“This a big day, all right. Pass the bottle. It’s the last day because this film is over, gone, finished, kaput. You know what that means?”
“No,” followed by a long gurgle.
“No, I guess you wouldn’t, you untarnished barbaric child of nature, you. In a funny way I really envy you.”
“Not a child of Nature. There was a man called Thord Horsehead, he was my father.”
“I mean really envy you, because you have the world made, your world that is. A strong arm, a good thirst, a good appetite, and never a moment’s doubt. Self-doubt, we live on it, and I bet you don’t even know the meaning of the word.”
“Self-doubt? That like sjálfsmord?”[12]
“Of course you don’t know it.” The Viking was sitting now and Barney dropped down himself so he could reach the bottle easier. The sun had set and the sky was a deep red at the horizon, blending into gray overhead, then darkening behind them.
“We’re making a film, Ottar, that’s what we’re doing, a motion picture. Entertainment and big business rolled into one. Money and art, they don’t mix but we’ve been mixing them for years. I’ve been in this business since I wore velvet knee pants and right now, today, at the ripe young age of forty-five I am out of it. Because without this masterpiece Climactic is going to fold, and when they go down the dram I go with them. And do you know why?”
“Have a drink.”
“Sure. I’ll tell you why. Because in my long and checkered career I have made seventy-three pictures and each and every one of them has been instantly forgettable. If I leave Climactic I am washed up since there are a lot better directors and producers around who are going to get any jobs that I may want.”
Ottar, looking very noble and heroic, the eyes of an eagle, smiled out across the sea and belched. Barney nodded agreement and had another drink.
“You are a wise man, Ottar. I’ll tell you something I never told anyone before because I am getting drunk on your daily wage and you probably understand one word in ten that I am saying. Do you know what I am? I am mediocre. Do you have any idea what a terrible admission that is to make? If you’re lousy you soon know it and you get booted out and go to work in a filling station. If you are a genius you know it and you got it made. But if you’re mediocre you are never quite sure of it and you blame it on the breaks and keep doing just one more picture until you have done seventy-three pieces of cinematic crap and there is not going to be a number seventy-four. The funny part is that number seventy-four could have been a good picture. God knows it certainly would have been different. Down the drain. The picture died unborn, poor picture now in picture limbo. Dead picture, no pic-ure…”
“What is this picture?”
“I told you, a work of art. Entertainment. Like your what-do-you-call-them, sagas…”
“I’ll sing a song from a saga. I sing good.”
Ottar stood, took a drink to clear his throat, and sang in a roaring voice that blended with the sound of the waves below.
Ottar stood for a moment—then roared even louder, with anger. “That was Ragnar’s song when King Aella murdered him and Aella died. I wish I could have slain him.” He shook his fist at the unsympathetic sky.
Barney was having trouble with his vision, but he found that if he closed one eye he could see well enough. Ottar loomed over him, a figure from the dawn of the world, with his leather garments and flowing hair, the last light of sunset picking out red highlights on his skin. The saga was real to him, and life and art were one. The song was the battle and the battle became the song.
The idea hit Barney with startling suddenness and he gasped.
Well why not? If he hadn’t been half potted, drinking on the shore of this ancient sea with a man who should have been dead for a thousand years, it would never have occurred to him. Well why not? Everything else about this business was madness, why not the final touch of insanity? He had the freedom and the power—and he was washed up in any case. Why not?
“Come with me,” he said, climbing to his feet and attempting to pull the immobile form of the Viking after him.
“Why?” Ottar asked.
“To see pictures.” Ottar was unimpressed. “To get more whiskey.”
This was a lot better reason and they went back to camp together, Barney leaning a good deal on the other man, who seemed scarcely aware of it.
“The rushes ready?” Barney asked, poking his head into the studio trailer.
“Coming out of the drier now, Mr. Hendrickson,” the technician said.
“Right. Set the screen up outside and let’s see them. Show the other takes first, then put today’s on.”
“Whiskey?” Ottar asked and Barney said, “Sure, sit right down here and I’ll get it.”
There was a certain amount of difficulty in finding the right trailer in the dark, as well as unusually large numbers of items underfoot to stumble over, then the problem finding the right key for the lock. By the time Barney made his way back with the bottle a folding screen had been set up, as well as some safari chairs. He and Ottar settled themselves comfortably, with the bottle between them, the projector whirred and they watched the film in the wonderfully appropriate theater of open sky and stars.
At first Ottar had trouble seeing the projected films as picture, his untrained eye not connecting the moving patterns with reality. But he was not unacquainted with representational art, three-dimensional in wood carving and two-dimensional in paintings, and when he recognized the beach and his house he shouted with wonder.
Dinner was almost through and most of the company wandered over to look at the rushes. Even the ones who had not been present had heard all about the Viking raid by this time, and there were murmurs and gasps when the attacking ship appeared on the screen, cut through by Ottar’s deep growl of rage. As the ship was beached and the fighting began there was only a horrified silence. The angle was good, the pictures sharp and clear, the detail almost unbearable to watch. Even Barney, who had been there at the time, felt the hackles rising on his neck when the blood-spattered Viking charged up the hill right into the camera, closer and closer.
Shouting a battle cry, Ottar leaped at the screen and crashed through it, rolling about in it and tearing at its fabric and metal embrace. Everyone else was shouting a good deal too, and one of the grips brought out a baby spot and plugged it in for light while Lyn managed to calm the Viking down and helping hands detached him from the ruined screen. While this was going on headlights appeared, moving through the camp, and a minute later a white ambulance with LOS ANGELES COUNTY HOSPITAL on its side pulled up in the pool of light from the spot.
“What a job finding anyone,” the driver said. “You movie people sure have some big sets. I never woulda thought all this could have fitted into one sound stage.”
Barney said, “What do you want?”
“Got a call. Pick up a broken leg case, party name of Hawk.”
Barney looked around the silent audience until he saw his secretary. “Show these people the way to Ruf’s trailer, will you, Betty? And give him my best, tell him I hope he gets well quick, that kind of thing.”
Betty tried to say something, but could not find the words. She turned away quickly, raising her handkerchief to her face, and climbed into the ambulance. The silence extended, and a number of people were having trouble meeting Barney’s eye. He smiled a broad, secret smile to himself, and waved his hand cheerfully.