Haze

by E. R. Torre

  Despite its size, the town was well maintained, had attitude, class, and a quiet dignity. Hidden between and behind the shops were a few homes. They were large and stately and, like the shops, painted a virginal white with either dark blue or black trim. I looked away from the town and to the north. There, looming over us all was a fair sized mountain. A series of ski trails were etched into her landscape like deep scars.

  John Robinson died somewhere up there.

  The mountain was both captivating and frightening. I shivered and turned away. The Inn at the west-end of town appeared to be the only public lodging in Viktor, so I made a U-turn a little past the gas station and headed back. I swung into the Green Manor Inn’s parking lot at a little past noon, local time, and came to a stop next to a bronze 1970's model Chevy Nova. The car looked completely out of place in Viktor. Its heavy metal structure, marred by rust and a faded gold paint job, didn't fit in with the tidiness surrounding it. As such, it intrigued me.

  I peeked inside the Nova when I stepped out of my SUV. It was as messy on the inside as it was on the outside. The chewed up back seats were filled with the remains of fast food meals, loose paper, and other unidentifiable junk. The front passenger side seat was covered in newspaper.

  “Nice,” I thought.

  I turned away and walked to the truck’s rear. I retrieved my suitcase, locked the doors, and walked to the ornate white door leading into the Inn. A soft musical bell rang as I stepped through the door. Its chime produced movement from the left corner of the room. There, behind a solid wooden counter, sat the Inn's keeper.

  She was a grandmotherly middle-aged woman with graying hair and a very warm, and infectious, smile. She wore her graying hair in a large bun. Her blue dress complemented her frame and, for some reason, reminded me of turn of the century photographs depicting farmers and their wives. She could easily fit there, pre-dust bowl America, tending to the crops or livestock, while looking after her children and grandchildren.

  "Good afternoon, sir," she said. There was a faint German accent in her voice. "Can I help you?"

  "I'd like a room," I said. I laid my suitcase down on the floor and surveyed the lobby. The Inn’s high wood ceiling was impressive and made you feel like you just entered a large, elegant cavern. Like its proprietor, The Green Manor had the flavor of Germany. Wooden shields and picturesque paintings filled the walls. A shelf proudly displayed an assortment of beer steins. In the lobby’s corner was a large wooden clock. Its pendulum swung back and forth ever so slowly.

  "Of course," she replied. She pulled out a thick sign-in book from under the counter and slid it towards me. It was surprising, and pleasant, to see a hotel use such old fashioned registration techniques. There wasn’t a computer in sight. "What brings you to Viktor?"

  The question carried with it a note of suspicion, despite the neutral pleasantry in her voice. Maybe, I thought, this John Robinson crap had me on edge.

  “I wasn’t going to Viktor at all,” I replied.

  The Innkeeper’s smile remained on her face. She handed me a pen and pointed out where I should sign my name in her book.

  "Viktor is a small town, as you no doubt have noticed," she explained. It sounded like she made a habit of justifying the town’s existence to strangers. "But we're a nice place. We have our own ski resort, even if it is smaller than that of Manville. Unless you crave the steepest runs, it is more than sufficient."

  I pulled out my wallet and handed the Innkeeper a credit card. She charged me a day's rent and returned the card with a room key.

  "It would be nice to do some skiing," I admitted.

  The Innkeeper didn’t answer and I noticed her gaze turned to my left hand. She was staring at the six year old copy of the Hollywood Insider Press. Her eyes flicked up. Her smile dissolved momentarily, as if recalling a painful event.

  "You will enjoy our slopes. Your room is number 3, upstairs and on the left. My name is Mrs. Borg. If you need anything, please feel free to ask."

  I thanked her and grabbed my suitcase. I walked to the wooden staircase on the far end of the lobby and climbed to the second floor. From there it was a few steps down the dark hallway before reaching room number 3.

  The furnishings within the room were sparse. There was a bed, a closet, and a television. An old fashioned and very tight bathroom was hidden behind a weathered wooden door. I laid my suitcase on the bed and stepped up to the window immediately beside it. From there I had a clear view of Viktor's Mountain. It was a mass of sharp rocks blanketed with a layer of virginal white snow.

  It was breathtaking.

  Even though someone died there.

  I took a deep breath and shifted away from the window and to the night table next to the bed. On it was a rotary phone.

  “Hello,” I told the phone. I hadn’t seen one of these in years, and even then it was probably in an old movie or television show. A faded white label taped to the front of the phone read:

  "Dial "0" to call out. Local Calls $0.60."

  I picked the phone up and dialed "0". After a few moments I heard a familiar voice.

  "How can I help you, Mr. Towne?" Mrs. Borg asked.

  "I'd like to make a long distance call."

  "Long distance calls are routed through our phone system. Charges vary by length—”

  “That’ll be no problem, Mrs. Borg,” I said, though I instantly regretted not taking my cell phone. Long distance calls would have been so much cheaper.

  “All right,” she replied. “Give me the number and I'll transfer you."

  I gave her the number. After a few rings, Jennifer’s answering machine clicked on. As I said before, Jennifer is never in.

  "Hi Jennifer, it’s Robert," I told her machine. “I canceled out on Manville. Instead, I’m in a small town about an hour away from there. It’s called Viktor. I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here. That’s a bit complicated. Bottom line is I came to Colorado to ski and, though Viktor is a much smaller town, it does have a mountain and some slopes. If you need to call me, you can reach me at-”

  I paused and read off the Inn’s phone number.

  “Ask for room 3. Not that our hostess will have a terribly hard time locating me, given the size of this place. Anyway, if things don’t work out here, I can always go back to Manville. If I do, I’ll give you a call.”

  I hung the phone up and sat on the bed.

  Doubts drifted through my mind. This whole side trip wasn’t like me. Then again, given what’s happened the past few weeks, almost nothing seemed normal. What exactly was I hoping to accomplish here?

  Visit the place where John Robinson died?

  Sure, why not. I came to ski and I’d likely pass right by the very place he died. Then what? They probably buried him here, too. So after checking out where he died, I could look in on where his body lies. I could even bring him some flowers.

  I shook my head, thought some more about it, and finally laughed at the absurdity of it all.

  “After visiting his grave, maybe I can finally see one of his fucking films,” I muttered.

  I was about to laugh once again, but stopped. For some reason, this crazy idea made a strange kind of sense. Maybe acquainting myself with John Robinson’s work was the first step in understanding what this was all about.

  Yeah, I was grasping at straws.

  Still, there was that theatre a little ways down the street. I stepped out of my room and headed to the lobby. Mrs. Borg smiled as I approached.

  "Would you have a copy of the local paper?" I asked.

  “Sure,” she said. She reached under the counter and produced a very slim tabloid which turned out to be the day’s edition of the Viktor Press. I skimmed through it until finding the arts and leisure section. More accurately, the arts and leisure page. Viktor’s sole cinema was playing three films, two of which were recent releases.

  The other was Collision Course.

  I gave the newspaper back to Mrs. Borg and thanked her for letting me read it. As I tu
rned away and walked out of the lobby and into the cold winter afternoon, the chill passed through my body once again.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The marquee above the movie theatre’s entrance read Viktor Cinema. Below it was a canvas sign. It read: a "John Robinson Film Festival - In Honor of His Legacy". The sign was worn with age and exposure to the elements. Loose strands of thread at the right corner danced in the wind. They blew back and forth in unison with the falling snowflakes.

  I watched the snowflakes and stared at the sky. It was a beautiful afternoon in Viktor. There were so many things I could be doing.

  Instead, I was seriously considering spending a couple of hours in a dark theatre.

  You could have rented the film and watched it in the comfort of your own home without traveling to the other side of the fucking country.

  At the Inn, seeing a John Robinson film felt like the right thing to do. Now, as I stood in the falling snow, it seemed like a complete waste of time.

  Yet that’s exactly what you’re going to do. So suck it up and get on with it.

  I approached the ticket booth.

  "One please."

  The woman behind the counter was in her mid twenties. Despite being almost completely buried in heavy clothing, what was visible proved very attractive. Her hair was brown and combed straight. Her eyes were an icy blue. Her lips were full and her face a smooth, perfect oval. "Which film, please," she asked.

  I looked up at the listings, sighed, and said:

  "Collision Course."

  The attendant’s face lit up.

  "You didn't want to see any of the newer films?"

  “My sister tells me that’s one of her favorite John Robinson films. She said if I ever had the chance, I should see it."

  "I'm glad she likes it."

  I watched the attendant take my money and give me a ticket. She was very attractive, the type of person anyone would like to know better. But apart from that, there was something very familiar about her.

  "I know this is going to sound like a really, really stupid come on, but do I know you?"

  Despite her cold, the lady behind the counter blushed.

  “I'm sorry,” I added quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”

  "John Robinson was my grandfather,” she said.

  As the saying goes, it was like time stopped. What could I say? How could I respond? The smile on the lady’s face broadened. I must have looked as shocked as I felt, because she seemed real amused.

  “Your sister has good taste. Collision Course is one of my favorites, too.” She looked back, as if checking on something. “The projectionist is climbing up to the booth. You better get going. The movie will start in a few minutes."

  I nodded and, like a sleepwalker, headed into the theater. All the while my eyes and thoughts were on John Robinson's grandchild.

  The screen filled with shadowy images in stark black and white. At times grainy artifacts revealed the movie print’s age. The soundtrack proved just as scratchy. The film’s pace was lethargic compared to the thrill-a-second-and-coherence-be-damned pace of modern cinema.

  And, you know what? It wasn’t all that bad.

  As my sister said, John Robinson played Sam Bradford, a big city cop in search of stolen money and the people behind the crime. Unknown to him, the money was hiding in plain sight, stuffed in a laundry truck a few blocks away from where the criminals committed their heist. Also unknown to him –and to viewers who didn’t have the ending ruined for them by their sister- was the fact that the crime’s architect, Robinson’s partner, was also hiding in plain sight. My sister was also right about the hints, both subtle and more obvious, that Robinson’s relationship with his partner was more than just friends.

  So that was the film’s theme: So many things hiding in plain sight.

  There were the requisite killings and suspense and hard-boiled talk and even more sexual innuendo. Ironically, Robinson’s character was an unpleasant, uptight straight arrow. His partner, on the other hand, was charming and friendly, the polar opposite. The film’s makers wanted you to root for the unrevealed bad guy and dislike the good guy. It made the final twist, when it came, all the better. Or at least that was the theory.

  Despite my reservations, I enjoyed the film’s first hour. Unfortunately, and most likely because I knew what was coming, the second half dragged. My thoughts returned to the vacation I was supposed to be enjoying, and that brought up another round of mental berating. I just didn’t want to be here, in this theatre, watching this film. Neither did anyone else.

  I was the only one here.

  My mind wandered some more and I thought about the mountain and Robinson’s granddaughter and I thought about skiing and I thought really hard, once again, about giving it all up and leaving.

  “What’ll happen if I do?” I muttered. Would I be haunted by old programs about John Robinson’s death on TV? Would newspapers from beyond find their way to me? What about books? Advertisements? Door to door salesmen?

  “The horror,” I muttered sarcastically.

  On the screen, John Robinson and the blonde-haired police receptionist rode in his car. They talked about the heist and their souring love affair, another hint that Robinson’s true love lay elsewhere. Robinson abruptly stopped the car by the side of the road and stepped out. He lit a cigarette while his eyes lingered on the open road. It split in two before him, a not so subtle way of conveying his character’s choices.

  “Of course I haven’t lost my mind,” I continued. “It’s perfectly normal to talk to yourself in an empty movie theatre.”

  I laughed and watched a few more minutes going to the rest room.

  When I returned, another person was in the theatre.

  He had taken a seat two rows in front of, and slightly to the right, of mine. He was an elderly man. Although his features were half-hidden, there was an air of elegance about him. His gray hair was thin and immaculately combed. He wore a dark suit and chewed on an unlit pipe. His attention was completely on the screen. If the theatre caught fire, I doubt he would have noticed.

  I tried to focus on what was left of the film but found my attention wandering back to the old man. As with the attendant at the ticket booth, there was something familiar about him.

  Maybe he’s Robinson’s brother, I thought, and stifled a laugh.

  When the screen brightened I tried to get a good look at the man’s face. When the screen darkened, my attention returned to the movie. It was like watching a tennis match. As it turned out, that was exactly how I was finally able to identify him.

  The old man was the actor who played John Robinson’s best friend/villain in Collision Course. He was several decades older than the man on the screen, yet still had the distinct profile of his younger self and his hair, though ravaged by time, was still parted as it was on the screen.

  The old man was really getting into his past work, too. His appearances were very brief in the movie’s first half, but now, as the film lurched toward its climax, his younger self appeared in almost every scene. And every time he did, the old man would sit up and pay that much more attention. During the climactic shoot-out between John Robinson and himself, the old man even mouthed his final, emotional lines.

  “It was a good run, partner,” the movie’s villain said. “Maybe we’ll meet again in another time.”

  The young man on the screen breathed out one last painful gasp. John Robinson straightened up; his eyes were glued on his dead partner. In the theatre, the old man’s face brightened into a smile. The music swelled. John Robinson took the laundry bag full of money and walked away, shaken by his friend –and possible lover’s- betrayal.

  The End.

  The credits crawled up the screen but the old man didn't wait to see them. He got up and headed for the exit. I watched helplessly as he left. I wanted to talk to him, to ask him about Robinson, but how to do so without knowing who he was? As the old man disappeared through the exit door, his name finally appeared on the list
of credits.

  Lewis Sinclair.

  I shuffled through the row of seats and ran to the theater's exit. When I got outside, I looked around for Lewis Sinclair, but he was nowhere to be seen. I kicked at a patch of snow in frustration.

  "Lose something?"

  The question came from the ticket booth. John Robinson's granddaughter remained in her place, still attending to the non-existent crowds. I pointed to the snow flurries and said:

  "You must be freezing."

  "Some days are better than others. Besides, it is winter."

  "I hadn’t noticed,” I said and laughed.

  “Was your sister right? Was the film worth it?"

  "It was better than I thought it would be.”

  “Wow, that’s strong praise.”

  My face redden.

  “It is,” I said. “I’m not much of a fan of films, whether old or new."

  "Heresy!"

  We laughed and I said:

  "Am I going nuts, or was that Lewis Sinclair in there?"

  "I can’t vouch for your mental status,” she said and smiled. “But, yeah, it was Lewis. He lives in a ranch just outside of town. He’s never missed seeing Collision Course during the film festival. Well, the second half of the movie, anyway. That’s where he shines.”

  “If by ‘shines’ you mean where he gets the most screen time.”

  “Ouch,” she replied. The smile remained in place. “In real life, my Grandfather and he were pretty good friends, though this is the only film the two of them acted together in."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah.”

  There was a moment of silence as this part of the conversation reached its end. I thought about Sinclair and John Robinson and Viktor. I thought about the woman in the booth, and how I wanted to know her better without sounding too awkward or desperate.