Flickers

by Arthur Slade

  Isabelle was making her way down the stone path to the garden, holding the hem of her black dress in one hand. No one had noticed her yet. Then Aunt Betty turned expertly on her high heels and made a sweeping gesture toward Isabelle and the crowd applauded as the young actress performed a deep curtsy. Applause just for arriving! Beatrice thought. Even the orchestra joined in, adding pomp to the whole scene.

  “Let’s watch a flicker show,” Beatrice said.

  “Flicker show? Why do you keep using old words? They’re movies now. Everyone calls them that.”

  Beatrice gave the party one more disdainful glance. “Because old words are invariably better. Do you want to watch one or not?”

  “I’d rather go to the zoo.”

  “Off limits. The actors will be there teasing Mr. Lion. Showing the starlets how brave they are.”

  “Fine. A flicker show it is. You always get your way, don’t you?” He smiled. She did like his smile.

  “No. That’s my sister,” she said. “Now, let’s go, Mr. Raul.” She took his hand and pulled him toward the door.

  6

  Beatrice padded down the spiral tower staircase, her senses heightened by the possibility that they might be caught. Together. In the mansion. It had always been one of Mr. Cecil’s rules that she and Raul could only play together outside. There was no explanation as to why this was a rule. Mrs. Madge, the governess, had eyes like an owl and relayed every single movement they made to Mr. Cecil. The punishment could be a week without seeing each other. Or two. Or worse, though Beatrice couldn’t picture worse. She tiptoed to the bottom of the stairs and across the long hallway that led to the east wing of the mansion. Raul followed several steps behind.

  “Have you ever worn a dress like your sister’s?” he whispered.

  “I don’t wear dresses,” she hissed. “Stop thinking about her.”

  “I was just curious. Like a cat.”

  “Can you be as quiet as one, too?”

  She opened the thick door to the theater. Inside was seating for sixteen people. The velvet chairs were perfectly plush. Painted on one wall was a caveman-style drawing of a deer, on the opposite wall was the Roman Colosseum. The projector came out of the eye of a cyclops. The entire fourth wall was the screen.

  Raul chose a seat near the centre of the front row. Beatrice clicked a brass-plated button on the floor. Several rooms away, in the servants’ quarters, a bell rang. One of the servants made his way down the hall to the projector room. Since few of the house staff spoke English, Beatrice had never been able to learn any of their names—other than Zhen, the woman who ran the kitchen. There was new staff every month or so. Beatrice’s theory about the frequent turnover was that they were easily worn out by Isabelle’s demands.

  “Which film will it be?” Raul whispered.

  “Whatever’s in the canister.”

  Mr. Cecil’s collection was the finest in all of Hollywood, every reel of The Birth of a Nation, The Phantom of the Opera, Sherlock, Jr. (starring Buster Keaton), and thousands more. If Beatrice had wanted to, she could have watched her very arrival through the gates of the mansion—for there was expertly shot film of the long black car coming in the gates, then Uncle Wayne and Aunt Betty opening the doors and stepping out with two swaddled babes, which they handed to Mr. Cecil. He held them both, turning to show the camera his prizes. The idea that Mr. Cecil had hugged them in his arms was comforting. She had not left the estate since that day.

  There was a clicking in the projection room, then the lights dimmed and the flickering began. The first thing to appear was the logo of Cecil Productions, a Rorschach inkblot that Mr. Cecil had created. Beatrice shivered at the sight of it. The unconscious projecting fear onto the stimuli of the image. That was how Mr. Cecil had explained his odd logo. When someone saw it they felt fear. She’d studied these inkblots with him on many occasions and they did make dark emotions rise to the surface.

  The title came next: Nosferatu’s Blood. It starred Isabelle and was about a vampire who had travelled from Transylvania to New York to dine on the rich. There was no music, as that was always provided in the theatre by a pianist or an orchestra. But Beatrice tapped her fingers rhythmically anyway.

  The intertitles began: IN THE DARKEST LAND, THE DARKEST DEEDS ARE ABOUT TO OCCUR.

  Beatrice didn’t bother to read any more. She’d seen this film enough times that she had the text memorized. Uncle Wayne was a dashing vampire hunter and Aunt Betty his doting wife. Isabelle, their daughter, strode into the movie in a silken gown that made her look more vulnerable. Only a year younger than she was now. She glowed palely under the studio lights.

  Beatrice imagined what it might be like to have those lights on you, to be in that other magical world that film showed to the human eye. It was all too possible to believe her sister had actually travelled to these places and experienced these adventures.

  A whining like the sound a lost kitten might make came from the projection room. Beatrice turned her head, stared for a moment. The noise stopped and she fell back into the screen.

  One by one the victims succumbed to Nosferatu until, at last, there was only her sister, running down the endless hallway of an ancient mansion, turning to scream and scream and scream. Silently. Her look of terror was utter and real.

  Isabelle had become famous for that scream—in each of her last five films there’d been a similar scene. Audiences expected it. Desired it. They ate it up. The screams were practised at least once a week in what Mr. Cecil called Stanislavksi’s Emotional Memory Release Sessions. Isabelle had taken to referring to them as the Screaming at the Top of Your Lungs Sessions. She was supposed to think about a horrible event from her childhood and scream. He often asked her to imagine what she had felt inside the burning farm house. Those feelings were still trapped inside her. Sometimes Isabelle would wear her voice down to a ragged rasp.

  “She looks so different in real life,” Raul whispered. “So much more real.”

  “You’ve seen her lots of times. In real life and on the screen.”

  “I know. It still surprises me.”

  “Nothing about her surprises me.” Beatrice tightened her scarves again. “Would you like to watch another flicker show? Maybe The Lost World?”

  “Father’ll tear a strip off me if I miss any more work. Oranges to pick and all of that.”

  “We don’t follow the rules, remember?”

  “Papá’s strap does. You’ve never had to sit on a burning bum, have you?”

  “No. I guess not,” she said. “Just tell him you were running away from Nosferatu.”

  He laughed.

  A snuffling noise came from the projection room. Beatrice put her finger to her lips and snuck up to the hole where the projector poked out. She peeked through.

  A young servant in a mandarin-collar shirt and black trousers was sitting on a stool, wiping tears from his face. The man looked up at Beatrice. His eyes widened and he stumbled out of the projection room, leaving the door open.

  “What was it?” Raul asked.

  “One of the Chinese was crying. Do you have any idea why?”

  “Nope. Groundskeepers don’t mix with the kitchen staff. Maybe Zhen shouted at him. She’s terror on two legs.”

  “He might be homesick.”

  They left the theater and went into the India room, passing large golden elephants, statues of Indian gods, and a six-foot-tall replica of the Taj Mahal—all items Mr. Cecil had collected on his many journeys around the world.

  She opened the window, stuck her head out, and looked around.

  “The coast is clear,” she said.

  “Thank you, friendbird.”

  He punched her shoulder lightly, then slipped out the window and broke into a catlike run. He was soon past the hedge and out of sight.

  Beatrice had spent ten thousand hours in the India room. And another ten thousand in the China room and twice that number in the Roman room. For the ten thousandth time she stared at a black marble s
tatue of Ganesha, the god with the elephant head and four arms. She touched one of his hands.

  A song began, as if someone had flicked on a phonograph. Beatrice held still. Was the marble growing warmer? Then she realized she’d left the window open. Someone at the party was singing “Bye Bye Blackbird”—no, not someone, it was Uncle Wayne. Soon a gaggle of other actors and actresses were joining in, each singing louder and louder. Showing off, each and every one of them!

  Beatrice went back to the theatre and put her hand on the door. Another film would shut out the world.

  But why watch her film sister while her real sister was in the garden?

  I don’t follow rules, she thought.

  Beatrice may not have been invited to the party, but she could at least take a front-row seat. There would be “outside” people in the Pomona garden. It would be exotic. Like going on a safari.

  A safari in her own backyard.

  7

  Weeks earlier Mr. Cecil had promised the world an “epic bash,” and the Frankenstein soiree was more than fulfilling that promise. It was larger than the Dark House party and louder than the Nosferatu’s Blood celebration. And it was ten times bigger than the party for the orphans. Beatrice got a chill when she thought of that celebration because it reminded her of Jolly.

  She had discovered Jolly’s body. The first to see her long hair spread out like a spiderweb in the Neptune pool. The first to touch her cold, cold arm. Beatrice put that fact—that sense memory—out of her mind. It was three years and two months ago. This was time to think of adventure.

  She crept between the rows of hibiscus, crouched down when she reached the garden, and peered through the leaves of a lilac shrub. The musky scent of the ground drifted up. She stopped a few feet behind a long serving table. An angelic ice sculpture guarded one end of the table; glaring from the opposite end was a frozen Grim Reaper, his scythe raised for reaping. This was Mr. Cecil’s sense of humour at work. If there were twenty skeletons in a scene he’d have one with a green polka-dot tie, identical to a tie worn by a director he didn’t respect.

  Beatrice took her pad of paper and a pencil out of her front pocket and noted every type of person she saw:

  Actors (too many to list)

  Actresses (too many to list)

  Musicians

  Three cameramen

  Five reporters (the handsome one may be Robert Russel—love his writing!)

  Mayor George Cryer (he looks like Buster Keaton!)

  Senator Johnson

  Archduke Leopold of Austria (wearing his military uniform)

  Six male servants in black satin clothes (only one of them looks familiar)

  Chips the trained monkey, in a vest . . .

  The partygoers had seemed ridiculous from afar, but up close she was drawn by their beauty. And their need to be noticed. One starlet looked nervous, scratching at her frock. A male actor was sweating. It might actually be difficult to always be on show, Beatrice realized. And no matter how silly they sometimes seemed, every one of them breathed the air outside the walls of the Cecil Estate.

  Uncle Wayne stood about fifteen feet away, dressed in a white suit with a top hat, his face shaved and smooth. He was speaking to a newspaperman wearing a fedora, with a pad of paper and fountain pen in hand. Wayne clapped the man on his shoulder and flashed his smile. It was full of light and perfect teeth, the sword he’d used to conquer the world.

  The orchestra, which had been playing softly in the background, began to pound a dramatic symphonic piece that drowned out the conversations. The music hit a crescendo followed by a sudden fall into silence.

  “A toast to our brightest star, Isabelle Thorn!” The director’s deep voice cut through the garden air. Mr. Cecil was seated on the back of an obsidian statue of a three-headed lion, holding a full flute of champagne in his right hand. It was as if he’d popped out of nowhere. He wore a dark suit with golden buttons and a white panama hat—the combination of the straw hat and his attire made him look like a businessman and an adventurer. His hair was brown but dappled with white, and his grey eyes seemed to be cataloguing every morsel of information as he looked around. The only noticeable imperfection was that he was missing the little finger on his left hand. He’d once told Beatrice and Isabelle that he’d gambled it away in a game of cards in which his opponent had lost his whole hand and now used a hook to smoke his cigarettes.

  The actors quickly grabbed their own flutes and shouted, “Hip, hip hooray, Isabelle! Hip, hip hooray!” The light glinted off the glasses as they sipped their champagne in unison. Isabelle curtsied and pretended to blush. A photographer’s flashbulb brightened all of their faces.

  “I’ll be a man of few words,” Mr. Cecil continued. “I know you’ll be pleased to hear that.” There were a few muffled laughs. “We came. We saw. We conquered the cinematic world. The Dark House is the greatest movie we’ve made. And within a month of its release it has become our most lucrative. A toast to all who worked so hard to make that film a reality.”

  The audience drank again. Mr. Cecil didn’t drink from his glass—Beatrice had never seen him drink or eat. She chalked this up to the fact that he was immensely rich. The rich could indulge whatever eccentricities they wanted.

  “I know you’ll rise to the challenge of our next project, Frankenstein. We will be the first to reach the high-water mark of film production. We’ll create an intelligent and beautiful movie that sets the industry on its ear.” He chuckled. “In other words, we’ll have sound in our film.” He let the statement hang in the air. “Yes, you can write that down, you scribblers! Sound! Finally.” He paused. “There. Speech done. Drink, eat, and be very merry. Tomorrow we will write our names in history.”

  There was more applause. Mr. Cecil bowed slightly, then hopped to the ground. He was immediately surrounded by actors and newspapermen, all wanting a word.

  Beatrice spotted a plate of cream puffs at the edge of the table and licked her lips. She could get a cream puff any hour of the day, but these ones were intended for the guests. Not her. Not ever. It would be daring to take the whole plate. No, that would be greedy! But a handful would be enough. And yet, once she came out from behind the lilac bush she’d be spotted.

  Isabelle had sashayed closer to the table with her I’m almost pouting face on. At that moment no one was talking to her—even the photographers were snapping pictures of Mr. Cecil. Turn, Isabelle, turn, Beatrice thought. She stared directly at the back of her sister’s head. So often they seemed to think the same thought at the same time: this was the ten thousandth time she’d tried to send her own thought into Isabelle’s head. Izzy! Izzy! Turn and bring me the cream puffs. Maybe the cloche hat was blocking the signal. She squinted hard. I command thee!

  Nothing. So much for the secret perception between twins, she thought. Perhaps it has to be an angry thought.

  Izzy! Get me a damn cream puff!

  Isabelle turned and looked directly at Beatrice. She winked, went to the table, and gently grasped a handful of cream puffs. Then she backed up, her right hand resting on her spine. There were three cream puffs in her palm.

  Beatrice snatched them with barely even the lightest touch on her sister’s hand. Then came a quiet and delighted laugh, whether it was hers or her sister’s she wasn’t certain.

  We got away with it!

  Beatrice drew in a breath. Mr. Cecil was staring at her through a break in the crowd, his face a mask. She couldn’t determine what emotion he was displaying: anger or contemplation? A smile came slowly to his lips.

  She smiled in return, pulled back into the leaves, and quickly swallowed one of the cream puffs. She clutched the other two gently in her left hand and climbed the terraced garden, all the while keeping herself hidden.

  When she was high enough she darted over to the vineyard. It was late August, not yet harvest season, but dark grapes were already dangling from the vines. She followed the straight line of trellises until she was able to cross upward to the row of orange tr
ees and finally climb the southwest path.

  Her safari was finished. She sighed as she walked out of the cover of the bushes, only a few steps from the mansion.

  “What’s your name?” a man asked.

  She turned, looking over her shoulder in such a way as to hide much of her face. The man in the fedora hat was leaning up against the stucco wall of the mansion. He had a pad of paper in one hand and a pen in the other.

  “It’s a simple question, miss. What’s your name?”

  8

  “Umm,” Beatrice said. “Umm.”

  “Ah, you can talk.” The newspaperman had a kindly thin face, though his eyes were alert and focused on her. His hair was dark and short. A small black feather decorated his fedora. She’d already labelled him as the most handsome of the reporters. “I saw you hiding in the bushes at the party. Watching all the silliness. I’m just asking your name. That’s not so much to ask for, is it? My name’s Robert Russel.”

  Beatrice blinked. His name was all too familiar. He’d mentioned her three times in his articles about Isabelle, as the mysterious twin sister. And always there would be a line about how her mother had died giving birth to her, the farmhouse that had burned down, and how her father had died saving her. It made her sound like a walking bad-luck charm. “I’m—I’m Beatrice.”

  “And do you have a last name?”

  “Thorn.”

  “Aha.” Triumph flashed in his eyes. “So you exist. I thought Mr. Cecil was yanking my chain all these years. I wish McRoberts was here to snap your pic, but he’s too busy with the so-called stars. The real story is standing right in front of me.”

  “I don’t want my picture taken.” She still hadn’t turned completely around. Beatrice hid the bottom half of her face in the crook of her arm.