He had lately begun to think not only of Goya and Daumier but also of certain Italian artists of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, of Salvator Rosa, Francesco Guardi and Monsu Desiderio, the painters of Decay and Mystery. Looking down hill now, he could see compositions that might have actually been arranged from the Calabrian work of Rosa. There were partially demolished buildings and broken monuments, half hidden by great, tortured trees, whose exposed roots writhed dramatically in the arid ground, and by shrubs that carried, not flowers or berries, but armories of spikes, hooks and swords.
For Guardi and Desiderio there were bridges which bridged nothing, sculpture in trees, palaces that seemed of marble until a whole stone portico began to flap in the light breeze. And there were figures as well. A hundred yards from where Tod was sitting a man in a derby hat leaned drowsily against the gilded poop of a Venetian barque and peeled an apple. Still farther on, a charwoman on a stepladder was scrubbing with soap and water the face of a Buddha thirty feet high.
He left the road and climbed across the spine of the hill to look down on the other side. From there he could see a ten-acre field of cockleburs spotted with clumps of sunflowers and wild gum. In the center of the field was a gigantic pile of sets, flats and props. While he watched, a ten-ton truck added another load to it. This was the final dumping ground. He thought of Janvier’s “Sargasso Sea.” Just as that imaginary body of water was a history of civilization in the form of a marine junkyard, the studio lot was one in the form of a dream dump. A Sargasso of the imagination! And the dump grew continually, for there wasn’t a dream afloat somewhere which wouldn’t sooner or later turn up on it, having first been made photographic by plaster, canvas, lath and paint. Many boats sink and never reach the Sargasso, but no dream ever entirely disappears. Somewhere it troubles some unfortunate person and some day, when that person has been sufficiently troubled, it will be reproduced on the lot.
When he saw a red glare in the sky and heard the rumble of cannon, he knew it must be Waterloo. From around a bend in the road trotted several cavalry regiments. They wore casques and chest armor of black cardboard and carried long horse pistols in their saddle holsters. They were Victor Hugo’s soldiers. He had worked on some of the drawings for their uniforms himself, following carefully the descriptions in “Les Miserables.”
He went in the direction they took. Before long he was passed by the men of Lefebvre-Desnouttes, followed by a regiment of gendarmes d’élite, several companies of chasseurs of the guard and a flying detachment of Rimbaud’s lancers.
They must be moving up for the disastrous attack on La Haite Santée. He hadn’t read the scenario and wondered if it had rained yesterday. Would Grouchy or Blucher arrive? Grotenstein, the producer, might have changed it.
The sound of cannon was becoming louder all the time and the red fan in the sky more intense. He could smell the sweet, pungent odor of blank powder. It might be over before he could get there. He started to run. When he topped a rise after a sharp bend in the road, he found a great plain below him covered with early nineteenth-century troops, wearing all the gay and elaborate uniforms that used to please him so much when he was a child and spent long hours looking at the soldiers in an old dictionary. At the far end of the field, he could see an enormous hump around which the English and their allies were gathered. It was Mont St. Jean and they were getting ready to defend it gallantly. It wasn’t quite finished, however, and swarmed with grips, property men, set dressers, carpenters and painters.
Tod stood near a eucalyptus tree to watch, concealing himself behind a sign that read, “Waterloo’—A Charles H. Grotenstein Production.” Nearby a youth in a carefully torn horse guard’s uniform was being rehearsed in his lines by one of the assistant directors.
“Vive 1’Empereur!” the young man shouted, then clutched his breast and fell forward dead. The assistant director was a hard man to please and made him do it over and over again.
In the center of the plain, the battle was going ahead briskly. Things looked tough for the British and their allies. The Prince of Orange commanding the center, Hill the right and Picton the left wing, were being pressed hard by the veteran French. The desperate and intrepid Prince was in an especially bad spot. Tod heard him cry hoarsely above the din of battle, shouting to the Hollande-Belgians, “Nassau! Brunswick! Never retreat!” Nevertheless, the retreat began. Hill, too, fell back. The French killed General Picton with a ball through the head and he returned to his dressing room. Alten was put to the sword and also retired. The colors of the Lunenberg battalion, borne by a prince of the family of Deux-Ponts, were captured by a famous child star in the uniform of a Parisian drummer boy. The Scotch Grays were destroyed and went to change into another uniform. Ponsonby’s heavy dragoons were also cut to ribbons. Mr. Grotenstein would have a large bill to pay at the Western Costume Company.
Neither Napoleon nor Wellington was to be seen. In Wellington’s absence, one of the assistant directors, a Mr. Crane, was in command of the allies. He reinforced his center with one of Chasse’s brigades and one of Wincke’s. He supported these with infantry from Brunswick, Welsh foot, Devon yeomanry and Hanoverian light horse with oblong leather caps and flowing plumes of horsehair.
For the French, a man in a checked cap ordered Milhaud’s cuirassiers to carry Mont St. Jean. With their sabers in their teeth and their pistols in their hands, they charged. It was a fearful sight.
The man in the checked cap was making a fatal error. Mont St. Jean was unfinished. The paint was not yet dry and all the struts were not in place. Because of the thickness of the cannon smoke, he had failed to see that the hill was still being worked on by property men, grips and carpenters.
It was the classic mistake, Tod realized, the same one Napoleon had made. Then it had been wrong for a different reason. The Emperor had ordered the cuirassiers to charge Mont St. Jean not knowing that a deep ditch was hidden at its foot to trap his heavy cavalry. The result had been disaster for the French; the beginning of the end.
This time the same mistake had a different outcome. Waterloo instead of being the end of the Grand Army, resulted in a draw. Neither side won, and it would have to be fought over again the next day. Big losses, however, were sustained by the insurance company in workmen’s compensation. The man in the checked cap was sent to the dog house by Mr. Grotenstein just as Napoleon was sent to St. Helena.
When the front rank of Milhaud’s heavy division started up the slope of Mont St. Jean, the hill collapsed. The noise was terrific. Nails screamed with agony as they pulled out of joists. The sound of ripping canvas was like that of little children whimpering. Lath and scantling snapped as though they were brittle bones. The whole hill folded like an enormous umbrella and covered Napoleon’s army with painted cloth.
It turned into a rout. The victors of Bersina, Leipsic, Austerlitz, fled like schoolboys who had broken a pane of glass. “Sauve qui peut!” they cried, or, rather, “Scram!”
The armies of England and her allies were too deep in scenery to flee. They had to wait for the carpenters and ambulances to come up. The men of the gallant Seventy-Fifth Highlanders were lifted out of the wreck with block and tackle. They were carted off by the stretcher-bearers, still clinging bravely to their claymores.
19
TOD got a lift back to his office in a studio car. He had to ride on the running board because the seats were occupied by two Walloon grenadiers and four Swabian foot. One of the infantrymen had a broken leg, the other extras were only scratched and bruised. They were quite happy about their wounds. They were certain to receive several extra days’ pay, and the man with the broken leg thought he might get as much as five hundred dollars.
When Tod arrived at his office, he found Faye waiting to see him. She hadn’t been in the battle. At the last moment, the director had decided not to use any vivandières.
To his surprise, she greeted him with warm friendliness. Nevertheless, he tried to apologize for his behavior in the funeral parlor. He ha
d hardly started before she interrupted him. She wasn’t angry, but grateful for his lecture on venereal disease. It had brought her to her senses.
She had still another surprise for him. She was living in Homer Simpson’s house. The arrangement was a business one. Homer had agreed to board and dress her until she became a star. They were keeping a record of every cent he spent and as soon as she clicked in pictures, she would pay him back with six per cent interest. To make it absolutely legal, they were going to have a lawyer draw up a contract.
She pressed Tod for an opinion and he said it was a splendid idea. She thanked him and invited him to dinner for the next night.
After she had gone, he wondered what living with her would do to Homer. He thought it might straighten him out. He fooled himself into believing this with an image, as though a man were a piece of iron to be heated and then straightened with hammer blows. He should have known better, for if anyone ever lacked malleability Homer did.
He continued to make this mistake when he had dinner with them. Faye seemed very happy, talking about charge accounts and stupid sales clerks. Homer had a flower in his buttonhole, wore carpet slippers and beamed at her continually.
After they had eaten, while Homer was in the kitchen washing dishes, Tod got her to tell him what they did with themselves all day. She said that they lived quietly and that she was glad because she was tired of excitement. All she wanted was a career. Homer did the housework and she was getting a real rest. Daddy’s long sickness had tired her out completely. Homer liked to do housework and anyway he wouldn’t let her go into the kitchen because of her hands.
“Protecting his investment,” Tod said.
“Yes,” she replied seriously, “they have to be beautiful.”
They had breakfast around ten, she went on. Homer brought it to her in bed. He took a housekeeping magazine and fixed the tray like the pictures in it. While she bathed and dressed, he cleaned the house. Then they went downtown to the stores and she bought all sorts of things, mostly clothes. They didn’t eat lunch on account of her figure, but usually had dinner out and went to the movies.
“Then, ice cream sodas,” Homer finished for her, as he came out of the kitchen.
Faye laughed and excused herself. They were going to a picture and she wanted to change her dress. When she had left, Homer suggested that they get some air in the patio. He made Tod take the deck chair while he sat on an upturned orange crate.
If he had been careful and had acted decently, Tod couldn’t help thinking, she might be living with him. He was at least better looking than Homer. But then there was her other prerequisite. Homer had an income and lived in a house, while he earned thirty dollars a week and lived in a furnished room.
The happy grin on Homer’s face made him feel ashamed of himself. He was being unfair. Homer was a humble, grateful man who would never laugh at her, who was incapable of laughing at anything. Because of this great quality, she could live with him on what she considered a much higher plane.
“What’s the matter?” Homer asked softly, laying one of his heavy hands on Tod’s knee.
“Nothing. Why?”
Tod moved so that the hand slipped off.
“You were making faces.”
“I was thinking of something.”
“Oh,” Homer said sympathetically.
Tod couldn’t resist asking an ugly question.
“When are you two getting married?”
Homer looked hurt.
“Didn’t Faye tell about us?”
“Yes, sort of.”
“It’s a business arrangement.”
“Yes?”
To make Tod believe it, he poured out a long, disjointed argument, the one he must have used on himself. He even went further than the business part and claimed that they were doing it for poor Harry’s sake. Faye had nothing left in the world except her career and she must succeed for her daddy’s sake. The reason she wasn’t a star was because she didn’t have the right clothes. He had money and believed in her talent, so it was only natural for them to enter into a business arrangement. Did Tod know a good lawyer?
It was a rhetorical question, but would become a real one, painfully insistent, if Tod smiled. He frowned. That was wrong, too.
“We must see a lawyer this week and have papers drawn up.”
His eagerness was pathetic. Tod wanted to help him, but didn’t know what to say. He was still fumbling for an answer when they heard a woman shouting from the hill behind the garage.
“Adore! Adore!”
She had a high soprano voice, very clear and pure.
“What a funny name,” Tod said, glad to change the subject.
“Maybe it’s a foreigner,” Homer said.
The woman came into the yard from around the corner of the garage. She was eager and plump and very American.
“Have you seen my little boy?” she asked, making a gesture of helplessness. “Adore’s such a wanderer.”
Homer surprised Tod by standing up and smiling at the woman. Faye had certainly helped his timidity.
“Is your son lost?” Homer said.
“Oh, no—just hiding to tease me.”
She held out her hand.
“We’re neighbors. I’m Maybelle Loomis.”
“Glad to know you, ma’am. I’m Homer Simpson and this is Mr. Hackett.”
Tod also shook hands with her.
“Have you been living here long?” she asked.
“No. I’ve just come from the East,” Homer said.
“Oh, have you? I’ve been here ever since Mr. Loomis passed on six years ago. I’m an old settler.”
“You like it then?” Tod asked.
“Like California?” she laughed at the idea that anyone might not like it. “Why, it’s a paradise on earth!”
“Yes,” Homer agreed gravely.
“And anyway,” she went on, “I have to live here on account of Adore.”
“Is he sick?”
“Oh, no. On account of his career. His agent calls him the biggest little attraction in Hollywood.”
She spoke so vehemently that Homer flinched.
“He’s in the movies?” Tod asked.
“I’ll say,” she snapped.
Homer tried to placate her.
“That’s very nice.”
“If it weren’t for favoritism,” she said bitterly, “he’d be a star. It ain’t talent. It’s pull. What’s Shirley Temple got that he ain’t got?”
“Why, I don’t know,” Homer mumbled.
She ignored this and let out a fearful bellow.
“Adore! Adore!”
Tod had seen her kind around the studio. She was one of that army of women who drag their children from casting office to casting office and sit for hours, weeks, months, waiting for a chance to show what Junior can do. Some of them are very poor, but no matter how poor, they always manage to scrape together enough money, often by making great sacrifices, to send their children to one of the innumerable talent schools.
“Adore!” she yelled once more, then laughed and became a friendly housewife again, a chubby little person with dimples in her fat cheeks and fat elbows.
“Have you any children, Mr. Simpson?” she asked.
“No,” he replied, blushing.
“You’re lucky—they’re a nuisance.”
She laughed to show that she didn’t really mean it and called her child again.
“Adore… Oh, Adore…”
Her next question surprised them both.
“Who do you follow?”
“What?” said Tod.
“I mean—in the Search for Health, along the Road of Life?”
They both gaped at her.
“I’m a raw-foodist, myself,” she said. “Dr. Pierce is our leader. You must have seen his ads—‘Know-All Pierce-All.’”
“Oh, yes,” Tod said, “you’re vegetarians.”
She laughed at his ignorance.
“Far from it. We’re much strict
er. Vegetarians eat cooked vegetables. We eat only raw ones. Death comes from eating dead things.”
Neither Tod nor Homer found anything to say.
“Adore,” she began again. “Adore…”
This time there was an answer from around the corner of the garage.
“Here I am, Mama.”
A minute later, a little boy appeared dragging behind him a small sailboat on wheels. He was about eight years old, with a pale, peaked face and a large, troubled forehead. He had great staring eyes. His eyebrows had been plucked and shaped carefully. Except for his Buster Brown collar, he was dressed like a man, in long trousers, vest and jacket.
He tried to kiss his mother, but she fended him off and pulled at his clothes, straightening and arranging them with savage little tugs.
“Adore,” she said sternly, “I want you to meet Mr. Simpson, our neighbor.”
Turning like a soldier at the command of a drill sergeant, he walked up to Homer and grasped his hand.
“A pleasure, sir,” he said, bowing stiffly with his heels together.
“That’s the way they do it in Europe,” Mrs. Loomis beamed, “Isn’t he cute?”
“What a pretty sailboat!” Homer said, trying to be friendly.
Both mother and son ignored his comment. She pointed to Tod, and the child repeated his bow and heel-click.
“Well, we’ve got to go,” she said.
Tod watched the child, who was standing a little to one side of his mother and making faces at Homer. He rolled his eyes back in his head so that only the whites showed and twisted his lips in a snarl.
Mrs. Loomis noticed Tod’s glance and turned sharply. When she saw what Adore was doing, she yanked him by the arm, jerking him clear off the ground.
“Adore!” she yelled.
To Tod she said apologetically, “He thinks he’s the Frankenstein monster.”
She picked the boy up, hugging and kissing him ardently. Then she set him down again and fixed his rumpled clothing.
“Won’t Adore sing something for us?” Tod asked.
“No,” the little boy said sharply.
Miss Lonelyhearts & the Day of the Locust Page 17
