Missing Reels

by Farran S Nehme

  “Kind of stiff, what with all the bones. I turn, it doesn’t.”

  “That’s how they made ’em in the fifties, honey,” said Jim. “Shove the good bits in a cage.” He pulled on a dress. “Halter?”

  “Maybe I don’t want to go that sexy. The mathematicians might think I was, you know …”

  “A rental,” finished Talmadge. He reached the end of the rack. “We have some possibilities. But we might need something fresh.”

  She had decided on the halter; it was from the early fifties, and Jim said it wasn’t as blatant as all that, as long as she wore a strapless bra, although the white wasn’t strictly seasonal and it kind of washed her out. But when she came home the night before Thanksgiving, Talmadge jumped up from the couch and said, “Wait right there!” Ceinwen waited and Jim lit a cigarette while Talmadge rummaged behind his screens. He emerged holding something behind his back, posed for a second, then whipped it around and held it up to his shoulders. Jim whistled.

  “Talmadge,” gasped Ceinwen, “that can’t be for me.”

  Sleeveless, dropped waist, obviously from the 1920s. The fabric was silk velvet, a greenish bronze that shimmered even under their dim lights. The neckline was deep and the skirt was gathered a bit in front, the hem cascading down to about mid-calf. No lace, no trimming, just the gleam of the fabric. Ceinwen reached to feel the edge of the armhole.

  “This didn’t come from the store,” she said. “This I would have noticed.”

  “Where did it come from?” asked Jim.

  “Bargain Bernie’s,” said Talmadge. Lily’s cross-Village vintage rival. “Try it on, try it on!”

  Talmadge was giving her a present, so she changed in her bedroom to make him happy. The shoulders were a little too big and might slip, but otherwise it fit. She put on her highest heels and walked out.

  “Wow,” said Jim.

  “God I’m good,” said Talmadge. “Everyone should have me shop for them.”

  “Speaking of shopping,” said Jim, leaning back and blowing a steam-whistle of smoke toward the arch of the living room entrance. “How much was this? Because as we all know, Bargain Bernie’s is no bargain.”

  The price tag was still attached. She flipped it over. “Talmadge! $200! Have you gone crazy?”

  “No, sweetie. I got a discount.”

  During the ensuing silence, Talmadge walked over and began to adjust her shoulder seams.

  “So,” said Jim. “Should Ceinwen wear this to Bargain Bernie’s, to show everybody how it looks on a pretty girl?”

  Talmadge stood back to check his work. “Why bother? Such an ugly, crowded store. That’s why I go there, so poor Ceinwen doesn’t have to. You have to know exactly what you’re looking for or you never find anything.”

  “Mm-hm,” said Jim, examining the glowing tip of his cigarette. “Wonder if they’re looking for this dress right now.”

  “They didn’t understand this one,” said Talmadge. He squatted to check the line of the hem. “They had it crammed on a rack with a bunch of boring old sheaths from the sixties. It was going to get torn and dirty. I rescued this dress.”

  “Talmadge, I love you so much,” said Ceinwen. “Thank you. I don’t care if the dress is …” She tried to think of a diplomatic phrase.

  “Scalding hot?” suggested Jim. Talmadge continued to run his hands around the hem. She didn’t see a hole from the security tag; he’d probably lifted a tag-remover from Vintage Visions ages ago.

  “Jim,” she said, ready to beg.

  “I’m teasing, don’t worry about it. Bernie’s the biggest prick in the business. He makes Lily look like Santa Claus. I got a couple of things from there myself.”

  “Ooh, what?”

  “Not telling.” He stubbed out his cigarette with elaborate care. “Like the man said, don’t wear it to Bargain Bernie’s. They won’t appreciate it.”

  “Promise. Won’t even walk down Bleecker.”

  “I personally think it’s way too good for a bunch of math professors, too,” said Jim, “but what the hell. Give the nerds a thrill.”

  The next day she went for the complete effect, putting her hair up in back so that the front looked almost like a bob, adding some finger waves. She met Matthew at the Christopher Street station and they took the subway together. She hadn’t been this far uptown since the guitar player; Paru’s apartment was even past the Thalia. And it was huge, a big hallway running past what looked like vast bedrooms, plaster molding she wished Jim could see, a double living room divided by arches, a dining room separated by those doors that slid into the walls, and windows that ran the whole length of one wall, overlooking the Hudson River. No wonder Matthew wanted tenure—it was worth all the late nights if you could live like this.

  Paru turned out to be approximately nine feet tall, and Ceinwen had to keep even more than her usual distance in order to avoid talking to his shirt button. He offered to take their coats and she handed hers over. Matthew turned to say something and paused, his mouth still open.

  “Do you like it?” she prompted eagerly. He’d shut his mouth but otherwise wasn’t moving. “Is something wrong with it?”

  “Nothing at all,” he said, finally. “What, no tiara?”

  She didn’t care that he was teasing, his expression was more than enough. “You did say I could dress up.”

  “I did. And if someone wants to give you an Oscar while we’re here, you won’t even have to change. Listen, I’d like a word with Paru. Do you mind if I leave you a minute?”

  She knew he was trying to get some paper going, so she said fine. She scanned the room for Harry. Nope, not in this room, anyway. Something was off, though she couldn’t put her finger on it. She spotted a table with hors d’oeuvres and decided to get something to eat before she started introducing herself around. As she piled shrimp on a plate she kept checking out the crowd, until she realized what she was missing.

  Women. There must have been more than twenty people there, but she saw only two women, both a fair bit older than she was, with that ineffable wife vibe about them, standing close to a man and trying to look like they were part of his conversation. Where were they keeping the women? This was kind of creepy, like the men’s club in The Stepford Wives.

  She’d never thought of herself as shy, but parties were a bit overwhelming. Back in Yazoo City she’d gotten into the habit of finding someone else who wasn’t mingling well and trying to draw the person out. She had a good prospect right here by the table, and he was eating shrimp, too. He looked wary when she introduced herself, but gave his name as Yoshi. He turned out to be from Kyoto. She knew better than to ask about his math specialty, so she contented herself with bringing up Japanese movies, which she actually wasn’t that familiar with, and neither was he. Still, she was learning how to pronounce some names from books, at least. He had a way of staring past her at something in the room, and she turned at one point to see what it was, except all she saw was the fireplace mantel. She’d gotten Akira Kurosawa and Sessue Hayakawa down pat, or so she thought, when she decided to get something to drink. She set down her plate, poured herself some seltzer, and turned back to discover he was gone.

  Was I that boring? she wondered, feeling hurt. She picked up a piece of bread and wondered if she could smoke. Matthew was nowhere to be seen, but here was Donna, approaching for a cheek-kiss.

  “That dress is spectacular. Did Matthew leave you here?”

  “He’s off with Paru somewhere. I was talking to someone named Yoshi, but he’s disappeared.”

  “Oh, yes.” Donna was pouring herself some wine. “I saw him heading out the door.”

  “Out the door?” She’d driven the man right out of the party? She liked Hayakawa, she’d said so.

  “Yes. But you mustn’t think anything of it, he does that.”

  “Does what, just—leaves?”

  “Yes, exactly. It’s nothing personal.” Donna leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Harry decided one night to take Yoshi with us and s
ome other Courant people to a movie. Ozu I think. I liked it all right but I couldn’t tell you the title, they’re all so similar. Late Spring, Early Fall, Mid-Winter, I get lost. Anyhow we’re walking to dinner from the Bleecker Street Cinema, and one minute I’m talking to Yoshi, and the next minute all I see is his back, taking off across the park.” She started laughing. “And of course, when I asked what on earth was that about, they all acted as though I was the strange one for commenting on it.”

  “At least I know it wasn’t me,” sighed Ceinwen.

  “No, dear. With mathematicians, never assume it’s you. Don’t worry about Yoshi, he’ll be back. He rejoined us on the other side of the park.”

  Harry was in the kitchen, kibitzing over Radha’s turkey, Donna said. They’d been arranging to go to Paris, for all of February. Harry had no classes next semester and the École Normale Supérieure was having a conference, but they were really going to visit their son. Ceinwen blurted that she hadn’t realized they had one, then tried to cover by asking if he was a mathematician too.

  “No, no, not at all. He lives in Paris, he thinks he’s a painter. Oy. But he may be about to settle down. He’s living with a woman from Senegal, and I suppose he’s serious since he wants us to meet this one.”

  “Does she sound nice?”

  “She sounds employed, so I’m all for her. Works at a gallery. Uh-oh.” Ceinwen turned and got a brief impression of hair walking past them into the other living room. “There’s Andrew Evans.”

  “The Andy you told me about?”

  “The very one. Ceinwen, I’m sorry to abandon you, but I’m going back to the kitchen to see if I can keep Harry there for a while longer. Trust me, we want those two separate as long as possible. Will you be all right?”

  “Sure,” said Ceinwen, “I’ll introduce myself.” This should be good.

  “Go ahead,” said Donna. “You might find him interesting.” Ceinwen spotted the hair by the bookshelf and maneuvered herself into introductory position.

  And there he was, Professor Andrew Evans, purchaser of Harry’s movies, a man so strange he stood out amongst mathematicians. He was dressed soberly in chinos and a v-neck sweater over a shirt, and he wasn’t scratching or talking to himself, but this was clearly a weird dude. His hair was down to just above his shoulders, a wiry mix of brown and gray, and his hairline crawled patchily back on his skull. His ears were so big they stuck out through the frizz.

  He also appeared to be slightly pop-eyed, but it was hard to tell. Because Andy was staring at her. From time to time a man his age stared at her in the store, but not quite like this. She realized he had moved to shake hands.

  “Andrew Evans,” he said, in a weedy little voice. She hated thin, high voices in men.

  “Ceinwen Reilly,” she said. His hand was cold and slightly damp. She had it. The Gold Rush.

  “So, how do you know Paru?”

  The Little Tramp, she recalled, was in the mountains, snowed in by a blizzard. And his starving companion kept staring and staring, until he began to hallucinate that the Tramp was a giant chicken.

  “I’m a friend of Matthew Hill,” she told him. Any minute now Andy was going to grab a knife and fork and lunge for her throat. He was certainly looking in that vicinity. No, lower. She pulled the shoulder of her dress back into place.

  “Matthew. Yes. I know him. He hasn’t been here long. How did you two meet?”

  Another social occasion, another lie she hadn’t thought to prepare. “I work in the neighborhood and we met … around,” she said. “We got to talking about old movies and then he wanted me to meet Harry.”

  “Talking about old movies. That’s something of a surprise. I thought he only cared about new releases.” His speaking manner was bizarre too, fast, pause, fast, pause, like a cabbie rushing to the next stoplight, then tapping the brakes.

  “Maybe he was afraid to bring it up with you. Harry says you’re something of an expert on silent movies.”

  “Afraid. Matthew.” Obviously her lying was as polished as ever. Andy repeated her words like she’d told him Matthew had been wearing a toga.

  “You know how the English are,” she said. “Never want to reveal any kind of ignorance.”

  “I can’t say that’s been my observation.” Pause. “On the contrary, I find the English are always pretending ignorance, in hopes of gaining some sort of tactical advantage.” All righty then. Not exactly president of the fan club. “But I think it’s fair to say the silent cinema is something of a passion of mine. Do you know anything about silents?”

  “A bit.”

  He wasn’t waiting for a response. “… Because you remind me of a silent star, a great one. Vilma Banky. Do you know her?” Becauseyouremindmeofasilentstaragreatone pause. VilmaBankydoyouknowher? pause.

  “The name’s familiar.”

  Her input was wholly unnecessary. “She was discovered by Samuel Goldwyn and made a number of high-quality productions in the 1920s. Her acting skills were not inconsiderable, but she was famed primarily as a beauty. She was promoted as the Hungarian Rhapsody.”

  A no-talent sex symbol. Was this a good place to say thank you? Evidently not, Andy was still going, and while she was dithering she’d missed the tour of Banky’s filmography. “… with Valentino, and The Winning of Barbara Worth, directed by Henry King. When sound came in she had difficulties, however. The accent, and she also had a bad case of what they called mike fright. So she retired. Luckily she’d taken good care of her finances, and she was happily married to an actor named …”

  And here was another thing about Andy. He was a major space invader. As he talked, he inched closer. “But, like a lot of silent stars, more than half her movies are lost.” She took a step back. “I hope you don’t think it’s too forward of me to mention the resemblance.”

  “Not at all. I’ll have to look her up when I get home. But it’s probably just the dress.”

  “That is a very unusual dress. Quite authentic.”

  “It should be, it’s from the twenties.” Where was Matthew?

  “So you have an affinity for the silent era.”

  “You could say that.” Another step back.

  “That’s wonderful, just wonderful in a person your age. Have you seen many movies from the period?”

  “Sure,” she began. “I saw The Crowd at Theatre 80. With Matthew. He liked it too.”

  “Theatre 80? Oh no, not there! You couldn’t possibly have appreciated it there. Rear projection, 16-millimeter, it’s horrendous. And the projection speed of course is all wrong.”

  She’d hoped throwing Matthew back into the conversation might discourage Andy, but instead she had opened the taps. Projection speed, it seemed, was the key to proper enjoyment of silent movies. Andy knew all about projection speed. The silent cameras were operated with a hand-crank and the speeds varied, but projection often didn’t. Sometimes it was too fast, and they were screened at sound-movie speeds of 24 frames per second in clips on television, making everything look like the Keystone Kops. But at Theatre 80 the speeds were a hair too slow. If you showed a silent movie at 16 frames per second … Where the hell was Matthew? She couldn’t see him anywhere … 18 frames per second, but Theatre 80 was slower than that, and it killed the … something. Undercranking. Overcranking. Adjusting to the rhythm of music played on the set during filming. It was all probably very important, but that voice, and those eyes, and how could anyone who cared so much about projection speed not have any notion of the speed of his own sentences?

  Suddenly Matthew was at her elbow, and Andy wasn’t noticing: “… and I tried to talk to the Theatre 80 management, but they really don’t care that much about silents, so …”

  “Forgive me,” said Matthew, “but it seems we’re going in for dinner. How are you, Andy.”

  “I’m well. Thank you.” Ceinwen imagined Andy watching The Crowd at 24 frames per second. He’d eye the screen the same way he was eyeing Matthew.

  “We should go find a seat,”
said Matthew. “You don’t mind if I just borrow her for the duration, do you? I’m sure she’ll be happy to go back later to, what was it?”

  “Film-projection speeds,” she said.

  “That’s right,” said Andy.

  “Ah. Sorry I missed that.” Matthew made a little after-you gesture and she followed, relieved that Andy was still nursing his drink.

  “Where have you been?” she whispered.

  “Over by the door, talking to Paru and watching Andy back you up across the room.”

  “My hero.”

  “Do you realize you started there”—he stopped to indicate a spot at one end of the bookshelf—“and wound up there?” He pointed to a spot about eight feet away, near the window.

  “He kept stepping toward me. Doesn’t he realize New Yorkers need their space?”

  “New Yorkers need their space. You need Yankee Stadium.” He pushed her dress back onto her shoulder. “Have a heart. Andy probably dreams of cozy chats with young Mary Pickford. And there you were, in that dress, with that hair. The answer to his prayers.”

  “Shows how much you know. He said I reminded him of Vilma Banky.” They were keeping their voices low as the others filed into the dining room behind them.

  “Who?” He was pulling out her chair.

  “Vilma Banky. Silent movies. A sex symbol. They called her the Hungarian Rhapsody.”

  He let go of the chair and coughed for a second, then resumed pushing her in. “Smooth-talking devil, that Andy.”

  Harry blasted into the room with greetings for both of them, and he and Donna settled directly across the table. Ceinwen spotted Yoshi sitting way down at the opposite end and reminded herself Donna had said it was nothing personal. She heard Matthew say, “Looking for something?” He was addressing Andy, who was hovering nearby.

  “Just trying to find a seat.” Andy sounded almost plaintive.

  “You’re in luck,” beamed Matthew. “One right here.” He pointed to the empty chair next to hers. Andy quickly leaned past Harry to plunk his glass down at the spot, like he was saving a seat at the theater. Harry’s eyebrows shot toward the ceiling. Donna took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose.