by Bruce Wagner
“What I’ve really been thinking about is your book series.”
Dad wrinkled his brow as if downshifting to a lower mental gear. He politely nodded. “Miriam mentioned something about that. Now I’m intrigued. Tell me more!”
“Well, I guess I’m a little perverse! Since my father’s death, there seems to be a lot of interest in Michelet properties in general. Someone even wants to do my first book, The Soft Sea Horse.”
Miriam appeared in the door. “Mikkel Skarsgaard,” she said.
“The marvelous DP,” said Dad authoritatively. He had a staff of people paid exclusively to keep him abreast of rising (and falling) hipsters in the art and film worlds.
“I’m really interested in doing a Starwatch book . . .”
“ ‘Prodigal Son,’ ” said Miriam, offering what my father already knew.
“It’s transgressive,” said Thad.
“He wants to do something . . . subversive,” said Miriam. “Counterintuitive.”
They were wisely appealing to the “collector” side of dad, the Perry Krohn who’d been known to chicly underwrite tedious performance pieces. He laughed amiably.
“It does seem a bit of a waste of your talents.”
“I—I can’t explain!” said Thad, grinning ear to ear.
“It’s his Matthew Barney moment,” said Miriam.
“I love Matthew Barney,” said Perry.
He seemed to brighten and grow vacant all at once because though the analogy made no sense whatsoever my father was afraid that it did and he’d missed something. He indulged them because he didn’t remotely want to be the butt of a joke, no matter how obscure.
“It’d be great,” said Miriam, jauntily bringing things back down to Earth. “I mean, Thad’s such a wonderful prose writer as is.”
“We’re talking about you novelizing ‘Prodigal Son’?” said Dad, to clarify.
“Yes. I’d actually love to do it as two books,” said Thad, overenthused (and with Black Jack’s will in mind; two books would increase the odds). Perry all but scratched his head—at least he was still smiling. “I’m serious!”
“All right, then let’s make it happen!” said Perry, leading us from the library.
Thad gushed his thanks (as if that were all that was legally required to seal the deal), while Miriam obsequiously trumpeted the Dadaist brilliance of it all. My guess was that Father thought it more socially expedient to acquiesce than debate the point. It was some kind of silliness.
I decided to talk with him about the whole business later on and promised as much to Miriam. I was a little concerned Thad hadn’t given enough lip service to Chrysanthemum, which after all was my father’s baby, or should I say, orphan. I could illuminate the testamentary backstory, without which Thad’s zeal must have seemed bizarre—here was an opportunity to score a classy screenwriting credit for a significant chunk of change yet for some reason young Michelet was hell-bent on churning out one of the cookie-cutter volumes of an obscenely banal book series instead, a series already vaguely embarrassing to his employer, a man who prided himself on being a bibliophile (and author) yet whose only aggressive contribution to world literature thus far was this commercial offal, this worthless waste of tree and ink, this dumb and dumber encyclopedia of embroidered teleplays. On the other hand, Perry had always shown a sense of humor when one least expected, a levity about his life and the grotesquely lucrative permutations it had taken: that was his saving grace. Emphatically, the only way any of this might go down would be if yours truly laid out the cold, hard facts of the situation, IRS and all. Best not to be underhanded with Dad—it would only backfire. I’d clear it with Meerkat first, but knew she’d be game.
As we rejoined the others, I overheard Miriam “spinning” my father while they walked, arm-in-arm. “It’s gonna be great,” she said. “And I know he’ll want to do Chrysanthemum too. The novelization will be a warm up.”
Now Dad was having his fun. “If he agrees to costar in the next Starwatch feature, I’ll think about it. And I mean for scale!”
We settled onto the patio to watch the beachscape.
“The sea is high today, with a thrilling flush of wind,” Thad declaimed. The first line, he said, of The Alexandria Quartet.
Nick moved his chair closer as if for a tête-à-tête, which didn’t make the budding Morloch happy (as the sun dipped, his warm-demeanored ensignhood began to chill). Clea smartly created a diversion, tearing off to frolic with a golden retriever. Miriam followed in Frisbee’d pursuit and the captain’s partner joined them, demonstrating an exemplary wrist-flicking technique. Gita, who’d vanished upstairs awhile, reappeared at the outside elevator. Seeing her, Thad affectionately made the starship whoosh as Carmen pushed Mom toward our remaining little group.
“The technology of the palace is quite impressive, Captain, don’t you agree?”
Laughton looked over with a vacant smile; he may not have heard through the crashing of waves.
“I mean,” said Thad, “you must be aware there are no oceans—not as you know them—in the Vorbalidian sector. I hasten to add what you’re now seeing isn’t a holograph: it’s an aggregation of supercells, a benignly metastatic reconstruction, not a replica, of the immense body of water known as the Pacific that is native to your planet. Scratch the surface and you’ll even find fish and flora. Some genetic differences but fish and flora nonetheless—actually quite edible!”
“Aye-aye, Ensign Rattweil, or shall I call you Prince?” said Laughton, getting into the spirit.
“You may call me Morloch.”
“The Artist Formerly Known as Ensign,” I said, going retro for the sake of the gagline.
Gita wheeled to the terrace on her own power.
Thad acknowledged her with a wink. “Hello, Mother. Glad you could join us.”
“That’s Queen Mother, to you,” interjected the drunken captain, announcing himself as a formerly closeted traveler, now from “outed space.”
Gita drank from a flute of Champagne before saying, “Otherwise known as Her Royal Pain—to my husband anyway.”
Nick tried to play but was frozen out.
His wife wisely retreated in the direction of the Frisbeeites.
“Commander Karp,” said Laughton. “Have you been introduced to the concubines?”
“Incredibly authentic,” I said, snapping sordidly into character. “I believe X-Ray is making the formal request we be allowed to bring them aboard—scientific study, of course.”
Clea and Miriam laughingly returned to the deck. They were wet to their hips.
“Oh my God!” said Clea, breathlessly. “It is so beautiful.”
“The water is amazing,” said Miriam.
In the distance, the captain’s partner still frolicked, joined by flat-stomached stringy-haired teens and a few more cash-rich dogs.
“Aye, Ambassador Trothex! We were just talking about the astonishing Vorbalidian science. The water, not being water, feels more like water than water itself!”
“It’s a rare thing when we Vorbalids are allowed to enjoy the fruits of our own technology,” said Clea. “It is only because of your diplomatic visit that we’ve been sanctioned to experience ‘the Malibu.’ Do you have a name for this sort of activity, Commander? Other than the subgenre ‘R and R’?”
“Yes,” I said, eyebrow raised. (My Cabott impression.) “I believe the Earthling slang is an obscure, three-letter word. The pronunciation is ‘fun.’ ”
“Fun,” echoed Clea, morosely contemplative.
Miriam giggled as the game devolved and everyone made a dash for fresh rounds of food and drink. Only Thad remained engrossed, albeit in a softer, minor key.
“I will have to fight my brother Morloch,” he said to himself, resigned. “It’s the only way the others can be saved.”
I didn’t think anyone else heard but then I saw a perturbed look on Gita’s face. Sensing something wasn’t right, she engaged “instruments” in an effort to stabilize. Mother delicatel
y brought up the canceled Beckett play (I told her about it a few days ago), and how much she admired anyone with the fortitude to tackle “the craggy Irishman”—like a famously genial professor, she added a subtler intellect to the grosser Perry Krohn equation, for balance. Under the pull of her gentle conversational prodding, Thad eventually broke free of the tractor beam of Vorbalidian constructs. He spoke for a while like a charmingly distracted, slightly defeated person.
She even asked after Morgana. He said that when his mother heard he was doing Starwatch, flowers had been sent (chrysanthemums, actually) along with a note: “Beaming down lots of love.” Gita laughed. She told him she knew Mrs. Michelet’s work though admitted confusing it with “that Ettlinger woman,” which he got a kick out of. For a moment, I panicked Mom was going to ask if he’d ever sat for an official portrait but my worry was needless.
Thad espied a small, wet neighborhood boy, a shivery party-crasher of about nine, standing at the cornucopia of the buffet table cogitating over what he might help himself to. Mars handed the towhead a towel; without taking his eyes off the food, the visitor draped it over his blonde-downed, sparrow’s shoulders.
“There’s something so . . . perfect and monstrous about the drowning of a child,” said Thad, taking the child’s measure.
The comment jarred Gita anew. I moved closer, as if to shield Thad’s words from the guests and muffle him from the world as well.
“Jeremy was like that when they found him—down in the flooded library of the Aegean, the tiniest Leopardi. I made my way through schools of Father’s iridescent books. Heartbreaking it was, to see him broken on the reef with his funny glasses.”
Gita glanced at me then put her hand on Thad’s.
Clea joined us with a plate of pasta and eggs, and an unsuspecting smile.
“He already had little scales. The eyes were hooded and when the lids opened . . . cobalt blue! Like the most fantastic marbles. Beautiful—beautiful. He hung there in the water, twisting ever so slowly . . . the softest of sea horses. Oh, it was him all right! The picture pride of Hollywood. I knew it was him. ‘Too many fall from great and good for you to doubt the likelihood. Die early and avoid the fate’—”
The captain bounded over unawares, Miriam at his heels. Observing Clea’s darkened face, and mine and Gita’s as well, the book agent knew something was up.
“Well, well,” said Laughton, still oblivious. “I see our beloved ensign is in sequestration with his mum, the Vorbalid queen!”
“That would be you,” his boyfriend shouted, approaching the bridge.
“Thad,” said Gita. “Are you all right? Would you like to go in and lie down?”
Everyone instantly grew solemn-faced. Father came out. Thad was still fixated on the towel-shrouded boy, who, plate filled, shuffled back to sea and sand.
“Headache,” said Thad, without much conviction.
Clea knelt by his side and quietly asked if he’d brought his “medicine,” whatever that was code for—in moments like this, I’d gladly have forked over heroin. I just wanted him “fixed.”
He’d be fine, said Thad, if only he could “catnap.” Clea and Miriam helped him to his feet. Carmen met them at the elevator and up they whooshed, as if to sickbay. Nick made a few predictable comments about how his mother, who lived in a place with the wretched name of Slough, also suffered migraines—remarks calculated to communally minimalize Thad’s short-term miseries while self-servingly allowing the director to keep his eyes on the prize of any long-term Thad-related goals. The tomb-raiding wife nodded along, in mercenary cahoots to rescue and coddle future deals at any cost. Thankfully, the couple soon announced they were going home (a Point Dume rental). The captain and his partner discreetly ambled down the coast to let things settle before taking leave. Dad wondered aloud if we should call Thad’s personal physician, then excused himself to retrieve a bottle of wine from the cellar.
I sat with Mother and she looked so sad.
Her gaze fell over the water, blinking at gulls and whitecaps.
“What an awful time of it some people have, Bertie. What an awful time.”
THAD SLEPT NEARLY TWO HOURS with Clea beside him.
Meerkat and I spooned on the couch, dozing off between cigarettes, kisses, and long vacant stares at the broiling, turquoise-veined ocean. We didn’t hide our affections from Mom, who was perfectly content to sit and read her Sunday Book Review. With a rare full house, she was comforted by the resurrection of family.
Upon awakening, Thad took a shower (we all did, in various venues) and drew a serious second wind. It was dusk when he resurfaced, fully dressed and headache-free. Mom invited us to stay for supper but Thad sang “Hello, I must be going,” explaining he had an early call. He suggested that Clea, Miriam, and I remain; he’d send his driver for us later, which of course was completely absurd.
On the way back to Shutters, Thad suggested we dine at Chez Jay, a favorite beach haunt. (He was often ravenous after a migraine.) I wasn’t up for it, and neither was Miriam—the protracted outing was beginning to acquire a manic, marathon flavor—but we acquiesced, mostly out of caution due to the weirdness of what we had earlier witnessed. Thad still didn’t seem himself.1
By the time we were seated, the mood had soured; congealed might be a better word. Miriam became the codependent poster child, overly solicitous of the group gestalt, her words and gestures abrasively convivial. Clea, obviously intoxicated, sniped at my “addiction” to Diet Coke—clearly, my sobriety made it impossible for her to fully enjoy her loadedness. I wanted to flee but reminded myself that apart from possessing a psychotic component which, without warning, blossomed into hallucination, our troubled friend was at this point somewhat of a wild card, and volatile enough that I worried for the girls’ safety.
For sport, we began trashing Nick Sultan and his wife. The tiny grenades, lobbed at an easy, faraway target, provided comic relief. This went on for a while. More drinks were served, more plates of calamari consumed. Clea went to the head for a long-ass time. Just when Miriam got up to check, she returned—the wily Meerkat kept right on going, cool as could be. Thad sat there, drinking and covertly eating pills; the man had a whale’s bladder. Steak and lobster arrived. I thought we were over the rough part (something having to do with a private, fanciful theory that food would absorb the chemicals) when a man with longish hair appeared.
I braced myself, hoping it wasn’t a Jetsons fan.
“Excuse me,” he said with an accent I couldn’t identify. “You are Mr. Michelet?” Thad looked up with a cold smile, readying himself for whichever assault. “I am Mikkel Skarsgaard. I am planning to make a film from your book, The Soft Sea Horse.”
“Ah!” said Thad, welcoming. “The cinematographer! Hello! Hello!”
Miriam and Clea chirped eager greetings. Thad asked him to join us.
“But I don’t wish to disturb you!” said the respectful Dane.
“No no! We insist! We’re so bored with each other’s company!”
“Yes?” he said, diffidently. “But there are three of us, no?” He nodded toward a back booth. “It is OK?”
“It is OK!”
Mikkel gathered his friends while an animated Thad requested more chairs. I was grateful for the change in mood a new cast of characters would bring. Besides, it was a nice omen. Mikkel seemed the kind, unpretentious director type, his civil, unassuming demeanor in pleasant opposition to Nick Sultan’s tritely raw ambition.
He returned to the table accompanied by a pale, towering, beetle-browed man—and Sharon Stone. I’d never seen her in person (I wasn’t a huge fan) but had to admit she was gorgeous. She wore blue jeans and a cowl-necked sweater that coddled her American thoroughbred bones—the kind of beauty you’d find in a Town & Country spread, loading up a vintage Wagoneer with groceries in Montecito in one photo, attending a cancer gala in La Jolla with Watson and Crick in another. Mikkel said they were old friends; I assumed he’d shot one of her early films. (As if in deference to the
skittishness of their reedy, frozen-smiled companion, the DP’s relationship to the latter was left unexplained.) Running into them was truly auspicious because Mikkel revealed that Sharon had been considering the “movie star” role in Sea Horse—the fictionalized woman with whom the fictionalized Jack had an affair, in fictionalized Capri. Ms. Stone was a bit of a culture vulture, sharing that she’d actually seen one of Thad’s avant garde theater productions in Vienna, which excited him enormously.
When Clea reminded her they’d met some years ago at the Venice Film Festival, Sharon said “Yes!” though it was obvious she didn’t remember. I could see that she recognized Clea from the movies but wasn’t able to place her. Then Miriam announced who her mother was and everything changed—Sharon was suddenly thrilled. She was “hugely into Roosevelt Chandler” and mentioned having developed a biopic with Milos Forman that never got off the ground. Clea said she’d heard about that and was sorry it didn’t happen. In the spirit of genetic brushes with the high and mighty, Meerkat impulsively introduced me as Son of Perry Krohn. The gracious celeb claimed to be a fan of Starwatch as well, and knew (through Mikkel, who’d been told by Klotcher) Thad was doing a guest spot; Miriam efficiently informed that Clea and I were “costarring.” The actress then turned to our host, and considerately acknowledged his father’s passing. She spoke of her own near-death experience a few years back, when she hemorrhaged into her skull—a natural cue for Michelet to talk Migraine. I asked Mikkel a question or two about Sea Horse, availing Thad and Sharon their medical bonding moment.
Sharon was flying to New York early in the morning. She stood to leave, shaking hands all around with that special brio and fanatical eye contact movie stars seem to conjure at will. She saved Thad for the end, accurately assessing his dominance in the present pecking order—another hardwired, faultless celebrity instinct.
I was a little surprised when the two men remained.
“She’s so lovely,” said Clea.
