“And you’d have to find the film first,” said Matthew.
Fred’s eyes finally lit on Matthew, but only for a moment. “Yeah. That’s the hard part, obviously. As you were saying, chances are it’s gone for good.”
Matthew checked his watch. “This has been helpful. Thank you.” He stood up. “Do we have to sign for our coats?”
“I’m not sure I remember how to get out of here,” Ceinwen interjected before Fred could reply.
“On the way in, I saw signs marked ‘exit.’ Thought they might be useful at some point,” said Matthew.
“I have to take you down anyway,” said Fred, looking apologetic. They were opening the door when Fred turned around. “Oh, right. I also, um, have to bring the film.”
“In case someone walks in off the street?” inquired Matthew.
At that, Fred stalked to the table where the canister was sitting and said, loudly and fluently, “Listen, I know the rules are a pain in the ass.”
“Knock it off,” Ceinwen mouthed at Matthew, whose expression changed not a bit. Then, to Fred, “Isabel seems like a stickler.”
He opened the canister and set it next to the machine. “Oh, Isabel’s all right. She hired me. She’s just …”
“A yeller?” asked Ceinwen, with a flood of sympathy.
Fred rewound the reel. “No, god no. She’s, um, organized. Isabel is very, very organized. And when you’re kind of not …”
“You’re obviously very organized.” Fred froze with his hands on the reel, and Matthew’s whole face seemed to twitch. “Restoring a movie’s precise work. You have to keep track of a lot of different details at once,” she continued. “Probably you just don’t have a lot left over for other stuff.”
Fred flushed slightly. “Thanks. I’ll, um, remember to point that out.” He laid the film in the canister. “Anyway”—with a short, sharp look at Matthew—“Isabel’s been trying to make some changes. Stepped up the acquisitions, a lot. She wants to lend things out more. Maybe even start public screenings. But, uh, there’s all this stuff in the trust that she, ah, has to work around.”
“You have to admit it’s odd,” said Ceinwen. Quit looking at your watch, Matthew, I’m trying to find out stuff here. “Film is supposed to be the people’s art form, yes? Not some exclusive club for academics.
“Ah. Well. Old Brody, he had some ideas. He though the big ones, um, the Casablancas and Gone with the Winds, those films’d be fine. But the silents, the obscure stuff, eventually it would be academics and, you know, intellectuals keeping them alive. Nobody else would care.” He picked up the reel and stuck it under his arm.
“We care,” said Ceinwen.
Fred leaned toward her and said, sotto voce, “We’re weird.”
“I’m sorry to rush,” said Matthew, “but Vladimir Arnold’s giving a lecture.”
“Rock star?” joked Ceinwen.
“For maths, yes,” was the curt reply.
“You better go then,” said Ceinwen. “I was hoping I could stick around and ask Fred about some things.”
Fred shifted the canister from one arm to the other. “Like what?”
“Like, nitrate.”
3.
“THEY’VE FOUND FILMS IN ALL KINDS OF PLACES. BROOM CLOSETS. Under porches. That guy in Vermont really did have everything in his tool shed. His wife decided on a big spring cleaning and the guy at the Brody got a tip that there was this collection and she was going to toss it all out, and he went up there and got all this stuff. And sometimes the prints would hit the end of the release period and the theaters never bothered—”
“May I interrupt?” Matthew had his burger in one hand; he’d been taking a bite whenever he gave up temporarily on trying to break in.
“Wait, this is important—they never bothered to return them to the studio. That’s how Kevin Brownlow found part of Napoleon, see. Czechoslovakia was the end of the line in Europe, and—”
Matthew put a finger to her lips. “I didn’t realize Fred was so fascinating. But—what’s that grin about?”
“You’ve been very patient, that’s all. Go on.”
“I’ve been trying to figure out why you wanted to spend—an hour and a half, was it?”
“An hour. He had to get back to the lab.”
“Pity. An hour, then, talking about film stock and where the Brody finds its films, when all you ever talked about before was watching films. And I have it now. You’re planning to look for this one.” She looked down and realized she’d only eaten about three bites. Admittedly, at Cozy Soup ’n’ Burger the things were as big as her head, but she had to do better than that or she’d never hear the end of it. “Aha. We’re not denying it. We’re engaging in diversionary eating.” She shrugged and continued to chew. “You think you’re going to find this film. Finish that, I’ll wait.”
At length, she said, “Maybe nobody ever looked for it before.”
“Maybe nobody else lives in your fantasy world.”
“I tend to assume that anyway.”
“Nice idea. Belongs in a movie. Like all your ideas. But you won’t find it. What you will find is the curse of dimensionality.”
“You know very well I don’t know what that is.” She took another bite.
“You will. When you head-butt it so hard you break that cute little nose you’re so proud of.” He handed her a napkin, and she wiped the lipstick off her chin.
“All right, professor,” she sighed. “You’re dying to tell me, so by all means, explain the curse of dimensionality.”
“In layman’s terms—”
“Oh goody. I don’t have a pencil, though.”
“In layman’s terms, and no talking out of turn please, it means that as a high number of dimensions, or here we can say variables, are added to a problem, there is an exponential increase in volume. The problem becomes unimaginably vast. In this case, for all intents and purposes, it becomes impossible.”
She took another bite and pondered. She had him. “You’re wrong.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. There aren’t that many variables,” she said. “There was a finite number of prints. And not that high a number, because it didn’t get a big release.”
“But there’s a much higher, indeterminate number of hands through which they passed. And sixty years during which the prints could have been dispersed who knows where. Even if there’s one left, it could be in Tahiti.”
“Well, no. Tropical climate. Probably wouldn’t last long there.”
“Ceinwen …”
“Nitrate should be stored in a cold place. Plus, we know it was only released here in the States. I don’t have to go to Czechoslovakia.”
“That’s a relief. Especially since you don’t have a passport. Which reminds me—”
“What time is it?” She gestured to the waitress for the check.
“It’s 7:15, and I can’t believe you—”
“We better pay up.”
“The movie’s not until eight. How can a grown woman—”
“We need a good seat. I’m short, remember.”
“Stop, I will not be distracted. It’s ludicrous, absolutely unbelievable that you let your license expire. How do you expect—”
“Excuse me, but—Ceinwen?” A man had walked over to their table, long-haired, slope-chinned, a coat that needed dry-cleaning in the worst way. She needed an out, fast. “It is you! Hello there! How are you?”
Too slow. Always too slow. She tried for a vaguely preoccupied smile and said, “Hey. I’m fine.”
“Good to see you. You’re still in the neighborhood?”
“I’m just having dinner.” The waitress came over and slipped the bill on the table.
He stuck out his hand at Matthew. “I’m Paul Becker.”
“Matthew Hill.” They shook hands. Then—friendly, too friendly—“How do you know Ceinwen?”
“From the film department over at Tisch.”
“I see. I’m at Courant. P
ostdoc.” Ceinwen examined the numbers on the check. Matthew motioned for her to give it to him, and Paul kept talking.
“Courant? Wow, that’s a big switch. Mathematics now?”
“I’m not at Courant, that’s just Matthew,” she said. “I’m working at the moment.”
“That’s great news. I know you were worried about having to leave the city. We’re all still hoping you can come back.”
“Oh,” she said, shrugging and keeping her eyes on Paul, “you never know.”
“You should definitely reapply. The aid parameters are always changing.” He turned to Matthew. “Ceinwen has a fine critical eye for film. Very promising student. But I’m sure you knew that.”
“Not really. She’s awfully modest,” said Matthew.
Paul was the nicest man in the film department, but that gray hair poking out of his unbuttoned collar had always bothered her. Still, if the choice was between a dead squirrel on a man’s chest and Matthew’s face at the moment …
“Hopefully you can give her some advice,” said Paul. “It’s good to have people familiar with the process. And you know, Ceinwen, like I told you at the time, you’re always welcome to stop by the office and I’ll be happy to help any way I can.” He started patting his coat. “Hang on, I’ll write it down. They switched me to another floor this year, all that work they’re doing on the building.” He was fishing in his pants pockets. “Don’t seem to have a pen.”
“Neither do I,” said Ceinwen. “Don’t worry, I can always look it up.”
“Here you are,” said Matthew. He reached in his jacket and pulled out a pen and his memo pad.
“Thanks.” Paul scrawled for a minute, then handed her the pad. “So this is where the office is now, and the phone, and I wrote down my hours. You should definitely come by sometime.” She thanked him, closed the cover to the memo pad and handed it to Matthew as Paul walked out.
Matthew opened the cover, tore the paper off the pad and pushed it across the table to her. “Don’t forget this. I’ll pay up.”
“Let me put on my coat and we can go.” She folded the paper and put it in her pocket.
“Wait here. I need change for the tip.” He was already halfway to the cashier. She decided to put on her coat and pretend they were almost ready to leave. When he got back to the table she was standing beside it, scarf around her neck and bag hooked over her arm. He sat and leaned his back against the wall.
“You’re going to stand? You’ll block the waitress.”
“We’re leaving, aren’t we?”
“No. We are not. What was that about?”
She sat down. “Paul is a film professor.”
“You don’t say. Not a lift operator?” She put her purse on the table and spotted a small thread coming loose from the stitching. “You lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie. You don’t tell me everything either.”
“You most certainly did lie.” So much for his taking that bait. “That first day we had lunch, I asked if you’d read history. And you said, ‘I didn’t go to college.’ In so many words. And you’ve never said a thing to correct that.”
“It was just a semester. I didn’t think it counted.”
“It counts. I think you know it counts.” She tried to pull off the thread and the stitching unraveled some more. “If I’d known you better I’d have known you were lying. You’re bad at it. Is that why you picked film, not acting?” The guitar player yelled when he got mad. Matthew’s voice got quieter, but meaner. “Are you going to tell me about this?”
She checked her watch. 7:30. “I got accepted but I didn’t think I could go because Granana was sick. But then she died and left me some savings bonds and an account she’d been keeping for me. And it was just enough for a semester. So I went. For a semester.”
“And you dropped out?”
Sure, that was exactly what she’d wanted to do. “Of course I didn’t just drop out. I didn’t have the money.”
“What about financial aid?”
Lord, this was tiresome. “Yeah, what about it. Spent half my time at that office. Most frustrating thing I’ve ever been through. That’s why I didn’t want to talk about it before, and I don’t want to talk about it now.”
“Your father couldn’t pay for anything?”
“No.” He was bringing up Daddy? What happened to the Matthew who just let things drop?
“Why not?” She’d pulled the stitching loose along about two inches of the flap now. He pushed her bag to one side of the table. “You couldn’t get financial aid, but your father couldn’t pay for anything?”
He wasn’t going to be satisfied until she came out with the whole thing. “No, he couldn’t. He hadn’t paid taxes in a while and everything he inherited went to pay them. Except the farm and the house in town. Those made him look pretty good on paper, even though he was always broke. They care about what you’ve got, not what you owe. And getting forms out of him was like pulling teeth because he was still all paranoid about the IRS. Plus they wanted to know why one minute I could pay and the next minute I couldn’t. And I finally did get some aid, just not enough. I got enough to cover half. Maybe a little more. Didn’t matter how I juggled it, I couldn’t make it work. So I said all right, later, and I got a job so I wouldn’t have to go back to Mississippi. I figured maybe I could apply as self-supporting in a couple of years. But I haven’t.” She remembered her cigarettes and reached for her purse. “Cross-examination over?”
“Wait, you’re angry with me? That’s rich. You might have asked me about it. I’ve had to help students with aid this year.”
“Why would you know anything? Here they pay you. Back in merry old socialist England you didn’t have to pay a cent.” She pulled out a cigarette and lit up.
His voice got louder. “Socialist? Ever heard of Thatcher?”
“Wait, she’s persecuting Cambridge now? I thought it was just the Irish.”
“That’s all you Americans ever …” He stopped and let out a long breath. “Oh no. No, you’re not doing this. You’re not changing the subject, Miss Reilly. I didn’t design your bloody education system, so spare me the right-wing Southern belle act.”
“Well now, speaking of Southern,” she drawled. “College wasn’t exactly a common thing back in Yazoo City. Let alone film school. I know that’s hard for an upper-crust London boy to appreciate.”
“Oh for fuck sake, not this again. Upper-crust, too right. Me and Prince Charles, we’re mates.” He pushed her wrist to one side to get the smoke away from him. “What are you talking about? Did you ever try to get a job on a film, instead of standing around behind a counter all day?”
“I happen to be good at standing behind that counter.”
“Of course you are. Why wouldn’t you be. Reading about James II. Memorizing every line of His Girl Friday. Spending all day saying ‘may I help you.’ Practically the same thing.”
“Oh, that’s not snobbish. Not at all.”
“You’re the one always dragging background into it, not me. I guess I’m supposed to agree that you fit right in at a shop. I’m sure that’s exactly what you’d like to be doing in twenty years.” His voice softened a bit. “Go on, admit it. That can’t be what you want.”
“What I want,” she said, taking her last drag, “is to make rent on time this month. And before that, I want to make it to Bleecker Street for Children of Paradise. If I cared about all this I’d have mentioned it in the first place.” She stubbed out the cigarette and stood up, but the thought of going to the movie by herself didn’t appeal. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t a good year, all right?”
He was still sitting. Finally he said, “All right. Have it your way. But don’t do that again.”
“Drop out of college?”
“Don’t lie to me.” He picked up his coat. “Or play dumb, for that matter. ‘Drop out of college?’ Not all men find that cute.”
It turned that out that seeing a movie, even a great movie, with someone who was still fu
ming wasn’t all that appealing, either. Like sitting next to Chief Scar from The Searchers. “Not only are you rich, you want to be loved as if you were poor,” said Arletty. Matthew’s expression never changed. She couldn’t tell if he liked it, and she couldn’t ask.
Somehow they wound up going back to his place and she decided to change in the bathroom. She had the old debate with herself about whether to wash off her makeup, and wound up doing it. She brushed her teeth, still getting pleasure from the fact that he’d never thrown away the toothbrush she left at his place back in November. When she came out in just her underwear, the light was off and he was in bed, breathing deeply; he almost never snored.
“Why have me over if you’re going to do that?” she said to his back, not bothering to whisper. She slipped onto the bed. “It isn’t enough to be mad, I have to go to your place and see you fall asleep because you’re mad?” The breathing didn’t change. He really was asleep.
She pulled up the covers and thought about the best way to track down a bunch of old people, until she fell asleep herself.
The sun couldn’t have been up long, the light hadn’t fully come in the windows; but yet again she couldn’t make herself get back to sleep. She went to the kitchen and drank a glass of water while she thought some more.
She walked back into the bedroom. Matthew was on his stomach, both arms under the pillow. Kings sleep on their backs, rich men sleep on their stomachs, Granana had told her. Ceinwen slept curled into a ball; she couldn’t remember what that meant. She braced her hands on the side of the bed, then threw herself onto it with a bounce that shook the entire mattress and brought Matthew up on one arm, hand to his eyes.
“What …”
“Oh god, I’m so sorry. I was getting back into bed and I tripped. I didn’t mean to shake the whole bed like that.” He collapsed back onto the pillow. “But now that you’re awake, I might as well tell you about this.”
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