Yours sincerely,
Damon Ira Chance
The premiere is one week off. I put the tickets and the cheque in my night-table drawer, determined to make use of neither. But as the date draws near I find myself wavering; one minute I am rock-solid in my determination never to give Chance the satisfaction of seeing me at his premiere, and the next this determination dissolves like salt in water. One part of me needs to see what Chance has done, another dreads it.
I don’t know what is happening to me. One evening, sitting in the sun-porch watching darkness descend, I have the thought that the darkness sifting down into that empty street is like the darkness filling my own emptiness. I cover my face with my hands and cry. And that is how my landlady finds me, as Shorty McAdoo’s landlady Mother Reardon found him, in the darkness, his face wet with tears. And like him, I try to deny them.
Tuxedoed, I make my way to Grauman’s Egyptian Theatre, two blocks up the street. Searchlights are visible against the blue-black wall of night sky, golden sabres slashing and wheeling, crossing and clashing, bright blades of gleaming light. People overtake me on the sidewalk. Skipping insect-like toward this mesmerizing display, the women utter chirps of excitement as they brush impatiently by me “Oh!” “Look, Herb!” Little jolts of delighted anticipation set their hips to switching, rattle their heels on the sidewalk; they jerk with impatience. Despite trying to lock down their enthusiasm, the men are the same. Their excitement is proclaimed in the rigid set of their shoulders and faces, a pose of nonchalance. A young man in a straw boater trots by me, pretending to scan the thickening crowd for a friend, and, like horses in a paddock, others infected by his example start trotting too.
Suddenly he stops, his eye caught by a long, luscious limousine crawling up the street. All the rest of the trotters halt too, halt and edge toward the curb for a better look. One looses a low, appreciative whistle and his bird-like call is copied – they all trill their homage as their polished black dream glides by. Then the young man in the boater lifts his head – he’s spied another car – and all the other heads turn too, staring up the street, songbirds transformed into birds of prey.
The throng begins to clot, coagulate, as the Pierce Arrows, Stevens-Duryeas, Rollses, Renaults, and Mercedes pour out of the side streets in a parade of luxurious rolling stock running on golden rails laid down on the asphalt by headlight beams. Clusters of star-gazers crane necks for a peek into windows, into back seats. Reports of sightings fly about, fickle breezes which blow heads in this direction and that. “Is that Buster?” “Is that Doug and Mary?” They strain to see, ripple, bend as one, bow down over the curb like tall grass in a gust of wind.
I keep walking, moving as fast as the traffic jamming the roadway, touching shoulder after shoulder to beg passage, beckoned by Grauman’s marquee, hundreds of electric bulbs pulsing out a single word, Besieged, Besieged, Besieged, Besieged, Besieged…
Opposite the theatre, onlookers are packed deep on the narrow sidewalk, bobbing up and down on tiptoes, heads tossing like turbulent waves. Blue-jacketed cops patrol a rope strung mid-thigh at the edge of the pavement, good-humouredly keeping the crowd behind it with fatherly nods and gentle taps of the nightstick, friendly reminders not to trespass on the street.
Young couples with infants tucked in their arms; old couples gripping purses and canes, fragile in shiny black clothes and high-topped shoes and boots, red noses sharp, red eyes sharper; men wearing hand-painted ties and others in work shirts and cloth caps; fast-looking, painted girls and respectable young females whose scrubbed cheeks exude rosy virtue: one happy congregation. With this mingling of humanity comes a mingling of scent, bay rum and tobacco, camphor and peppermints, lilac water and stale sweat, chewing gum and dirty diapers.
Chance’s publicity campaign has worked. Despite being no household name, no DeMille, no Griffith, despite having no actors in this picture who are stars of any magnitude, the ordinary people, the giants of the industry, have come.
A great stir of shuddering excitement. The crowd groans, “Charlie! Charlie! Charlie!”, a moan of sexual pleasure. Above the roof of the car, a mop of curly black hair, two black eyebrows, and a chunk of black moustache drawn on the alabaster face of a corpse by a cartoonist pops up to stare back across the street at us. It ducks back down to assist a young lady from the vehicle. The young lady is Leonore Ulric. The dapper little man graciously escorts Leonore Ulric out from behind the vehicle to greet us; they wave to us across a river of asphalt, Chaplin grinning impishly. Mad cheering as he wheels Miss Ulric in a military about-face on to the long red carpet running from curb to picture palace, snapping a sergeant-major’s salute to the bank of photographers. “This is too good!” “Catch this one!” The camera bulbs pop and blink like muzzle-flashes of distant artillery on a night horizon.
If Chaplin is here, the evening is already a success. But the magnificent automobiles keep disgorging celebrities on the crimson carpet; they wave to fans, blow kisses, strike preposterous poses for photographers. Harold Lloyd and Buster Keaton, Pola Negri and Will Rogers, Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford are all here. With each new arrival frenzy mounts, the mob calls names like they were the names of children lost in a forest; they skitter forward like iron filings answering the pull of powerful magnets. The press of people behind me drives me hard against the rope, it saws at my thighs; there’s an elbow in my back, a cane tangled between my legs. The smell of desperation pollutes the air. I start to scramble over the barrier before I get dumped over it on to my face.
A cop catches me straddling the rope. “What you doing, Bub?”
“I’ve got to get over to the theatre,” I tell him.
“Sure you do,” the cop says.
“I’ve got tickets.” I stick them under his nose.
At the mention of tickets, a resentful look slides on to his flat face.
“You can’t cross the road,” he says. “We got traffic control here.”
“Look,” I say, “I’ve got a bad leg. It can’t take much more of this pushing and shoving.”
“If you got a bad leg, take it home. Take it home or stay where you are.”
I’m prepared to argue when I spot the Hispano-Suiza gliding up in front of Grauman’s. I nod to the cop, a tacit promise to stay put. He clamps his jaw with authority, takes a couple paces down the rope, glances over his shoulder to make sure I’m not up to any funny business behind his back.
Chance and Fitz get out of the car. They are wearing tails and silk top hats. The enthusiasm of the crowd dips, they don’t recognize these two. The expensive car, the beautiful young girl in the evening dress sweeping forward with a bouquet to present to Chance announce these men are important – but why? Chance accepts the bouquet with a stiff little bow, passes it to Fitz who grapples it clumsily to his chest.
Slowly Chance turns to face us, slowly his hand rises in a hieratic gesture to the marquee. He points and we cease even to murmur, watch in enthralled silence, struggling to decipher this obscure gesture. Now he is shaking his finger at the sign, emphatically, schoolteacher waiting for the answer.
A single voice rises in a shout from the back of the crowd. “Besieged!” Radiant pleasure, pride, happiness flood Chance’s features. He straightens, grows taller. Yes, his body is saying, yes, yes, yes. The finger prods once more, jabbing a smattering of high, thin, involuntary-sounding cries out of the mob. Behind me a hoarse voice, roughened by a foreign accent, joins in, to my left I hear a child’s, a woman’s. Now Chance’s finger is marking time, more voices add to the deep, swelling chorus of, “Besieged! Besieged! Besieged!” People shout it recklessly, happily, making a noise like the noise of empty barrels rolled in an empty street. “Besieged! Besieged!”