He tried to pull his stomach in, but it did nothing more than shift a bit. And then he began to chuckle. And the chuckle turned to a laugh, and the laugh went out of control till there were tears in his eyes. When Ludmilla came through the door she found the massive director choking and laughing, bright red in the face, his right hand on his chest.
“Sit,” she cried, rushing to him. “Herr Bintz, sit, please. I’ll get a doctor.”
He shook his head and kept choking and laughing. She put her arm around him and got his right arm over her shoulder, trying to hold him up as she struggled toward the bed. She had never felt weight like this before and couldn’t erase the horrible image of this huge man on top of her in an act of sex or violence.
Why, she thought, did I get him? Does Stasya really dislike me so much that he gave me this one? Am I going to keep getting these problems until I give in to him? And what then? Is it worth it?
“I’m all right,” Bintz said, easing himself onto the bed.
“Are you sure?” Ludmilla said, leaning toward him with a look of real concern. If he died while she was responsible for him, it would not look good on her record.
“Yes,” he said sitting back, the bed sagging beneath him. “I need only a little rest. You can leave me. But make a reservation at a good restaurant for seven, and be back in time to get me there, please.”
She gave him a final look of concern and turned to leave.
So, thought Bintz as the door closed, blowing up a swimming pool might not be the strangest thing I’ve ever done.
The dark-eyed woman called the Englishman, James Willery, before the police visited him.
James Willery had friends and acquaintances all over the world, for he was internationally known in certain circles. Those circles, granted, were not densely populated, but they were far-reaching. Their membership consisted of the most avant of the avant-garde filmmakers of the world, who referred to themselves variously as the underground, the new structuralists, and the experimentalists. James Willery’s films were definitely not for the masses. In fact, it had been difficult to determine which category his film should be entered in for the festival. Although it was ninety minutes long, it had no real story line and so did not fit into the feature film category as defined by the committee. In fact, Willery’s film didn’t have any people in it. This led the committee to consider putting To the Left in the animated film category. But someone pointed out that the film had no animation. To the Left was a single shot taken with video equipment and later transferred to film. In that shot, the camera moved to the left on a tripod. The camera was set up in the ape house of the Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago and, for ninety minutes, made slow and fast 360-degree turns. The only sounds were the occasional hoots of the gorillas. The highlight of the film came when one curious gorilla came forward to examine the spinning camera. The viewers, however, glimpsed only a fleeting image of a hulking black figure with bared teeth.
When the film was described to the committee, one member suggested that it be entered either as a documentary or as a popular science film. The only thing they could all agree on was that it was not a young people’s film.
Oleg Makhach suggested they refuse to accept the film, but that was not possible. It had already been accepted on the basis of Willery’s international reputation as a radical socialist filmmaker. Besides, the film was subtitled, Homage to Eisenstein,
It was finally decided that the film would be shown as a special feature. When informed of this, the very tall, very gaunt Willery, with his Edwardian jacket and faded jeans, adjusted his dark glasses, gave a pleased smile and said, “Super.”
James Willery had friends. He also had inherited a bit of money. His father had been an earl, but better than that, he had owned a great deal of land in Essex. James Willery had sold it soon after his father’s death and used the money to make films and support a variety of causes that appealed to his sense of the absurdity of the world. World Liberation had been one such cause.
When the call came, he was lying on the floor in the room of Alexander Platnov, a student at the Moscow Film School who had agreed to put Willery up and had long since regretted it. Platnov had no phone in his small room; the call came in to the floor office of the Party member who served as dormitory supervisor.
The Party member, a man of dark looks who made it clear that he did not like to be disturbed, stood and listened to Willery’s end of the conversation.
“Hello,” said Willery cheerfully, casting an even-toothed smile at the dormitory superintendent, who didn’t respond.
“Mr. Willery,” came the woman’s voice, “there has been an accident.”
“An accident,” said Willery. “Sorry to hear it.”
“To a Frenchwoman at the Rossyia Hotel. Her name was Monique Freneau.”
“Was?” said Willery, the smile disappearing.
“She had an accident,” said the woman, “which means she cannot make the movie tomorrow night. You will have to go in her place.”
“Me?” said Willery.
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“Yes, but-”
“Miss Freneau had an accident because she felt she was unable to make the screening. An unfortunate series of events. It could never happen again. But then again, who would have thought it would happen to Miss Freneau? You will make the screening, won’t you?”
Willery glanced at the supervisor, but he was wearing dark glasses, so the supervisor could not see the panic in his eyes as they darted back and forth, looking for a way out that wasn’t there.
“I’ll make the screening,” he said.
“Sunday night. You know the time,” said the woman. “And you know where to pick up the ticket.”
“But-” he began. The phone went dead.
Willery hung up and looked down at the supervisor. The look he got back was not vastly different from the one the gorilla had given him when he set up the camera in that zoo in Chicago.
“Thanks,” said Willery, his mouth moving into an automatic smile. He had a wide, sincere smile and a very good laugh, after which he would inevitably say, “Priceless,” but he doubted if that smile and laugh would come back soon.
Willery left the room and walked back down the corridor to Alexander Platnov’s room. The door was open. He walked in and, ignoring Platnov, went over to the small mirror on the wall. He looked at his face and wondered if he could do it. Unlike Bintz, James Willery had no impulse to laugh. He felt no hysteria, no panic, just a supreme curiosity. He, who had never engaged in an act of violence, never struck another human being, was going to destroy an entire theater full of people, and for a cause he didn’t really understand.
Apparently they had gotten to Monique Freneau, and he had no doubt that they could find him, too, if he refused to cooperate. Could he get away after his act of terrorism without the Russians catching him? What would they do to him if they did catch him? Whatever it was, he was sure he would confess before they even started.
It was a toss-up as to whom he was more afraid of, the woman on the phone or the Russian police. He was still looking at his face in the mirror, marveling at its composure, when someone knocked on the door. Behind him he heard Alexander get up from his studies, cross the room, and open the door. Behind him he heard the voice say, “I’m Inspector Tkach of the MVD. I would like to talk to Mr. James Willery.”
Willery’s command of Russian was not much of a command. It was more of gentle plea. He had understood the word “inspector” and the name Tkach, but the rest escaped him.
Then Alexander Platnov introduced Willery to the young policeman. After an unsuccessful attempt to converse in Russian, they decided to speak French, a language neither was terribly comfortable with, but which they could control.