Spider Boy/Chapter 9
Comparatively light-hearted, installed on an eastbound Santa Fe train, Ambrose still wondered how he had been able to effect his escape. It had not been easy. He wasn't sure but that it had been the very difficulties which had given him the will to surmount them.
The events of the previous evening, comic in retrospect, had been extremely tragic at the time. Ambrose was utterly lacking in vanity, but the fantastic occurrences of the past few days had succeeded in persuading him that anything was possible in Hollywood, more particularly where Imperia Starling was concerned. Her law was her own and no one else's. After the melodrama in the great hall of the villa, he had retired trembling to his own suite where he had again eaten his dinner in solitude. Perforce this time, because a footman had notified him that Miss Starling was too ill to eat at all and had requested him to forgive her absence from the table. While he was consuming his lonely dinner, served to him with great elaboration—the flowers, the silver, the attention all were as complete as if he had descended to the dining-room—he made a resolve to end this farce at once. Accordingly, he had packed his bags and then sat down to wait until that hour when his departure would not be immediately noted, creeping occasionally out into the corridor to discover if any activity were still to be observed about the house. The first of these nocturnal strolls of espionage warned him that the household had not yet retired. The lights had not been extinguished and he could hear conversation, apparently that of the servants, on the lower floor. Much later his vigilance informed him that a deep silence prevailed. The moving picture star, exhausted by the heavy scene she had recently played, apparently had fallen asleep. Mama Starling's door too was closed and no sound penetrated its thickness. At ten o'clock a single light burned on each floor and the stillness had become so monotonous that Ambrose dared extend the field of his investigations. He discovered that the outer door had been locked and bolted, and surmised, with no evidence to the contrary, that the servants had retreated to their own quarters. A more propitious occasion to carry out his plan of flight seemed unlikely to present itself.
Nevertheless, always cautious, he had returned to his rooms to wait nearly an hour before he summoned enough courage to lift his bags and attempt the descent. During this interim the lights had been extinguished and the house was submerged in an inky darkness. It would be much too dangerous, he considered, to risk turning even a single switch. He decided, therefore, to attempt his clandestine flight in the dark.
Slowly and stealthily with his two bags he moved in the direction which he thought was well-remembered. Subsequent events proved that, generally speaking, he had followed the correct path. At the top of the staircase, however, probably urged on by his trepidation, he had slightly accelerated his pace with the unfortunate result that he had collided with a bronze Chinese warrior set on a teakwood pedestal. He, the warrior, the pedestal, and his two bags had immediately made the descent of the staircase in company at full tilt. The resulting din, despite the fact that his very fear had choked the cry in his throat, had been colossal. Terrified by the accident, besides suffering from bruises and shock, he had not contrived to extricate himself from bronze and leather before the lower hall was brightly illuminated and filled with servants, a few fully attired, others in hastily donned dressing-gowns. Their astonishment at, and disapproval of, this unseemly disturbance were reflected on their usually impassive countenances, but before they had found tongues to question him Imperia appeared, a wraithlike Imperia habited in a neglige of white ostrich plume filaments, followed by Elissa and Mama Starling in nightgowns and flannel dressing-sacques.
The situation offered a splendid opportunity to Imperia and she had taken full advantage of it, surpassing even her own extraordinary record for making scenes. Her accusations had poured forth in a stream so unbroken that Ambrose was given no chance to explain, even supposing that any plausible excuse for his peculiar behaviour had presented itself to his not too inventive mind. Mama too had added her wailings and there had been reason to believe that the servants themselves had not been satisfied with his unconventional deportment. The butler, indeed, had stiffly given notice.
Cowed by circumstances, Ambrose had meekly obeyed the star's injunctions to return to his chamber. His bags had followed him, borne by a footman whose expression had contributed to Ambrose's sense of shame.
For a considerable period after the door had slammed on his ignominy he could still hear alarums and excursions without. Imperia was making a prodigious amount of noise in several languages while Mama attempted to comfort her in tones which corresponded in volume to the star's own. It was necessary to speak vociferously indeed to make oneself heard above Imperia's ravings. Even at this lugubrious moment it had occurred to Ambrose to wonder if the fact that motion pictures were silent accounted for the enormous volubility of those engaged in making them.
At length the racket abruptly ceased, whispers supplanting shrieks, and now the incident had occurred which had enraged Ambrose to the point of taking decisive action. He had heard the key turning in the lock of his door. Without a moment's hesitation, without a second's consideration, he had approached the open window, glanced out and observed that it would be a comparatively simple matter to swing himself down by the aid of the trunk of the English ivy. Desperation and blind rage gave him the courage. Leaving his bags behind him, he had descended without mishap, although he had landed rather clumsily, covering his clothes with dirt. Rising quickly, he had run as swiftly as he could down the drive and soon was on the open road, well on his way to freedom.
Luck continued to favour him. He had not walked far before he had encountered a taxi, returning no doubt from a trip to another of the Beverly Hills villas. In the Los Angeles station he had learned that a train was leaving for the East within an hour. Once aboard he had dispatched a telegram to Jack Story warning him of his impending arrival, then tumbled into his berth and fallen into a deep sleep from which he had not awakened until late the next morning when he had looked out upon the multi-coloured Arizona desert.
The telegram somehow miscarried. At any rate Jack Story had not received it in time to meet his distinguished guest at Lamy. A boy in the news-stand of El Ortiz, the Spanish inn with its delightful patio, instructed Ambrose in the lore of how to reach Santa Fe. So he boarded the Harvey bus, driven by a young fellow whose hip bulged with a holstered revolver, reminding Ambrose that bandits still lurked in this lonely country. Bandits, he reflected, would be a positive relief after his experiences of the last few days. The car sped away through the mountains, between uneven rows of rocks of blood-red sandstone that might have been sculptured by one of Montezuma's artists. The earth was spattered with rabbit-brush, juniper, and tumbleweed, and stunted blue-green fir-trees pushed higher upward. In this comforting isolation Ambrose's spirits soared at every turn of the rapidly revolving wheels.
At La Fonda in Santa Fe he sought directions for reaching his friend's house and learned at last, after demanding information of a number of persons who knew nothing whatever about it, that Jack lived at some distance from town. Ambrose engaged a taxi and started forth.
Jack's house, like most of the others they had passed on the road, was of red adobe, a sprawling one-storey structure before which waved the feathery green plumes of a tamarisk and against which leaned a Mexican wearing a pink and green poncho and, over his left ear, a rose carnation. Behind the house snow-capped mountains rose against the azure sky. A flock of white pigeons circled over the flat roof The bell was answered by a Mexican girl of some beauty whose smile gave Ambrose the impression that she was taciturn only because she spoke very little English. With dignity and that poise of carriage that only comes from the habitual balancing of heavy objects on the head, she led the way through a tiny entrance hall into a large room roofed with peeled pine-trunks crossed in a herring-bone pattern with branches which supported the hay thatching. The red adobe walls were hung with Chimayo blankets. Over the fire-place was ranged a row of Indian pots and water-jars. Floor, couches, and chairs were strewn with Chimayo and Navajo blankets in their ancient faded colours. A table was cluttered with a miscellaneous assortment of Navajo and Santo Domingo jewelry: silver and turquoise bracelets and rings in profusion, strings of wampum, great lumps of turquoise, and leather belts set at intervals with medallions of silver embossed with symmetrical designs.
Ambrose had no more than time to note the general effect—the precise character of these and other objects, such as the primitive santos, he acquired later—before Jack appeared in the doorway in corduroy trousers, tucked in high boots, and a soft, brown flannel shirt, open at the collar.
Ambrose, old man, but I am delighted to see you!
He extended his hand and Ambrose grasped it with enthusiasm. What a relief this was after his misadventures of the past week!
I just received your telegram two hours ago, Jack explained. No time to meet you at Lamy, but I guess you came through all right.
Without the least trouble, Ambrose assured his friend, adding, You're looking fine, Jack, better than I've ever seen you.
Oh, I'm cured, Jack said. I only stay here now because I like it. You'll like it too.
I'm sure I shall, Ambrose replied sincerely.
The playwright sat down before the table laden with silver and turquoise and studied his friend sitting opposite. Jack was certainly tall and handsome, his mass of yellow hair brushed straight back from his high brow, his blue eyes frankly returning Ambrose's stare. Yet there was an unhealthy, if becoming, flush on the cheek-bones, while elsewhere his face seemed to be of an unnatural pallor. Ambrose wondered if Jack were actually cured.
I've had one hell of a time in Hollywood, Jack, was what he found to say.
You can't make my temperature rise by telling me that. What the devil ever gave you the wild idea of turning yourself loose in that bunch of steers?
I never had the idea, Jack, Ambrose was glad to confess. I was practically kidnapped.
He related the substance of his experiences on the train going west.
Jack rocked with laughter.
Tell me more! he cried. Tell me more of this simply idiotic story. It's the huskiest scream I've listened to in years and it could only happen to you. It couldn't, he mused aloud, chuckling, happen to anybody else in the world.
The Mexican girl entered, bearing a tray laden with glasses, bottles, and a bowl of ice.
Try a little Prussic acid, Jack suggested. Tequila or moonshine? Both are equally venomous.
Ambrose accepted a substantial quantity of tequila and under its warming influence he grew more mellow as he continued, at Jack's urgent request, to relate his fabulous experiences.
Jack interrupted him occasionally with a howl or a guffaw.
A milkwagon! he cried. Good Lord, nobody but you. . . . He was choked with mirth.
But after Ambrose had related the episode of his encounter with Griesheimer, Jack became more grave. He continued to listen to the end of the story and smiled once or twice at his friend's account of his amazing departure from Imperia Starling's villa, but when the playwright had concluded, the invalid exclaimed: Ambrose, you're a God damned fool!
Ambrose regarded Jack Story with astonishment.
What do you mean? he demanded.
A cock-eyed simpleton! Jack elaborated.
You don't think . . .
I certainly do. You're an Albino goofer and as wet as a Turkish towel after William H. Taft gets through with it. Have you got that contract with you?
Yes.
Let me see it.
Ambrose passed the contract to Jack and for several moments there was silence as the latter carefully perused its contents.
Why didn't you sign this? Jack inquired, folding up the paper only after he had examined the final clause.
Why, Jack, I can't write screen stuff. You know that!
What difference does that make? Jack demanded stolidly.
How could I carry out the terms of that contract without manufacturing a script?
That's a lot of Santa Claus. I'll bet you haven't read it.
Ambrose admitted the truth of this accusation.
The terms of this contract are up to Griesheimer and L.L.B. It's their business, not yours.
What do you mean?
I mean that this contract says plain as sky-writing that these bozos agree to pay you a certain amount—and it's not an amount you can afford to sneeze at—whether they produce your funny piece or not. If they decide it's suitable for production, they pay you as much more. It isn't too late, is it?
Ambrose's eyes opened more widely as his surprise increased.
Too late for what? he asked.
Too late to sign, although I don't know but you'd better see Schwarzstein first and play one against the other, Jack mused.
I won't do it, Jack. I can't do it.
Hell! How many times have I got to tell you that doesn't make any difference. They think you can! Sign the papers and turn in the story of Little Red Riding Hood or Cinderella—that's always good hokum—or the Chicago fire or Tristan and Isolde: it really doesn't matter. In the end they'll probably use it and pay you the whole sum mentioned and then you can go and live in Persia or whereever you want to spend your riper years.
But Jack, when you heard I was going to Hollywood you telegraphed me that you thought I was crazy.
So I did. I believe it now. When I saw that telegram I had an idea that you yourself had conceived the monstrous notion of going out there. Now I've heard the truth, I think you're completely cuckoo.
Jack, I came west to clear out of one jam. Why should I get into another?
Because this is too good a thing to throw down.
But I'm making plenty of money as it is, Ambrose persisted.
You pelican, nobody ever made enough jack: Nobody could. When your play stops running, your income will stop and you'll have to write another. Clean up on this splendid proposition and go to live in Persia.
I don't want to live in Persia, Ambrose responded fretfully.
Well, Akron, Ohio. Anywhere. I don't care.
I won't do it. Ambrose's intimacy with Jack and the effect of the tequila made it possible for him to set his jaw fairly firmly.
As Jack Story shrugged his shoulders and lighted his pipe, Ambrose told himself, I'm in for another argument, but Jack only inquired, Know anything about Indian pottery?
No, I don't, but that looks like fine stuff on the mantel-shelf.
Finest there is out here. Do you see that pot of deep orange and umber and red with the queer stiff bird on it? That's a Zia pot and that's a Zia bird. Now look at that duller pot next to it. That's a fine Acoma pot, with a parrot on it—according to legend the parrot is said to have led the tribe here from Central America. But the rarest of the lot is that pot at the right end of the shelf. You can tell it's Zia because of its heavy clay, fine glaze, and the rich lozenges of pomegranate red and black, and yet there is an Acoma parrot on it. This odd borrowing is extremely rare. . . .