You’re not pregnant, are you? I said.
She rolled her eyes at me, and put down her fork. Very funny. Sorry, I’m just hungry. Listen, here’s a question, maybe you would know something about this. What’s the deal with copyright and dead people?
How do you mean?
I mean, a dead author, do you still need permission to quote from their work?
I took a bite of my reclaimed dinner. Depends. I think it passes into the public domain fifty years after the death of the author.
Oh.
Has — has the figure you’re talking about been dead fifty years?
Not nearly.
I mean, I can’t see that it matters, permissions aren’t that hard to work out.
Well, Elaine said, estates are funny sometimes. Plus I don’t want the cost to get out of hand.
Don’t worry about that stuff, I said. You know Mal doesn’t want you to –
I know, but I worry, I can’t help it. It’s in my breeding. And then the thing is, I spent the last three days looking at all the stock footage I could find of cameras shooting out of airplanes as they take off? Out the windows, or from the cockpit, from the wheel well, whatever? And it all sucks. None of it is what I need. So I have to find some way to do it in-house. Just like sixty seconds’ worth, but I know a shoot like that costs a fortune.
You know, funny you should mention it, I said, feeling the blood rise into my face. You know that guy you saw me with today?
Elaine nodded.
He’s a director, and he’s staying in the house for a while. His name is Dexter Kilkenny. Mal and I were talking about trying to find something for him to do. He made this documentary about poetry slams in New York, it went to Sundance, he got a deal with Fine Line.
She shrugged. Haven’t seen it.
You want to talk to him?
Sure, Elaine said, trying to act blasé. The busboy came over to remove the bread basket; Elaine laid a finger on it and waved him away.
He’s from New York? she said.
Sure is.
Because I was thinking that would be perfect, actually, La Guardia or Newark, for what I need. Something right next to a whole web of highways, lots of cars. Newark would be perfect.
I’ll get you guys together tomorrow.
So who was the chick? Elaine said.
Sorry?
Who was that with him?
Oh. Her name’s Molly. She’s billed as his assistant. I think they’re sleeping together, too.
Huh. Well, he must be quite a talented director, then, she said. Because he’s way too ugly to be sleeping with her otherwise.
We both had dessert, and I signed for the check; then we drove home with the top down. The night was as beautiful as the day had been; the smell of jasmine at every stop sign was enough to put you right to sleep. Back at the house there was a light in Milo’s window, but there’s always a light in Milo’s window: he’s like a vampire, he can only sleep when the sun is out. Otherwise the place was silent. I didn’t know if Dex and Molly had yet arrived, nor, if they had, where in the mansion Colette might have put them. Elaine and I took our shoes off and tiptoed up the back stairs, laughing. We didn’t even make it to the bed. It was just one of those nights, where all seemed right with the world and a locked room seemed like the most remote place on earth.
* * *
THERE ARE NOW a total of fourteen artists on staff at Palladio. Most of them live in-house, functionally if not officially — I suppose it’s too hard, especially for artists whose memory of material struggle is still fresh, to resist the maid service and the full-time kitchen staff. Even so, there are empty rooms. We certainly could do more hiring, but Mal has always resisted that, the idea of growth for growth’s sake: he never wants to take someone on unless he feels that person’s work has made itself indispensable.
This morning, I took my time traversing the ground floor on the way to my office, poking my head in every room. I saw Jerry Strauss half-lying on the couch in the parlor, powdered sugar still in his beard, reading the Wall Street Journal and writing on it with a Magic Marker. Jerry seems to like me but I know that with others he can be exasperatingly touchy, self-centered, messianic almost: he works best alone because while he’s punishingly self-critical, one word of criticism from somebody else and he flies off the handle. He came to us as a graphic novelist. Jerry is actually not his real name. It took me the better part of a year to find that out. In high school they thought he looked like Jerry Garcia.
I stopped in the main dining room to get myself a latte and there I saw Dex and Molly, eating breakfast, sitting somewhat sheepishly in the high-backed wooden chairs. Dex was at the head of the table, Molly to his right. I sat down across from her.
Welcome! I said, feeling my own smile. You got in last night?
Dex’s mouth was full, so he nodded.
Colette got you all set up? Where did she put you?
In a room up on the third floor in the … is it the west? (Molly nodded.) The west wing.
Right upstairs from me, I said. And everything was comfortable? Molly?
She looked a lot less agitated now, having had twenty-four hours to get used to my resurrection. Her panic had subsided, and in its place was a kind of injured stoicism, as if some joke were being played on her which she didn’t find funny at all. I didn’t care.
It’s lovely, she said.
Beats the hell out of the Courtyard Marriott, Dex said, maybe a little anxious that Molly’s tone wasn’t sufficiently polite.
So you guys can of course just do what you want today, take it easy, be our guests; but listen, Dex, if you’re interested, there’s someone here named Elaine Sizemore who’s familiar with your work and she wondered if you had a few minutes this morning to give her some help with a film project she’s working on.
Film project? Dex said, wiping his lips. She’s a director?
She’s not, that’s the thing. She’s a scriptwriter. So there’s a visual element she’s having trouble with in this short film she’s doing.
A short film, Dex said. So you mean a commercial.
Well, that’s not a distinction we make around here. It’s something she dreamed up herself, it hasn’t been commissioned by anyone, it has no commercial content.
He sighed. Yeah, okay, he said. All right. Why not. I’d love to get a look at the way things work around here.
That’s terrific. And Molly, I was thinking that would also give us a little while to catch up. I’d love to hear what you’ve been up to.
Silence. Rose brought my latte from the kitchen in a mug with a lid on it. I stood to go.
You guys went to college together, Dex said, is that right?
That’s right. So Molly, that sounds good to you? In maybe an hour or so?
She looked at me warily. Not much fear left in those startling blue eyes now: just resignation, a kind of dignified resignation, like you’d show your executioner. Sounds good, she said.
Great. I’ll come find you.
ONCE, YEARS AGO, in Manhattan, I thought I saw her. I was with Rebecca, and we were walking across Spring Street after the movies, on our way to Fanelli’s for a beer before heading back to her apartment. Through the windows of the bookstore I saw the back of someone’s head. Her hair, her build. I didn’t stop. I made sure we were all the way to Fanelli’s and had already ordered.
Oh my God. My wallet is gone.