“I’m not splatted,” I said. “And I’m not drunk. I’ve been looking for you for six weeks.”
She lifted the Digimatte down and into its case and began stowing wires. “Why? So you can convince me I’m not Ruby Keeler? That the musical’s dead and anything I can do, comps can do better? Fine. I’m convinced.”
She sat down on the case and unbuckled the pompomed heels. “You win,” she said. “I can’t dance in the movies.” She looked over at the mirrored wall, shoe in hand. “It’s impossible.”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t come to tell you that.”
She stuck the heels in one of the pockets of the lab coat. “Then what did you come to tell me? That you want your list of accesses back? Fine.” She slid her feet into a pair of slip-ons and stood up. “I’ve learned just about all the chorus numbers and solos anyway, and this isn’t going to work for partnered dancing. I’m going to have to find something else.”
“I don’t want the accesses back,” I said.
She pulled off the blond pageboy and shook out her beautiful backlit hair. “Then what do you want?”
You, I thought. I want you.
She stood up abruptly and jammed the wig in her other pocket. “Whatever it is, it’ll have to wait.” She slung the coil of feed over her shoulder. “I’ve got a job to go to.” She bent to pick up the cases.
“Let me help you,” I said, starting toward her.
“No, thanks,” she said, shouldering the pixar and hoisting the Digimatte. “I can do it myself.”
“Then I’ll hold the door for you,” I said, and opened it.
She pushed through.
Rush hour. Packed mirror to mirror with Ray Milland and Rosalind Russell on their way to work, none of whom turned to look at Alis. They were all looking at the walls, which were going full blast: ILMGM, More Copyrights Than There Are in Heaven. A promo for Beverly Hills Cop 15, a promo for a remake of The Three Musketeers.
I pulled the door shut behind me, and a River Phoenix, squatting on the yellow warning strip, looked up from a razor blade and a palmful of powder, but he was too splatted to register what he was seeing. His eyes didn’t even focus.
Alis was already halfway to the front of the skids, her eyes on the station sign. It blinked “Hollywood Boulevard,” and she pushed her way toward the exit, with me following in her wake, and out onto the Boulevard.
It was still as dark as it gets, but everything was open. And there were still (or maybe already) tourates around. Two old guys in Bermuda shorts and vidcams were at the Happily Ever After booth, watching Ryan O’Neal save Ali MacGraw’s life.
Alis stopped at the grille of A Star Is Born and fumbled with her key, trying to insert the card without putting any of her stuff down. The two tourates wandered over.
“Here,” I said, taking the key. I opened the gate and took the Digimatte from her.
“Do you have Charles Bronson?” one of the oldates said.
“We’re not open yet,” I said. “I have something I have to show you,” I said to Alis.
“What? The latest puppet show? An automatic rehearsal program?” She started setting up the Digimatte, plugging in the cables and fibe-op feed, shoving the Digimatte into position.
“I always wanted to be in Death Wish,” the oldate said. “Do you have that?”
“We’re not open,” I said.
“Here’s the menu,” Alis said, switching it on for the oldate. “We don’t have Charles Bronson, but we have got a scene from The Magnificent Seven.” She pointed to it.
“You have to see this, Alis,” I said, and shoved in the opdisk, glad I’d preset it and didn’t have to call anything up. On the Town came up on the screen.
“I have customers to—” Alis said, and stopped.
I had set the disk to “Next, please” after fifteen seconds. On the Town disappeared, and Singin’ in the Rain came up.
Alis turned angrily to me. “Why did you—”
“I didn’t,” I said. “You did.” I pointed at the screen. Tea for Two came up, and Alis, in red curls, Charlestoned her way toward the front of the screen.
“It’s not a paste-up,” I said. “Look at them. They’re the movies you’ve been rehearsing, aren’t they? Aren’t they?”
On the screen Alis was high-stepping with her blue parasol.
“You talked about Singin’ in the Rain that night I met you. And I could have guessed some of the others. They’re all full-length shot and continuous take.” I pointed at her in her blue bustle. “But I didn’t even know what movie that was from.”
Hats Off came up. “And I’d never seen some of these.”
“I didn’t—” she said, looking at the screen.
“The Digimatte does a superimpose on the fibe-op image coming in and puts it on disk,” I said, showing her. “That image goes back through the loop, too, and the fibe-op source randomly checks the pattern of pixels and automatically rejects any image that’s been changed. Only you weren’t trying to change the image. You were trying to duplicate it. And you succeeded. You matched the moves perfectly, so perfectly the Brownian check thought it was the same image, so perfectly it didn’t reject it, and the image made it onto the fibe-op source.” I waved my hand at the screen, where she was dancing to “42nd Street.”
Behind us, the oldate said, “Who’s in this Magnificent Seven scene?” but Alis didn’t answer him. She was watching the shifting routines, her face intent. I couldn’t read her expression.
“How many are there?” she said, still looking at the screen.
“I’ve found fourteen,” I said. “You rehearsed more than that, right? The ones that got past the ID-locks are almost all dancers with the same shape of face and features you have. Did you do any Ann Millers?”
“Kiss Me Kate,” she said.
“I thought you might have,” I said. “Her face is too round. Your features wouldn’t match closely enough to get past the ID-lock. It only works where there’s already a resemblance.” I pointed at the screen. “There are two others I found that aren’t on the disk because they’re in litigation. White Christmas and Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.”
She turned to look at me. “Seven Brides? Are you sure?”
“You’re right there in the barnraising scene,” I said. “Why?”
She had turned back to the screen, frowning at Shirley Temple, who was dancing with Alis and Jack Haley in military uniforms. “Maybe—” she said to herself.
“I told you dancing in the movies was impossible,” I said. “I was wrong. There you are.”
As I said it, the screen went blank, and the oldate said loudly, “How about that guy who says, ‘Make my day!’ Do you have him?”
I reached to start the disk again, but Alis had already turned away.
“I’m afraid we don’t have Clint Eastwood either. The scene from Magnificent Seven has Steve McQueen and Yul Brynner,” she said. “Would you like to see it?” and busied herself punching in the access.
“Does he have to shave his head?” his friend said.
“No,” Alis said, reaching for a black shirt and pants, a black hat. “The Digimatte takes care of that.” She started setting up the tape equipment, showing the oldate where to stand and what to do, oblivious of his friend, who was still talking about Charles Bronson, oblivious of me.
Well, what had I expected? That she’d be overjoyed to see herself up there, that she’d fling her arms around me like Natalie Wood in The Searchers? I hadn’t done anything. Except tell her she’d accomplished something she hadn’t been trying to do, something she’d turned down standing on this very boulevard.
“Yul Brynner,” the oldate’s friend said disgustedly, “and no Charles Bronson.”