by Clive Barker
And so the day went on, the shadows of the city lengthening as the sun began to drop from its high-point at noon.
At a little after four, there was a crisis at Warner's, when a set under construction caught fire, gutting an entire soundstage, and badly damaging two adjacent soundstages. Nobody was killed, but there were still grim faces in the boardroom that afternoon. Insurance would cover the reconstruction of the stages, but the set had been built for the Warner's Christmas offering Dark Justice. With an elaborate post-production schedule for the picture that required the main shoot to be over in a month's time, things looked bad. There had been a great deal of "creative debate" about the script, which had no fewer than fourteen writers presently attached to it. Arbitration by the Writers Guild would thin those numbers, but nothing would make the calculation look any better if the picture missed its Christmas release date, which it now looked likely to do.
Two executives received calls from their superiors in New York, pointing out that if they hadn't warred so much about the script the picture would have been shot by now and the agonizingly slow post-production underway. Instead they had a smoking shell of a building where the big scenes were to have been shot, starting in two days. There was a fiscal disaster in the offing, and certain people should be ready to hand in their resignations before they were embarrassed into leaving by the imminent and unflattering analysis as to why ninety pages of dialogue about a man who dressed up as a jaguar to fight the villains of some fictional metropolis could not have been agreed on earlier, when there was four and a half million dollars' worth of writing talent on the job. The observation that "we're not making fucking Citizen Kane here" dropped from several mouths that day; more often than not from men who had never seen Kane, nor would have cared for it even if they had.
By five, with the freeways bumper to bumper as people got out of town for the weekend, there was a plethora of accidents, but nothing of consequence. Scripts were delivered for the weekend read; writers crossed their fingers and hoped that somebody would read what they'd slaved over without kids fighting at their feet or their dick in somebody's mouth or a smudge of coke on their nose; plans were made for weekend adulteries; those letters of resignation were penned by smiling assistants.
And through it all Todd and the woman who had once idolized him slept side by side in the stale darkening air of Room 131.
FOUR
Tammy woke first, rising up out of a dream of the very room in which she was sleeping, except that all the furniture had for some unfathomable reason been piled against one end of the room, including the frame of the bed in which she was sleeping, leaving her on a mattress on the floor. When she woke, of course, nothing had changed. It was still an ordinary room with one extraordinary element, surreal in its lack of likelihood: the sleeping figure of Todd Pickett. There he was, sprawled across three-quarters of the bed, his head deep in the pillow, his face—his poor, wounded face—free, it seemed, of troubled dreams.
What she would have given, once upon a time, for a moment like this: a chance to lean over and kiss him awake. But she'd lost faith in such fairy-stories. She'd seen too much of their dark side, and she never wanted to go there again, even for the kissing of princes. Better to let them wake of their own accord, dragon-breath and all.
She glanced at the cheap digital clock on the bedside table. It was five-twenty-one in the afternoon. Surely that couldn't be right? That they slept for almost eleven hours? And Todd still sleeping?
Well, the latter she could believe. She knew from her years with Arnie how some men loved to sleep. In Arnie's case he'd loved it more than anything else. More than eating, more than drinking, certainly more than sex.
She left Todd to it, went into the tiny bathroom and switched on the light. God, she looked terrible! How had he ever consented to get into the same bed as her? She started her clean-up by vigorously scrubbing her teeth, then ran the shower very hot, the way she liked it even when she felt clean, and got in. Oh, it felt good! The soap smelled flowery, and the cheap shampoo didn't work up a satisfying lather, but she was happy nevertheless, getting herself clean for the first time in days: washing off the freaks, the ghosts, the dirt, the darkness. By the time she drew back the plastic curtain the steam was so dense she could barely see across the bathroom to the door. But it was being opened, that much she could see, and there was Todd, standing looking at her. She grabbed the towel off the sink where she'd left it, and used it as best she could to cover her considerable nakedness.
"Good morning," he said.
"Good afternoon," she replied.
"It isn't."
'Almost five-thirty," she said. "There's a clock beside the bed. Why don't you go look? And close the door after you."
"I gotta take a leak first. I'm sorry. But I gotta."
"Let me get out first."
"Just don't look," he said, unzipping himself.
She drew the shower curtain back, and continued to dry herself, while for the second time in the last twelve hours she heard the solid splash of him emptying his bladder. He took an age. By the time he was finished she was almost done drying herself.
"Okay, I'm done," he said, with evident relief. "Does this place have room service?"
"Yes."
"You want something to eat?"
This was no time to be ladylike, she told herself. "I'm starving," she said.
"What do you want?"
"Just food. Nothing fancy."
"I shouldn't think there's much danger of that."
She waited until she heard the door click closed, then she pulled the shower curtain back and finished drying her nooks and crannies. She could hear his voice as he ordered food on the phone. It sounded like the soundtrack of a Todd Pickett movie playing on the television next door. Stepping out of the bath, she cleared a hole in the steamed-up mirror with the ball of her hand and regarded her reflection balefully. She was cleaner, but that was about the only improvement. She opened the door a crack.
"I need some clean clothes."
Todd was sitting on the bed. He'd finished making his order and had turned on one of the late-afternoon chat shows.
"You can come in here and get dressed," he said, not turning from the screen. "I won't look."
She discarded her sodden towel and ventured in, sorting through the meager contents of her suitcase for something presentable.
"I ordered club sandwiches," Todd said. "That was pretty much all they had. And coffee."
"Fine."
As she pulled on her underwear she glanced up at the television. A woman in a red polyester blouse three sizes too small for her was complaining vociferously to the host of the show that her daughter, who looked about eleven, went out every night "dressed like a cheap little slut."
"I love this shit," Todd said.
"People's lives," Tammy replied.
"I guess they're happy. They get their fifteen minutes."
"Did you like yours?"
"I got more than fifteen," he said.
"I didn't mean to offend you. I was just asking."
"Sure, I enjoyed it. Who wouldn't? The first few times you're in a restaurant and a waiter recognizes you, or somebody sends over a drink, you get a buzz out of that. In fact, you feel like you're the only person who matters . . ." His voice trailed away. The daughter on the screen, who had the seeds of whoredom in her pre-pubescent features, was telling the audience that if she wanted to dress like a slut that was her business, and anyway who did she learn it from? She stabbed her finger in the direction of her mother, who did her best to look virtuous, but given what she'd chosen to do with her hair, makeup and outfit didn't have a chance. Todd laughed, then went back to what he was telling Tammy.
"The whole 'look at me, I'm a star thing gets old pretty quickly. And after a while you start to wish people didn't know who you were."
"Really?"
"Actually, it's more that you want to be able to turn it on or off. Oh shit, look at this—"
The slut
tish daughter was now up off her chair, and attempting to attack her mother. Luckily, there was a security man ready to step in and stop her. Unluckily, he wasn't quite fast enough to do so. The girl threw herself upon her mother with such violence the woman's chair toppled over, and the security man, who had by now taken hold of the girl to keep her from doing harm, fell forward too, so that chair, mother, daughter and security man ended up on the studio floor together. Todd continued to talk through it.
"There are days when you really want to feel good about yourself; you want to be recognized, you want people to say: I loved your movie so much I saw it six times. And then there are other days when it's a curse to have people know who the hell you are, because there's no privacy, no way to just go out and be yourself. Everything becomes a performance." He pointed at the brawlers on television. "Look at these stupid bitches. What are they going to say when their friends see this?" He pondered his own question for a moment, then he said: "Actually, I know exactly what they're going to say. They're going to say: did you see me on the TV? That's all that matters. Not: did you see me being smart or looking beautiful: just did you see me?"
He watched the women's antics for a while longer, shaking his head. Then he glanced over at Tammy and said: "I've been thinking maybe I'm done with the movies. Or movies are done with me. It's time to buy a ranch in Montana and raise horses."
"Really?" Tammy had finally got dressed, and came to sit down on the unmade bed beside Todd. "You're going to retire?"
He laughed. "What's so funny?"
"Oh, just hearing the word. Retire. At thirty-four."
"I thought you were thirty-two. Your bio—"
"I lied."
"Oh."
"But I'm still young. Right? I mean, thirty-four is still young."
"A mere kitten."
"I just can't face the idea of that circus for one more day . . ." He turned off the television. The room was suddenly very silent.
After a few moments Tammy said: "Are we going to talk about it or not?"
Todd stared at the blank television. She couldn't see his expression but she was certain it was just as vacant as the screen.
"The Canyon, Todd," she said again. "Are we going to talk about what happened in the Canyon or not?"
"Yes," he replied finally. "I suppose so."
"Last night you said it wasn't real."
"I was tired."
"So?"
"It's real. I knew last night I was talking bullshit . . ." He kept his back to her through this, as though he didn't want to let her see his incomprehension; as though it were something to be ashamed of.
"You saw more than I did," she said to Todd. "So you've probably got a clearer idea of what's going on. And you talked to—"
"Katya."
"Yes. And. What did she tell you?"
"She told me the room downstairs had been given to her."
"By Zeffer. Yes, I know that part."
"Then what are you asking me for?" he said. "You probably know as much as I do."
"What about Maxine?"
"What about her?"
"She must have checked out the house for you—"
"Yeah. She took photographs—"
"Maybe she has some answers."
"Maxine?" He got up off the bed and went to the table to pick up his cigarettes. He took one out of the packet and lit it, inhaling deeply. "As soon as she'd moved me into that fucking house she told me she didn't want to manage me any longer," he said.
There was a knock at the door. "Room service."
Tammy opened the door and an elderly man, who frankly looked as though this might be the last club sandwiches and coffee he delivered, tottered in, and set the laden tray on the table.
"I asked for extra mayonnaise," Todd said.
"Here, sir." The old man proffered a small milk jug, into which several spoonfuls of mayonnaise had been deposited.
"Thank you, it's all fine," Tammy said.
Todd went into his jeans pocket and pulled out a bundle of notes. He selected a twenty—much to the antiquated waiter's delight—and gave it to the man.
"Thank you very much, sir," he said, exiting rather faster than he'd entered, in case the man in the filthy jeans changed his mind.
They set to eating.
"You know what?" Todd said.
"What?"
"I think I should go and see Maxine. Ask her what she knows, face-to-face. Maybe this was all some kind of set-up—"
"If you get her on the phone—?"
"She'll lie."
"You've had that experience?"
"Several times."
"Where does she live?"
"Well she's got three houses. A house in Aspen, a place in the Hamptons and a house in Malibu."
"Oh how she must suffer," Tammy said, teasing a piece of crispy bacon out of her sandwich and nibbling on it. "Only three houses? How does she manage?"
"So eat up. We'll just drop in on her."
"Both of us?"
"Both of us. That way she can't tell me I'm crazy. What I saw, you saw."
"Actually, I saw some shit you didn't see."
"Well, we'll be sure to get some answers from her."
"Are you certain you want me to come?"
"There's safety in numbers," Todd said. "Drink your coffee and let's get going."
FIVE
Katya hadn't wasted any time weeping over Todd's departure. What was the use? She'd shed more than her share of tears over men and their betrayals across the years. What good had any of her weeping ever done her?
Besides, it wasn't as if she'd truly lost the man; he'd simply drifted away from her for a few hours, that was all. She'd get him back, humbled and begging to be returned into her company. After all, hadn't she let him kiss her? Hadn't she let him fuck her, there in the Devil's Country? He could never forget those memories.
Oh, he could try. He could put a hundred women, a thousand, between the two of them, but it wouldn't work. Sooner or later he'd come crawling back to her for more of what only she could give him, and nothing that fat bitch of a woman who'd coaxed him away could say would keep him from coming back. A man like Todd had nothing in common with a creature like that. He understood the world in ways she could not even guess at. What hope did she have of seeing with his eyes, even for a moment? None. She was a workhorse. Todd had lived with beauty too long to put up with the presence of something so charmless for very long. After a few hours of her clumsy company, he'd be off.
She had only one fear: that owing to the artful way her Canyon had been hidden, he wouldn't be able to find his way back to her.
The city had never been a simple place even during the years she'd lived in it; it was easy to get lost or distracted. How much more complicated would it be now, especially for someone like her poor Todd, whose soul was so muddled and confused. She knew how that felt, to have everyone falling over themselves to adore you one moment, and the next to find that those same people had given their devotion over to somebody else. It turned everything upside down when that happened; nothing made sense anymore. You started looking around for something to hold on to; something firm and solid, that wouldn't be taken away. In such a mood of desperation, it was possible you could make a mistake: choose the wrong person to believe in, the wrong path to follow. Even now, he could be moving away from her.
The more she contemplated that prospect the more it became apparent that she was going to have to go and find him.
The idea of venturing out of her Canyon filled her with a mingling of fear and anticipation.
The world! The great, wide world!
It was three-quarters of a century since she'd stepped beyond the bounds of the Canyon; and though she'd had plenty of clues as to the way things had changed, from those who'd come here after their decease, it would still be an intimidating experience for her to venture out there, even on a mission of love.
But what other choice did she have? Without him, her hopes were in ruins. She had to go and
find him, it was as simple as that. And on the way back, once they were together again, maybe she'd have the strength of heart to visit some of the places she'd known and loved in her youth; just to see how time had altered them. But then again perhaps that wouldn't be such a good idea. It troubled her enough to look out of the window and see the stretches of land that had been dust roads and shacks and orange groves in her time now completely transformed into towers of steel and glass. What if she were to discover that some precious place she'd loved had been desecrated; rendered unrecognizable? Though she liked to think she was fearless, in truth time was taking its toll on the resilience of her soul.
But then, of course, this whole quest was a test of her strength, wasn't it?
Venturing beyond the perimeters of her Canyon, beyond the reach of the magic that had preserved her perfection, was gambling with her life. She had no way of knowing for certain but she guessed that the further she ventured, and the longer she remained away from the Canyon, from the house and all it contained, the more vulnerable she'd be to the long-postponed indignities of old age. After all, beneath this veneer of youth she was a Methuselah. How long could she afford to be out in the raptureless world before the shell cracked and the crone inside, the hag that the Devil's Country had obscured with its magic, was unveiled?
It was terrifying. But in the end, it came down to this: finding Todd was worth the risk. If she survived the journey they would come back to the Canyon and initiate a new Golden Age. It wouldn't be like the previous Age of Gold, with its foolish excesses. This would be a more profoundly felt time, when instead of using the Devil's Country like a cross between a two-bit ghost-train ride and a fountain of youth, it would be respected as the mystery it was.
Despite the perverse pride she'd taken in showing Todd the orgiasts in the Canyon, and in letting him share their excesses, Katya's appetite for the witless hedonism of the twenties had long since passed away. And though Todd had happily played the sensualist, she was sure that he too had seen enough of the tawdriness of such spectacles. It was time they behaved as owners of something genuinely marvelous; and treated it respectfully. Together, they would begin an exploration of the world Lilith had made. Katya had never possessed the courage to explore it as it deserved to be explored, road by road, grove by sacred grove. Certainly she'd seen plenty there over the years that had inflamed her sexual self (women tethered to the underbellies of human-horses, in a constant state of ecstatic agony); and she would not scorn such spectacles if they came on them again. But these were other sights, designed to arouse the spirit not the loins; and it was to those places she wanted to take Todd.
