“Moses.”
“Moses, you my pilastro.”
“What do the pilastro do?” Moses asked.
Tony took the rope from Bunny and wrapped it around Moses’ chest. “The pilastro, he hold the affaccio.”
“Uh-huh. Jus’ tell me what I ‘spose to do.”
Mr. Filesi took a crowbar and broke off a corner of the cornice. With the fallen plaster he drew an X on the tar, a step and a half away from the edge. “You gotta stand here and not move an inch.” He looked into the big man’s eyes. “I’ma count on you, Moses?”
“I ain’t gonna move.”
“I believe you,” said Mr. Filesi. “I gonna fly, and when I’ma fly, I need one strong pilastro. Bunny, he the bridge. And’ my compare, Tony, he the fisherman. Now we a team.”
Tony took the end of the rope and fed it over the edge of the roof, measuring lengths of it against his arm. He pulled it back up and tied it around Mr. Filesi’s hips and crotch, fashioning a kind of sling. “There,” he said.
Bunny planted his feet against the ledge and then leaned back, wrapping his arms around Moses’ thighs, as in a strange dance figure. “You hold onta me, too, but don’t get no funny ideas. Don’t try t’ touch my ass or I’ll hafta pull ya dick off.”
Mr. Filesi and Tony laughed. And Moses laughed too, folding his huge arms around Bunny.
“Ready,” said Bunny.
“Ready,” said Moses.
Mr. Filesi climbed onto the ledge. “Keep that steel cable stretched tight,” he said to the group of men. “And when Tony tell you pull, you pull.”
Tony paid out the rope and Mr. Filesi began lowering himself, dangling in the air. The crowd on the sidewalk gasped. Christmas squeezed Maria’s hand.
Cyril strode over to Karl. “You was right,” he told him. “I’m mighty sorry.”
“Never mind,” said Karl, without taking his eyes off Mr. Filesi who was descending slowly, until he was under the iron structure.
“Ready,” said Mr. Filesi.
“He all yours now,” Tony told Bunny and Moses.
“Right now he’s pretty light, but don’t kid y’self, he’s gonna get heavy,” Bunny told Moses.
“I ain’t movin’ from here,” said Moses.
“O.K., ready,” said Bunny.
Tony picked up the two rods, one in each hand, and passed them down to Mr. Filesi, easing them between the cornice and the metal structure.
Lying horizontally, his feet braced against the building, Mr. Filesi held a rod in either hand. He bent his legs, clamped his jaw and then stretched out his legs, simultaneously pushing the two rods outward. The structure retreated from the building wall, balanced on the two parallel rods.
“The tracks, they ready,” gasped Mr. Filesi, his face red with effort.
“You can hold?” asked Tony.
“Va fangul, tell ’em to pull now!”
“Filesi, when I see you face look-a so nice an’ red, it make-a me think of a big jug of vino.”
“Stronzo!”
“When I say ‘Now!’ you gotta pull,” Tony told the group of black men. “Nice an’ slow, steady, without no jerkin’. An’ don’ let go needa, otherwise my pal end up all over da sidewalk,” he said, looking serious; and then he called down to Mr. Filesi, “If I don’ see you no more, I want tell you: You good friend,” and he laughed.
“Va fangul, Tony.”
“Now!” shouted Tony.
The iron structure, screeching along the tracks, began to move upwards without crashing into the cornice, held off only by Mr. Filesi’s strength. When it reached the upper edge of the cornice, Tony turned towards the men. “Hold it like that! Jus’ hold it!” Then he told Mr. Filesi, “Gimme da tracks.” He pulled the rods up and dropped them on the roof. “Bunny, pull up da flyer.”
“Move back,” Bunny told Moses. “But do it slow.”
Moses began to back up, guided by Bunny. Mr. Filesi, helped by Tony, reappeared on the roof.
“Keep it tight like that,” Filesi told the men on the cable. “Come on, fisherman,” he said to Tony. “Now we land da fish.”
“Lemme give you a han’,” said Moses.
“No. Moses, this not your job,” said Mr. Filesi. “Come on, Tony,” and he grabbed one side of the structure’s base.
Tony took hold of the other side. “We twist to the right?”
“Where you see place for twist, eh?”
“You take alla da weight, you too old,” snickered Tony.
“Quit talkin’ or I pull up here by myself!”
“I’m-a ready.”
“Now!”
Whimpering with the effort, but with the lightness of two breathless dancers, they rolled the structure along the ledge, and in an instant it fell noisily onto the roof, making an imprint in the tarred surface. Satisfied, the two longshoremen hugged each other and, as if nothing special had happened, brushed the dust off their overalls while Christmas, Maria, Karl, Cyril, Moses, and the other nine men applauded, along with the crowd on the sidewalk.
“You wan’ we should stan’ this thing up, or can you do it?” Mr. Filesi asked Christmas, with a playful smile.
“We couldn’t never have got it up here without you,” Cyril told him, “even if you is white.”
Signor Filesi shrugged. “The skin, that no matter. We do job like this alla time,” he said modestly. Then he turned toward Moses, tapping the giant’s chest with a finger. “Whenever you want, we got work for you at Pier Thirteen. Eh, Tony? Moses, maybe he green right now, but he not just pretty face.”
“Moses? Oh yeah, he’s-a strong, all right … even if he a negro,” Tony said, with a wink at Cyril.
Moses chuckled. “Why, thank you kindly,” he said.
“Now — you satisfy my curiosity,” said Mr. Filesi. “What the hell is that thing?”
“It’s our radio station,” Christmas said proudly.
49
Los Angeles, 1927
Dear Christmas,
I found out only a short time ago that you had written me. I never got your letters. And you never got the ones I wrote to you. Because of my mother. My father asked me not to hate her. But I don’t know what I feel.
I’m hot and cold all at once, my hands are trembling, there’s something like a knot in my stomach; I can’t even say what it feels like; I feel confused and dazed, and I want to laugh and cry out at the same time.
For the moment, I’ll settle for weeping.
To cry like this is a kind of liberation, did you know that? To weep out all the tears I have inside, without holding them back, without imprisoning them in ice, without being afraid that my life might overflow the banks and flow away.
It’s funny. I feel as if I were sitting on our bench with you. Then too I was hot and cold at the same time, and my hands trembled, and I didn’t know how to give a name to the emotion that tied my stomach in knots.
But you were with me. And I wasn’t too frightened.
Afterwards, it was different. The warmth went out of my life and out of my body, leaving only a paralyzing chill. I didn’t let my hands tremble; I used them to hold on tightly to the seat of the train that took me away from you. I didn’t feel like laughing anymore. Only like screaming. But I never did. I just waited. I waited for you, for a letter, some kind of sign from you. A sign that you would come and save me for a second time, that we would sit on our bench again, that you would help me break the terrible spell that was cast on me that night when a little girl grew old without ever having been a woman.
But your letters never came. And one day I stopped waiting. My hands let go of the life preserver and I sank into those dark cold waters, drifting, no longer wanting to come back to shore.
In our fairy tale there are too many monsters and evil witches. And now I’m too old to be brave enough to fight them off and come looking for you. I’m afraid of finding you sitting on that bench with some other girl. I’m afraid that bench might not even exist anymore. I’m afraid you no longer reme
mber my name. I’m afraid you don’t have time to listen to what I need to tell you. I’m afraid of not knowing how to tell you.
But I’ll imagine your words that I never got to read. And I’ll let them warm me. Whenever I’m scared, whenever it’s dark. Whenever I feel like laughing.
Forgive me if I don’t know how to do better. Forgive me for not having had faith in you. Forgive me for letting the monsters contaminate our story. Forgive me for not having been able to grow up, only to grow old. Forgive me for not having known how to believe in us.
But we did exist. And inside of me we will exist forever.
Now I’m getting up from the bench. Christmas, Christmas, Christmas. Christmas. How beautiful it is to say your name. I love you.
Yours, and never yours,
Ruth
Ruth folded the sheet of paper in half. Then she ripped it. Again and again. Until she had reduced it to tiny pieces, like confetti. Then she stood at the window and scattered them in the air.
A man walking along the sidewalk on Venice Boulevard looked up and saw a dark-haired girl on the fourth floor of a building. She seemed to be staring at a little snowstorm of paper. Even though he couldn’t see her eyes from that distance, he was sure the girl was crying. Quietly. With the dignity a huge dark sorrow exacted.
“This morning’s model just phoned to say he can’t come to the studio,” said Clarence as he came into her room.
When Ruth turned to look at him her eyes were dry. Her face was taut with sadness.
Mr. Bailey glanced down, as if he’d suddenly found her naked. “Excuse me,” he said softly.
“Oh, so I have a day off, then?” Ruth said playfully.
“No,” said Clarence. “He wants you to come to his house.”
Ruth stiffened.
“He’s a good person,” said Clarence.
Ruth’s eyes wandered around the room.
“He’s strange … but he’s a good person.” Mr. Bailey came and stood near Ruth. “He’s sending his car for you, but if you prefer I can drive you and come with you.”
“No, it’s fine.” Ruth picked up her bag and began to check her cameras.
“Is there anything I can do?” Clarence asked.
Ruth turned to look at him. She knew he wasn’t talking about her photo assignment. She shook her head and smiled at him. Then she hugged him. “Thank you,” she said.
Mr. Bailey stroked her hair, in silence, for a long time. As if time had stopped.
Ruth felt a kind of peace that soothed her pain and bewilderment.
She’d thought that Christmas had forgotten her. She had doubted him. Because she was filthy and everything she saw was dirty too, she’d told herself. And this was her greatest sorrow, that she hadn’t had faith in Christmas. I betrayed you, she thought. And she felt crushed by a huge weight. “I don’t deserve you.”
She stepped back from the embrace. She looked at Mr. Bailey. “I’ve never photographed anybody that important,” she said.
Clarence smiled at her.
“I mean it,” said Ruth.
“He’s got a face like the rest of us. Two eyes, a nose and a mouth,” said Mr. Bailey.
Ruth sighed. “And what if he can’t stand my photos?”
“Look at him and make sure he has the right light,” said Mr. Bailey.
Ruth was about to speak but the door flew open and Odette appeared. “Mr. Barrymore’s driver is here,” she said.
“Go on,” said Mr. Bailey. He bent over, picked up Ruth’s bag and handed it to her. “Two eyes, a nose, a mouth,” he said again.
Ruth gave him an uncertain smile, then took her camera bag and walked towards the door. “Clarence,” she said, turning back, “can I stay here?”
Mr. Bailey stared at her, astonished.
“I know I’m making enough to afford an apartment now,” said Ruth, “but I’d like to stay in this room. May I?”
Clarence laughed. “Go along now, hurry,” he told her.
The driver opened the door of the beautiful car for her, just as Fred used to do. Ruth slid inside and sat back on the leather seat, clutching her bag.
When they arrived at the villa a Hispanic housekeeper came out to speak to the driver in an undertone. She looked worried, glancing at Ruth from time to time.
“Well, are we going to get started?” a deep voice thundered from inside the house. And then John Barrymore came into view, “the Great Profile,” as everyone in Hollywood called him because of his perfect nose. He was wearing a satin dressing gown and his hair was mussed.
The housekeeper looked at Ruth again. Troubled. “Ha bebido,” she murmured.
“Are you the one who’s going to shoot me?” John Barrymore said. “Come on, let’s get it over with,” and he went back into the house.
Ruth hesitated a moment, holding her camera bag, then she entered the house.
The great actor had flung himself into an armchair in the living room. He was forty-five years old, possessed of a beauty that was dramatic and disarming at the same time. He seemed not to notice Ruth’s presence. He was looking into emptiness, with a lost, distant expression. As if he weren’t there.
Ruth knelt down in silence and took out her Leica. She snapped a photo. His profile. That perfect profile, marred by an unruly lock of hair across his brow. And those eloquent eyes, staring at nothing.
Barrymore turned and looked at Ruth as if he were only now aware of her, and his beautiful face broadened in a distant smile. “Ah, you’ve betrayed me, haven’t you?” he said.
“I’m sorry,” said Ruth, getting to her feet.
John Barrymore laughed. “Then I’ll call you ‘Traitress.’ I’m famous for bestowing nicknames.”
“May I shoot a few more like this?” she asked him.
“Of course. I’m entirely yours, Traitress,” said Barrymore, and he struck a pose, smiling.
Ruth lowered the camera. “Please don’t smile.”
“Don’t you want my female admirers to see me happy?”
Ruth didn’t answer. She only stared intensely at him.
Barrymore kept the smile on his lips, but his eyes became dark and thoughtful.
Ruth shot again and then advanced the film.
Barrymore turned away from her. The light coming through the living room windows haloed his tousled hair. His broad straight shoulders hunched; his hands clenched into fists.
Ruth shot again.
Barrymore turned back to look at her. He had a lovely sensual mouth, almost that of an adolescent, lips barely parted. And his eyes were lost.
Ruth shot, reloaded.
“I’ll get dressed,” said Barrymore, rising now, stumbling towards an adjacent room.
Ruth waited a few seconds, then she followed him.
Barrymore was in a shadowy room. Only a blade of light coming from between two heavy curtains illuminated him. His feet were bare, a bottle lay on the floor nearby, and his hands were clasped as if in prayer. His head was lowered, looking at the bottle. He didn’t move.
Ruth opened the shutter as wide as possible. She leaned against the doorjamb to minimize the chance of her moving. And then she shot.
Barrymore didn’t react.
Ruth came into the room, barely opened the curtains, so that the light fell on the actor’s rumpled hair. She knelt to one side and shot. She moved to the front and shot again. “Look at me,” she said.
Barrymore only raised his eyes.
Ruth shot.
“I’ll never let you publish these. You know that, don’t you, Traitress?” said Barrymore in his warm voice, veiled in melancholy. There was no arrogance or aggressiveness in his look.
Ruth shot. “I’m giving them to you,” she said. “You can do what you want with them.”
“I’ll rip them up,” said Barrymore.
She shot again. “I ripped up something this morning, too,” she said, surprised at her own confession.
“What was it?”
“Something I didn’t want to see,�
� and her eyes, behind the mask of the Leica, glistened with tears as she reloaded.
Barrymore leaned forward. He took the camera from her hand, looked for her in the viewfinder and shot a photo. “Sorry, Traitress,” he said, handing the Leica back to her. “You were very beautiful just then.”
Ruth blushed and got to her feet.
Barrymore laughed. “There: I’ve stolen your soul away.”
Ruth didn’t answer.
Barrymore stood up from the chair, put a hand on her shoulder and said, “Give me five minutes. I’ll get dressed, and then we’ll make some photos people can actually see.” He looked at her. “Don’t worry, I won’t smile.”
Ruth went back to the living room. She sat where John Barrymore had been sitting earlier. She wanted to feel his warmth. And then she thought of the confetti floating over Venice Boulevard. Of the letter she would never have the courage to send Christmas. “I’ll find you,” Christmas had said at Grand Central Station more than three years before. Since that day she’d waited for him to find her. She would still wait. Because she wasn’t brave enough to help him find her. “Yours, and never yours,” she told herself.
Over the next hour John Barrymore posed patiently for her, taking on all the brooding expressions he was famed for. But not a single one of these shots revealed the shadowy self that Ruth’s images had stolen earlier.
The next day Ruth developed the photos. All of them. She consigned the official ones to Clarence and then went to Barrymore’s house. “Here are the negatives and the photos I took without your permission,” she told him. “Nobody’s seen them.”
Barrymore looked at them. “You’re good, Traitress,” he said. “This is what I am.”
Ruth took another photo out of her purse and gave it to him. Barrymore looked at it. It was the one he’d made of Ruth.
“This is what I am, too,” she said. “Tear it up along with yours, when you get around to it.”
As Ruth went away, Barrymore turned the photo over and read on its back, For Christmas. Yours, and never yours, the Traitress.
50
Manhattan, 1927
When people from the neighborhood passed by and looked up at the big clock marking seven thirty, they always smiled. The white policemen who looked up would shake their heads and invariably comment, “Niggers. Who else would be after puttin’ up a clock that don’t work?” Everyone in the neighborhood smiled delightedly when they heard these remarks because they knew what was behind the fake clock. Cyril had painted the unmoving dial. On the day Mr. Filesi had hoisted the relay tower onto the roof of the 125th Street tenement, the first patrolmen to come by had asked a lot of questions. Christmas didn’t know what to tell them; the station was, after all, clandestine. He told them it was the armature for a big clock.
The Boy Who Granted Dreams Page 43