“Really I’m supposed to keep problems from happening,” said Nick, opening the door marked eleven, and beckoning Christmas inside. “This is your temporary lair. Desk, typewriter, a stenographer if you can’t type, food, drink, and a good salary.”
Christmas gazed around.
“You don’t have to turn in completed screenplays, but ideas. Subjects,” Nick continued. “Stories, scenes, descriptions, anecdotes. Then our screenwriters develop what you’ve given us. Easy, huh?”
“If that’s all you need, you could have just listened to my program,” said Christmas. “Easy, huh?”
“Ah, now I see,” said Nick, sitting in front of the typewriter. “You’re one of those horses that don’t like being tamed.”
“I’m afraid that’s right,” said Christmas.
“Sit down here, Christmas,” said Nick. “Just do me this one favor. Sit down and tell me if it’s a comfortable chair. Do you want a leather one? One that’s softer? Tell me how you want it, and you’ll get it.” He waited till Christmas sat down. “How does it feel? Now put a blank page in the typewriter. The paper’s in the right-hand drawer.”
Christmas hesitated. Then he opened the drawer, took a sheet of paper, and fed it under the roller. He felt something like a shiver. He liked the sound of the roller as it turned, winding the paper up with it.
“All right, try to imagine,” said Nick. “Right now, it’s a piece of white paper. Nothing but a piece of white paper. But you’re going to write your words on it. And your words are going to make a person — a character — come to life. A man, a woman, a little boy. And you’re going to assign a destiny to that person. Glory, tragedy, victory, defeat. And then a director will come. And an actor. And those words are going to be filmed. And then, in some godforsaken movie house in — who knows, you name some shitty town in the lost ass of the world — there, in that room, there’ll be people who’ll be living out the destiny you chose and they’ll know it’s theirs, and they’ll believe that they’re there, in some place that’s real, yes, but imaginary too, that came out of right here, out of this sheet of paper.”
Christmas felt the shiver run down his spine again.
Nick leaned towards him. “This is what we’re asking you to do. The rules? They just organize the story, that’s all.”
Christmas glanced at him. But then he looked down at the white paper. “I do that already,” he said.
“We know that,” said Nick, looking serious. “You’ve got a special talent. That’s why you’re here.”
Christmas looked at him again, without speaking. But then his gaze shifted to the white page. As if he was hypnotized. And he didn’t feel uneasy or fearful when he thought of all the white paper he was going to have to fill.
“Try it,” said Nick. “And then if it doesn’t work …”
“You’ll solve the problem,” Christmas smiled.
“There isn’t any saddle, there isn’t any bit,” said Nick.
Christmas ran his fingertips over the typewriter keys. He felt the smooth and slightly concave surfaces welcoming him. And again that shiver ran down his spine.
Nick took a step towards the door.
“Nick,” said Christmas, “do you really solve all the problems?”
“That’s what they pay me to do.”
“I’m looking for somebody. Do you know the Isaacsons?”
“Who?”
“He came out here to be a producer.”
“Isaacson,” said Nick from the doorway. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Christmas nodded.
“But give us something, Christmas.” Nick nodded at the typewriter. Then he went out of the office and closed the door behind him.
Christmas was alone, seated at the desk in front of the typewriter. His fingertips continued to smooth the keys, barely touching them. He watched the metal stems that came up from the hollow crown. They were like the trigger on a gun, ready to strike the letters against the immaculate page. The first letter of a word. The first word of a sentence. The first sentence of someone’s fate. Of a life that was going to depend on him, only on him. Christmas noticed that he was feeling highly emotional. Like that night when he’d picked up a microphone for the first time, in a dark broadcast studio. And like then, just touching it made him feel at ease. He laughed quietly. He selected a letter. He closed his eyes. And in the dark he pressed down the key. He heard it hit the inked ribbon. And the sound of the carriage moving one space. The little metal strips that held the ribbon as it rose and fell. And the sound of the typebar as it fell back in the crown. He laughed again, opened his eyes, chose the next key and pressed it. And again he listened to that series of sounds, so new and at the same time so familiar. Then, as he selected the third key, he saw that it was close to the first one. Right next to it, on the same line. And then the fourth. There it was; one row down, between the third, and the second. As if those four letters were connected by a line that went straight for two strokes, then went down one, and back up again. A continuous line.
R U T H
Christmas gazed at the four letters for a moment. Then he arranged himself comfortably in the chair and began to write.
62
Los Angeles, 1928
The next evening Nick showed up at the door of the office that MGM had temporarily assigned to Christmas.
Christmas, his head bent over the typewriter, lifted a hand toward him, signaling him not to speak. He finished frantically typing the phrase he was writing, banging the keys hard with the index fingers of both hands, the only ones he managed to use.
Nick laughed. “You look like a mad pianist,” he said.
Christmas raised his head. The blond forelock was loose and there was an intense light, like embers, in his eyes.
“It looks like you’re having a good time,” said Nick.
“Maybe,” said Christmas.
“Oh come on, admit it. You’re having one hell of a good time.”
Christmas smiled. Then he looked at the page he was covering with inky words. Next to him were perhaps ten pages, already written, in a disordered heap.
“I found out about this Phil Isaacson,” said Nick.
Christmas looked up from the page in the typewriter. He got up quickly and came over to Nick.
“He bet on the wrong horse,” Nick went on. “He invested in Phonofilm and lost everything. I call losers like that Typhoid Johnnies; you’d better avoid him like the plague. Somebody at Fox threw him a bone. He’s the manager of the West Coast Oakland theater.
“Oakland?” Christmas interrupted him.
“Oakland,” Nick nodded. “Telegraph Avenue.”
Christmas shook his head, turned, walked up and down the room, his eyes clouded, and his head buzzing with thoughts. He turned back and looked at Nick. “I have to go to Oakland.”
Nick looked at him silently. “Finish here, first.”
“It’s important.”
“What you’re doing for us is important, too, Christmas. Finish up here, and then I’ll let you take the car,” he laughed. “But you’ll have to bring it back.”
Christmas stared at him. “Do you know what brand that car is? It’s an Oakland.”
Nick smiled. “A sign of destiny,” he said. “It almost never happens in real life. But in the movies, always.”
“I’ll work day and night,” Christmas said resolutely. Then he tapped his finger against Nick’s chest. “But you tell Mayer to read it right away. Put some pepper up his ass. I’m not gonna wait for him.”
“Do your characters talk like that?” asked Nick, smiling. “I like them already.”
“Just fuck off, Nick,” Christmas sat down and crouched over the typewriter again. “Don’t make me lose time.”
When he heard the door close, Christmas stopped and stroked the four keys that made up Ruth’s name. “Oakland,” he said quietly, as his eyes filled up with tears of joy.
Christmas worked all night, without going home. When he thought he couldn’t go on any longer he
flung himself back in the chair and closed his eyes. He had a series of brief light naps, from which he awoke with the feeling of having lost precious time. Then he got up, splashed water on his face, and drank a cup of strong black coffee with no sugar. And then he went back to the desk. When he filled up a page he yanked it furiously out of the typewriter and immediately put another one in. By dawn he’d written twenty pages. By the next evening he had thirty-five. Nick came by and told him to slow down, that he couldn’t keep working at that pace, because he’d explode. Christmas gave him a wild stare and didn’t bother to answer him. He kept pounding the keys. The tips of his index fingers were numb, he’d eaten nothing but a sandwich, and he’d drained a whole pot of coffee. When it was night again, Christmas didn’t stop, even if his eyes were closing by themselves. He wrote till four in the morning, until he’d finished his story. Then he lay down on the hardwood floor, and sank into a deep sleep with no dreams.
Nick came into the office the next morning. Christmas was still sleeping and didn’t hear him. Nick looked down at the typewriter, which still held a sheet of paper. And the last thing on the page was the words, THE END. He smiled, looking satisfied. He quietly released the page from the platen and picked up the pile from the desk. Then he lowered the window shade, plunging the office into shadow, and he left.
Christmas woke up at three in the afternoon, after sleeping for eleven hours. He ached all over, his head weighed fifty pounds. The taste of stale coffee clung to his mouth. His suit was wrinkled and he felt dizzy and nauseated. He got up and rinsed his face. He came back to the desk. Instead of the pile of pages there was a note: “Five o’clock in Mr. Mayer’s office. On the dot. Nick.”
So, after two days, Christmas went back to the house on Sunset Boulevard. The Mexican housekeeper fixed him a chicken sandwich and ironed his suit while Christmas washed and shaved. He got back in the car. At five minutes to five he was sitting on the divan across from Mayer’s secretary.
“Send in Mr. Luminita,” Mayer’s voice came over the intercom at precisely five o’clock.
Christmas got to his feet and went into the office. Mayer was seated behind his desk. On his right, leaning against the bookcase, stood Nick. He nodded at Christmas.
“Nick here put some pepper up my ass,” said Mayer.
Christmas was standing in front of the desk.
“Do you think you could spare the time to sit down and hear what I think, Mr. Luminita, or are you in too much of a hurry to get to Oakland?” Mayer said, smiling.
Christmas sank into one of the two chairs in front of the desk. He was still woozy, but he also felt something like a cramp in his stomach when he saw Mayer pick up the pile of pages he’d produced.
“If you would learn to number the pages or at least put them in order, it would be a big help for the person who’s trying to read them,” said Mayer.
Christmas, embarrassed, made a vague gesture with his hand. It actually didn’t mean anything at all.
“You should know, this is the first time a beginner has put a pepper up my ass,” said Mayer.
“Yeah, well, uh …,” Christmas stammered, “I have to …”
“… go to Oakland, yes. Nick told me that,” said Mayer. “And it seems you intend to go there with one of MGM’s cars.”
“Or the train …” Christmas sat up stiffly. “Or on foot. I don’t give a flyin–”
“Yes, yes, slow down,” Mayer interrupted. “Heh-heh-heh. That’s what I like about you. Heart. This lot is full of writers. They sit down, they write, words come out. But you, you’re no pen-pusher. Heart, you’ve got. Life, you know it. Such a young boy, but you see life,” and Mayer gave a pleased nod. He looked down at the sheaf of pages in his hand, then back at Christmas. “Yes, you did a good job. Excellent, even,” and he gave him a broad smile.
Christmas could feel the blood in his veins run cold. A feeling of cold that came up from his feet to his head. A jolt of adrenalin that paralyzed him. He opened his mouth but no words came out.
Nick laughed.
“You’ve got talent, Mr. Luminita,” Mayer said from behind his glasses. “Me, I like comedies. But what you’ve done is …” He stopped, and smiled like a child. “Red hot, as one of your characters would say. So much life, so much action. This has meat on its bones. Not just talk.”
Nick looked at Christmas with a proud expression.
After the adrenalin chill, now Christmas felt a rush of heat that burned his cheeks.
Mayer nodded owlishly. “Well, well: So even a gangster can blush.”
Nick laughed, came over from the bookcase and gave Christmas a slap on the back.
Mayer leaned back in his chair and pulled open a drawer. “So go to Oakland. But first …” and he pulled a sheet of paper out of the drawer, “We’ve had the legal department draw up a contract. Read it, then sign it.” He slid the paper across the desk.
“No, I … I just don’t have time right now,” said Christmas, getting to his feet. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mayer, but I really–”
“I don’t know what you’re chasing, Mr. Luminita. But don’t miss out on the chance of a lifetime.”
“When I get back from Oakland,” Christmas said firmly, folding up the contract and putting it in his pocket.
The intercom squawked. “Mr. Barrymore is here,” said the secretary’s voice.
Mayer leaned towards the intercom, pressed the button, and said, “Send him in.” He got up and went to the door and opened it. “John, come in, come in,” he said, spreading his arms. “I want you to meet somebody.”
John Barrymore, in an impeccable double-breasted gray suit, came into the room.
“His Highness John Barrymore,” said Mayer. “And Christmas Luminita, a rising star of a writer.”
John Barrymore shook Christmas’ hand, frowning. “Christmas,” he murmured, as if he were following a thought. “Christmas,” he repeated. Then a smile spread across his beautiful face. “I believe we have a mutual friend.”
Christmas wasn’t thinking about Louis B. Mayer, or Hollywood, or about the new emotion of writing as he ran up the stairs two at a time in the building on Venice Boulevard. All he thought was that he didn’t have to go to Oakland. That his life was starred with signs of destiny, of which John Barrymore was the latest. He reached the fourth floor, gasping for breath. He ran along the corridor to the door that said “Wonderful Pictures.” He knocked on it, hard. Then he pressed his hand to his left side and bent over, breathless.
The door opened. “Yes?” said Mr. Bailey.
Christmas straightened. “I’m looking for Ruth Isaacson,” he said with a wild light in his eyes, almost pushing his way in.
“Who are you?” asked Mr. Bailey suspiciously.
“Please, I have to see her,” said Christmas, still panting from the stairs. “I’m a friend from New York.”
“Has something happened?” asked Mr. Bailey, alarmed.
Only then did Christmas realize how he must look: out of breath, eyes blazing with excitement. He laughed. “You bet something happened. What happened is — I’ve found her.”
And only then did Clarence decipher the urgency that had alarmed him. He recognized that light in the eyes. The same he must have had when he met Mrs. Bailey. He smiled and stepped aside. “Come in, young man,” he said. “But Ruth isn’t back yet.”
Christmas had already stepped a foot across the threshold, but now he stopped. “She’s not here?”
“No, I just told you.”
“When will she be back?” Again that urgency in the voice.
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Bailey, smiling ruefully because he knew that time had been invented to torture those in love. “But she’s never very late,” he said. “Come in, you can wait for her in here.”
Christmas took another step inside the agency. He looked around. The walls were covered with photos.
“This is one of Ruth’s,” said Clarence, tapping a portrait of Lon Chaney.
Christmas nodded, distracte
dly, still looking all around. He felt a knot in his stomach. His legs were trembling so much he couldn’t be still. “What time does she usually get back?” he asked.
Clarence chuckled. “She’ll be here soon, young fellow; you’ll see,” he said. “Now come and have a seat in my office. I’ll give you a cup of tea.”
“I think …”
“… and then you can tell me about New York.”
“No,” Christmas said, shaking his head. “No, I’m sorry, it’s just that …” He stopped, imagining that he could hear the interminable passage of time, second after second, while he was sitting with this nice old man. “No, excuse me, I … I’d rather come back.” He turned back to the door.
“What shall I tell Ruth?” Mr. Bailey asked him.
But Christmas had already opened the door and was going down the stairs.
“What’s your name, young fellow?” Mr. Bailey called down the corridor.
But Christmas didn’t answer him. He rushed downstairs and, once outside, he took a deep breath. He put a hand to his mouth and closed his eyes. Calm down, he thought. But he couldn’t endure the waiting. As if that last short stretch of the road that separated him from Ruth were a whole ocean; as if that tiny fragment of time were endless, much greater than the four years during which he’d learned to survive without her. Christmas knew why. Because now everything was going to be real.
He watched the sidewalks. To the left and to the right. And again he felt that tingling in his legs. He moved. He walked to the left. He was going to meet Ruth. He strode down the block to the intersection. He looked to the right and the left again. Where would she come from? He rushed back to the entrance to the agency building. What if she’d come from the other direction? He ran back the other way. Then he walked again to the end of the block, to the cross street. Constantly turning back to look. Could she have slipped through the door while he’d gone off to look for her? He looked around again, then turned back and stopped at her building, his shoulders against the wall. He never stopped looking first to the left, then to the right.
What if she showed up with some man? What if she wasn’t alone? He punched the wall next to him. He couldn’t wait any longer. If she had somebody else, he’d know it right away. If she didn’t want to see him anymore, she’d tell him. He undid the top button of his shirt, pulled off his jacket and threw it over one shoulder. The MGM contract rustled in his pocket. “Get fucked, Mr. Mayer,” he muttered. All at once the tension turned into rage. He remembered that Ruth had never answered his letters. That she’d erased him from her life, refused him. After what they had promised, she’d forgotten about him. In that moment he was sure that Ruth had somebody else, that he’d been a fool not to ask the old fuzzynuts at the photo agency. If he knew then he’d leave, and to hell with Ruth too; to hell with everybody.
The Boy Who Granted Dreams Page 55