Dreams From Bunker Hill

by John Fante

  We said goodbye and I walked to my uncomfortable car.

  The script Cyril Korn had given us was by Harry Browne. It was the story of a range war—the struggle between cattle men and sheep men. The cattle men were the bad guys and the sheep men the good guys. Also featured was a tribe of hostile Indians who captured Julia, the heroine, and imprisoned her in the Indian village. When the sheep men and the cattle men learn of her capture they join forces and ride off to rescue Julia. After the battle in which Julia is saved, the cattle men and sheep men shake hands and the range war is brought to a peaceful solution.

  A couple of days later Velda van der Zee and I drove the Bentley out Ventura to Liberty Studios to meet the producer, Jack Arthur. I sat beside her as she handled the quiet magnificent machine. She liked the story, she said. It was a classic, a sure nominee for the academy awards. She visualized Gary Cooper and Claire Trevor in the leading roles, with Jack La Rue playing the part of Magua, the Indian chief.

  “Gary Cooper’s a friend of mine,” she said. “I’ll give him the screenplay. He has a high regard for my opinion.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  We pulled into the parking lot at Liberty Studios and walked down the hall to Jack Arthur’s office. Jack Arthur was a pipe smoker. He kissed Velda on the cheek and shook my hand.

  “Well,” he said, “what do you think of the story?”

  “Priceless,” Velda said. “We love it.”

  “It has possibilities,” Arthur said. “Are you ready to go to work?”

  “Of course,” Velda said. “How are the children?”

  “They’re fine, fine.”

  “You must meet Jack’s children, Arturo. They’re the most delightful creatures in the world.”

  Jack Arthur beamed. “You’ll need an office,” he said, reaching for the telephone.

  Quickly Velda said, “That won’t be necessary. We’ll work at my house.” She turned to me and smiled. “Is that all right with you, Arturo?”

  “Fine, fine,” I said.

  “Okay, then,” Arthur said. “I’ll get in touch with Cyril Korn and we’ll draw up the contracts. You people need anything, just holler.” He shook my hand. “Good luck, Bandini. Write me a smash hit.”

  “I’ll try.” Velda and I said goodbye and left.

  On the way back to town I said, “I didn’t know we were going to work at your place.”

  “I always work there.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “In Benedict Canyon. William Powell’s old house. You’ll love it.” She began to speak of Irene Dunne and Myrna Loy, but I was used to it by now and scarcely heard her as she moved on to Lew Ayres, Frederic March, Jean Harlow and Mary Astor. When she pulled up in front of Frank Edgington’s house she was well into a reminiscence of Franchot Tone, and I had to sit there patiently until the tale was told. Then I stepped out and she drove away.

  The next day I drove out Benedict Canyon to Velda van der Zee’s French chateau. It was nestled in a grove of birch trees, white and serene and aristocratic. Twin towers with slate roofs guarded the front entrance, and a great oak door stood between Doric columns. A housekeeper answered the summons of the lion’s-head knocker. She was a middle-aged black woman in a maid’s costume.

  “I’m Arturo Bandini.”

  “I know,” she smiled. “Please come in.”

  I followed her through an entry hall and into the living room. The place was awesome, intimidating, crowded with Louis Quinze furniture and huge beaded lamps. Over the mantel hung the large oil portrait of an elderly man with a white beard and mustache.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “Mr. van der Zee,” the maid said.

  “I guess I’ve never met him.”

  “You can’t,” the maid said. “He’s dead.”

  “He must have been very rich,” I said.

  She laughed. “You’d be rich too if you owned half of Signal Hill.”

  “Oh.”

  Down the grand staircase came Velda van der Zee, afloat in a diaphanous hostess gown. Silken panels floated behind her like attendant cherubs, and a cloud of exotic perfume enveloped me as she offered her hand.

  “Good morning, Arturo. Shall we go to work, or would you like to see the rest of the house?”

  “Let’s work,” I said.

  She took my arm. “That’s what I like about you, young man, your dedication.” She guided me into an eerie room.

  “This is my den,” she said.

  I looked around. It was indeed a den. Every inch of wallspace was crowded with autographed photos of film stars. The beautiful people. So handsome, so full of buoyant smiles and glittering teeth and graceful hands and beautiful skins. But it was a sad room too, a kind of mausoleum, a display of the living and the dead. Velda looked at them reverently.

  “My beloved friends,” she sighed.

  I wanted to ask about her husband, but it seemed inappropriate. She crossed to an elaborate French provincial desk, a typewriter upon it.

  “My favorite desk,” she said. “A Christmas present from Maurice Chevalier.”

  “It’s a beauty,” I said.

  Velda pulled a red bellcord beside the doorway. A bell rang and the maid appeared. Velda ordered coffee. I went to the desk and sat before the typewriter.

  “Have you read the script?” I asked.

  “Not yet. I plan to do it this morning.”

  She crossed to a divan and sat down.

  “Shall I tell you something very interesting about this room?”

  “Please do.”

  “This is where I signed my first contract with Louis B. Mayer. He sat exactly where you are and signed the papers. That was ten years ago. He’s a wonderful man. One of these days we’ll have a party and you can meet him. If he likes you your future is assured.”

  “I’d love to meet him.” I pulled the script from my coat pocket. “Let’s get started.”

  The maid entered with a coffee tray. Velda talked as she poured. “Lots of famous people have graced this room throughout the years. Do you remember Vilma Banky and Rod La Roque?”

  That started her off. Vilma Banky, Rod La Roque, Clara Bow, Lillian Gish, Marian Davies, John Gilbert, Colleen Moore, Clive Brooke, Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd, Wesley Barry, Billie Dove, Corinne Griffith, Claire Windsor. On and on she sailed through clouds of reverie, sipping coffee, lighting cigarettes, dreaming the absurd, invoking the glamour of enchanting lies and impossible worlds she had made for herself.

  I sat listening in quiet despair, thinking of ways to escape, to run out of there, to leap into my car and drive back to the reality of Bunker Hill, to scream, to jump up and scream, to beg her to shut up, and then finally to give in and sink mortally wounded into the big chair that once held Louis B.’s ass.

  We got nothing done, nothing at all, and when she grew sleepy and exhausted and switched from coffee to martinis, I could stand no more. Her eyes were barely open when I stood over her and took her hand.

  “Goodbye, Velda. We’ll try again tomorrow.” I left.

  Next day everything was exactly the same except that the characters were changed, and so was the location. We sat in the gazebo out on the lawn, under the pepper tree. This time there was no coffee either, but there was a pitcher of martinis, and the sonorous, slumberous voice of Velda talking of Jean Arthur, Gary Cooper, Tyrone Power, Errol Flynn, Lily Damita, Lupe Velez, Dolores del Rio, Merle Oberon, Claude Rains, Leslie Howard, Basil Rathbone, Nigel Bruce, Cesar Romero, George Arliss, Henry Armetta, Gregory La Cava, Paulette Goddard, Walter Wanger, Norma Talmadge, Constance Talmadge, Janet Gaynor, Frederic March, Nils Asther, Norman Foster, Ann Harding, and Kay Francis.

  Chapter Fourteen

  We were supposed to meet the following day, but I gagged at it. It was like suffering from a hangover, and all I saw were her wet eyes in that soft face, and all I heard was the sound of her babbling voice. I knew I could never work with her, that she would drive me crazy. I telephoned her around ten o’cl
ock the next morning and of course the line was busy. It was busy at eleven o’clock and at noon and all that afternoon until evening. Finally I gave up and went to my typewriter and wrote her a note:

  Dear Velda:

  I must be honest with you. We will never be able to work as a team. I’m not blaming you, I blame myself. Starting tomorrow I plan to write the screenplay. When I finish I will deliver it to you, and you can edit it and improve it in any way you like. I hope this plan meets with your approval.

  Sincerely yours,

  Arturo Bandini

  Two days later she telephoned.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Arturo?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Very well. You write the first draft and I’ll follow with the final. Call me if you run into trouble.”

  “I will.”

  I began writing immediately, but the more I wrote the less I liked it. I started another draft. And another. Then a fresh full-blown idea came to me. A new story. No more cattle men and sheep men, but something more conventional, made up of film fragments I remembered from boyhood. It moved right along. The pages piled up. It was fun. I got hot. In one sitting I wrote twenty pages.

  Next day I still had a head of steam. Twenty more pages. That night I wrote until one in the morning, another fifteen pages. I loved it. I marvelled at it. How fast I was! What acuity! What dialogue! I was on to something touched with greatness. It could not fail. I saw myself a hero, an overnight sensation. And away I went: up canyons and down ravines, horse careening, six-guns blazing, Indians falling, blood in the dust, screams of women, the burning buildings, the menace of evil, the triumph of good, the victory of love. Bang bang bang a thrill a minute, the greatest goddam western story ever written. Finally, drugged on coffee, a bellyache from cigarettes, eyes burning, back aching, I finished it. Proudly I folded it into a big envelope and mailed it to Velda van der Zee. Then I took it easy and waited, knowing that there was hardly a word she could change, that she was dealing with perfection.

  I spent the days on Hollywood Boulevard, in Stanley Rose’s bookshop, in the off-boulevard saloons, playing the pinball games, going to movies. Then I could wait no longer, and I phoned Velda van der Zee. The line was busy. An hour later it was busy again. All day it was busy. Far into the night it was busy. In the morning I could not bear it any longer. I got into my Plymouth and shot up Benedict Canyon. The engine pinged. It needed a ring job. I pulled into Velda’s driveway and knocked on the door. It was twelve o’clock. The maid greeted me.

  “I came to see Velda.”

  “You can’t,” she said. “She’s still asleep.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  She watched me return to the car and sit behind the wheel. I was there at one o’clock, at two o’clock, at three o’clock, and at four I drove away. I drove as far as the hotel on Sunset. I went to the pay phone in the lobby, and dialled Velda’s number. Even as I stood there I knew it would happen, and I was right. The line was busy. I was shaking when I stumbled toward home. I walked two blocks before I realized that I was not in my car.

  The best thing about my collaboration with Velda was the money. After fifteen weeks, a three-hundred-dollar check each week, she telephoned. She had finished the script. She was sending it special delivery. It should arrive the next day. She was very proud of her work. She knew I would like it, that we had achieved a masterpiece.

  “Did you change it much?” I asked.

  “Here and there. Small changes. But the essence of your version, the main thrust, is still there.”

  “I’m glad, Velda. Frankly, I was worried.”

  “You’re going to be very pleased, Arturo. There was so little for me to do. I hardly deserve any credit at all.”

  Next day I sat on the porch of Edgington’s house and waited for the mailman. At noon a postal truck drove up and the driver put the large envelope in my hands. I signed the receipt, sat on the porch step, and opened the manuscript.

  The title page read Sin City, screenplay by Velda van der Zee and Arturo Bandini, from a story by Harry Browne. I was down the first page halfway when my hair began to stiffen. In the middle of the second page I was forced to put the script aside and hang on to the porch banister. My breathing was uneven and there were mysterious shooting pains in my legs and across my stomach. I staggered to my feet and went inside to the kitchen and drank a glass of water. Edgington was sitting at the table eating breakfast. He saw my face and stood up.

  “Good God, what’s wrong?”

  I could not speak. I could only point in the direction of the manuscript. Edgington walked to the front door and looked around.

  “What’s up?” he said. “Who’s out there?”

  I came through the house to the porch and pointed at the manuscript. He picked it up.

  “What’s this?” He looked at the title page. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Read it.”

  He took it to the porch swing and sat down.

  “I’ve been had,” I said. “I didn’t write it. My name’s on it, but I didn’t write it.”

  He began to read. Suddenly he laughed, a short barking laugh. “It’s funny,” he said. “It’s a very funny script.”

  “You mean it’s a comedy?”

  “That’s what’s funny. It’s not a comedy.” He went back to the script and read in silence, another ten pages. Then, deliberately, he folded the manuscript shut and looked at me.

  “Is it still funny?”

  He rolled up the script and threw it into an ivy patch beyond the porch.

  “It’s ghastly,” he said.

  I rescued the script from the ivy bed. He had read my version more than fifteen weeks ago. He had liked it, praised it.

  “What should I do?” I asked.

  “How about going back to Colorado and learning to lay brick with your old man?”

  “That’s no solution.”

  “The only solution is to get your name off this script. Disown it. Don’t be associated with it.”

  “Maybe I can save it.”

  “Save it from what? It’s dead, man. It’s been murdered. Call your agent and tell him to remove your name. Either that or get out of town.” He rose and walked back into the kitchen. I opened the screenplay and started to read again. What I read was as follows:

  A stagecoach rolls across the Wyoming plain pursued by band of Indians. Stagecoach brought to halt. Indians swarm over it. Two passengers: Reverend Ezra Drew and daughter Priscilla. Indian chief drags Priscilla out, throws her on his horse. Priscilla struggles. Chief mounts, rides off with her. Indians follow.

  Indian village. Chief rides up with Priscilla, shoves her into teepee, then enters. Indian chief is Magua, enemy of white man. He seizes girl, handles her roughly, kissing her as she struggles.

  Over the hill comes posse, led by Sheriff Lawson. He dismounts, hears girl scream, enters teepee, struggles with Magua, knocks him down, helps girl outside, puts her in saddle of his horse, mounts, and rides off. Posse follows.

  Sin City. Posse arrives, Sheriff puts Priscilla down. Posse brings up Reverend Drew. Priscilla runs into his arms. Townspeople gather. Sheriff Lawson leads Priscilla into Sin City Hotel.

  That night townfolk gather at hotel. Sheriff comes out with Priscilla and Reverend Drew. Townfolk beg them to stay. Local church recently burned out by hostile Indians of Chief Magua. People urge Reverend Drew to rebuild church. He promises to consider it. Playing banjo, Reverend Drew accompanies daughter in singing of “I Love You, Jesus.” Great applause. Holding tambourine, Priscilla moves among townfolk and they drop coins into tambourine. Reverend Drew mounts hotel porch and delivers speech. He and daughter promise to remain and rebuild Sin City church. Citizens repair to big saloon. Once more the Reverend strums banjo and Priscilla sings “Lord Welcome Me.” Again she passes tambourine and makes generous collection.

  Church being rebuilt. Townspeople help, carrying lumber and building material. Sheriff rides up and puts Priscilla in hi
s buckboard. They ride off. In lovely pine grove Sheriff embraces Priscilla and they kiss.

  Evening. Sin City saloon. Priscilla sings “The Lord Is My Shepherd,” while saloon patrons listen and admire the lovely young woman. She passes tambourine. A drunk at bar seizes her, tries to kiss her. Sheriff Lawson intervenes, fight develops. Lawson knocks intruder down. Priscilla looks to Sheriff gratefully.

  On hillside overlooking town sits the sinister Magua on his horse, watching. He dismounts and slinks to window of saloon as Priscilla addresses bar patrons in little speech. She wants townsfolk to form a church choir where hymns can be sung and offerings made for new church. Townspeople agree and applaud. Outside at window the evil Magua smirks as he listens.

  Change comes over Sin City. No more liquor in town saloon. No more gambling. Group of women under Priscilla’s direction sing spirited hymns. Work on church proceeds. Day arrives when church is complete, and townfolk gather for first service. Watching from above, Magua observes the happenings below and rides off.

  Evening. Women of Sin City prepare barbecue outside church. A square dance in progress, led by Reverend Drew and his banjo. Priscilla whirls to music, her partner the Sheriff. Meanwhile at Indian village Magua gathers his forces. Indians with painted bodies mount their horses and Magua leads them away.

  Square dance. Sheriff leads Priscilla into woods. She lifts face for his kiss. He asks her to marry him. She consents. Suddenly the sound of pounding hoofs and Indian yells. Down the hill come Magua and his bloodthirsty Arapahoes. Riding furiously, they ring the church and townspeople with bloodcurdling shouts and thundering hoofs. Shrieking townfolk retreat to church as Indians continue to circle and fire their rifles. Sheriff and Priscilla rush to safety of new church. Round and round the Indians tighten their noose about the church. Gunfire. Cries of wounded. Indians hurl torches upon church roof. Townsfolk mount gun positions at church windows. Battle rages. Women reload rifles. Priscilla reloads her father’s rifle. At that moment he is shot. Priscilla shoots Indian who felled her father. Then she turns and gathers fallen parent in her arms and cries.