Spider Boy/Chapter 6
A little before eight Ambrose appeared in the drawing-room only to find it completely deserted, but the crystal chandeliers were ablaze with light and there were flowers everywhere, crimson and saffron roses, Madonna lilies nodding on their long stalks, great clusters of pale-purple orchids. An orchestra on the brick terrace was playing Sometimes I'm Happy. Feeling infinitely depressed, Ambrose lighted a cigarette.
While he had been dressing for dinner he had requested his valet to bring him three cocktails. He wondered now if he dared ask for another. Why not? he demanded boldly and aloud, as he crossed the room to press a button.
After he had gulped down his fourth cocktail he began to feel less anxiety about his social début in Hollywood and was even prepared to face Mama who now descended the stairs. She was bravely caparisoned in mauve satin. Around her throat hung a gold chain while two heavy Victorian gold bracelets encircled her chubby wrists. After his encounter with Mama in the garden the previous morning he had not seen her again till nearly evening and even then at a distance. She had stood in one of the large bow-windows of the upper storey and stared at him below on the lawn. Presently she had indulged in a's eries of extraordinary gestures, apparently fraught with a sinister meaning, but quite incomprehensible to Ambrose.
Now, approaching him, she held a warning finger to her lips, whispering melodramatically, Sh! We must be careful. Imperia suspects.
Ambrose was quite willing to be careful. He hoped this injunction included the assurance that Mama would share no more confidences with him. He required another cocktail, and offered one to Mrs. Starling.
I daren't take more than a little sip, Mama explained.
Where is Miss Starling, Ambrose inquired.
Oh, she won't be ready for hours. She's always late. That's why all the others are late too. They know Imperia.
Who is coming?
I don't know, Mama replied, sipping her cocktail. I really don't know. Then waving her hand aimlessly, she added vaguely, Oh, everybody!
Herbert Ringrose was fortuitously the first to arrive and he joined Ambrose at once.
I came early to look out for you, he said. I knew Imperia would never be down.
Ambrose thanked him for his solicitude.
Well, Ringrose continued effusively, getting to be quite a citizen, aren't you? We'll be taking you up to see Schwarzstein now in a few days and have you sworn in regularly as a deputy sheriff.
Other guests straggled in. Some of the men were extremely handsome, at least as handsome as the models who posed to advertise golf clothes, Ambrose thought. Others, surprisingly, were more rugged in appearance. The women, however, were all of an epic pulchritude, some clad in indescribably fantastic garments, blazing with jewels, some, perhaps to attract attention, garbed in the extreme of simplicity without any jewels at all. As they entered they were introduced to him and each made some pretty speech about his play, although not one of them, apparently, had seen it. Absolutely ignorant of this strange world, he was not able to reciprocate with any definiteness. Smiling nervously through the ordeal, for the most part he remained silent.
He noted that the men formed a group in one corner of the room, a group which partook freely of the cocktails now passed about by the dozens on trays. Ambrose himself was not laggard in this respect. The ladies, on the other hand, did not appear to be drinking. They had congregated in another corner where, to judge by their whispering and laughter, they were indulging in gossip.
Ambrose, always more or less in the company of Herbert Ringrose, listened in amazement to a language which he could scarcely understand, composed as it was of words like rushes, retakes, previews, and location. In wild-eyed wonder he listened to a report of an incident of the day. It seems that some stunt man, whatever that might be, had agreed to ride a bicycle from a platform through an open freight-car while the train was moving at full speed. He was to receive twenty-five dollars for this hazardous undertaking.
We'll have to kill about six of 'em before we get the shot, remarked the informer who, Ambrose gathered, was a director.
Fortified by gin, Ambrose asked a question of Ringrose.
Lord no! that one replied. It's just to double for a comic in a custard pie opus. You can get all the men you want to throw themselves out of a twelfth storey window for the price of the rent of a room in a hospital. I hope you'll give Imperia some nice snappy stuff like that for her film. Say she has been driven by the villain to climb a ninety-foot pine-tree and escapes by clinging to the wing of a passing aeroplane.
Would she do that? the trembling Ambrose demanded, in awe of such potential prowess.
Ringrose and his friend roared with laughter.
Hell no! Some stunt woman would double for her, explained the comedy director.
You mean ten will, for a stunt like that, inserted a comely actor. Good thing too. They like it. The more that's killed, the less competition.
There's too much competition all over the place, remarked another actor. Why, there must be at least seven thousand guys peddling the bush.
The place is beginning to look like a synagogue on Yom Kippur, said Ringrose.
They all roared.
The comely actor grew confidential. Have you seen my new picture? he inquired of Ambrose.
Ambrose knew neither the name of the actor nor of the film, but he was quite within the bounds of truth when he replied negatively. He had seen no new pictures.
You must. It's great. I had my way at last and I've put over a success. Unless I watch all the time these hams will ruin everything.
Come over to the lot and watch me work, urged the comedy director. You'll learn more about films that way than any of these other birds can teach you.
The comely actor scowlingly withdrew.
There were more cocktails.
Suddenly there was a startling change in the music. The band had been playing a fox-trot, but the rhythm shifted unexpectedly to waltz tempo. Now Ambrose noted that every one in the room had turned to face the staircase. Imperia was making her entrance.
She wore a corslet of soft blue feathers from which fell countless yards of grey chiffon, cut off short in jagged points just below the knee, but dragging far behind. Her black hair was combed straight back from her perfectly white face, slit by her vivid carmine lips. Her wide-spread fan was of silver lace.
The entrance of Imperia was the signal for the announcement that dinner was served and the group filed into the dining-room. Ambrose found his place at Imperia's right. On her left he was not surprised to discover Count Jaime Supari. On his own right was seated an amazing creature with a very white face, mysterious green eyes, and coils of pink hair arranged in a coronet about her head. He recalled that she had been introduced as Mrs. Norvell. Could this be Ariane Norvell, the author of Love Is Too Much?
He learned that it was.
Mrs. Norvell without hesitation plunged at once into a monologue, speaking in a calm, monotonous voice, her lips scarcely moving, except occasionally to permit a suspicion of a smile to flicker across them: They are drinking too much. They are smoking too much. Slaves! Slaves! I shall never become a slave. I hate slaves. One is obliged to decide whether to live for the moment or to become immortal. I have chosen to become immortal. I shall leave behind me a message to make ten million people better, ten million people happier. Recently I reread Love Is Too Much. A masterpiece, Mr. Deacon, a beautiful, immortal masterpiece!
I do not smoke, Mr. Deacon. I do not drink. Externally I am like ice. To protect myself I have created this perpetually frozen surface which no one can break through. That is why I always wear ermine and emeralds. Inside, of course, I am seething with personality, but it belongs to me. No one else can touch it. But they can recognize it. They can know that it is there. That is why fifty thousand people cheered me when I passed through New York recently.
I am fifty, Mr. Deacon—think of it, fifty!—but I shall look younger every year because I possess an immortal soul. Look at these poor girls! In two short years their skins will begin to sag, bags will appear under their eyes. They will not last, because they have no souls. Poor weak moths, they live but for the instant. Only I, Ariane Norvell, am immortal.
Having made this quite considerable speech, Mrs. Norvell did not speak again. Ambrose had drunk so many cocktails that he had succeeded in conquering his nervousness and he listened listlessly to the lady while he was eating. He found her words a soothing accompaniment to his dinner. Her silence was equally undisturbing.
This is your party, Mr. Deacon, Imperia interrupted her animated conversation with Jaime long enough to tell him.
After the soup course, champagne was served, but Ambrose, glancing down the table laid with gold service, observed that none of these women drank very much. Beyond the heavily carved gold candelabra and the gold epergne from which emerged sprays of lily of the valley, he could see that an air of self-conscious formality, a rather studied gaiety hovered over the group. The women, indeed, seemed to fear that they might get mussed. The men were more animated. A strange fellow with a face like an old Greek coin was picking his nose with evident enjoyment. One fact impressed Ambrose more and more: such scraps of conversation as his ear managed to take in all apparently began with the singular personal pronoun. He never heard the word we.
Dinner over at last, on the way out Ambrose found himself by the side of an extremely pretty blonde.
I saw your play in New York last week, Mr. Deacon, she was saying, and I loved it.
Ambrose had had enough to drink so that he felt equal to the occasion.
You must be one of the most successful of the stars, he said, you're so beautiful.
The lady laughed. I'm not a star at all, she explained. My name is Capa Nolin. I write stories for pictures.
Stories for pictures! They want me to do that.
Well, of course you will . . .
I can't. I don't know the first thing about how to begin.
Oh, it's very easy, especially if you write for Imperia. The only important thing to remember is to make plenty of opportunities for close-ups. Even that really doesn't matter. The director can put them in. You see Imperia always counts her close-ups when she sees the rushes and if the percentage isn't high enough she leaves the lot. As for the story, that's too simple. Imperia always uses the same story.
What's that?
You're sure to see it tonight.
What do you mean? He regarded her absolutely uncomprehendingly.
She laughed again. Her latest film: Golden Dreams.
But I didn't know it was released.
Oh, she'll show it on the screen here in the drawing-room. Is this your first Hollywood party? You'll soon find out that the stars always show their latest films when they give dinners.
I didn't know. It is my first party. You see I never saw anybody here before except Miss Starling and her mother, and Herbert Ringrose, and I've only known them a few days.
Imperia's mother! The girl shrieked with radiant laughter.
Isn't she?
She's her Mama. That's quite different. All the unmarried women stars in Hollywood have mamas; some even have mothers. It's a convention. The curious thing is that none of 'em have fathers. Look at Scandia Cortland, she went on, nodding towards a girl with eyes like pools of violet ink. You should meet her mama. She's got the prize of the lot. Scandia's Norwegian, but her mama can't speak Norwegian. She can't even speak English.
What does she speak?
Brooklynese. . . . The faintly amused expression on Capa Nolin's face became exaggerated. Watch Imperia, she suggested. She knows we're talking about her. She would know it even if we were really talking about some one else.
Who is the man with the glasses beside her? Ambrose demanded.
Capa Nolin laughed again. He would die, she said, if he knew anybody had asked that question. Didn't you ever hear of Livermore Bode?
Can't say I have.
Good God!
You see . . .
I understand, but he wouldn't. He's the greatest director in the world. He says so himself.
Is he with Invincible?
The girl laughed louder. Really, she remarked, you must come to see me so that I can give you lessons about local celebrities. You'll find, Mr. Deacon, that I'm more frank than the others. They say I'm indiscreet. I suppose I am. Anyway I must tell you all about us. You see we're all supposed to be international and it hurts when people don't recognize us.
I hope I didn't hurt you, Ambrose protested.
Really, Mr. Deacon, you are too delicious, Capa Nolin cried. I just can't laugh any more. You couldn't hurt me. I don't take anything out here seriously, not even myself. You see, she went on soberly, most of the houses out here are made of stucco. You can kick your foot right through them. You can kick your foot through everything else here too. Nothing is real, except the police dogs and the automobiles, and usually those aren't paid for. To be concrete, there are no stenographers at the studios: they're all secretaries.
Ambrose's eyes widened. It's all so extraordinarily different, Miss Nolin.
Different! You'd better believe it is. There's Ritchie Cahill, for instance, who gets moody and leaves his director and cast flat while he sits in his dressing-room listening to a phonograph record of Dvořák's Humoresque. And there's Lucas Finsilver who is always properly dressed. He can't even sit before his writing-desk to write a letter unless he is correctly attired in a writing-suit. And there's Agra Bellaire who recently told me that her newly decorated boudoir was just a petit morceau de Chinese. And . . .
Imperia was crying to the group: There's ping-pong and dancing and bridge and tennis and bathing, but who wants to see my new picture?
The clamorous insistence to see the picture would have satisfied any star.
Tennis and swimming at night? Ambrose queried of his companion.
Yes, she replied, the court is artificially lighted and the water in the pool is artificially heated. It's artificially coloured too.
I think you'll like my Golden Dreams, Ambrose heard a voice say in his ear. He turned to find Herbert Ringrose by his side.
Footmen lowered a silver screen over one wall of the room, while other servitors agranged chairs at the opposite end. The company disposed itself as comfortably as possible, the lights were extinguished, and the picture was projected. It exposed the story of a poor shop girl who accepted money from men but who unaccountably never seemed to lose her virtue. She wore an unending series of the most astonishing frocks to the most astonishing affairs and yet always appeared behind the counter the next morning as if fourteen dollars a week was an important factor in her life. One young fellow in particular seemed to make his home in her bedroom and yet it was plain that nobody but the chaste heroine ever occupied the bed. In the end, when she married this persistent suitor, the fact that she was the long-lost daughter of a German baroness was disclosed. Concurrently a wicked floor-walker was completely confounded.
The applause was hearty at the conclusion of the showing.
Your best picture, Imperia! You've never done anything like it before! Great stuff, Herbert, those shots from the transom! These were a few of the comments.
Don't you think you could write that? Capa Nolin demanded. It's the story I was telling you about. Imperia never uses any other.
Ambrose tossed down another glass of champagne—a footman with a tray of filled glasses always seemed to be at his elbow—and admitted that it seemed possible that he could.
Mr. Deacon . . .
He turned.
I'm Auburn Six, a lovely creature announced. I was overlooked during the introductions.
The beauty of Auburn Six—if anything so thoughtful could justifiably be called beauty—was less flamboyant than that of some of the other picture stars in the room. Her face was almost sad, certainly wistful, framed in masses of curly yellow hair. She was wearing a very simple dress of paleviolet chiffon. Ambrose was able, even without having seen one of her pictures, to congratulate her on her talent.
Oh, what I do is nothing, she protested. Don't speak of it, please. I'm only out here to make money, she informed him unexpectedly. I suppose you are too.
Her manner was a contradiction of her rather fragile appearance. She seemed as forthright as Capa Nolin and even more sympathetic.
I don't know why I'm out here, Ambrose replied lamely. Ringrose and Miss Starling persuaded me to come. They insist I talk to Schwarzstein.
By the time you sign a contract with Schwarzstein you'll be an old man, Auburn Six assured him.
What do you mean? There was a hopeful gleam in Ambrose's eye.
Haven't you heard how busy Schwarzstein is? Auburn Six selected a cigarette from a bowl of dried rose petals.
Ambrose wondered if he had.
He's the busiest man in Culver City. He's too busy to see you in a couple of years.
I want to go home. Ambrose announced suddenly. I never wanted to come out here at all. I don't know a thing about pictures. They dragged me here, he protested. Then, Where's everybody gone?
The room, indeed, appeared to be, but for them, entirely deserted. Ambrose turned to a tray of filled champagne glasses that remained on the piano. As he lifted one of these to his lips he was aware that Auburn Six was regarding him with a peculiar intensity.
If you don't know anything about pictures, she was saying, you ought to be better than any script-writer out here. Everybody's looking for a writer who admits he doesn't know anything about pictures, at least they say they are. It's certain that all the writers out here at present know far too much about pictures.
That's what they said to me, Ringrose, Miss Starling. They told me that. Ambrose spoke breathlessly.
They thought they meant it too. . . . Auburn Six was pondering. . . . I really don't see why Invincible deserves to get you, she went on after a considerable pause.
They won't, he said firmly, helping himself to another glass of wine. I'm going to New Mexico to see Jack Story. That's settled.
He was amazed at his own display of courage.
I could get you a contract tomorrow, I'm almost sure. Auburn Six spoke as if she were thinking aloud.
I can't write a scenario. I don't know anything about pictures.—I'm sure you could.
I can't . . .
I know. I like your modesty. Are you locked up here?
Locked up?
Does Imperia watch you?
She's been gone for two days.
Good. I'll stop for you tomorrow and drive you over to the L.L.B. lot. I want you to talk to Ben Griesheimer.
I don't want to talk to anybody. Who's Ben Griesheimer?
He's the head man at L.L.B. That's my lot. On second thought I'd better not stop for you. . . . Imperia might ask questions. You can pick me up at the Ambassador, but don't use Imperia's car. Call a taxi.
Call a taxi?
Yes, tomorrow at eleven. I'll make the appointment with Griesheimer. He'll always make time to see any one important. Are you set?
I want to go home.
Mr. Deacon, you'll never get home unless you follow my advice. Imperia won't let you go until you see Schwarzstein and I assure you that Schwarzstein will keep you hanging around here for months.
I want to go home, Ambrose repeated doggedly.
Auburn Six laughed. Mr. Deacon, you are delicious. I wish we had more men of your temperament out here. We'll send you home on the first train after you've seen Griesheimer. He'll sign you up and then you may go to Asia or anywhere you please to write your story.
I don't want to go to Asia. I want to go to New Mexico to see my friend.
Well, that's all the better: only a day from here.
You think he'll let me do that.
Without any doubt.
I'll come for you at eleven, Ambrose agreed in desperation.
Promise?
Promise.
At precisely this instant a glowering Imperia, in a one-piece, white silk bathing-suit, appeared in the doorway.
Ah, here you are, isn't it? . . . Miss Starling was addressing Ambrose. . . . I've been looking for you. . . . She permitted a forced smile to flit across her features. . . . Auburn is very attractive, but we can't allow her to keep you exclusively for herself. Do come outdoors, both of you, to swim or play tennis or ping-pong.
We were just about to do that thing, Imperia, Auburn Six replied. Mr. Deacon has been telling me about his play.
Imperia glowered again. Did you bring a bathing-suit? She inquired of Ambrose.
I don't know how to swim, he responded.
I didn't bring mine, Auburn assured her rival star. I don't feel like bathing tonight. We'll watch the rest of you.
They followed Imperia, who did not look as if she were entirely satisfied with this arrangement, to the rear terrace. There, below, on the lawn, a surprising sight met the befuddled eye of Ambrose Deacon. The pool of rich, blue water was brilliantly illuminated with what Ambrose later learned were Klieg lights. Several of the guests were diving and splashing about in the pool. The others sat in canvas lounge-chairs around the border of the water. The band on the terrace was performing Just a Memory.
Herbert Ringrose approached Ambrose.
Well, Deacon, he cried, where's your bathing-suit?
I don't swim, Ambrose explained.
Don't swim! Well, you'll learn how before you leave us. We're taking you around to see Schwarzstein in a week or so, and after you've seen him you'll stay here for ever.
Ambrose looked beyond Ringrose into the twinkling eyes of Auburn Six. Something he saw there reassured him.
Oh, I don't know! he shot back almost jauntily.