Spider Boy/Chapter 15
In the morning Ambrose was offered the opportunity to acquire information concerning the moving picture script he was currently supposed to be writing. Philip Lawrence telephoned to invite him to come to the studio for a conference. Excited and curious, Ambrose dressed hurriedly, jumped into a taxi, and drove to the L.L.B. lot in Culver City. The boy at the gate, on hearing the name of Mr. Deacon, escorted him personally to Philip's office.
Lawrence greeted him cordially. Here's a pipe, old man. I'm sure you prefer a pipe. Jack always did.
Accepting the proffered pipe, Ambrose made him self comfortable.
Did you see the Barometer yesterday? Philip inquired.
Yes. What does it all mean?
I don't know how they got the story: Lucile Logan always gets things ahead of anybody else. Part of it's true even.
Part of . . . ?
Sure. I guess she invented the Persian setting.
All Hollywood's been calling me up asking for jobs, Ambrose informed Lawrence.
Philip threw back his head and laughed. Of course they would, he said. I hadn't thought of that. What'd you tell 'em?
I had the 'phone shut off.
Right. You're getting on to this racket. Besides you won't have anything to do with the casting. Any old-timer would know that. It's these fresh new extra girls that don't understand. There's no chance for them anyway. Well, of course . . . Philip made a reservation . . . you could get your own dame in.
Ignoring this suggestion, Ambrose sought desired information. What's the real story? he inquired.
Philip showed signs of embarrassment. He knocked the ashes out of his pipe before he explained: You see, here—not only on this lot but on all the others—there are wheels within wheels. You've got to humour the executives. You've got to humour the directors. You've got to humour the stars. They're all just a lot of dumb kids. You can't do anything directly. You've got to approach 'em with wile.
Philip, looking guilty, paused. Ambrose with growing alarm demanded: What have you done?
Now, I don't want you to get excited. I only did what I had to do. I had to think quick, I can tell you.
With Ambrose, anticipation invariably created panic. He could not readily imagine to what horrible reality these fatal words of Philip Lawrence pointed.
What have you done? he repeated faintly.
Well, after you left the other day I went in to see Griesheimer—naturally at his request. He wanted to know what kind of story you had proposed. I was prepared for that. I knew I'd have to tell him something at once. It's better so, after all. It saves trouble afterwards. I told him the idea that we had doped out together. He said that while this was a whale of an idea he didn't need any more material for Dick Ruby for the next six months.
But he told me an hour before that he wanted a story badly for Dick Ruby, Ambrose protested.
Naturally, Philip asserted coolly. You don't know these Arabs. It's part of their technique to object to anything that's proposed. Anyway he alleged that he wanted a yarn for Auburn Six. The story you told me the other day obviously wouldn't suit her. She couldn't be one of a number of heroines. You can see that.
So he wants to break our contract and let me out! Ambrose cried joyfully.
No! No! Lawrence responded in a tone of disgust. You don't get me at all. Let you out! I should say not. He wanted to know what other ideas you had handy. I had to do some pretty presto thinking, but I managed to tell him the other story you outlined to me.
The other . . . ?
Sure. Don't you remember? The one about the circus. Auburn is in love with a ceiling-walker, a human fly, and a clown's in love with her. The villain is the ring-master.
But I never . . .
Of course you did. Griesheimer swallowed the conte the way a boa constrictor swallows a rabbit, i.e., whole. I'm working on the continuity.
But Lawrence, this is your story. I refuse to accept credit for it. This lets me out, cried Ambrose, obviously pleased with this solution.
My story. Banana oil! Anybody's story. Everybody's story. The central theme has been used in pictures fifty times. Say, Deacon, get me straight. They wouldn't accept this hokum from me. I'm too unimportant. I'm nobody. But Griesheimer thinks it's sure fire with your name attached to it, and with Hallam directing and Auburn Six starring it will be a wow. If I'm your confidential man and write the continuity I'll swim half way to Honolulu in your reflected glory, but they wouldn't let me enter the race under my own name.
You mean to say . . . ?
I mean to say you're a piker if you back out of this. All you have to do is to collect the jack. Leave the rest to me.
I can't do it. Ambrose spoke as firmly as he possibly could do.
Aw, see here now, don't sell me out. Lawrence was becoming impassioned.
There ought to be an alternative. I don't like your scheme at all. You know this is your idea that you have sold, not mine.
It might have been, pleaded Lawrence. It could have been. I tell you a bimbo like Imperia Starling could think it up. It's what they want. Please, say you're back of me.
Well, you accept the money then.
Now, you're talking. You consent?
Under those conditions.
It was Philip Lawrence's turn to become obstinate.
I say, he cried, Jack Story would never hang a pal up like this. How in hell can you take all this business so seriously? Haven't you got a sense of humour? Can't you see it's your name that the firm and Philip Lawrence and everybody else connected with this picture is cashing in on?
My name's not worth a damn in pictures, Ambrose insisted hotly, and you know it. The great picture audience has never even heard of me. Why, that's actually one of the inducements that Griesheimer held out to me when he was trying to persuade me to sign, that it would increase my public.
Say, Deacon—Lawrence was perspiring freely in his effort to explain—where do you think you are? This is Hollywood, Hollywood, not the Louvre. Of course I know your name isn't worth a damn in pictures. Griesheimer knows it too. Everybody out here knows it. The point is they want to think it is. Why else do you suppose you're hauling in the dough? Why, Griesheimer probably never even heard your name pronounced before you came out here. It's francs to pancakes he never saw your play or even knew that it existed. He's been told that you are important and he wants to believe you are important. He wants to believe it so badly that he has signed a contract with you that Harold Bell Wright couldn't drag out of him.
Did you ever hear of a commodity called class? Well, that's what these cloak and suit clowns are wistful about. They want to pull class into the factory. They buy names to put class into the vivace postcards and then they engage hash-throwers and yeggs like me to take it out. There isn't a bird out here—no matter how hard-boiled on the surface—who wouldn't get sentimental and put the carpet down for class. They don't recognize it when they see it—they have to be told about it—but when they once believe in it, they get down on their knees and worship. You represent class to these plumbers and they think your bloody name smeared all over a picture will make it classy. Well, I'm telling you if they feel like that, let 'em. I'm also telling you that your name will be the classiest thing—the only classy thing—about this lovely old bastard opus when it is finished, and I'd make these second-storey guys pay for it.
It seems dishonest, Ambrose responded doubtfully, like taking money under false pretences.
Dishonest! False pretences! You wouldn't look for a roulette wheel in a baseball game, would you?
After a little more argument in this vein, specious though it sounded, Ambrose consented reluctantly to permit Philip Lawrence to go ahead with the continuity of the script known as Spider Boy which related the love of an equestrienne for a ceiling-walker in the circus.
A little later, as Ambrose was leaving, he inquired about the chances of Harry Galen.
Don't bother Griesheimer, was Lawrence's advice. It isn't worth it. He won't take him. He's no good at all for us. What we want out here is real writers, like yourself.
Philip Lawrence already knew so much of his history that Ambrose had found it easy to confide in him regarding his dubious dinner engagement with Imperia Starling, an engagement which Lawrence had advised him to keep.
She won't eat you, he had said. She can't. She won't do anything silly after what she did to you in Santa Fe. You might sue her, you know. Might as well stand in with her. Schwarzstein is pretty important out here. He'll probably make you an offer and then you can get Griesheimer to double it. I'll send one of the studio cars with you and tell the chauffeur to wait for you.
It was this last detail that convinced Ambrose he would be comparatively safe. So, at a quarter after eight on Friday evening, he found himself on the familiar drive leading to Imperia Starling's Beverly Hills bungalow. It was not, however, without trepidation, not without an acceleration of his normal heart-beat, that Ambrose descended to the terrace from his car. His life in this house had been so fraught with adventure and excitement that he could scarcely hope to accomplish his return to it without experiencing anxiety.
The footman removed his coat as he entered the great hall, brilliantly lighted, but empty. He wondered if he had chosen the wrong evening to make his appearance. Certainly no orchestra was performing, an ominous sign. Seating himself uneasily in a comfortable needle-point arm-chair, he awaited developments. He was not kept waiting long.
Imperia greeted him effusively, but her costume, indicating an informal occasion, confirmed his suspicions. She was dressed in a floating robe of lilac Chinese crêpe, bordered at the throat and the shoulders and the train with the filaments of ostrich feathers of the colour of Chinese vermilion. She carried a huge Spanish paper fan, ultramarine on the one side, orange on the other.
I hope you'll forgive me, Imperia was saying, but I want to talk with you, and so I didn't ask anybody else. We shall dine together. It is better so, isn't it?
Ambrose nodded helplessly.
I am, I believe, what you call in trouble, she continued prettily.
At this moment a footman fortuitously appeared with cocktails, thus sparing Ambrose the immediate anguish of determining which window he would prefer to crash through. He swallowed his first cocktail with so much dispatch that the discerning servant immediately refilled his glass. He contrived to dispose of several more before dinner was announced.
While he was drinking, Imperia was talking.
You may wonder, she was saying, why I should bore you with my troubles. Do not deny it . . . he had made no effort to speak, but she had tapped his arm with her closed fan as if he had interrupted her . . . I know. It is always a bore to listen to the troubles of others.
She smiled just here. Her expression was radiant. It seemed ominous to Ambrose that she should choose the occasion on which she looked happiest to discuss her misfortunes.
I do not know whether you know it, Ambrose—do permit me to call you Ambrose—but I have taken a great fancy to you, a very great fancy. I talk to few people. I am too proud. Besides, she went on, her eyes glittering like those of an alluring serpent, my troubles to some extent concern you.
The butler announced dinner and his hostess led him, as though he were on a leash, he felt, to the dining-room. The huge table was adorned with a rich profusion of orchids and silver and glass. Crystal epergnes filled with fruit stood near the centre. Widely separated places were laid for two. The actress apparently viewed the arrangements with disfavour.
Hammond, she commanded, we shall dine in the library.
She led Ambrose to a small chamber which contained, among other furniture, a miniature Louis XV bookcase on the shelves of which reposed a number of recent novels. During the incredibly short interlude in which the servants were engaged in carrying out her orders, Ambrose was grateful for the opportunity to consume three more cocktails. Dinner was now served on a small Empire table. As many of the orchids as the board and two console tables would bear, together with more than enough silver and glass, had been transferred from the dining-room.
Ambrose's attempts at conversation were limited for the most part to monosyllabic replies. Imperia, however, did not seem to be dissatisfied. In spite of her expressed concern, he had never seen her more self-possessed and charming. Little by little, her manner, added to the effect of the potent cocktails, restored to him some of his lost ease. He was sufficiently conscious of this boon to wish that he had acquired the cocaine habit. Mercifully, Imperia had provided an adequate supply of champagne. With a footman at his elbow constantly replenishing his glass whenever it was empty, Ambrose felt more and more fortified to withstand whatever revelations or recriminations the beautiful woman opposite was holding in store for him. Moreover, considerately or unconsciously, she postponed the moment for more personal speech, dwelling lightly at first on a variety of topics, casual gossip of the studios, references to Mama, dissection of other stars, and the like. However, even in her lightest moments, there was always something portentous about the manner of Imperia Starling. She reminded Ambrose of a friendly summer landscape over which a threatening storm-cloud hovered. It was apparent, moreover, that her pleasanter aspects were born of art rather than nature. It was also obvious that she preferred Imperia Starling to all other possible subjects of conversation. Whatever the ostensible theme of her remarks, she adroitly contrived to drag in references to herself even when there seemed no suitable occasion for her to do so. Her sentences, indeed, were as liberally sprinkled with personal pronouns as a caviar pot with fish-eggs.
By the time coffee was served at a little table before a couch, on which he now sat by her side, and a footman had removed the soiled plates and silver and taken his departure, Ambrose felt as comfortable as it would ever be possible for him to feel in this feverish environment. This, fortuitously, was the exact moment chosen by Imperia to speak what was on her mind. It was incredible, Ambrose thought afterwards, that she had waited until the servants had left the room. He had reason to be fully aware of how little reticent Imperia could be in the presence of domestics. She was, he was convinced, capable of committing the ultimate folly in their company. To her, apparently, they were no more relevant to caution than a chair or a clock. Then, either accident, or some mysterious cause, had induced the actress to defer her comments.
I am so lonely, so very lonely, was her manner of beginning, while she tapped her fan against her crossed knees, swinging her leg back and forth.
You lonely! he ejaculated, really surprised.
She regarded him with a mild form of irritation, mild at least for Imperia.
Surely you recall, she adjured him, that you drove Jaime out of my house one night?
I drove him out!
Who else? she demanded indifferently, as if the subject no longer interested her.
I drove him out! he repeated with growing indignation.
It seemed advisable to help himself liberally to the cognac which accompanied the coffee. This act was facilitated by the fact that Imperia served cognac in large crystal goblets which made it convenient for Ambrose to pour out ten drinks at once.
You drove him out, she repeated implacably. I shall never forget that horrible night, although I have forgiven it. . . . The magenta lines which formed her lips twisted into a taut smile. . . . After all, she went on, lighting a cigarette, after all, that is not why I am lonely. Jaime, naturally, returned the next week. What could I do but take him back? His jealousy was entirely natural. He adores me. I could not blame him. In his place, perhaps, I would have behaved even worse, isn't it?
Ambrose thought it highly possible that she would do, but he refrained from saying as much.
After all, Ambrose, you must know that is not why I am lonely. . . . How soft and musical her voice had become! . . . I am lonely because all great people must be lonely. We cannot contact the people who understand us.
Ambrose, in Europe—all over that vast continent—I was known as a great star, a famous star. I come here and they make a mock of me. They put me in silly pictures. They ask me to work with incompetent directors. They understand nothing of what a woman like me must feel. All that I am willing to overlook. Do you know why?
No, Ambrose, wide-eyed, replied while he helped himself freely to cognac.
Because they pay me ten thousand dollars a week, that is why. So I say to myself, swine, I will make your stupid pictures, I will obey your stupid directors . . . well, sometimes . . . and I will save myself money and build myself a house where I can live for my art and be happy.
But you have a house! Ambrose exclaimed.
This! She frowned. A pigsty! A sheep-barn! A woodshed! I said I shall build myself a house. But do you know what has happened? she demanded.
No, Ambrose replied.
This Schwarzstein, this filthy, scurvy rat, has called me to his office to ask me to accept a cut. We must have a retrenches, he says to me. A retrenches! . . . She lifted her arms and a myriad of bracelets jangled against her elbows.
What a retrenches might be, Ambrose hadn't the slightest notion. He silently awaited enlightenment.
I ask him what he means and he tells me that my contract runs out in three months. Then he will ask me to take a cut, to renew for five thousand. Worse! He ask me to do this now! Never! I cry. And now he cannot, but in three months, yes. So I go to L.L.B. That is where you come in.
I come in!
Yes, you. At the moment you have great power at L.L.B. You can ask what you please and you get it, isn't it? And who was it who discovered your talent for pictures? Who brought you to Hollywood?
Ambrose knew the answers to these questions. You did, he admitted.
Well, for me then, you must do this. You must say, My next picture is for Imperia Starling. You must tell them to engage me. They will be delighted, because they want me for a long time, isn't it, but they do not dream I will go to them.
But I may not do another picture!
You will do another picture. Who brought you here? Who recognized your great talent for writing scenarios? Imperia Starling. Who made Jaime leave home? Ambrose Deacon. You see you owe me something.
I will tell them, Ambrose groaned, and I am sure they will be delighted.
Ambrose, I know your great heart! I know how good you are. I know you will do what I ask. It is dificult for me to go to them, but when you tell them I want to come they will fly to me. I do not know what it is, this feeling I have for you. It is nothing I have felt before. It is a new sensation. I cannot therefore explain it. But I must be frank. I am always frank. It is my nature to say what is in my heart, isn't it? Therefore I say that Jaime has reason to be jealous of you.
Where is the Count? Ambrose demanded in some alarm.
She smiled. Poor Jaime, she murmured, shaking her head back and forth, poor Jaime, I sent him away tonight to do me a favour. There is nothing . . . nothing . . . she was speaking with more determination . . . that he would not do for me. Perhaps, she explained sweetly, that is the reason I am more interested in some one who seems to regard my charms with indifference.
At any rate, she continued, after a pause during which a comparatively frozen Ambrose made no effort to speak, I question whether I want him to come back.
This time Ambrose drank his cognac straight from the bottle.
How's Mrs. Starling? he inquired.
Mrs. Starling! Mama? I bare my soul to you, rip open its last secret chamber, and you ask me how is my Mama! Ambrose, have you no pity?
Afterwards Ambrose recalled that Imperia had never before appeared so beautiful to him. Her eyes were moist with tears. Her round bosoms rose and fell rhythmically. He was ultimately convinced that her artificial moments were her most splendid, but where did artifice begin and nature end? Cognac, cocktails, champagne, and emotion rendered him incapable of analysis.
Miss Starling . . . he began.
Imperia, please, she prompted him.
Imperia, he continued, I'll be your friend at L.L.B. I'll be your friend.
Ah, I knew I could rely on your great heart.
The tears gushed down Imperia's cheeks as she flung herself at Ambrose's feet in a pretty gesture of gratitude. He recalled that some one had informed him that she was never obliged to rely on glycerine when a script demanded tears.
And remember—ten thousand is but a pittance. I must have at least fifteen thousand. They will realize that. You are to insist that I play in your next picture. Insist, do you understand?
Helping her to rise, Ambrose kissed Imperia's hand—it was the first time he had ever done such a thing—and bade her farewell. Following him out of the library through the great hall to the terrace, she waved her handkerchief after him as he drove away.