“And Tim Pascal called.”
“Who’s he?”
“He’s an English film director. He has several projects in development at Alcazar. He wanted to know if you wanted to lunch or drink or whatever.”
The doorbell rang. Aurélien strode across the several levels of his cool white living room to answer it, and as he did so the bell rang twice again. It was Delphine.
KAISER PREVOST. I have a theory about this town; it doesn’t represent the fulfillment of the American dream, it represents the fulfillment of an American reality. It rewards relentless persistence, massive stamina, ruthlessness and the ability to live with grotesque failure. Look at me: I am a smallish guy, 138 pounds, with pretty severe myopia, and near average academic qualifications. But I have a personable manner and an excellent memory and a good head of hair. I will work hard and I will take hard decisions and I have developed the thickest of thick skins. With these attributes in this town nothing can stop me. Or those like me. We are legion. We know what they call us but we don’t care. We don’t need contacts, we don’t need influence, we don’t need talent, we don’t need cosmetic surgery. That’s why I love this place. It allows us to thrive. That’s why when I heard Aurélien had never showed for dinner with Lanier Cross, I didn’t panic. People like me take that kind of awful crisis in their stride.
Aurélien turned over and gently kissed Delphine’s right breast. She stubbed out her cigarette and hunched into him.
“This house is incredible, Aurélien. I like it here.”
“Where’s Holbish?”
“You promised me you wouldn’t mention him again. I’m sorry, Aurélien, I don’t know what made me do it.”
“No, I’m just curious.”
“He’s gone to Seattle.”
“Well, we can manage without him. Are you ready?”
“Of course, it’s the least I can do. What about the pizzeria?”
“I was given a thousand dollars’ cash today. I knew it would come in useful.”
MATT FRIEDRICH. I have to admit I was hoping for the Seeing Through Nathalie rewrite. When Bob Berger fired me and said that Naomi Tashourian was the new writer, it hurt for a while. It always does, no matter how successful you are. But in my case I was due a break and I thought Nathalie was it. I’ve missed out on my last three Guild arbitrations and a Lanier Cross film would have helped, however half-baked, however art-house. Berger said they would honor the fee for the synopsis I did (obfuscation takes on new meaning), but I guess the check is still in the post. But, I do not repine, as a great English novelist once said, I just get on with the job.
I have a theory about this town, this Spielraum where we dream and dawdle: one of our problems — perhaps it’s the problem — is that here ego always outstrips ability. Always. That applies to everyone: writers, directors, actors, heads of production, d-boys and unit runners. It’s our disease, our mark of Cain. When you have success here you think you can do anything, and that’s the great error. The success diet is too rich for our digestive systems: it poisons us, addles the brain. It makes us blind. We lose our self-knowledge. My advice to all those who make it is this: take the job you would have done if the film had been a flop. Don’t go for the big one, don’t let those horizons recede. Do the commercial, the TV pilot, the documentary, the three-week rewrite, the character role or whatever it was you had lined up first. Do that job and then maybe you can reach for the forbidden fruit, but at least you’ll have your feet on the ground.
“Kaiser?”
“Bob?”
“He’s not at the house, Kaiser.”
“Shit.”
“He’s got to phone her. He’s got to apologize.”
“No. He’s got to lie.”
“She called Vincent.”
“Fuck. The bitch.”
“That’s how bad she wants to do it. I think it’s a good sign.”
“Where is that African bastard? I’ll kill him.”
“Nancy says the French babe showed.”
“Oh, no. No, fuckin’ no!”
“It gets worse, Kaiser. Vincent told me to call Tim Pascal.”
“Who the fuck’s he?”
“Some English director. Lanier wants to meet with him.”
“Who’s his agent?”
“Sheldon … Hello? Kaiser?”
GEORGE MALINVERNO. I got a theory about this town, this place: everybody likes pizza. Even the French. We got to know them real well, I guess. They came back every night, the French. The tall black guy, the ratty one and the blond girl. Real pretty girl. Every night they come. Every night they eat pizza. Every night she ties one on. Everybody likes pizza. [Bitter laugh] Everybody. Too bad I didn’t think of it first, huh?
They film one night. And the girl, she’s steaming. Then, I don’t know, something goes wrong and we don’t see them for a while. Then he comes back. Just the black guy, Aurélien and the girl. He says, can they film, one night, a thousand bucks. I say for sure. So he sets up the sound and he sets up the camera behind the bushes. You know it’s not a disturbance, exactly. I never see anybody make a film like this before. A thousand bucks, it’s very generous. So the girl she walks up, she takes a seat, she orders beer and keeps on drinking. Soon she’s pretty stewed. Aurélien sits behind the bushes, just keeps filming. Some guy tries to pick her up, puts his hand on the table, like, leans over, she takes a book of matches, like that one, and does something to the back of his hand with the corner. I couldn’t see what she did, but the guy gasps with pain, shudders like this, just backs off.
Then we get a big party in, birthday party, they’d already booked, fourteen people. She sits there drinking and smoking, Aurélien’s filming. Then we bring the cake out of the kitchen, candles all lit. Whenever there’s a birthday we get Chico to sing. Chico, the little waiter, tubby guy, wanted to be an opera singer. Got a fine strong voice. He’s singing “Happy Birthday to You”—he’s got a kind of drawn-out, elaborate way of singing it. Top of his voice, molto vibrato, you know. Next thing I know the girl’s on her feet with a fuckin’ gun in her hand, screaming in French. Nobody can hear because Chico’s singing his balls off. I tear out from behind the bar, but I’m too late. POW. First shot blows the cake away. BAM. Second one gets Chico in the thigh. Flesh wound, thank God. I charge her to the ground, Roberto jumps on top. We wrestle the gun away. She put up quite a fight for a little thing. Did something to my shoulder too, she twisted it in some way, never been the same since. Aurélien got the whole thing on film. I hear it looks great.
Aurélien sat outside the Alcazar screening room with Kaiser Prevost and Bob Berger. Berger combed and recombed his hair, he kept smelling his comb, smelling his fingertips. He asked Prevost to smell his hair. Prevost said it smelled of shampoo. Prevost went to the lavatory for the fourth time.
“Relax,” Aurélien said to them both. “I’m really pleased with the film. I couldn’t be more pleased.”
Berger groaned. “Don’t say that, don’t say that.”
“If he likes it,” Kaiser said, “we’re in business. Lanier will like it, for sure, and Aurélien will apologize. Won’t you, Aurélien? Of course you will. No problem. Lanier loved him. Lanier loved you, didn’t she, Aurélien?”
“Why are we worried about Lanier?” Aurélien said. “Delphine came back. We finished the film.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Bob Berger.
“Don’t worry, Bob,” Kaiser said. “Everything can be fixed.”
Vincent Bandine emerged from the screening room.
Aurélien stood up. “What do you think?”