he disappeared altogether into the city of the gods.

  When he returned, Lana begged him to take her on his next trip to Africa. I want to see the apes, she told him. Are they really like giant, hairy men?

  Nothing like, Set assured her, but she purred as if he had never spoken. Set always felt he was talking to a moving picture screen instead of a live human woman. Set, Set, Set, she would scold, her voice thick with her hidden New Jersey accent and gin. Don’t you ever wanna be somebody? Don’t you ever wanna have a passion for something? She loved his beauty, but she despised his placid solemnity, and what was worse, his lack of interest in his own advancement. She was a fiercely smart, self-made woman. She’d escaped a typically broken home, mother on the bottle, stepfather slaphappy, sisters stupid and stuck. Dirty faces and everybody dull, dull, dull. She’d washed her own face and sewed a dress for herself from scraps she begged at the Macy’s department store where her sister Maureen worked, and she’d shipped herself out at sixteen to Hollywood. The pictures were barely in their infancy, but she was smart enough to recognize a sure thing when she saw it. Sometimes, when she got too unbearable and he didn’t mind the eggshells, he’d slip and call her Dottie. That was her real name: Dorothea DeRosa, though her mentor renamed her Svetlana, and her publicity people put it about that she was a Russian princess who came to Hollywood for refuge during the Revolution. Of course, alone with Set and a few too many martinis, she slipped back into her flat native tongue and her Dottie DeRosa manners.

  You have no passion, she’d repeat.

  You’re drunk, Dottie, go to sleep, Set would amiably say, and arrange her on the bed in a way that wouldn’t hurt when she woke. He would never tell her, but he was disappointed by the lack of fire behind the flame. Lana was just another Hollywood hustler. And so, he supposed, was he.

  We’re all just illusions here, aren’t we, he said, and turned her face to the side so she wouldn’t choke in her sleep.

  Photograph: Tahitian woman, circa 1922. She is surrounded by lush foliage. She is very young, her brown face smooth, her dark eyes framed by dense black brows. Her stomach is gently rounded, her hand resting lightly over it. She does not smile.

  Dearest Hannah, Ma Seule Soeur,

  Greetings from Paradise! I know you are unhappy with my travels and I hope, concerned with my safety. But you shouldn’t be, sister. The people here are lovely and Manam is truly an earthly marvel. I wish never to leave it. I have taken wonderful photographs here and the magazine will pay me handsomely for them. The people here are much freer, much more open with their bodies, as is fitting in this climate. There is a different kind of air in this part of the world; even the stars are different to the ones we know. It is too warm to wear so many clothes, and they laugh at me in my linen blouses and long trousers. I would laugh also. I am not one of them, and must maintain my own kind of decorum, but there are hot humid days when I long to run about in a grass skirt and brightly colored puka necklaces.

  The men have made carvings for me and tell the story of their god, the volcano. It is, they say, a quiet god, for generations silent, and they spend much time appeasing him. Last week they killed a wild boar and held a great feast, and I must say, I have never tasted anything so delicious as wild pig roasted on a spit. You should try it, should you ever get the chance, though I suppose there are not many wild pigs where you live.

  I shall stay here until Christmas; then, with a sad heart, sail for Hollandia, where I will wait for my English friend and his boat. Then we travel to America. I think I will eventually set out for the West. There is a magazine out there looking for someone to cover the pictures, to capture these new exotics, the film stars, and put them on display for the public to gawp at. I’m game! I’ll approach them like the wilder animals they are, these motion picture people. I’ll catch them out, spots and snarling teeth, and make them something of a modern-day miracle; something truly new.

  Yrs, wandering in this wide forest, Gretel/Ingeborg

  Inge lands in Set’s shadow long before he sees her. She knows of his reputation around the studio, a sort of junior ladies’ man, and she photographs several erstwhile girlfriends of his. Her curiosity is piqued. What a cad he must be, she thinks. She’s already made her mind up not to date picture people, but still she can’t help but be awed by how preternaturally lovely so many of them are.

  She normally spends her days off holed up in her rented room, flopped across the quilt in her slip, reading the books that she borrows from the Hollywood Library. This heat is very different from the slow, languid heat of the tropics. It’s a dry heat, and it burns the throat. She waits until the iceman comes each Saturday and begs the landlady for a few slivers off the block to roll around on her tongue. Her landlady, the elderly widow of a former prospector-turned-respectable-businessman, calls her Worm, as in bookworm. The landlady’s son, a car salesman, is in love with Inge. He is forever trying to sell her love along with driving lessons. She laughs and tells him she’ll take the driving lessons, anyway. The landlady’s son is nearly fifty, with a blanket of fat and a wide, shiny part in his sparse pale hair. His eyes shine and he sweats, exudes, when he sees her. He reminds her of a sea slug. She has photographed him several times, a fascinating example of the local fauna. She knows how to flatter.

  She is flooring it in the salesman’s brand-new 1922 American touring car, scattering birds and extras and pulling up hard to the studio gates. She leans out the window and waves to her friend, a wardrobe girl and sometime actress named Vicky. I’ll be blowed, says Vicky, bringing her new beau up to stroke the car like a big bronze cat. Look at this ride!

  And who’s this? asks Inge, while the sea slug fumes in the passenger side. I thought you were with Adonis?

  Oh, says Vicky, and makes a sour face. She’s a middling pretty English girl with an exceptionally pretty bosom, and marks time mostly in the big dance numbers. Sometimes they sponge her down with dye and put her front and center in the harems. Once she even kissed Valentino. He’s a cold bloke, that one. And only going after the big stars, Inge, so don’t get any funny ideas. He’s taken up with Lana Volcana.

  Inge laughs. I don’t expect that’ll last long, she says. Nobody does with her.

  It don’t matter, says Vicky. This here’s Tony. He does stunts, proper ones, falling out of windows and getting smashed with chairs and things. She beams. Tony is indeed a tower of muscle, tall and sinewy and broad-backed, with a pair of girlish brown eyes and a nice hard chin. He extends his hand and grins, and the horn in the touring car goes off, loud and abrupt and deafening. The sea slug is using it to demonstrate his displeasure.

  Pleased to meet ya, says Tony. And if you’re looking for Adonis—he jerks his head—he’s over there. Coming out of the diner.

  The salesman moves his hand to the horn again and Inge smacks it sharply. Lovely to meet you, Tony, she says. We’ve got to be going—ta, Vicky!

  Ta, Inge, says Vicky, but Inge’s already backing out of the drive with a loud squeal, and the sea slug is breathing fast. His usual milky color has deepened to a disturbing pinkish-beige. You all right, love? Inge asks.

  Eyes on the road, the salesman tells her. And they almost are on the road, her eyes, except for the moment when they pass the diner and Inge takes in the tall young man with the beautifully louche posture. He looks sad. Not like any Casanova she’s known. He glances at the car, and his fingers are long on his cigarette
, and her face flushes, hands tighten on the wheel. Lana doesn’t bother her. But why this one? She seems to recognize something in him, something tragic in his lonely, unguarded look. She wonders if she’s making a mistake, if she might be misjudging him. Imposing her own sense of isolation.

  But then, she’s always been a traveler. And here, she supposes, is an intriguing trip to take. She slams on the brakes and opens the door, leaves the sea slug salesman gaping from the passenger side.

  Set laughs as this strange girl rushes him, the loneliness in his face melting imperceptibly into amiable reserve. Can I buy you lunch? she asks.

  I’ve already had it, he tells her. And I should probably also tell you: I belong to Lana Volcana. Her exclusive property and so forth. He smiles.

  Inge rolls her eyes. I just wanted to buy you a corned beef sandwich, not take you to bed, she says. People in this town.

  He laughs now and it’s a lovely, musical sound to Inge’s ear. Light and sweet, almost girlish. I’m sorry, he says, and runs his fingers through his pomaded hair. How about a coffee, then? Inge knows she’s going to have to work to fall out of love with him now. She nods, and follows him back into the diner. The sea slug has since driven away, and damn, but she doesn’t suppose she’ll get another driving lesson now.

  Set laughs because the creature flinging herself from the car reminds him, briefly, of Constance. But of course they are nothing alike except in impulsiveness, perhaps: this woman is short, all scent and hum, all soft, draped curves, and ample breasts and hips and gently rounded face. Her pale yellow hair is bobbed but escapes its style with a joyful sort of will. She is altogether unfashionable, like a girl from fifteen years ago, and he finds her deeply charming.

  Now she sits across from him, dipping her toast in her tea and telling him unbelievable stories of photographing native tribal dances in the Brazilian forest. He has no idea whether he should believe her or not, though he supposes he has no reason not to. She seems smitten with him—the kind of utterly guileless person who doesn’t care to hide it, though there is something else besides frank need behind her soft hands and quick words. He catches her staring, several times, in what he might call pity, were there not so much recognition in the glance. Empathy, perhaps? He notices she has not once spoken of her family, and even when she spins her tales, they’re always in the present tense. He lights a cigarette and leans back, fascinated by this new creature.

  And so they fall: Inge hard, like a character in a book; Set into something like a spell, a way of being at least caught if not quite in love. And so the trail of their time together grows.

  Ticket stubs: Fairbanks’ latest picture, The Thief of Baghdad. Symphony concerts. Cedric’s last film, finally opening without him.

  Photographs: Fooling around in the studio’s studio after hours, Set in the lens, leaning into the shadow. Fuzzy and indistinct, all light and dark—no hard edges.

  Souvenirs: playbills and commissary receipts and napkins filled with his sketches and her doodles and gossip about the guy on the corner stool, the starlet sipping coffee under red raw eyes.

  Lists: What he should do about Lana. What she should say to Valentino if she photographs him. Their favorite songs. Their favorite pictures. Where they’d live if they could live anywhere. (Tahiti, L.A., Paris, Kenya. Long Island does not make the list.) Eventually, Set’s earliest memories. Eventually, Inge’s memories of Albert. Eventually, their first memories of each other.

  Doubts: his, always his. She deserves more than a ghost, more than a half-love. She has no doubts, no doubt a failing too, but possibly a more romantic one. She thinks he might be a little bit unstable, but really, who isn’t?

  The pull of home: he does not have the benefit of fire, the past torched clean. She is propelled, but he is compelled; he knows he can only stay so long outside the family lines. The only question is, will she come with him when it’s time to go? Or maybe also: does he want her to? Or maybe, finally: would it help him to find what’s missing?

  Set is sitting on a porch stoop on the back lot, flicking cigarette ashes at anyone who gets too close. He is the angriest Inge has ever seen him. Usually he’s so implacable. Sometimes so much so that she wants to slap him just to leave a mark on that perfect face. But today that face is red, that smooth brow scrunched. I hate it, Set says. I hate being disappointed by people. I can’t think of anything that’s worse. His set designer has fled to Mexico with a pregnant sixteen-year-old ingenue. It’s caused a smallish scandal and a giant hole in Set’s production schedule. And he misses Cedric rather more dreadfully than he thought he would. He has taken very personally the thumb’s-width stack of letters stamped “Return to Sender,” the only break in his brother’s long silence.

  Inge laughs and watches the sun climb down from the sky, a glowing yolk suspended. She lifts her face to catch the last of the rays, and Set watches her with appreciation, momentarily distracted. In these last few months they’ve come to know each other so well, yet there is still so much mystery to sift through. They meet for dinner almost every night at the diner shaped like a hat. Lana doesn’t know because she doesn’t dine until at least ten. Or sometimes at all, depending on how much she’s had to drink.

  That’s why I try to find out ahead of time, Inge says.

  Find out what? Set pulls out his cigarettes, lights another, offers one to Inge. She refuses with a face. It’s become a ritual already.

  Find out if people are going to disappoint you, says Inge. You can tell, usually. So then you know, and you get it out of the way. Then you won’t be disappointed later.

  Am I the kind of person who disappoints? asks Set.

  Inge closes her eyes, considers the question. I don’t know, she says. With you, it’s hard to say. I suppose, yes, because of what I want from you, she says, and sighs.

  What do you want from me? he asks.

  She smiles, grabs him by the lapels, and hauls him up and into the plywood doorway to nowhere. She is surprisingly strong.

  What are you—?

  Shhh, she says. Then she pulls up her skirt and puts his hand on her bare thigh, on the skin above where her stockings stop. He blinks, face locked, and she holds her breath, ready to let him have her right there in the doorway if he wants to, this beautiful, damaged boy. She wants so desperately to make him whole.

  What Set likes best about Inge is how utterly human she is. In high heat she breaks out in small blisters across her back and chest, and no matter how she pins her hair it’s all escaped by midday. She clears her throat when she grows bored, and loathes opera, and her front tooth is chipped from a game of blindman’s bluff gone wrong when she was ten. She fidgets constantly and eats too quickly, like a starving person, and she drinks too much, and the colors she loves to wear don’t suit her at all. She has a slight lisp and dances badly and calls him dahling only half in jest and one eye is slightly larger than the other and her toes are bulbous and she mispronounces words with great authority and she’s far too fond of garlic and she laughs too loud and she doesn’t know how to talk about so many things, like money. She would be, he admits, so easy to make love to, to push up against, to nuzzle and grab at and rub and tickle and cradle and with so much flesh, so much white and pink flesh to take by the armful, the legful, the bellyful.

  But of course he can’t do anything of the sort. Not just because of Lana. Because of his hollow place—what he knows, now, must be his inability to love. He pulls back, straightens his shirt, breathes. You know I can’t, he says.

  You see, she says, and sighs. Disappointing.

  Photograph: Close-up of a neon sign, a pair of godly hands in prayer. The sign is smeared against the night sky like a garish constellation.

  Inside the tent, a preacher in a spotless linen suit is singing, Praise, praise Him, praise to the Lord. The bleachers are crowded with people waving paper programs in front of sweating bodies and waiting to be saved. Set finds them creepy, dough-faced and blank. Inge winks at him, asks, Don’t you want to be saved, my
son?

  I don’t think I can be, he says, and he means it. She frowns and tries to smooth her frizzy hair, with the usual failure. They thought it would be funny, sneaking off to the revival. But now they’re both reminded of the thing Set lacks. He’s told her about the bear, about the way he’s sure he died and didn’t quite come all the way back. He’s told her about everything, almost. He’s not sure what he’s doing here with Inge, why he’s let her into his life. I think I died when I was small, he tells her. I think I’m stuck in two worlds now.

  Like Tam Lin, she says, smiling. The Queen of the Faeries has your soul.

  Who’s Tam Lin? he asks.

  Just a very old story, love, about a boy who belongs to two places, two women. Never mind, she says, I’ll save you. How do I save you, anyway? She says it as a joke, but they both understand, instantly, that she will do it, will do anything he asks. He may not be dead but it’s clear he’s lost, and Inge is haplessly in love with him, and suddenly the revival doesn’t seem so strange after all. Miracles for sale. All these people sweating through their hope, pinning the impossible on a suave old man in a cheap suit, on a plywood stage and their Sunday best and the wild dream that their lives could be different if the neon hand of god was pointing down at them.

  You make everything look so easy, love, says Inge. That’s a very attractive thing. Life is struggle enough—people want to admire someone who seems to be doing it better than the rest of us. Coming through it swimmingly.

  Set didn’t want to say so, but swimming was the wrong word; it was more floating, really. He floated along, caught in the wake of his family’s vast ship. Wherever they sailed, he drifted behind, content to splash about in their eddies, then bobbing aimlessly on his own in California until Lana towed him one way and then Inge another. No wonder it looked easy. He had no soul to anchor him. He was air, was water, was as elemental as the wind. He was something much darker, too. His hollow was a great chest pain, and he suffered sometimes from world-blackening headaches. He was unable to pin down his melancholy. He half-wished he’d stayed dead after the bear. At least he would be worth something, weigh something. Bones and earth. At least he would belong to himself.