That slapped her into responding in kind. “I never expected anything from you, Miriam. Believe me, I don’t even expect good morning.”
“You and your pitiful act over your boyfriend, and me falling for it, giving you what you want so you’d be happy and go away …”
“Pitiful? I was curious, that’s all.”
“You were curious all right. So you come in here and you drink my coffee and smoke my cigarettes and you wheedle the most intimate details of my life out of me, all in that smarmy Southern voice of yours. ‘Oh Miriam,’” she mimicked, making Ceinwen sound like one of the Yazoo City debs. “‘Ah’m jes’ dyin’ to know what it was lahk to make a gen-yoo-ine motion pick-chur.” Miriam was standing still now, but this time she didn’t look steady doing it.
“I didn’t say that. I asked you—”
“And then you use that to run around digging up things that are absolutely none of your business. Writing to Lucy Pierrepoint, that god-bothering bitch. Asking her about Emil, when she never missed a chance to harass and humiliate him.”
“I was asking her about Frank Gregory.”
“Oh really? Did you ask whether he was a good lay, too? Going to see Leon Whitman. Did Norman happen to tell you what we called him? Did he?”
“No, he—”
“Uriah Heep. Crawling around that set, bowing and scraping. He was a toad. I’m amazed you didn’t get that out of Norman too, while you were busy going behind my back to him. How did you manage to track down Norman? Did you sneak a look at my address book when I was out of the room, like you nosed around my photographs?”
“What gives you the right to accuse me of that?” Ceinwen was finally on her feet and raising her voice, too. “You didn’t even tell me he was alive. Matthew had to go all the way to the L.A. Times archives and—”
“But of course, get your boyfriend involved too. He’s even sneakier than you are and his accent is better, too.”
“He only did it because of me!”
“I believe that. I believe you’d ask the man for his right arm if you thought it would do you any good.”
She was, to her relief, much too angry now to give any thought to tears. “I wasn’t doing it only for myself. I was doing it because if people work hard on something it deserves to survive.”
“And you deserve to be Joan of Arc, running in and saving all these pathetic old people, isn’t that it? Your incredible selfishness, your conceit. If you can’t make movies, you can at least worm your way in with people who did.” She stood up. “Get out.”
Miriam was still shaking, but Ceinwen was no longer worried about that. She was staring at Miriam’s face, the blotches that had never marred it before. The way her mouth was showing wrinkles that Ceinwen hadn’t known were there. “I’m a liar? That’s rich. You aren’t upset that I was nosy and went around talking to people who used to think you were a slut. You’re afraid the movie’s no good.”
“If you think I won’t call the police to get you out of here, you’re wrong.”
“You only saw it once,” she shouted. “Practically nobody else alive ever saw it, and if they did they’re too old to remember it. And now if it gets restored and people watch it, maybe they’ll react the same way they did back in Pomona. Maybe a critic will see it and say the same things as that guy from the Times.” She breathed deep and spat out every adjective. “That Emil was a lousy director and the movie’s a silly, pretentious piece of trash.”
“I’m picking up the phone right now,” said Miriam, and began to walk.
“You don’t want anybody to see you act.” Her voice was emerging so loud her throat began to burn. “You’re afraid you really were terrible. You call me selfish? You got your nerve, Miriam Clare.”
“My name is Gibson!”
“You’d rather have Emil’s last movie gone for good than have anybody look at a few reels and think he was a fool to put you in it!”
“Dear god,” shouted Miriam, “what does it take? What do I have to say to get you and your bleach-blonde hair out of here? Leave. I’m standing here with my hand on the phone. Leave!”
The door slammed behind Ceinwen with a force that knocked a paint chip off the jamb. She stood there, trembling herself, looking at the other door on the landing and wondering if there was a neighbor behind it, listening. She walked upstairs and discovered that Jim and Talmadge were standing in the open door to the apartment.
“That went well,” said Jim.
“I guess everybody in the building heard,” said Ceinwen.
“Possibly,” said Jim. “Kind of hard to catch all the details, but I don’t think she likes you anymore.”
“We came out here to see if we needed to break up a fight,” said Talmadge. “I thought you could take her, but Jim was afraid she might try a sucker punch.”
“She called me conniving. And a witch. And selfish and conceited,” said Ceinwen.
“Now that makes me mad,” said Jim. “I say you march right back down there and get that scarf back.” He paused. “After we finish the champagne.”
They went to the kitchen. “Talmadge made himself some tea,” said Jim. “What’s the herb tonight?”
“Chamomile,” said Talmadge. Ceinwen stood next to the kitchen table, hugging herself and staring at the stove. “Very soothing,” he added. She grabbed her neck. “You two can have some after the champagne. To cleanse.”
Jim paused at the fridge. “Maybe Ceinwen doesn’t feel like celebrating.”
She drew herself up. “Of course I do. Just because Miriam’s crazy doesn’t mean I’m not gonna celebrate.”
Jim poured the champagne into their one set of highball glasses and they toasted. “To Ceinwen’s obsessiveness,” he said, cheerfully, and she drank to that without a second thought. They sat for a little while, Ceinwen telling them about how long it would take to restore the film, and leaving out the technical bits when Talmadge started to do his cheekbone-popping exercises. She drained the last of her glass. “I have to call Norman,” she said.
“Didn’t you talk to him enough?” asked Talmadge. “And oh. By the way.” He draped an arm along the back of the couch with an air that was almost flirtatious. “I think Matthew is a lee-tle jealous of him.”
She stopped halfway to the phone. “Jealous of Norman?”
“Just a feeling I had,” said Talmadge, eyes crinkling and voice getting deep and mysterious. “The way Matthew said you went all the way uptown so Norman could show you his films and, ah, how to clean them up.”
“That’s Fred,” said Jim, “not Norman. Norman is the eighty-something-year-old gay guy. Try to keep up, Talmadge.”
“I thought the old guy was named Harry.” Talmadge sounded annoyed.
“He’s the old professor.”
“The one who had the movie?”
“No. Jesus. Harry is the one—”
Talmadge put up his hand. “This is way too complicated for me. Of course, if Ceinwen had told me all this stuff from the beginning instead of keeping me in the dark—not that I’m hurt about that or anything.”
“I thought Miriam would be mad at me if I told people,” said Ceinwen.
“Pshaw, you’re paranoid,” said Jim.
She found Norman’s number, dialed. Busy signal. She hung up and went back to the living room. They finished the bottle of champagne and she took some chamomile tea, tepid now. Talmadge and Jim began to debate ways to get her scarf back from Miriam. Jim was hoping Miriam would have enough class to wrap it up and leave it on their welcome mat. Talmadge was talking about the People’s Court. She went back to her room and dialed again. This time, it rang.
“Am I speaking to Norman Stallings?”
“My dear lady adventuress. Are you yet living?”
“I was trying to call you. The line was busy.”
“That it was. It was turning blue, as a matter of fact.”
“What?”
“I haven’t heard that kind of language from Miriam since the day this Iran sc
andal broke. Which, come to think of it, wasn’t that long ago. Maybe she’s always had a low-down vocabulary and I never bothered to notice.”
“She hates me now,” said Ceinwen.
“I could deny it, of course, but that would be deceitful. I didn’t think Miriam could surprise me anymore. But this was … unexpected.”
“I’m sorry, Norman,” she said. “I totally did worm Leon’s name out of you.”
“Yes. But you weren’t exactly subtle. I could have told you to buzz off.”
“I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”
“She’ll get over it. She isn’t really mad at me, anyway. She was going on about how helpless I am, a regular babe in the woods, out there getting taken by reporters and conniving blondes. I reminded her of all my time in Army Intelligence spotting shady characters, and let’s not forget Hollywood, those folks could have outfoxed Rommel. She told me I’m a sucker for a pretty face, male or female, and that’s why when I met Eve Harrington, all I did was feed her cake.”
“Eve?” That was what Miriam thought of her now, Eve? Now she did feel like crying.
“Yes. Don’t get too upset. Eve makes out all right.”
It was so unfair. “Did you point out that Emil wanted people to see Mysteries?”
“Certainly. I told her that was why I talked to you. She said even Frank Gregory didn’t cut away four reels, and Emil wouldn’t have wanted that, any more than he’d have wanted to live with all four of his limbs cut off. I asked her to consider the possibility that she was being an itty-bitty teeny-weeny bit melodramatic, and at that point she became quite hostile.”
“That’s not true. It can’t be true. A director doesn’t put his heart into a film so—”
“Shh, I know. I told her to pour herself a drink and call me when she was ready to be reasonable.”
“That was that?”
“No, she told me never to mention your name again and then that was that.” Ceinwen sniffled. “She’s been mad before. She’ll climb back down to earth sooner or later. And she won’t kill me, I’m too old. She’s a practical sort, she’ll just wait for the day I drop in my tracks.” She wondered if she’d outlive Miriam, or if Miriam would live on into the next century, waiting for Ceinwen’s smoking to take its toll. “Pull up your garters, girl. You’ve saved part of our legacy as Americans, wasn’t that your goal?” Maybe, she thought. I think my goal has hockey-puck syndrome. “All right then, tell me, when do they unveil this multiple amputee?”
“The Brody says it could take a year, maybe more.”
“That should be just enough time for Miriam to calm down,” said Norman. “Meantime, do watch out in the lobby. Icebergs, dead ahead.”
She told Norman she’d keep him apprised of the Brody’s progress, since clearly Miriam wasn’t going to do it, and hung up. She could still hear Talmadge and Jim out in the living room. George had given Talmadge the air a couple of weeks before, and Talmadge was complaining about Jim’s lack of sympathy. She scanned her bookshelves, not looking for anything in particular, and her eye lit on the paper bag that held the Mysteries of Udolpho still, sitting on top of a row of books. She took it down and carried it into the living room.
“How’s Norman?” asked Talmadge.
“He’s good. Would you like to see what he looked like, when he was young?”
She slid the still out of the wrapper and cautioned Talmadge not to get fingerprints on it.
“Wait, so this one is Norman? Well, looks aren’t everything.”
“He looks fine,” sighed Jim.
“This one’s gorgeous, who’s he?”
“Edward Kenny,” she said, “the star. He’s at the Motion Picture Home now. They told me he’s senile.”
“Time and chance happeneth to us all,” said Jim.
“What’s that, Shakespeare?”
“It’s the Bible.”
“Oh, excuse me. Which one is the director, the one with his elbow on the camera?” Talmadge held it a little closer. “Not bad. Hm, kind of a small chin. Northern Europeans.”
“I was going to give it to Miriam,” said Ceinwen. “To celebrate finding the film.”
“I’d say it’s yours now,” said Jim drily. “You should frame it.”
She took it back and looked again. Miriam. Edward Kenny. Norman, holding a script. Probably Louis Delgado. And Emil.
“I’ll do that,” she said. “I’ll do it when the film is preserved. And I’ll hang it up.”
They all looked for another minute. “The men’s side at the store just got some picture frames in,” said Talmadge.
“No,” said Jim.
“Art Deco style. Perfect for an old photo.”
“Talmadge, I am telling you, no.”
2.
HARRY WAS SITTING BEHIND HIS DESK FOR ONCE, INSTEAD OF ON TOP of it. “I called the Brody today. Talked to the director, Ms. Chung. And I asked her what they had. My Crowd, for one thing. I told you Andy would keep that one. But get this.” His brows were straining to reach his cheekbones. “She said that they were very excited, because there was a film in there that had previously been thought lost.”
“A lost film? You’re kidding.” She hoped that sounded surprised.
“I know! Of course I asked her which one and she said they aren’t formally announcing it yet. Cool customer, that one. Fits right in at the Brody, they always were a strange bunch. But, more importantly”—he braced his hands on the desk—“can you believe that lunatic?”
“Which lunatic?”
“Andy! That so-called colleague of mine! Not only was he storing nitrate, piles and piles of nitrate for god’s sake in his own building, but he had a lost film down there and he hadn’t breathed a word to a soul. Mind you, I always knew he was off his rocker, all you have to do is look at his office, although this is a math department, everyone’s a little odd. But a lost film?”
“Maybe he didn’t realize it was lost.”
“Of course he realized. He probably wanted it because it was lost. And he was going to let it sit down there until either it crumbled to dust, or the whole complex burned to the rafters, whichever came first. If there were any justice in the world the building would evict him and Courant would toss him out by his hair.”
“Is that what’s going to happen?”
“Not a chance.” Harry made a little grunt of disgust. “Tenure. They wrote him a stern rebuke. I’m sure he was crushed. But”—he held up his finger—“I’ve fixed him. I’ve fixed his little red wagon. There was a faculty meeting today, and of course Andy wasn’t there. Can’t be bothered with meetings, they’re boring. God forbid Andy should be bored. And do you know what I did?”
“You voted to censure him,” she guessed. Harry shook his head. “You docked his pay?”
“No! I moved to make him department chair for next year! And it passed on a voice vote. No nays, no abstentions.” Harry threw back his head and let out a great, booming laugh.
“But, isn’t that an honor? Department chair?”
“An honor, she says. It’s the biggest pain in the tokus you can possibly imagine. And it’s a four-year appointment. Four years of memos and letters and budgets and meetings and you better believe, I mean you should bet your life that I will be breathing down his neck every step of the way.”
“That’s great,” she told him. Wasn’t this supposed to be a final interview? “Um, Harry … my test. Weren’t we going to …”
“Oh, that. You’re hired.”
She blinked. “I am?”
He waved his hand like the pope blessing the crowd. “Sure you are. Congratulations.”
“Tania is fine with that?”
“Tania left it up to me.”
She had to ask. Harry was too good a person to have a lousy secretary. “Harry, you saw my typing test, right?”
“Sixty words a minute! You’re a speed demon. You start training a week from Monday.”
“I, uh, made seven errors.”
“Errors, schm
errors. It’s all on computers nowadays. You go back and fix them before you print it out. Problem solved.” He peered at her. “Believe me, that’s plenty good enough. Angie used to make twice that many mistakes on one page.”
“I’m sure I’ll get better the more I do it,” she said.
“Of course, of course. Besides,” said Harry, “it would be a novelty to have a face around here a man can look at without shuddering.” He looked at her, waiting.
“His Girl Friday,” she said.
His eyebrows were working. “Director?”
“Oh come on. Howard Hawks.”
“Who played Diamond Louie?”
“Abner Biberman.”
“And that,” he shouted, smacking his hand on the desk, “is why you’re hired. Get out of here. Go get that limey a drink.”
The light was on in Matthew’s office and the door was open. She peeked in; he was at the blackboard, chalk in hand, writing out something at the bottom of an equation. She grabbed the door jamb and swung herself into the room, a real MGM musical move. “Hel-lo theah,” she chirped in her best British.
“Hello,” he said quietly, and put down the chalk. “All done with Harry?”
“Mm-hm.” She perched herself on the desk, crossed her legs and twitched up her skirt. “I start training a week from Monday.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“And the remission kicks in for the fall semester.” She swung one leg over the other. “But that’s not why I’m here. There’s a Michael Powell series at MoMA starting next week.”
“I don’t know about that.” He was walking to the door.
“Don’t be a bore, this is your native country we’re talking about. All I’ve seen is The Red Shoes.”
He shut the door. “I can’t make it.”
“You can’t work all the time, not even Harry expects you to. The first one’s I Know Where I’m Going!”
He leaned against the door. “Anna will be here in about three weeks.”
Missing Reels Page 37