Dreams Are Not Enough

by Jacqueline Briskin

  “I’m trying to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “I behaved badly. Look, I want to be able to deal with it, God how I want to! Alyssia, give me time.”

  “How about another few months? Let me see, what will you two be? First cousin once removed, does that sound right?”

  “Stop putting up barriers. At least let’s talk about it.”

  “But we are talking,” she said. “Very heavy stuff.”

  “You can’t punish me any more than I’m punishing myself.”

  “What’s the problem, Hap? We had a little location fling for old time’s sake.”

  He swallowed sharply, as if he were going to respond. Instead, he walked away.

  She called after him, “Please tell Mr. Lang if he wants to watch, as far as I’m concerned he’s welcome.”

  Hap nodded but didn’t turn. As she watched him go toward the brightly lit setup, she leaned against the plank wall, weakened by inconsolable misery.

  • • •

  Lang sat just out of camera range, his chin in his hand, and though she couldn’t see him, she could never forget he was staring at her. She found it impossible to keep her mind away from the conversation with Hap. No wonder she couldn’t rouse up the appropriately enamored rapture as Cliff’s hands began their maneuvering. She fluffed her lines.

  On the twelfth take, Hap called, “People, be back in fifteen minutes.”

  “Upsydaisy,” Cliff said, extending his hand.

  “Sorry,” she murmured.

  “Happens to all of us,” he replied good-naturedly.

  The chain-smoking wardrobe mistress handed her a duster to pull over her now gaping shirtwaist.

  Lang was approaching. “Miss del Mar,” he said. Though he didn’t incline his head, he gave the impression of making a courtly bow. “What a pleasure this is. I’ve always wanted to see you work.”

  “Not my finest hour.” Laugh, she told herself.

  Lang was looking over her shoulder. Turning, she saw that Hap had come up behind her.

  “Lang,” he said, “you’ll have to leave.”

  “Jesus Christ, Hap!” Maxim had followed his brother.

  Hap ignored the interruption. “You’re disturbing my actors.”

  “Mr. Cordiner,” Lang said, “I don’t need to point out that I have every right to be here.”

  “Not while I’m the director.”

  “Hap, cool it,” Maxim interjected.

  Hap continued to ignore him. “My contract gives me complete control of visitors to the set.”

  “That is correct,” Lang replied in a manner that implied he knew every clause of the sixty-odd pages of single-spaced print.

  “Hap’s trying to protect me,” Alyssia said. “It’s been a rotten afternoon for me and I’ll handle it better without an audience.”

  “My last wish is to delay production,” Lang said. “But I would like a meeting with Mr. Camron and the three of you.”

  “Whenever you want,” Maxim said.

  “This evening at seven in the production tent,” Lang said.

  53

  Alyssia pulled forward a wisp of bang. For the evening’s meeting she had swept up her hair in a sexy tumble, piled on eye makeup and worn one of her glitzy tee shirts to cover the bulge in her white slacks, which were now so tight that she had to lie on her back to zip them.

  Beth was saying, “. . . even when we were little kids Hap was the same way. Calm and reasonable until somebody messed with his ethical ideals or acted unfairly—then watch out!” Having heard the true events in the stable, as well as the embellished versions, she couldn’t control her anxious fretting. “How could he have barred Lang from the set? He’s gone totally berserk.”

  Alyssia’s fingers trembled as she reached into her satin jewel folder for another narrow gold chain to add to the dozen or so already dangling on her sequined bosom.

  “If I were you,” Beth advised, “I’d look more businesslike.”

  “For me, Beth, this is businesslike.” Alyssia glanced at her clock. “God! I said I’d be there at six thirty, and it’s nearly seven. See you later!”

  Hurrying past the tents, she ignored the aroma of barbecuing beef, the sounds of convivial pre-dinner conversation, the soft, restless thrumming of a guitar, the tape of a Haydn symphony. Beth’s compulsive worrying had stretched her already taut nerves. Don’t say one word, she commanded herself. Any remark could ignite Hap into an overt display of his loathing. No wiseass cracks to cover up how terrified you are.

  At the production tent she pressed a hand over her racing heart, then lifted the flap.

  The rear, where Hap worked on uncut footage at the Kem editing machine, was hidden by a wall of canvas. The front area served both brothers as an office.

  They were sitting on the swivel chairs of their facing desks, while Lang had taken the narrow, slip-covered sofa that sometimes served as a bed.

  Seeing her, the three men rose.

  “Ahh, Miss del Mar,” Lang said. “We’ve been waiting to start.”

  She smiled. “Am I late?”

  “Late?” Maxim said. “I didn’t realize the word was in your vocabulary.”

  “Bitchy, bitchy,” she said, then realized that she had unwittingly trod too close to the castle keep wherein Maxim guarded his secret life. Hastily she inquired, “Where’s Cliff?”

  “Treetops,” Hap replied. “Before this came up he’d chartered a plane to go to Treetops.”

  Treetops was a hotel built high in the Cape chestnut trees of the Aberdares National Park: here visitors passed the night looking down on the wild animals attracted to a floodlit watering hole. Cliff repeatedly swept his entire entourage (masseur, barber, chauffeur, makeup artist, aerobicist, hairdresser, secretary, the brother who was his stand-in and Cameo Hannaway) into such exotic excursions.

  “I’m distressed that Mr. Camron isn’t with us,” Lang said. “But my message is simple and can be passed on to him: these constant delays must stop.”

  Maxim leaned forward. “The short rains,” he said, “have broken Kenya’s fifty-year record.”

  “The weather’s unfortunate.” Lang’s unwavering eyes were fixed on Hap. “And the footage you just showed me is exceptional. But Meadstar went into this venture in good faith that the budget you presented—”

  “I worked up the budget,” Maxim interrupted protectively. “Not Hap.”

  “At any rate, it was a budget that Harvard Productions could live with. Meadstar did not balk at the considerable costs. Or rather, I as Meadstar’s sole shareholder did not balk. I had anticipated that my good faith would be reciprocated.”

  “You’ve been here since noon,” Hap said. “That’s hardly enough time to understand the problems of shooting in a difficult location like this.”

  Lang nodded judiciously. “I agree. And as I just said, I also accept the difficulties with the weather, even though such contingencies should certainly have been included in the original budget and schedule. What I cannot condone is the manner with which you, as director, indulge your cast.”

  Alyssia stared down at her fingernails, unpolished and short for her role as Mellie. Me, she thought. He means me.

  “After you left,” Hap said, “we got the scene in one take.”

  “This afternoon you pointed out that you have the right to regulate visitors to the set. There is another clause in your contract that states if you fall behind schedule, Meadstar producers may come in to assist.”

  “Take over for us, you mean?” Hap asked.

  “No. Precisely as I said. You continue to work while our personnel remains on hand to insure there’s no further falling behind.”

  Hap looked at Maxim. “Did you see that clause?”

  “It’s there,” Maxim replied tersely.

  Lang tugged at a blue-striped shirt cuff, adjusting the plain gold link. “My people have worked out a revised schedule for you. It’s more than reasonable. You have twenty-nine days to complete principal
shooting.”

  “Twenty-nine days!” Alyssia forgot her vow of silence. “No way! It’s impossible! We can’t do it. The schedule calls for almost that much time in Africa alone. And what if there’s more rain?”

  “Miss del Mar, I have the highest regard for your acting talent, but I refuse to permit directorial excesses to destroy this film.”

  “Destroy it? You’re the one talking artistic impossibilities.”

  “No, Miss del Mar, I’m talking about simple arithmetic. I have already poured an additional six million into The Baobab Tree. The original budget to complete was twenty-five million. The sum of six and twenty-five is thirty-one. Thirty-one million dollars is scarcely a niggardly budget for even the most ‘artistic’ film.”

  “Don’t use that tone with Alyssia,” Hap said.

  “It’s a math lesson,” Alyssia said lightly. “Mr. Lang, you have my solemn promise I won’t muff another line.” Her trill of laughter was drowned out by the high-pitched whistle that announced the dinner buffet had opened.

  When the penetrating squeal ended, Lang said, “You see, Mr. Cordiner? Miss del Mar understands that she has responsibilities.”

  Hap, already on his feet, rounded the desk. “That’s enough, Lang. The meeting’s over.”

  Lang’s composed expression didn’t falter, though a gloss that might have been excitement showed on his high forehead. “I’m sure that you can bring The Baobab Tree in on the revised schedule—if you learn how to manage your stars.”

  Hap’s tan mottled red, but he repeated levelly, “The meeting’s over.”

  Lang nodded. “I’ve said everything that needs to be said.”

  “Good. I can get back to work.”

  Not rising from the narrow couch, Lang said, “Your zeal is gratifying. It means that my purpose in coming to Kenya has been accomplished.” He turned to Alyssia. “Miss del Mar, wasn’t that the dinner signal?”

  “Yes, it was.” Alyssia formed a smile.

  “I’d be delighted if you’d accompany me.”

  “Let’s understand one another, Lang,” Hap said. “She and I work for you—”

  “Cool it, Hap.” Maxim hovered between his brother and the couch.

  “I contracted to work for Meadstar, not to entertain Lang. And that goes for my cast.”

  Lang said in a musing tone, “Possibly I could be the Meadstar producer.”

  “In that case,” Hap said, “you’ll need another director to replace me.”

  “That might be an excellent idea. From what I witnessed today, you aren’t drawing a performance from Miss del Mar commensurate with her salary.”

  Hap’s fists clenched. “Just fuck off, Lang.”

  Lang rose to his feet, and as part of the same swift, smooth motion, closed his right fist, aiming it at Hap’s mouth, the hard uppercut of a professional boxer. Caught by surprise, Hap reeled backward, toppling a swivel chair, which fell to the floorboards with a hollow clatter.

  Blood spurted from the left corner of his mouth, and his eyes were momentarily glazed, but he remained on his feet. Lang swarmed after him, snaking a left hook at his chin and a savage right to his chest. Again Hap fell back, putting out a hand to brace himself against Maxim’s desk. A neat pile of papers scattered.

  “Leave him alone, Lang!” Alyssia cried.

  “Mr. Cordiner needs a lesson in simple courtesy,” Lang retorted. His breathing was normal, his voice level.

  “You were baiting him!”

  Hap had recovered. Lunging, he grappled Lang around the waist, a bearlike hug. Three inches taller, considerably the heavier, Hap never would have physically attacked Lang whatever the taunts and provocation. But Lang had thrown the first punches, and Hap’s compunctions were gone. He squeezed tighter. Lang jackhammered a series of ferocious, clubbing blows to Hap’s kidneys.

  Maxim tugged at his brother’s right arm. “Jesus Christ, Hap! Cut the Muhammad Ali crap!”

  While Hap was shrugging off Maxim, Lang raised his knee between Hap’s legs. At this same instant Hap pulled back to deliver a punch, his first. Lang therefore was off balance as Hap’s fist landed just above his belt buckle. The blow was delivered with all of Hap’s outrage and all of his baffled misery at losing Alyssia.

  Lang’s breath exploded from his lungs with a harsh, dry sound. While Maxim and Alyssia watched horror-struck, he sank onto one knee. In this position of supplication, he clasped both hands to his stomach.

  The whole fight couldn’t have taken a half minute.

  Hap stood with his chest heaving, hands dangling, blood dripping down his chin onto his shirt. When Lang didn’t rise, he dunked his handkerchief in the water pitcher, handing it to his fallen opponent.

  Lang took the sodden wad, touching the moisture to his wrists. He said nothing. With the stooped posture and slow shuffle of an octogenarian, he left the tent.

  Maxim started to follow, then halted, shrugging as if to say, Let the bastard go.

  Alyssia took a step toward Hap. He was picking up the wet handkerchief, wiping his mouth. He stared at the redness in surprise.

  “It’s not ketchup, buddy,” Maxim said.

  Hap jabbed a finger toward his brother. “Just keep him away from me.”

  54

  Beth, anxious to hear about the meeting, stayed in Alyssia’s tent: Sara had brought two dinner trays, and the roar from the departing helicopter set off vibrations in the pot-metal dish covers.

  As Alyssia came in, Beth jumped to her feet. “What’s all that? Lang can’t be leaving already?”

  “He and Hap got into a fight.”

  “Didn’t I say Hap could go berserk?” Beth cried. “What sort of fight?”

  “The physical kind. With fists.”

  “Oh, God. . . .”

  “The worst part is, Lang kept goading Hap because he was positive he’d win—he handled himself like a professional boxer—but Hap knocked him down.”

  “He really is demented, my cousin.” Beth groaned. “You just don’t go around humiliating men like Lang.”

  Alyssia closed her eyes. “It’s my fault, Beth,” she said. In a low voice she capsulized the conversation that led up to the fisticuffs.

  Beth shook her head mournfully. “What a mess.”

  Alyssia clasped her arms around herself. “I’m freezing.” She bent to pull a sweater from the gaudy pile on her bottom shelf.

  “What’s that on the seat of your pants?” Beth asked.

  Standing, Alyssia craned her neck, twisting.

  “Alyssia.” Beth’s voice shook. “It looks like blood.”

  • • •

  Alyssia lay on her back with a pillow elevating her hips. The bleeding was like a heavy period, dark and steadily copious. She had changed the maxipads that Beth had lent her twice in two hours.

  I could be losing my baby.

  A hyena howled its ugly bray, and others joined in. Hyenas, the foremost and strongest in the chain of scavengers that gather around Africa’s dead, wounded and newborn.

  At the realization she was maybe miscarrying, Alyssia’s pretense of invulnerability had shattered. She had been shaking so hard that her sister-in-law had to help her undress. In her dulcetly soothing voice, Beth had quoted statistics to prove that this type of spotting was commonplace. Indeed, it had happened to her, Beth, in her fourth month.

  Which isn’t much of a reassurance, Alyssia thought, shivering.

  A strange, watery movement within her, a flutter she had never felt before. A good omen? A warning of impending disaster? She pressed both hands protectively to her stomach.

  At first, her pregnancy had been an unwelcome burden that she—for whatever rationale of her subconscious—could not rid herself of, then it had become a growth to be hidden, disguised, lied about. A few days ago she had seen it as a barrier forever separating her from Hap. Now, for the first time, she was accepting that the child was part of her, yet a separate being, a vulnerable being who was utterly dependent on her.

  If the baby’
s dead, I have only myself to blame, she thought and began to cry.

  After a couple of minutes the hot, sparse tears stopped and she stared into the darkness.

  Please let it be all right.

  I’ll be careful, so careful.

  She began compiling a list.

  First thing tomorrow morning announce your condition.

  Refuse to wear any form of corset. Let them figure out camera angles or close-ups that do not show your body.

  No more impersonations of Superwoman. No more twelve-hour days—and the hell with Lang’s schedule.

  Every day drink a quart of milk. Forget that it’s chalky, unpalatable, canned Carnation. No, better yet have Harvard Productions fly in long-life milk from England.

  Don’t lunch on a Hershey bar and Fritos. Go on a health kick, eat those iodine-flavored salads that Beth’s been pestering you to.

  Insist on a Mercedes like Cliff’s to drive you to the location. No more bumpy minibus.

  Do not pretend you have nerves of steel. Take it slow and easy. Do everything in your power to avoid an attack.

  A prospective baby needs its prospective father, so tell Barry right away.

  The hyenas started howling again.

  • • •

  “They’re right near the kitchen area,” Beth said as she barged into the office tent.

  “Hi, Beth.” Hap was sitting at his desk. There was blood on his collar, and a small Band-Aid taped to the left corner of his swollen mouth.

  For once he didn’t rise for her, so she came to hover uncertainly near him. “The hyenas, I mean,” she said.

  “Sit down,” he said, his injured lips forming the words slowly. As she picked up a fallen swivel chair, he asked, “Want a drink?”

  She hadn’t noticed the open Scotch in front of him. He’s drunk, she thought. He’s not even bothering with a glass. Barry’s the family boozehound. Never Hap.

  “Nothing for me, thank you,” she said.

  “Are you here to give some good advice?” he asked, a hint of rancor surfacing.

  She frowned. Despite her cousin’s puffed mouth and bloody shirt, his fight with Lang had skipped her mind. She kept seeing Alyssia, trembling and sobbing. The collapse had terrified Beth to the point that she wasn’t sure whom she was more concerned about, her sister-in-law or Barry’s unborn baby. “You’ll have to shoot around Alyssia tomorrow,” she said.