Going through customs, you are on guard, anxious to hurry through. The officers examine the equipment with agonizing patience, and you have good reason to be nervous, because the images that you have captured on film are far more dangerous than any form of contraband, and the noble ideals behind them that demand a safer world, a real and permanent peace, have somehow become the most dubious of all.
Back in L.A. you work harder than necessary. Every hour is consumed with postproduction details, meetings, telephone calls. You find that you have acquired a new patience from your weeks in the desert. As an experiment, you leave your BlackBerry in the car when you go to the gym, taking a whole hour to yourself, without disruption. When you finally get home at night you are surprised that there are no messages from Tom. It is as though he has completely forgotten you. At first you are hurt, you feel dejected. Armand has told you that his wife is in town. People have seen them together, at restaurants and parties, looking very married.
Then one night, he comes to your house to break the news. “She wants to stay this time.”
“Lucky you.”
“Hedda,” he says. He tries to touch you.
“Don’t.” You get up and fix a drink. You swallow the vodka like water.
“You know I love you,” he says, trying to gather you up in his arms.
“If you love me so much, you’ll leave her.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Yes, it is. Now go, get out.”
It’s a good thing, you tell yourself; you’re too busy for love. You focus on work, the film. A preview is scheduled. You find yourself in a kind of postpartum malaise where there is too much to get done and too little time. You rarely sleep. You spend more and more time with Bruno and Lucy Price, your editor, in the editing room, watching the film take shape.
Harold invites you for seder. You cannot refuse. Although you are considerably on edge and probably shouldn’t be around anyone at all, you put on a suit, heels, and drive to his home in Beverly Hills. He has invited Important People. Harold’s partner, Mitchell, greets you at the door, kisses you on both cheeks. He takes one look at you and asks, “Okay, what’s wrong?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Come into the kitchen. We can throw the matzo balls over the roof, see what happens. I always wanted to redo the garage.”
But then he looks at you and sees your tears. He takes your hand and leads you up the back staircase, down the hall, away from everyone. “I’m sorry, this is so stupid.”
“You’re tired, you’ve been through a lot.” For a moment he lets you cry. “Harold says the film is brilliant. You shouldn’t worry. It’s going to blow people’s minds.”
“I don’t know,” you say. “I’m not sure. Anyway, it’s not about the film.”
“Okay.” He nods knowingly. Even with all your discretion, everybody seems to know about you and Tom. Mitchell takes your hand. “Look, honey, it’s his loss. That wife of his—please—that’s not a real marriage. Real married people live together. They slowly drive each other crazy in one house, in the same state, in the same country. Yeah, I know; an insanely ridiculous concept. It’s called commitment—the son of a bitch!”
You cry; you let it out, knowing all too well that it will destroy your face, your perfectly constructed sense of calm for which you have earned your reputation. “I’m such an idiot,” you say in the wobbly voice of a teenager. “I don’t know why I allowed myself,” but he cuts you off.
“Hey, I know you’re a big control freak, sweetheart, but we’re talking about love, here. Love is this . . . this amorphous creature. It’s a fucking monster. It eats you alive.”
“I hope nothing illicit is going on,” Harold jokes when you come downstairs together holding hands. “Although you do make a very nice couple.”
Mitchell kisses him and you smile at them, bittersweet. You’ve never had what they have, you realize. Not even close.
“We’re all ready to begin,” Harold says, gently guiding you to the table. He doesn’t seem to notice your glassy eyes, your slightly mottled skin. Gratefully, you approach the table, kissing people as you make your way to your chair at the other end, and the seder begins.
The table is set with a fine white cloth, beautiful dishes. An unusual center-piece with poppies and irises. Harold and Mitchell sit at opposite ends of the long table. You feel a tender admiration for both of them and you try to relax. It is an interesting mix of people. The famous costume designer, Sonia Moss, wearing a magnificent vintage shawl she bought in Prague. Tony Roth, whose string of espionage movies made him one of the richest men in town, and his wife, Lara. And Harold’s old friend, the director Dick Brower, in his late eighties, who has brought along his young lover/attendant, a cheerful Adonis named Gus. Some of the old guard—in a business managed by people who are barely out of diapers, proponents of the coloring-book approach to filmmaking, you included. Here’s a character, color him black; here’s another one, color her yellow. But the older guests at the table grew up in a different time, and their saturated Technicolor aesthetic promised a wiser, more civilized world—the images you clung to as a child that structured your days, nurtured your hopes and dreams.
Everybody gets a turn reading from the Haggadah. When it’s your turn, you read a paragraph about the epic journey across the desert, the heat, the fact that the Israelites had no flour to make bread. You can’t help thinking about your trip to Abu Dhabi. The desert is the same desert. The heat the same heat, the sun the same sun. The best thing about the trip was the food, the warm bread and meat, the sliced cucumbers and ripe tomatoes, the sweet dates.
“From something terrible came something good,” Harold says.
“What, matzo?” Ben Appelman scowls. He is the youngest person at the table, a wunderkind screenwriter fresh out of USC whom Harold has decided to nurture. “What’s so good about matzo? It sits in your stomach like a lead weight and makes you constipated for weeks?”
“Let’s do the prayer over the matzo,” Harold says, holding up a piece, launching into the Hebrew prayer.
Mitchell reads some more and they do the prayer for the wine. More wine is poured.
“Somebody open the door for Elijah,” Mitchell says.
A table setting awaits the ghost of the prophet Elijah. Since you are at the end of the table, across from the phantom’s place, you get up to open the door, to let him in. Standing there you take a moment to enjoy the gentle evening breeze, the first stars on the darkening sky. Across the street, a man and woman are having an argument, screaming at one another across the expansive lawn. The woman takes off her shoes and throws them at the man. You close the door.
“Welcome Elijah,” Mitchell says to the imaginary prophet as he pulls out his chair and pours a glass of wine for the thirsty spirit. He pantomimes patting the prophet’s shoulder. “Enjoy yourself.”
The dinner is served. Of course there’s no surprise that it’s amazing, Mitchell has his own cooking show on the Food Network. Matzo ball soup, homemade gefilte fish, brisket—it makes you nostalgic and you remember your mother’s seders with all the Conservative relatives who took forever to get through the Haggadah, but paid generously if you found the afikoman. Tonight, back in New Jersey, your parents are having seder at the temple and you are glad that they are at least with people, instead of being home, just the two of them at the kitchen table. It occurs to you that you could have flown back for the holiday, it would have been a nice thing to do, but in reality you don’t have the time. Holidays are not something you work into your schedule.
You eat and drink and your face is flushed with happiness and, during a brief philosophical interlude, you conclude that Harold was right about rituals, that this is what matters most, this, right here, having a meal with friends. The rituals in life that define who we are. When you come right down to it what else is there?
And yet, even such earnest introspection cannot erase the other thoughts inside your head. Louder, ferocious thought
s: you need to go, you’ve spent enough time here, you need to check your BlackBerry, you need to make some calls. Sitting here like this is a terrific waste of your time with so many other pressing things to be done. It is because you are a predator—ravenous for power—that every aspect of your life is a tacit negotiation—even here at this holiday table you are wondering if something might be gained from the evening, maybe the boy wonder will agree to write something for Gladiator at a reasonable price—or perhaps Harold has other ideas for him. It is entirely possible that your power has deceived you into believing that you are not expendable. This is something you will think about later, when you are lying alone in bed. It will drive you to new heights of savagery. And what a convenient distraction from everything else, what a terrific excuse to remain distant, unknowable.
As a result, your terrible loneliness is nobody’s fault but your own.
Toward the end of the meal, as the wine bottle makes its way around the table, you happen to notice Elijah’s glass. It’s empty. The fact that you are slightly drunk makes you wonder if you’ve imagined it. You reach across the table and tap Ben’s arm and he looks at you with his baby face and warm brown eyes. He is the definition of a “nice Jewish boy,” the sort of boy people used to try to fix you up with back in college—except for the fact that he’s gay. “This may sound weird,” you say conspiratorially, “but did you drink his wine?”
Ben sees Elijah’s empty glass and shakes his head, wide-eyed. “I don’t drink.” He gestures to his own glass, which is full.
How is it possible, you think? Before you can stop yourself you tap on your glass with your knife to get everyone’s attention. “Something amazing has happened,” you announce to the table. “Elijah has finished his wine.” You hold up the empty glass. Everyone stares at it, astonished.
“Seriously?” Mitchell asks.
“Look, it’s empty. I didn’t drink it and neither did Ben.”
“It’s a sign,” Mitchell says somberly, then shakes his hands at the sky in an affectation of some Hollywood Moses, and speaks in a heavy Yiddish accent, “It’s a miracle! It’s a miracle!”
“That is pretty wild,” Ben says.
“It is a miracle,” Harold affirms seriously, and raises his glass. “Here’s to you, Elijah,” he says, addressing the empty chair. “You’ve reminded us that what we don’t see is often so much more revealing than what’s right in front of our eyes.”
12
The preview of Oath of Allegiance takes place in a movie theater in Glendale. Of course Tom doesn’t show. You’re starting to think that he set you up—running into you by accident at that bar in Santa Monica—what you thought had been a coincidence—perhaps he’d followed you from the studio that night. It was possible. In times like these, where it’s next to impossible to get a movie made—especially a movie like this—you almost wouldn’t put it past him. You suppose the sex, your affair, was just a fringe benefit of the deal. And then you think: not for him, but for you. He threw it in; no extra charge.
Now that the film is done, he doesn’t need you anymore.
You sit with Bruno in the back. The theater goes dark and the film begins and that’s when you see them, Tom and Fatima, slipping into one of the rows. At first you don’t recognize her because she looks like any other American woman, dressed like a college student in jeans and a Santa Cruz sweatshirt, no sign of the veil. Your heart beats a little faster as you watch them take their seats.
At last you lose yourself in the film, watching the heads move, trying to decipher what people might be thinking. Just before the credits roll, Tom ushers Fatima out. You feel a little spurned, excluded. The film fades to black and, for a brief moment, silence descends upon the room as if from the heavens above, and you are certain that your life, your career as you know it, is over. But then there’s applause as the credits roll. It resounds through the theater, loud as a helicopter. People stand and clap at the screen. When the lights come up, they exit respectfully, like mourners leaving a funeral. Later that night, reading over the comments in Harold’s office, you discover that many in the audience had been moved. Some admit to crying during the film, swept up in the woman’s plight. Some, the ones with children in Iraq and Afghanistan, identified with the soldier. They wrote of their frustration, the fear that their sons and daughters have been manipulated into fighting an unwinnable war, a war with no authentic purpose, being faced with problems beyond their emotional realms. You leave the studio feeling victorious. Perhaps it is true that you have accomplished something important. That this film—this bold and artful rendering—will have a significant effect.
The calls begin that night, when you return home to your rented bungalow after midnight. As you always do before you answer, you check your caller ID: Unavailable. “Hello?” You can tell someone is there, you can hear them breathing, the sounds of the street in the background, and yet they say nothing. The line disconnects.
Your number is unlisted. Very few people have the privilege of knowing it. And yet it is no accident. Someone has managed to get your number. Or perhaps it is someone you already know.
It rings again. “Hello . . . hello?” At first you repeat your greeting, as though there is some disruption in the line, as if the caller, whoever it is, can’t hear you. “Who is this?” you demand, only to hear the finite click as the caller disconnects. In the days that follow there are more calls, and you begin to worry that your line has been tapped. Feelings of paranoia consume you. Anyone you happen to see becomes an extra in your own private thriller. The gardeners across the street; the letter carrier; even your neighbor. You are certain that you are being watched. You notice a strange car on the street when you come home one evening—a Ford Taurus sedan—just the sort of innocuous car for a terrorist. Then Bobby Darling calls your cell phone. “We may have a problem,” he says. “I got a call from Cannes this morning. They have concerns about showing the film.”
“What concerns?”
“They’re afraid of having a riot.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Show it, of course. You can’t buy this kind of publicity.”
And then, a few days later, you are driving in your car listening to NPR when a report comes on: a strange fire has occurred in one of the dormitories at UC Santa Cruz. The fire ignited in the room of a foreign student on exchange from Iraq, Fatima Kassim, who was found, hours later, burned to death, dressed in her abaya. After their investigation, the fire department determines that the fire was the result of arson. The following morning you receive a telegram at your office from her father: Underneath it all, she was a good Muslim girl; in our country, betrayal is never denied. It comes with a price. She paid dearly.
Distressed, you leave work early that afternoon. To think that you might have somehow been responsible for her death fills you with grief. Driving home, the sun is bright, a blaze of fire. You try to call Tom. He is the only person you really want to talk to, but he doesn’t pick up and you do something you have sworn you would never do, you call his home. Lucia answers the phone. For a moment, you are tongue-tied, and then, meekly, you ask for him—she says something in Italian and then translates: “Why do you call here? What do you want?”
Trembling, you hang up. You drive, trying to focus on the road. You pass the house where you bought the car. The house looks dark, sprawling with ivy, the window shades pulled. You wonder how the old magician is doing. When you finally pull into your driveway, it occurs to you that you should make some changes; you’ve been cavalier about your safety. There should be a light over the garage, for example, with a motion sensor. And there should be lights on timers inside the house. You make a mental note to call an electrician in the morning. Maybe you’re being paranoid, it’s a good neighborhood with very little crime, and yet you feel strangely exposed as you cross the driveway, past the shed, to your porch. The sun is setting sharply, reflecting in the windows of the shed, and for a second you are momentarily blinded. Something catches your
eye, but you don’t stop to acknowledge it. Instead, you continue onto your porch, unlock the door and go inside, relocking it behind you. Your heart is beating fast. You need a drink.
In your kitchen, you fix a drink and watch the news. Another report about Fatima Kassim. There are shots back in Iraq, of her father mourning with other family members, the women all in black abayas. Thankfully, they do not mention the film or your connection to the girl. Moments later, your mother calls to express her concern. She has seen the report on the news. “Come home for a few weeks,” she implores you. It’s not safe, she tells you, who knows what may happen? “I can’t do that, Mother, I won’t,” you say, your voice sharper than necessary. You don’t mean to be like that, but the fact that she is worried troubles you even more. You stand in your kitchen, drinking. You try to eat a few crackers. Since your illness in Abu Dhabi, your normal appetite has not returned. An unquenchable thirst preoccupies you. The vodka is good, the vodka is necessary.
The doorbell rings. Through the window, you see Tom’s car parked at the curb. He walks into your kitchen with his camera bags, the final cut of his documentary.
“Thank God you’re here,” you cry, hugging him, hiding your face in his chest. Tears rush to your eyes, there doesn’t seem to be any point in hiding them. He takes out a handkerchief and gives it to you and you cry some more. “I thought I saw someone in my shed.”
Tom walks to the back of the house, into your bedroom, and peers through the Venetian blinds. “I don’t see anything,” he says. “You’re probably imagining it. The film’s not even out yet.”
“I saw you at the screening. Why didn’t you tell me you were bringing her?”
“She didn’t want anyone to know. She took a bus; I picked her up downtown. We stopped and got some food. She was so happy. You saw her—she had taken off the veil. She was wearing flip-flops, for Christ’s sake.” He shook his head, his eyes filling with tears. “She looked like any American girl.”
A Stranger Like You Page 18
