Terra Incognita Page 18

  “How about Shadowlands?” the guy said, but I was already shoving through the crowd, trying to reach the skids before I flashed.

  I almost made it. I was past the chariot race when a Marilyn crashed into me and I went down, and I thought, Natch, I’m going to flash on cement, but I didn’t.

  The sidewalk blurred and then went blinding, and there were stars in it, and Fred and Eleanor, all in white, danced easily, elegantly through the milling crowd, and superimposed across them was Alis, watching them, her face lost and sorrowful. Like Ingrid’s.

  FADE TO BLACK

  MONTAGE: No sound, HERO, seated at comp, punches keys and deletes AS’s as scene onscreen changes. Western saloon, elegant nightclub, fraternity house, waterfront bar.

  Whatever effect my Judge Hardy lecture had had on Alis, it didn’t make her give up on her dream and head back to Meadowville. She was at the party again the next week.

  I wasn’t. I’d gotten Mayer’s list and a notice that my scholarship had been canceled due to “nonperformance,” and I was working on Mayer’s list just to stay in the dorm. And in chooch.

  I didn’t miss anything, though. Heada came up to my room halfway through the party to fill me in. “The takeover’s definitely on,” she said. “Mayer’s boss’s been moved to Development, which means he’s on the way out. Warner’s filing a countersuit on Fred Astaire. It goes to court tomorrow.”

  Alis should have had her face pasted onto Ginger’s while she had the chance. She’d never get a chance to dance with him now.

  “Vincent’s at the party,” she said. “He’s got a new decay morph.”

  “What a pity I’ve got to miss that,” I said.

  “What are you doing up here anyway?” she said, fishing. “You’ve never missed a party before. Everybody’s down there. Mayer, Alis—” She paused, watching my face.

  “Mayer, huh?” I said. “I’ve got to talk to him about a raise. Do you know who drinks in the movies? Everybody.” I took a swig of scotch to illustrate. “Even Gary Cooper.”

  “Should you be doing that stuff?” Heada said.

  “Are you kidding? It’s cheap, it’s legal, and I know what it is.” And it was pretty good at keeping me from flashing.

  “Is it safe?” Heada, who thought nothing of snorting white stuff she found on the floor, was reading the bottle warily.

  “Of course it’s safe. And endorsed by W. C. Fields, John Barrymore, Bette Davis, and E.T. And the major studios. It’s in every movie on Mayer’s list. Camille, The Maltese Falcon, Gunga Din. Even Singin’ in the Rain. Champagne at the party after the première.” The one where Donald O’Connor said, “You have to show a movie at a party. It’s a Hollywood law.” I finished off the bottle. “Also Oklahoma. Poor Judd is dead. Dead drunk.”

  “Mayer was hitting on Alis at the party,” she said, still looking at me.

  Yeah, well, that was inevitable.

  “Alis was telling him how she wanted to dance in the movies.”

  That was inevitable, too.

  “I hope they’ll be very happy,” I said. “Or is he saving her to give to Gary Cooper?”

  “She can’t find a dancing teacher.”

  “Well, I’d love to stay and chat,” I said, “but I’ve got to get back to the Hays Office.” I called up Casablanca again and started deleting liquor bottles.

  “I think you should help her,” Heada said.

  “Sorry,” I said. “ ‘I stick my neck out for nobody.’ ”

  “That’s a quote from a movie, isn’t it?”

  “Bingo,” I said. I deleted the crystal decanter Humphrey Bogart was pouring himself a drink out of.

  “I think you should find her a dancing teacher. You know a lot of people in the business.”

  “There aren’t any people in the business. It’s all CGs, it’s all ones and zeros and didge-actors and edit programs. The studios aren’t even hiring warmbodies anymore. The only people in the business are dead, along with the liveaction. Along with the musical. Kaput. Over. ‘The end of Rico.’ ”

  “That’s a quote from the movies, too, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said, “which are also dead, in case you couldn’t tell from Vincent’s decay morph.”

  “You could get her a job as a face.”

  “Like the one you’ve got?”

  “Well, then, a job as a hackate, as a foley, or a location assistant or something. She knows a lot about movies.”

  “She doesn’t want to hack,” I said, “and even if she did, the only movies she knows about are musicals. A location assistant’s got to know everything, stock shots, props, frame numbers. Be a perfect job for you, Heada. Now I really have to get back to playing Lee Remick.”

  Heada looked like she wanted to ask if that was a movie, too.

  “The Hallelujah Trail,” I said. “Temperance leader, battling demon rum.” I tipped the bottle up, trying to get the last drops out. “You have any chooch?”

  She looked uncomfortable. “No.”

  “Well, what have you got? Besides klieg. I don’t need any more doses of reality.”

  “I don’t have anything,” she said, and blushed. “I’m trying to taper off a little.”

  “You?!” I said. “What happened? Vincent’s decay morph get to you?”

  “No,” she said defensively. “The other night, when I was on the klieg, I was listening to Alis talk about wanting to be a dancer, and I suddenly realized there was nothing I wanted, except chooch and getting popped.”

  “So you decided to go straight, and now you and Alis are going to tap-dance your way to stardom. I can see it now, your names up in lights—Ruby Keeler and Una Merkel in Gold Diggers of 2018!”

  “No,” she said, “but I decided I’d like to be like her, that I’d like to want something.”

  “Even if that something is impossible?”

  I couldn’t make out her expression. “Yeah.”

  “Well, giving up chooch isn’t the way to do it. If you want to figure out what it is you want, the way to do it is to watch a lot of movies.”

  She looked defensive again.

  “How do you think Alis came up with this dancing thing? From the movies. She doesn’t just want to dance in the movies, she wants to be Ruby Keeler in 42nd Street—the plucky little chorus girl with a heart of gold. The odds are stacked against her, and all she’s got is determination and a pair of tap shoes, but don’t worry. All she has to do is keep hoofing and hoping, and she’ll not only make it big, she’ll save the show and get Dick Powell. It’s all right there in the script. You didn’t think Alis came up with it on her own, did you?”

  “Came up with what?”

  “Her part,” I said. “That’s what the movies do. They don’t entertain us, they don’t send the message: ‘We care.’ They give us lines to say, they assign us parts: John Wayne, Theda Bara, Shirley Temple, take your pick.”

  I waved at the screen, where the Nazi commandant was ordering a bottle of Veuve Clicquot ’26 he wasn’t going to get to drink. “How about Claude Rains sucking up to the Nazis? No, sorry, Mayer’s already playing that part. But don’t worry, there are enough parts to go around, and everybody’s got a featured role, whether they know it or not, even the faces. They think they’re playing Marilyn, but they’re not. They’re doing Greta Garbo as Sadie Thompson. Why do you think the execs keep doing all these remakes? Why do they keep hiring Humphrey Bogart and Bette Davis? It’s because all the good parts have already been cast, and all we’re doing is auditioning for the remake.”

  She looked at me so intently I wondered if she’d lied about giving up AS’s and was doing klieg. “Alis was right,” she said. “You do love the movies.”

  “What?”

  “I never noticed, the whole time I’ve known you, but she’s right. You know all the lines and all the actors, and you�
�re always quoting from them. Alis says you act like you don’t care, but underneath you really love them, or you wouldn’t know them all by heart.”

  I said, in my best Claude Rains, “ ‘My dear Ricky, I suspect that underneath that cynical shell you are at heart a sentimentalist.’ Ruby Keeler does Ingrid Bergman in Spellbound. Did Dr. Bergman have any other psychiatric observations?”

  “She said that’s why you do so many AS’s, because you love movies and you can’t stand seeing them being butchered.”

  “Wrong,” I said. “You don’t know everything, Heada. It’s because I pushed Gregory Peck onto a spiked fence when we were kids.”

  “See?” she said wonderingly. “Even when you’re denying it, you do it.”

  “Well, this has been fun, but I have to get back to work butchering,” I said, “and you have to get back to deciding whether you want to play Sadie Thompson or Una Merkel.” I turned back to the screen. Peter Lorre was clutching Humphrey Bogart’s lapels, begging him to save him.

  “You said everybody’s playing a part, whether they know it or not,” Heada said. “What part am I playing?”

  “Right now? Thelma Ritter in Rear Window. The meddling friend who doesn’t know when to keep her nose out of other people’s business,” I said. “Shut the door when you leave.”

  She did, and then opened it again and stood there watching me. “Tom?”

  “Yeah?” I said.

  “If I’m Thelma Ritter and Alis is Ruby Keeler, what part are you playing?”

  “King Kong.”

  Heada left, and I sat there for a while, watching Humphrey Bogart stand by and let Peter Lorre get arrested, and then got up to see if there were any AS’s on the premises. There was klieg in the medicine cabinet, just what I needed, and a bottle of champagne from one time when Mayer brought a face up to watch me paste her into East of Eden. I took a swig. It was flat, but better than nothing. I poured some in a glass and ff’d to the “Play it again, Sam” scene.

  Bogart slugged down a drink, the screen went to soft-focus, and he was pouring Ingrid Bergman champagne in front of a matte that was supposed to be Paris.

  The door opened.

  “Forget to give me some gossip, Heada?” I said, taking another swallow.

  It was Alis. She was wearing a pinafore and puffed sleeves. Her hair was darker, and had a big bow in it, but it had that same backlit look to it, framing her face with radiance.

  Fred Astaire tapped a ripple on the polished floor, and Eleanor Powell repeated it and turned to smile at him—

  I downed the rest of the champagne in one gulp and poured some more. “Well, if it isn’t Ruby Keeler,” I said. “What do you want?”

  She stayed in the doorway. “The musicals you showed me the other night, Heada said you might be willing to loan me the opdisks.”

  I took a drink of champagne. “They aren’t on disk. It’s a direct fibe-op feed,” I said, and sat down at the comp.

  “Is that what you do?” she said from behind me. She was standing looking over my shoulder at the screen. “You ruin movies?”

  “That’s what I do,” I said. “I protect the moviegoing public from the evils of demon rum and chooch. Mostly demon rum. There aren’t all that many movies with drugs in them. Valley of the Dolls, Postcards from the Edge, a couple of Cheech and Chongs, The Thief of Bagdad. I also remove nicotine if the Anti-Smoking League didn’t get there first.” I deleted the champagne glass Ingrid Bergman was raising to her lips. “What do you think? Tea or cocoa?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “It’s a big job. Maybe you could do the musicals. Want me to access Mayer and see if he’ll hire you?”

  She looked stubborn. “Heada said you could make opdisks for me off the feed,” she said stiffly. “I just need them to practice with. Till I can find a dancing teacher.”

  I turned around in the chair to look at her. “And then what?”

  “If you don’t want to lend them to me, I could watch them here and copy down the steps. When you’re not using the comp.”

  “And then what?” I said. “You copy down the steps and practice the routines and then what? Gene Kelly pulls you out of the chorus—no, wait, I forgot, you don’t like Gene Kelly—Gene Nelson pulls you out of the chorus and gives you the lead? Mickey Rooney decides to put on a show? What?”

  “I don’t know. When I find a dancing teacher—”

  “There aren’t any dancing teachers. They all went home to Meadowville fifteen years ago, when the studios switched to computer animation. There aren’t any soundstages or rehearsal halls or studio orchestras. There aren’t any studios, for God’s sake! All there is is a bunch of geekates hacking away on Crays and a bunch of corporation execs telling ’em what to do. Let me show you something.” I twisted back around in the chair. “Menu,” I said. “Top Hat. Frame 97-265.”

  Fred and Ginge came up on the screen, spinning around in the Piccolino. “You want to bring musicals back. We’ll do it right here. Forward at 5.” The screen slowed to a sequence of frames. Kick and. Turn and. Lift.

  “How long did you say Fred had to practice his routines?”

  “Six weeks,” she said tonelessly.

  “Too long. Think of all that rehearsal-hall rent. And all those tap shoes. Frame 97-288 to 97-631, repeat four times, then 99-006 to 99-115, and continuous loop. At 24.” The screen slid into realtime, and Fred lifted Ginge, lifted her again, and again, effortlessly, lightly. Lift, and lift, and kick and turn.

  “Does that kick look high enough to you?” I said, pointing at the screen. “Frame 99-108 and freeze.” I fiddled with the image, raising Fred’s leg till it touched his nose. “Too high?” I eased it back down a little, smoothed out the shadows. “Forward at 24.”

  Fred kicked, his leg sailing into the air. And lift. And lift. And lift. And lift.

  “All right,” Alis said. “I get the point.”

  “Bored already? You’re right. This should be a production number.” I hit multiply. “Eleven, side by side,” I said, and a dozen Fred Astaires kicked in perfect synch, lift, and lift, and lift, and lift. “Multiply rows,” I said, and the screen filled with Fred, lifting, kicking, tipping his top hat.

  I turned around to look at Alis. “Why would they want you when they can have Fred Astaire? A hundred Fred Astaires? A thousand? And none of them have trouble learning a step, none of them get blisters on their feet or throw temper tantrums or have to be paid or grow old or—”

  “Get drunk,” she said.

  “You want Fred drunk?” I said. “I can do that, too. Frame 97-412 and freeze.” Fred Astaire stopped in midturn, smiling. “Frame 97—” I said, and the screen went silver and then to legalese. “The character of Fred Astaire is currently unavailable for fibe-op transmission. Copyright ownership suit ILMGM v. RKO-Warner…”

  “Oops. Fred’s in litigation. Too bad. You should have taken that paste-up while you had the chance.”

  She wasn’t looking at the screen. She was looking at me, her gaze alert, focused, the way it had been on the Piccolino. “If you’re so sure what I want is impossible, why are you trying so hard to talk me out of it?”

  Because I don’t want to see you down on Hollywood Boulevard in a torn net leotard. I don’t want to have to stick your face in a River Phoenix movie so Mayer’s boss can pop you.

  “You’re right,” I said. “Why the hell am I?” I turned to the comp and said, “Print accesses, all files.” I ripped the hardcopy out of the printer. “Here. Take my fibe-op accesses and make all the disks you want. Practice till your little feet bleed.” I thrust it at her.

  She didn’t take it.

  “Go on,” I said, and pressed it into her unresponsive hand. “Who am I to stand in your way? In the immortal words of Leo the Lion, anything’s possible. Who cares if the studios have got all the copyrights and the fibe-o
p sources and the digitizers and the accesses? We’ll sew our own costumes. We’ll build our own sets. And then, right before we open, Bebe Daniels’ll break her leg and you’ll have to go on for her!”

  She crumpled up the hardcopy, looking like she’d like to throw it at me. “How would you know what’s possible and impossible? You don’t even try. Fred Astaire—”

  “Is tied up in court, but don’t let that stop you. There’s still Ann Miller. And Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. And Gene Kelly. Oh, wait, I forgot, you’re too good for Gene Kelly. Tommy Tune. And don’t forget Ruby Keeler.”

  She threw it.

  I picked the hardcopy up and uncrumpled it. “ ‘Temper, temper, Scarlett,’ ” I drawled, smoothing it out. I tucked it in the pocket of her pinafore and patted it. “Now get out there on that stage. It’s showtime! The whole cast’s counting on you. Remember, you’re going out there a youngster, but you’ve got to come back a star.”

  Her hand clenched, but she didn’t throw the hardcopy again. She wheeled, skirt flaring like Eleanor’s white one. I had to close my eyes against the sudden image of Fred and Eleanor dancing on the polished floor, the phony stars shimmering in endless ripples, and missed Alis’s exit.

  She slammed the door behind her, and the image receded. I opened it and leaned out. “Be so good you’ll make me hate you,” I called after her, but she was already gone.

  SCENE: Busby Berkeley production number. Giant revolving fountain with chorus girls in gold lamé on each level, filling champagne glasses in the flowing fountain. Move in to close-up of champagne glass, then to close-up of bubbles, inside each bubble a chorus girl in gold-sequined tap pants and halter top, tap-dancing.

  Alis didn’t come back again after that. Heada went out of her way to keep me posted—she hadn’t found a dancing teacher, the Viamount takeover was a done deal, Columbia Tri-Star was doing a remake of Somewhere in Time.

  “There was this Columbia exec at the party,” Heada told me, perched on my bed. “He said they’ve been doing experiments with images projected into negative-matter regions, and there’s a measurable lag. He says they’re this close”—she did the thumb-and-forefinger bit—“to inventing time travel.”