A Graveyard for Lunatics

Everyone flinched and pulled back at his arrival.

Doc Phillips fastened his glare here and there along our group. Within instants, some few of them developed tics.

Fritz turned to me. “His work is never done. Too many babies arrived early behind Stage 5. Heart attacks at the New York office. Or that actor in Monaco gets caught with his crazy operatic boyfriend. He—”

The dyspeptic doctor strode behind our chairs, whispered to Stanislau Groc, then turned quickly and hurried out.

Fritz scowled at the far exit and then turned to burn me with his monocle.

“Oh master futurist who sees all, tell us, what the hell is going on?”

The blood burned in my cheeks. My tongue was locked with guilt in my mouth. I lowered my head.

“Musical chairs,” someone shouted. Groc, on his feet, said again, his eyes on me, “Chairs. Chairs!”

Everyone laughed. Everyone moved, which covered my confusion.

When they had done with churning in all directions, I found Stanislau Groc, the man who had polished Lenin’s brow and dressed his goatee for eternity, directly across from me, and Roy at my side.

Groc smiled a great smile, the friend of a lifetime.

I said, “What was Doc’s hurry? What’s going on?”

“Pay no attention.” Groc calmly eyed the commissary doors. “I felt a shudder at eleven this morning, as if the rear of the studio had struck an iceberg. Madmen have been rushing around ever since, bailing out. It makes me happy to see so many people upset. It makes me forget my melancholy job of turning Bronx mud ducks into Brooklyn swans.” He stopped for a bite of his fruit salad. “What do you guess? What iceberg has our dear Titanic struck?”

Roy leaned back in his chair and said, “There’s some calamity at the prop and carpenters’ shop.”

I shot Roy a scowl. Stanislau Groc stiffened.

“Ah, yes,” he said slowly. “A small problem with the manatee, the woman’s figure, carved from wood, to go on the Bounty.”

I kicked Roy under the table, but he leaned forward:

“Surely that wasn’t the iceberg you mentioned?”

“Ah, no,” said Groc, laughing. “Not an Arctic collision but a hot-air balloon race, all the gas-bag producers and yes-men of the studio are being called into Manny’s office. Someone will be fired. And then—” Groc gestured toward the ceiling with his tiny doll hands—“falling upward!”

“What?”

“A man is fired from Warner’s and falls upward to MGM. A man at MGM is fired and falls upward to 20th. Falling upward! Isaac Newton’s reverse law!” Groc paused to smile at his own wit. “Ah, but you, poor writer, will never be able, when fired, to fall upward, only down. I—”

He stopped, because

I was studying him as I must have studied my grandfather, dead forever, in his upstairs bedroom thirty years ago. The stubble on my grandpa’s pale waxen skin, the eyelids that threatened to crack and fix me with the angry glare that had frozen Grandma like a snow queen in the parlor for a lifetime, all, all of it as clean and clear as this moment with Lenin’s necrologist/cosmetician seated across from me like a jumping jack, mouse-nibbling his fruit salad.

“Are you,” he asked, politely, “looking for the stitch marks over my ears?”

“No, no!”

“Yes, yes!” he replied, amused. “Everyone looks! So!” He leaned forward, turning his head to left and right, skinning his hairline and then his temples.

“Lord,” I said, “what fine work.”

“No. Perfect!”

For the thin lines were mere shadows, and if there were flea-bite stitch scars, they had long since healed.

“Did you—?” I said.

“Operate on myself? Cut out my own appendix? Perhaps I am like that woman who fled Shangri-La and shriveled into a Mongol prune!”

Groc laughed, and I was fascinated with his laughter. There was no minute when he was not merry. It was as though if he ever stopped laughing he would gasp and die. Always the happy bark, the fixed grin.

“Yes?” he asked, seeing that I was studying his teeth, his lips.

“What’s there so funny to laugh at,” I said, “always?”

“Everything! Did you ever see a film with Conrad Veidt—?”

“The Man Who Laughs?”

That stopped Groc in mid-dust. “Impossible! You lie!”

“My ma was nuts for films. After school, she’d pick me up from first, second, third grade to go see Pickford, Chancy, Chaplin. And… Conrad Veidt! The gypsies sliced his mouth so it could never stop smiling all the rest of his life, and he falls in love with a blind girl who can’t see the awful smile and he is unfaithful to her but, scorned by a princess, crawls back to his blind girl, weeping, to be comforted by her unseeing hands. And you sit in your aisle seat in the dark at the Elite Cinema and weep. The End.”

“My God!” exclaimed Groc, and almost not laughing. “What a dazzling child you are. Yes!” He grinned. “I am that Veidt character, but I was not carved into smiles by gypsies. Suicides, murders, assassinations did it. When you are locked in a mass grave with ten thousand corpses and fight upward for air in nausea, shot to death but not dead. I have never touched meat since, for it smells of the lime pit, the carcass, and the unburied slaughter. So,” he gestured, “fruit. Salads. Bread, fresh butter, and wine. And, along the way, I sewed on this smile. I fight the true world with a false mouth. In the face of death, why not these teeth, the lascivious tongue, and the laugh? Anyway, I am responsible for you!”

“Me?”

“I told Manny Leiber to hire Roy, your tyrannosaurus buddy.

And I said we needed someone who wrote as well as Roy dreamed. Voilà! You!”

“Thanks,” I said, slowly.

Groc preened over his food, glad that I was staring at his chin, his mouth, his brow.

“You could make a fortune—” I said.

“I already do.” He cut a slice of pineapple. “The studio pays me excessively. Their stars are always booze-wrinkling their faces, or smashing their heads through car windows. Maximus Films lives in fear that I might depart. Nonsense! I will stay. And grow younger, each year, as I cut and stitch, and stitch again, until my skin is so tight that when I smile my eyes pop! So!” He demonstrated. “For I can never go back. Lenin chased me out of Russia.”

“A dead man chased you?”

Fritz Wong leaned forward, listening, mightily pleased.

“Groc,” he said, gently, “explain. Lenin with new roses in his cheeks. Lenin with brand-new teeth, a smile under the mouth. Lenin with new eyeballs, crystal, under the lids. Lenin with his mole gone and his goatee trimmed. Lenin, Lenin. Tell.”

“Very simply,” said Groc, “Lenin was to be a miraculous saint, immortal in his crystal tomb.

“But Groc? Who was he? Did Groc rouge Lenin’s smile, clear his complexion? No! Lenin, even in death, improved himself! So? Kill Groc!

“So Groc ran! And Groc today is where? Falling upward… with you.”

At the far end of the long table, Doc Phillips had come back. He advanced no further but, with a sharp jerk of his head, indicated that he wanted Groc to follow.

Groc took his time tapping his napkin on his little rosebud smile, took another swig of cold milk, crossed his knife and fork on his plate, and scrambled down. He paused and thought, then said, “Not Titanic, Ozymandias is more like it!” and ran out.

“Why,” said Roy, after a moment, “did he make up all that guff about manatees and woodcarving?”

“He’s good,” said Fritz Wong. “Conrad Veidt, small size. I’ll use that little son of a bitch in my next film.”

“What did he mean by Ozymandias?” I asked.

16

All the rest of the afternoon Roy kept shoving his head into my office, showing me his clay-covered fingers.

“Empty!” he cried. “No Beast!”

I yanked paper from my typewriter. “Empty! Also no Beast!”