The Sonnig watch she never wore shone at her from the nightstand, informing her that she had about fifteen minutes until her driver pulled up out front. She groaned, rose tremulously, and padded naked to the wingback chair in the living area, over which the gown she wore the night before was slung. Let the ladies in hair and wardrobe fuss, she thought. Whose picture is this, anyway?
She laughed at her own momentary audacity. “Saul’s, of course.”
A horn sounded outside. The driver was early. Grace slithered into the gown, smelling strongly of tobacco and spilled booze and dance floor sweat, and stepped into a pair of heeled court shoes. She then fumbled for her bag, found the flask at its bottom, and took a belt to get her started. It was a big day, after all.
Today, Grace Baronsky was scheduled to die.
Jack Parson sat in his canvas-back chair with the tattered shooting script in one hand and a smoldering butt in the other. He was in his shirtsleeves, no collar, and sweating through the tan vest slung over his sloping shoulders. A few feet away stood Saul Veritiek, immaculate as always, sucking on a cigar and trembling with silent laughter. He was enjoying his director’s agony. He always did.
“Look, Parson,” he said in a condescending manner, “you got your nutty Kraut sets, didn’t you? The place looks like Picasso puked all over it. Have I cried about it? Didn’t I give the go-ahead to this nightmare here?”
He gestured broadly toward the sharply angled set jutting crazily in every direction before them. A set painter stood frozen in the middle of it, staring wide-eyed at the plan he held like it was the lost Mormon tablets.
At the far end of the studio, Grace Baronsky stood in her dressing robe worrying her earrings and taking in the set.
“It’s the sex, Saul. The devilishness of this whole thing. The denouement is…well, it’s ghastly.”
“You wanted to make a European picture. Here it is.”
“I’ll probably get arrested. Did you think of that? There are obscenity laws, you know.”
“There are hardly any laws when it comes to motion pictures. The legislature is thirty years behind the times, if not more.”
“There was that case in Ohio…”
“This ain’t Ohio. Christ, this is hardly even America. They’ll want to throw you in the pokey, sure, but they won’t have a leg to stand on. And think of it — this picture will be like nothing anybody’s ever seen before. It will be a sensation. You, Jack, will be a sensation.”
“I’ll be a goddamned pornographer is what I’ll be.”
Saul chuckled through a blue-gray cloud of smoke. He then raised his chin and looked across the open warehouse studio at his nervous star-to-be.
“Grace, darling,” he called to her. “Come on over here for a minute, will you?”
With a strained smile, she stepped lightly on her bare feet, bouncing almost rabbit-like. Jack avoided eye contact with her. He sucked a final drag from his cigarette and crushed the end on the floor beneath his heel.
“Grace, honey,” Saul wooed, “you’ve read the script, haven’t you?”
“I have,” she said. “Of course I have.”
“And what do you think of it? I mean your general impression.”
“I think it’s marvelous, Mr. Veritek.”
“Saul, honey. It’s always Saul.”
She laughed lightly. Jack shook his head, patting his vest pockets in search of another smoke.
“Saul,” Grace agreed. “It sure beats the Keystone Kops, doesn’t it? I mean, this isn’t just a gag, is it? This is — I don’t know—art.”
Stabbing the cigar between his teeth, Saul rocked back on his heels and presented both palms to the director.
“Do you see? Art, my boy. Let Warners bore them to death with whatever thing Barrymore’s doing this year. We’re going to give them art.”
“If by art you mean tits, ass, and fucking the devil, fine. We’ll all agree to call that art.”
“You’re being difficult, Jackie,” Saul complained.
“You had the script changed. I get difficult when I get the wool pulled over my eyes.”
“Only sheep got wool. You’re no sheep.”
“No, but you’re sure a wolf, Saul.”
It was an insult, but Saul smiled. Between the two of them, Grace fidgeted with the hem of the robe. Saul placed a gentle hand at her elbow and took the stogie from his mouth.
“Now Grace here, she gets it, don’t you, Grace? She knows a sensation when she sees one.”
“It’ll sure knock them over,” she agreed, hesitantly.
“Indeed it will,” he agreed. “What’s Paramount got? Aloma of the South Seas? Christ. Fox is doing another war melodrama. It’s a bum year for the picture business, Jack — but you’re gonna cinch it. And you know why?”
Jack just smoked and sweated. Saul sucked a deep breath into his lungs and pinched at the hem of Grace’s robe. “Do you mind, dearheart? It’s for art.”
He gave the fabric a tug for emphasis. Grace swallowed, turned her eyes to the director, but he wasn’t looking at anyone. For a moment she froze, an ice sculpture in flesh, but the unwavering gaze of the studio head made its point. With a crooked smile and a silent sigh, Grace opened her robe and let it fall to the dusty floor at her feet. Beneath it she wore nothing but a sapphire ring on her right hand.
The few crewmen loitering around the studio stopped what they were doing to stare, slack-jawed, at the nude woman in their midst. Grace heard a throaty chuckle and fought against the urge to snatch up her robe and run.
“Audrey Munson did it,” Saul said to Jack. “Annette Kellerman did it. It’s not unheard of, nude women on film. But this, Jack—this. And in the context of that script…Jack, you’re not looking.”
“For Christ’s sakes, Saul…”
“You’ll need your eyes to direct this picture so look at her, goddamnit.”
Jack muttered, “Damn you, Saul.”
Grace tried to force a laugh, but it came out more like a honk. She knelt down and hurriedly shrugged back into her robe. Saul ran a hand over his mostly bald pate and patted her on the behind with the other.
“There’s a good girl,” he said. “Now run along and get into costume. We’ve got a picture to make, haven’t we, Jackie?”
“Yeah,” he said in a half-whisper.
With that, Saul dropped what remained of his cigar to the floor and walked triumphantly out of the studio, head high. Jack and Grace exchanged a brief glance. She then turned and hurried back to wardrobe, clutching the robe tightly closed with both hands.
3
I got married at 23; Helen was only 19 then. It was a stupid move on both our parts and just about everybody told us so, but I didn’t listen. Twenty-three-year-olds don’t listen to much. At least I didn’t.
Eight years went by, most of them sullen and crabby, and then after a week of the old silent treatment, she brusquely informed me that we were done, she’d met someone else, and I was expected to move out by the end of the week. I did, and I hadn’t been in the same room with her since. No kids, no pets to squabble over. I signed a waiver agreeing to whatever she wanted in front of the judge so I wouldn’t have to appear in court. That was what they called an amicable divorce. I didn’t feel particularly amiable about any of it, but I was glad when it was over. I tried dating a little in the aftermath, but nothing stuck. A year later I landed the lab gig and decided to marry that, instead. I’d been holed up in front of my scanner pretty much ever since.