Thad giggled. “No. I’m not. But they don’t know that yet. It’s pushed Stein up too. He’s gone to thirteen and a half million, and that’s more than enough. I’ll go with Stein.”
“I see.” Hélène looked down at her hands. She did begin to see. She saw very clearly. “And Stein wants someone else to play Lise, presumably?”
She knew that would draw him, and it did.
“Someone else?” He blinked. “Don’t be stupid. He wants you.”
“I thought there was a problem with my image?”
“For Long Division, I said. Not for Ellis. That’s a totally different thing. Lise is a sympathetic character. People associate you with Lise. By the time they see you in the sequel—well, it will just wipe out all this stuff in the papers, that’s all. And then, they’ll think about you in the old way. Your problems will be over.” His smile grew broader. “Ellis can do that for you. I can do it for you. No one else can.”
Hélène put the mug of tea down on the floor. She said carefully, “Well, it’s very good of you, Thad. And I’m sure I ought to feel grateful. But do you know, the odd thing is, I don’t actually care about my image anymore. And I don’t care about what all those people out there think about me, either—”
“That’s not true. You have to care,” Thad interrupted her. “They made you what you are. You need them…”
“No, I don’t. And I don’t intend to let them determine who I am, and what I do. Not anymore. Not them, and not you, Thad, either.”
She paused. There was a little silence. Thad was watching her intently. She would ask one more question, she thought, although she already knew the answer.
“The sequel,” she said. “Ellis II. When are you planning on doing it? Is it still July?”
He at once looked relieved.
“Well, we could wait till then, of course. Sure.” He leaned forward. “But I thought—we’re all ready to go. We can tie up the formalities very fast. You’re not doing the Gertz picture now—you’re free. So I think we could start filming—oh—at the latest by the middle of June…provided we don’t have any hitches, of course.”
“You will have a hitch.” Hélène stood up. “I’m not doing it.”
“What?”
“You set it up, didn’t you?” She looked down at him coldly. “You set up the whole thing with Joe Stein. You said you’d go over to him and to A.I. on two conditions…”
“One condition. More money. That’s all. It was a question of getting the budget the movie needed, that’s as far as it went…”
“Two conditions. More money, and that I didn’t make Long Division with Gregory Gertz. That was it, wasn’t it, Thad?”
“No, it wasn’t. I had nothing to do with that. That’s a crazy idea. It was a question of timing, a question of image, I already told you…”
“Yes. You already told me, and I don’t believe you. I know you too well, Thad. I’ve begun to see how you operate. Although why, in God’s name, it should matter to you that I was doing that film, I don’t know…”
“I wanted you to do Ellis II. I wrote it for you…” His voice had become sulky. He was now standing, shifting from foot to foot.
“Thad—can’t you see that doesn’t make any difference? By the time you gave me that script I had already more than half decided to do the other movie…”
“You’d already made one film with him. Why did you need to make another?” He hesitated. “Anyway. I don’t like Gertz. I despise him. I made you a star, and now he’s trying to exploit that. He was stealing you, that’s all.”
“I won’t have you do this, Thad. I will not have you trying to run my life…”
Hélène turned angrily away. She crossed to the balcony doors, and Thad hastened after her.
“What are you doing?”
“Thad, I’m going.”
“No, wait…” He reached up and touched her arm. Hélène hated him to touch her, and she flinched. Thad immediately dropped his hand.
“Don’t go. Stay just a moment. There’s something I have to show you. Please, Hélène. Stay awhile. And I’ll tell you. I swear I will. I’ll tell you everything.”
Hélène hesitated. To her surprise, Thad hurried across the room and opened a door on the far side. Through it, she could glimpse a landing, and a flight of stairs leading down.
“Please. Come with me. It won’t take long.”
“Thad—I should get back, anyway. I promised Cat I wouldn’t be long…”
“Five minutes. Really.”
He went out onto the landing, and after a pause, Hélène followed him. She felt reluctant, and also, she realized, a little fearful—which was why she had mentioned Cat. The excuse was untrue; Cat was out all afternoon, with Cassie.
She stopped at the top of the stairs. Thad was already halfway down them. He looked up at her.
“Please,” he said again. “It’s not much to ask, is it? I want you to understand. I want to explain.”
Hélène began to go down the stairs, and Thad smiled. He hurried on ahead of her, and Hélène, despite her uneasiness, looked around her curiously.
There was little to see. The stairs were uncarpeted; their rails, and the walls, were painted white. At the foot of the stairs there was a long corridor, flanked with closed doors, and lit by a window at each end. On both the windows were white shades, fully lowered. The corridor smelled of disinfectant and damp.
“Through here.”
Thad padded along the corridor to the third door. He stopped, and again waited for Hélène to catch up with him. He smoothed down the lapels of his black suit, and glanced up at her, his head a little on one side, a small smile on his lips.
“This is my room. Where I work. I think you’ll like it. You ought to.”
He reached for the key, turned it, and pushed the door back with a flourish. Then he stepped back to allow Hélène to enter. She took a step forward, faltered, and came to a halt. She stared at the room in silence. Behind her, Thad gave a high nervous giggle.
The room was not large, and it resembled a cell. There was one window, to which the white shade was nailed, and then sealed with tape. There was one narrow single bed, neatly made; one desk, its surface completely bare, and one chair. Apart from that, the room was empty, except for the photographs, and they were everywhere.
They covered the ceiling, all four walls, and the floor; there were thousands of them. Some had been cut from newspapers or magazines, others were publicity stills from the films she had made with Thad. Thousands of images of herself, some large, some small; some in color, some in black and white. In every picture she was alone, and any other person with her had been neatly cut out. It had been carefully and painstakingly assembled, this whole crazy collage; each picture exactly joined the one next to it, and the finished surfaces had been varnished over, so they shone. In the center of the floor, almost beneath her feet, was the poster of her they had used for Short Cut; a girl in a white dress, herself in a white dress, carefully pasted to the floor. It was a little dusty. Thad bent and brushed at it fussily. Then he straightened up and smiled proudly.
“I’ve started on the room next door now,” he said. “I do the ceiling first, then the walls, then the floor.”
“Thad, why?”
Hélène swung around to him, her eyes wide with disbelief and shock. There was a silence. Thad sighed.
“Don’t you like it? I thought you would.”
“Thad, it’s not that…” Hélène felt a terrible ache of pity tighten around her heart. All her anger had gone. She tried to find some words that would not hurt him, but nothing seemed right, nothing seemed possible.
“Maybe you see now.” Thad drew in a small shuddery breath. “I couldn’t let you do the Gertz movie. It wasn’t right for you. You shouldn’t be working with Gertz. You should be working with me. So, yes—it’s true. I went to Joe Stein, and I offered him a deal. He bought it right away. I knew he would. Directors like Gertz are nothing. Hollywood is full of men like
Gregory Gertz. A little talent; some energy; some brains. But he’s not an artist, Hélène. He’s not like me.”
He stopped for a moment, breathing quickly, his eyes intent on hers.
“I thought you’d know, when you saw the dedication in the script I gave you. I wrote the date, and everything. The date we met.”
“I know you did, Thad. But…”
“I just couldn’t understand then. How you could see that, and read the script, and then not do it. It didn’t make any sense. It hurt me. It was like—it was like you didn’t love me.”
“Thad—look. We’re friends, and we’ve worked together, but…”
“We’re not friends. You shouldn’t say that. You know it’s not true.” He moved slightly, so that he was blocking the door. “I don’t want to use the word love. It’s a dumb word. People say love, and they mean sex. I don’t mean that. I’m not interested in that. I don’t want to kiss you. I don’t want to touch you—” He broke off and gave a small giggle. “I touch your pictures, at night sometimes. That’s different. And I’d like to film you—you know, if we were on our own…” He gave a sudden shiver, and twisted away from her. “I’d like to film you now. I wish…Hélène, let me get my camera. Please, let me…”
“Thad—no.”
He stopped. He turned around again and tilted his head on one side, looking up at her.
“Tell me you understand. I know you do. I know you always have. But I’d like to hear you say it, just once.”
“Say what, Thad?”
“Well, we’re bound together, you and I. I knew it the first time I saw you. We’re united. We always have been, and we always will be. Even when we’re dead—long after we’re dead—people will look at the movies we made together, and they’ll know. It’s just like being married—only better than that. Don’t you see?”
There was a silence, while they looked at each other. Hélène was beginning to feel afraid, and she hoped Thad could not see that. After a while, when he said nothing more, and did not move, she drew in her breath to steady herself.
“Thad, that isn’t true, you know,” she said gently. “I can see that you believe what you say, but you have to understand. I don’t feel that, and I never realized that you felt it either. I respect your work. But I don’t love you, Thad. I don’t feel bound to you. And…” She hesitated. “And you shouldn’t have done what you did, Thad, whatever the reason. Even loving someone doesn’t give you the right to try and control another person’s life.”
He was silent for a moment, looking at her. In the dim light of the room, his glasses obscured the expression in his eyes, and his face showed no emotion. He nodded once or twice, that was all, then he reached across and opened one of the drawers of his desk. He took out a large pair of scissors, pushed the drawer shut, and then flexed the scissors, open and shut, in the air. He said: “Do you like my suit?”
Hélène’s throat felt dry and tight. She tried not to look at the scissors. She said, in a quiet voice, “It’s the same as all your other suits, Thad.”
“Yes. The same. I copied the idea from someone I met once. It seemed like a good idea.” He took a step forward. “Don’t move.”
Hélène had backed away slightly. The wall and the window were behind her; the bed was to her right, hemming her in; Thad was still blocking the path to the door. In a moment, she told herself, in a moment, Thad would stop smiling, and he would put down those scissors, and then they would both leave this horrible insane room, and everything would be all right…
He was in front of her now. He lifted the scissors and stroked them against her face. Hélène forced herself to keep still.
“Thad,” she said carefully. “Put those down.”
“In a minute. Keep still.”
He lifted his free hand, and with a surprising delicacy, traced the outline of her face. His hand trembled a little. He raised it higher, and stroked her hair, just once. “You’re afraid,” he said. “Don’t be. You’re beautiful. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. You have beautiful eyes, and beautiful hair…”
The scissors were pointing at her eyes. On Thad’s face there was an expression of absolute concentration. Hélène wanted to scream, and was afraid to scream. She shut her eyes and twisted her face away. She felt the cold metal of the scissors glance against her throat. Then she felt Thad hold her neck, and the scissors cut.
She opened her eyes. In his hands, Thad held one long pale lock of her hair. He looked at it. He wound it around his finger. He expelled his breath in an unsteady sigh. Then he looked up at her once more, and began to smile, his ordinary, his amiable smile.
“I’ll keep this. Thank you.”
He trotted across to the desk and put the scissors and the hair in one of the drawers.
“It’s all right. I’m sorry if I frightened you. I just felt I’d like to keep this. I do understand—what you said. And that’s all right. You’re not ready. You haven’t realized it yet—that we belong together. You will one day.” He began to make humming noises; he began to chew on his beard.
“I might do some work now. So if you still want to go…”
Hélène moved quickly to the door. Thad had opened another drawer and was rummaging around among some papers, his manner exactly as always. Just as she reached the door, he looked up and said, “You won’t do Ellis—you won’t change your mind?”
“Is that why you brought me down here—to change my mind?”
“I thought it might help.”
“No, Thad.”
She waited for the arguments, the renewed pleas. None came.
“Oh, well. That’s all right.” He sounded unconcerned. “You’re angry with me now. It’s not the moment. It will keep. Everything will keep…”
“Thad—I’m not going to change my mind about this, now more than ever.”
“Aren’t you?” He smiled. “God makes movies, you know. They’re full of patterns, just like mine. A beautiful dance, with intricate steps. You can’t predict the end of my movies. And you can’t predict the future. How do you know you won’t change your mind—a year from now? Two years? Ten?”
Hélène stared at him. “Thad—you don’t even believe in God. And I can’t believe you’d wait ten years to make Ellis with me…”
“Oh, I might. I’m very patient. Not ten maybe. We’ll see.” He looked down at his watch. “Maybe I won’t work now. Maybe I’ll catch the end of The Third Man. I’ll come up with you.”
The moment they were back in the studio, Thad settled himself on one of the grayish seats. A television set flickered into life. Hélène crossed to the balcony doors. Thad did not even look up.
On the screen, the sequence Thad had described earlier was just beginning. Hélène wondered then, suspiciously, if he had purposely timed it like that: it was possible—Thad was capable of anything. Had he meant any of the things he had said? At the time, she had not doubted him for a second, but now she was not so sure: it could just as easily have been a device on Thad’s part, one more way of persuading her.
She turned back to watch the screen. Alida Valli was about to begin that long final walk: walking out of the frame, walking out of someone’s life. Hélène felt the most extraordinary sense of exhilaration grip her: she could not wait to leave this house; she could not wait to leave Thad.
“Good-bye, Thad,” she said.
Thad lifted one pink hand in a vague wave. He did not turn around.
Hélène stepped out onto the balcony; she took a deep breath of the air; she looked out over the bowl of the valley and the city below, and she thought: I’m free. I don’t have to stay here. I don’t have to do a film. I don’t have to go home to a man I should never have married. I can go anywhere, and do anything I like. There was the future, open and empty, for the first time in five years. She walked quickly to the top of the steps. There, one last time, she looked back. Alida Valli was walking down the cemetery road; Joseph Cotten was waiting in vain, and Thad, hunched over his watch, wa
s timing the take.
Walking out of the frame; walking out of someone’s life. She stopped by her car, which was parked at the top of Thad’s long snaking driveway. It was a black Mulliner Bentley Continental, with pale beige upholstery of hide; a rare car, and one unique in Hollywood. It had been chosen, like so many of the things she owned, because it reminded her of Edouard; not simply because it was beautiful in itself, or because she loved to drive it—but because, when she drove it, Edouard felt close.
She climbed into the car, impatient with herself at the thought, and accelerated down the driveway. As she started to pull out onto the narrow road that wound down the canyon through the hills, she stopped. Parked to one side of the road was a Ford; standing by the Ford, camera poised, was a thin, seedy-looking man, with a narrow ferret’s face; the man who had taken her photograph at Forest Lawn; the man who had, these past months, followed her most persistently. She heard his camera click; she wrenched on the handbrake, and climbed out. The thin man was already backing away in the direction of the Ford; Hélène advanced on him, and he stopped. She was a head taller than he; he squinted up at her nervously. She held out her hand.
“Give me that camera.”
He backed off until he was half-pinned against the rear of the Ford.
“Don’t start anything. I didn’t mean any trouble. This is my job. I…”
“I said, give me that camera.”
He clutched it more tightly. His voice rose in a whine. “Listen. Just don’t cause trouble. You can’t do this. There’s no law against…”
Hélène reached out suddenly, taking him by surprise. She wrenched the camera out of his grasp, and stepped back, so she stood by the edge of the road. To her left, there was a sheer drop of several hundred feet. The thin man came after her, hesitated, and stopped. Hélène opened the camera, and pulled out the film. She held it up to the light, and then tossed it over the edge, and into the undergrowth. Then she handed him the camera, turned, and without another word, climbed back into the Bentley, and accelerated away. The thin man just stood there, sweating and trembling, staring after her.
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