by Lee Child
“How did you react?”
“I let him know I was very angry, and then I went out for another cigarette.”
“How long were you gone?”
“I don’t know. Ten minutes? Maybe more. It’s a big restaurant. It’s a long walk from his table even to the lobby.”
“You shouldn’t do that. Obviously they talk about you, at the table, while you’re gone. Him and his people.”
“Actually, I think they mostly make calls on their phones. Like multitasking. Probably trashing other writers’ dreams. I saw them finishing up when I came back in, every time. They were looking kind of guilty about it.”
“You should watch your back.”
“It doesn’t matter if they talk about me anyway. They can’t make me agree. This is my project. I could take it somewhere else.”
“Where?”
The screenwriter didn’t answer.
His wife snuggled tighter. She pressed her chest against his. No bra. She wondered if he could tell yet. She felt like he should. Certainly she could. Just a thin layer of silk.
She said, “He might be right about the foxholes.”
“The point is the whole structure of English society was reproduced in the trenches. The officers had servants and separate quarters. It was a microcosm. We need it as a baseline assumption. Like a framework for the story.”
“But a foxhole could reproduce American society just the same. Kind of quick and dirty, kind of temporary. Two recent arrivals, required to somehow get along with each other. Like a metaphor of its own. Maybe one of them could have been drafted out of Harvard or Princeton or somewhere, and the other is a street kid from Boston or the Bronx. At first they have nothing in common.”
“Cliché.”
“So is a country-house drama with mud. You were a good enough writer to make that work. You could make anything work.”
He said, “That’s not the worst of it.”
“What more?”
“He said the hero can’t be a loner. He said there has to be a buddy, from the first scene onward.”
“Really?”
“He said he realized all along in the back of his mind he had been seeing it as a buddy movie set in Korea. He said my draft was the right heart in the wrong body. He said it wasn’t a story about one Englishman. It was a story about two Americans. He said sometimes writers don’t truly understand what they’ve written.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. I was speechless. I went out for another cigarette.”
“How long this time?”
“The same. Ten minutes. Maybe more. But don’t worry. What was there to talk about? Suddenly I realized I had gotten it ass-backward. I thought I was owed one particular thing, because I had been a good worker. They thought I was owed a different thing. Which was not to laugh in my face and turn the picture down flat. They were looking for a polite exit strategy. Ideally they wanted me to withdraw the proposal. That would save everyone’s face. Artistic differences. So they were nibbling it to death. Trying to make me break.”
“Did you?”
“Turned out I was wrong. They were serious. I got back in and started to say something about how we had all agreed at the get-go that the artistic vision would not be compromised, ever, in any way, and now here we were with two best buds in Korea. But he cut me off early and said, sure, don’t worry, he understood. He said I had to remember every single idea in the history of the motion picture industry had gotten a little scuffed up when it came out of the writer’s head and collided with reality. Even the famous screenplays that get studied in film school. The lady who brought the coffee added some of the lines. It was about what worked on the day.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“You didn’t go out again, did you?”
“I wanted to. I wanted to register some kind of protest. But I didn’t need to go out. Not even me. So I stayed at the table. He took it as an invitation to keep on talking. He said I could reclaim the movie by writing a great death scene.”
“Reclaim it?”
“He said I could own it again.”
“Whose death?”
“The buddy’s. Obviously the hero has to be alone for the final stage of his journey. So the buddy has to go, page ninety or thereabouts. He said he was sure I would knock it out of the park. Not just the final flutter. But the reasons for it. What was driving that guy to his doom?”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. My head was spinning. First a completely unnecessary secondary character was being forced into my movie, thereby making it actually no longer my movie, but then I’m being told it can be my movie again if I yank the intruder out again. Seemed staggeringly Freudian to me. He had such faith I could do it. He said it will be my finest work. Which would be ironic. Maybe the Writers’ Guild would give me a special award. Best Death of a Producer-Imposed Trope.”
“What happened next?”
“I left. I skipped dessert. I came home.”
“I’m glad,” she said.
She snuggled closer.
She said, “But I’m sorry the world will never see that scene. He was right about that, at least. You would have knocked it out of the park. Some kind of noble sacrifice. One for the ages.”
“No,” he said. “Not noble. I think I would make it small. The big things have already been done. The friendship has been forged. I suppose the final scene has to be in a foxhole. The two of them. They’ve gotten that far by being strong. Now the buddy is about to exit the picture by being weak. That’s the dynamic. I think that’s the way battle movies have got to work. Personality is revealed by the big things first and the little things last.”
“Weak how?”
“This is the 1950s, don’t forget. Even the studio doesn’t want to drag it into the present day. So people smoked. Including the buddy. Now he’s in the foxhole and he’s out of cigarettes. He’s getting antsy. People smoking means it’s already an R-rated movie anyway, so twenty yards away we can have the mangled corpse of one of their squad mates, who the buddy knows is an occasional smoker, which almost certainly means he’s got a nearly full pack in his pocket.”
“Twenty yards beyond the rim of the foxhole?”
“And there’s an enemy sniper in the area.”
“Does he stay, or does he go?”
“He goes,” the screenwriter said. “Twenty yards there, twenty yards back. The sniper gets him. It’s both tiny and monumental. He wanted a cigarette. That was all. A small human weakness. But it was also a determination to live the way he wanted to, or not live at all. Which then explains and informs his earlier actions. We know him fully only at the moment of his death.”
His wife said, “That’s lovely.”
She snuggled even tighter, and scooched her butt even closer.
She said, “So really it’s a fairly small decision. Isn’t it? It’s English accents in 1916, or American accents in 1952. Does it matter?”
He didn’t answer. He had noticed.
* * *
Two years and seven months later the movie came out. It was not about the British Army in World War I. It was compromised in every possible way. The screenwriter did not throw himself under a train. Instead he moved house, higher up the canyon. Then eight months later the buddy won the Oscar. Best Actor in a Supporting Role. The guy’s speech was all about how fabulous the writing was. Then an hour later the screenwriter won an Oscar of his own. Best Original Screenplay. His speech thanked his wife and his producer, the rocks in his life. Coming off the stage he pumped the statuette like a heavy dumbbell and figured some compromises were easy to live with. They got easier and easier through the after-parties and the interviews and the calls from his agent, which for the first time in his life gave him a choice of what to do and when and how much for. The years passed and he became a name, then a senior figure, then a guru. He and his wife stayed married. They lived a great life. He was honestly happy.
> He never twigged exactly how his ancient compromises had been engineered. What had killed his artistic vision had been his cigarette breaks. They were ten-minute voids, ripe for exploitation. It was the producer’s idea. He had done it before with difficult writers. As soon as the guy stalked out, he would call the guy’s wife, to report the latest impasse, to get advice on what to say in the short term, to talk him down off the ledge, and then to build an agenda for the wife to discuss with the guy that night, strictly in his own best interests, of course, for his own good, because there was a lot of money and prestige on the line here, and in the producer’s experience a little grumpiness would be quickly forgotten when there was a gold statuette to polish. In this case the wife thought, He’s right, you know, and he was.
THE SMOKE-FREE ROOM
by Achy Obejas
Alina walked around the small apartment, sniffing the air. She had been very specific about it needing to be a smoke-free space and now here was the owner’s preteen son swearing it was when she could practically feel the nicotine sinking into her skin.
You don’t have to believe me, the boy said in perfect English, insolent and bored as he leaned shirtlessly against the door. You can find another apartment—and good luck with that.
She was sure he knew he had her cornered. Though she wasn’t in Havana for the art biennial, everyone else seemed to be—moneyed collectors and curators who had swooped in and laid stacks of hard cash for every decent room in the casas particulares and for the few available in-law units. The hotels were booked solid.
Alina walked in a figure eight from one room to the other, trying to scout out the worst of the stink. There was a perfectly made bed with two flat pillows and a giant egg-like curve in the middle where she imagined she’d roll at night; a polished mahogany dresser that’d be worth a pretty penny back in Berkeley; a rocking chair; a bookshelf with faded hardcovers she’d explore later. In the room with the hot plate (meaning the kitchen), there was a table with a glass top, a toaster, a microwave, and a ceramic ashtray on the counter.
This is what I mean, she said, outraged as she picked up the ashtray. It was blue and shaped like a dolphin. I told your mother I needed a smoke-free room and she said she had one, but clearly you let others smoke here.
Do you see anyone smoking here now? asked the boy.
I want another room, please—a real smoke-free room.
This is a real smoke-free room. And it is also the only room we have. Believe me, if you don’t want it, my mother will be happy to give you your deposit back. She can get more from someone else. See this?
He held up his buzzing cell phone.
There are other people ready to take this room right now if you don’t want it. He was smirking.
I want to talk to your mother.
The boy shook his head. It’s not going to make any difference.
She stared at him until he shrugged and turned. Fine, he said, leading her down the narrow hall to a set of uneven wooden stairs painted different shades of brown. She followed him up, her face at his waist level, just inches from his bare skin, until she was hit by a blast of white light that almost knocked her off the stairs.
They emerged onto the roof, where the boy disappeared behind a series of snapping white sheets on a line. The building was on a rough-hewn and crowded colonial street, but here she could see the ocean all around them. Alina pushed a sheet aside only to be smacked by another that wrapped around her head and shoulders for a moment and forced her to pause to extricate herself. She spied the boy talking to a woman in a triangle between the spiteful linen. He was moving his hands excitedly and she was standing impassively, one hand anchoring a loose colorless housedress on her hip, the other pressing a cigarette to her mouth. Alina could see the initial slope of her breasts through the armholes as the dress floated around her. The Gulf of Mexico glittered in the background.
As Alina struggled to get around the sheets, mother and son turned in her direction. He slouched. Her grayish-brown curls bounced in the high currents. Finally, the mother stepped forward and held the sheets back like curtains.
You have a problem with the room? she asked, but Alina could barely hear her. They were in a whirlwind, the laundry clapping around them. The woman—her name was Margaret, Alina knew from their correspondence—repeated herself in sharply accented English, and Alina followed her mouth this time. It was plump and swollen and showed large, slightly crooked teeth. The cigarette stuck out from between her lips, improbably lit, and suddenly Alina was submerged in a haze of nicotine. How was it possible for the wind to be blowing that hard and smoke to still cling to her?
Margaret (pronounced Mahr-gah-reh, as it turned out) took her arm and drew her back to the narrow stairs. The noise disappeared the instant they ducked their heads inside.
We agreed on a smoke-free room, Alina said in English, breathless, her hair now tangled and stiff. She tried to run her hand through it but it got ensnared in a knotty mess.
Yes, that is our smoke-free room, Margaret responded in Spanish, but you’re right, it is not really smoke-free.
They were standing on the stairs, inches from each other, when the boy came up behind his mother and tried to squeeze through. Alina stepped back, flattening against the wall as he pushed past them both. For a fleeting second, she could smell Margaret’s breath, a mix of mint and tobacco. The boy clattered down all three stories and landed out of sight with a loud thud.
I can give you your money back, Margaret said, shrugging as she pulled away from the wall. Or you can stay. Up to you. I can give you discount.
Well, I appreciate that but it really won’t take care of the smell. Alina wondered if Margaret’s mouth was bruised. Her lips were red, almost purplish.
It’s all I can do, Margaret said, sitting down on one of the top steps, sucking on the cigarette and exhaling a blurry serpent. You decide. Then she pulled her cell from her housedress and took a call, jabbering and laughing as if Alina was no longer there.
* * *
The next morning, Alina awoke in a ball in the center of the bed to the simultaneous beeping of the alarm on her cell and an impatient knocking on her door. She scrambled up and caught the bath towel she’d draped to dry on a chair the night before and wrapped herself in it. Just a moment, she said in Spanish, though it didn’t come naturally to her.
That, said Margaret, pointing with a red-tipped cigarette at the loud beeping cell on the bed, has got to stop. Her English sounded smoother this morning.
A flustered Alina scurried back across the room and turned off the alarm. Then she pushed a strand of hair out of her face. A whiff of nicotine caught her nostrils and she felt her stomach quiver.
Breakfast is served, Margaret said with a flourish, bowing and pointing to the stairs, again with the cigarette.
Uh, thank you, okay, Alina muttered.
She watched Margaret come up from the bow like a ballerina emerging from a penché, her back perfectly straight, which caused the housedress—was it the same housedress, or did Margaret just have a closet full of those colorless things?—to sag and reveal her breasts completely. They were heavy and free.
You know, don’t you—of course you know—that smoking is bad for you, right? I mean, you know that.
Margaret laughed. Oh yes, she said. Very bad. So is sugar. And rum. And a starch-heavy diet. And walking on concrete without arch support. Sun without sunscreen. All very, very bad. But at least I won’t get Parkinson’s or dementia. Are you coming for breakfast, yes or no?
No, no, Alina said, flustered. She closed the door on Margaret’s indulgent smile and turned around. The window across the room, she hadn’t noticed the day before, was covered in a tarry grime.
* * *
After a full day at the National Library, Alina met up for dinner with a professor from the University of Havana’s literature department. To her surprise, the professor—whom she knew only via e-mail—had brought both her husband and her brother. The husband turned out to be a bure
aucrat of some sort and the brother a cab driver angling to hook up with a foreigner—meaning her, even though she’d been born in Havana. All three were Olympic smokers; the husband—stern, his nose wide and ruddy—silently puffed on a cigar and stared at her throughout the meal. The fumes came thick and white from his nose, like a long horseshoe mustache. The brother told bad jokes and touched her arm with a familiarity that unsettled her. He smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, one after the other, until they were nubs. By the time dessert rolled around, she had crossed her arms over her chest and was holding her breath.
When she got back to the house, not a single light was on in the vestibule or living room, and she had to use her phone to make her way to the stairs. As she passed the kitchen, she heard laughter and banging and leaned slightly against the door, only to catch a glimpse of Margaret, now sitting on the counter and rolling her hips, cigarette in her right hand, while another woman pumped her arm under her housedress. Alina jerked back, a hive of blue-green smoke buzzing around her head, and stumbled to the stairs as stealthily as she could. She was sure Margaret hadn’t seen her but completely unsure if she would have cared if she had.
In her room, the sounds from the kitchen drifted up louder and clearer. Alina dug in her travel bag for the earplugs she used on the plane and lit a lavender candle with the hope of dispelling the stench. The women downstairs were giggling, screaming. Alina could swear someone was beating a pot like a drum; chairs fell, furniture scraped the floor. The plugs were useless and she pulled them back out.
She threw herself facedown on the bed, put a pillow in the hollow center to keep from caving in, and grabbed the second one to cover her head. Now all she could hear was breathing: steady breathing, hard but controlled. No more laughter, just gasping and panting, like a train taking a curve ever so slowly, her body leaning with it, machinery squealing beneath her. There were flashes of orange, blue, and a flood of vapor. Alina pulled herself up to her elbows, bringing her right hand back from between her legs, and coughed.
