by Jürgen Fauth
“Ah, the runaway bride,” the nurse said. “We've been hoping you would call.”
“Can I talk to my husband, please?”
“That's what we'd like to talk to you about. Your husband checked himself out this morning, against our urgent recommendation. Dengue fever at this stage can cause permanent brain damage when left untreated. We were hoping that you might be able to talk some sense into him.”
Was that a migraine headache Mina felt coming on, or was she in the middle of a nightmare? Had the nurse really said the words “permanent brain damage?” Why would Sam check himself out of the hospital? He wasn't the kind of person to disregard doctor's orders. She tried his cell again but there was still no answer.
“Sam,” she said to the voice mail box. “Hey you. You're not in the hospital. What the fuck? Where did you go? I love you, you know that. This is almost over and I'm coming home. Call me, okay, call me, because I am worried.”
Mina closed her cell phone. “Damn you,” she said in the direction of the train station. What was her father doing here? Where could Sam have gone? Mina watched an overweight woman struggling with a luggage cart. She rubbed her temples some more and decided not to tell her father what the nurse had said.
Against our urgent recommendation.
Permanent brain damage.
Mina was hot, uncomfortable, anxious. She was overtired. She was trying to be good, trying to do what her father said, but she could not stay in the car any longer. She got out and made her way inside the train station.
The place was much cooler than the parking lot, and it was gorgeous. Leather armchairs lined the main hall and chandeliers hung from a tiled, cavernous ceiling, bathing everything in a warm, almost sepia-toned light. It made train travel seem a lot more appealing than the cold, white airport terminals she had been hurrying through for the past week. But it was also as crowded as any airport, and it took Mina some long minutes to find her father in a second large hall. He was waiting by an information booth, flipping distractedly through an issue of Premiere Magazine.
Mina hesitated for a moment, watching her father from across the hall. Since when did her Dad read movie magazines? He thought nothing was more frivolous. As Mina watched, a middle-aged woman in a sundress approached him, pointed at the magazine, and shook his hand. What was going on?
“Dad?” Mina said, striding across the crowded room.
The woman twitched and gave Mina a skittish look.
“It's okay,” Detlef told the woman. “This is my daughter. Didn't I tell you to stay in the car?”
“You were gone a long time.”
“I am so sorry,” the woman said. The skin on her face was taut in a way that made Mina think of plastic surgery. She looked pale and harried. “That's my fault. I got caught on the Santa Monica freeway.” She introduced herself as Irene Botha. She kept fiddling nervously with the strap of her yellow handbag.
“You wanted to meet here,” Detlef said.
“Yes. Thank you. I've had visitors, and this seemed safer. Follow me.”
Botha, of course, was the name Schnark had mentioned. This was the daughter of the man who had just died, the assistant editor of Twenty-Twelve. Her father hadn't come to California for his daughter or his comatose mother. He was here for Kino's last movie.
Irene Botha led them down the hallway into a side arm of the building, where rows of metal lockers stood beneath tall stained glass windows. To one side, workers on scaffolding were restoring tiles on the vaulted ceiling. Mina blinked, recognizing something she couldn't quite place. Irene Botha produced a key, matched the numbers on the lockers, and found the one she was looking for.
“The material is all here.”
“Thank you.” Detlef had an envelope ready. “This is a check for the agreed-upon sum.”
“Good.” Irene Botha glanced anxiously over her shoulders and handed him the key. While she investigated the check, Detlef struggled with the locker door.
“Did you say you had visitors?” Mina asked. “What do you mean?”
Detlef gave her a furious look. She wasn't supposed to speak. She was supposed to be waiting in the car.
Irene Botha turned to Mina. Drops of sweat were running down her temple. “Men came by the house and threatened me with lawsuits if I didn't take the auction down immediately. They implied other consequences. They offered money, but I didn't trust them. I told them they needed to talk to my husband. They watched the house, so I had the police chase them off and decided to bring everything here. I don't need any trouble. I just want to be rid of this stuff.”
“So do we.” Detlef finally got the locker open. Inside, there was a plastic crate holding two cans of film and a thick manila file folder. Detlef picked up a can: Twenty-Twelve. Mina withheld a gasp. Her father was holding Twenty-Twelve. This was what he'd come for. The canister looked remarkably like Marty's imitation. Schnark's plan might just work, if Mina could reach him to arrange the switch.
A loud bang echoed through the building. One of the men working on the ceiling had dropped a tool from the scaffolding and nearly lost his balance trying to catch it. The entire structure swayed; it suddenly seemed fragile, ready to collapse at any moment. Mina felt something like déjà vu. She scanned the entrances to the hallway for men in suits–she was suddenly certain that the agents would show up any moment.
“We've got to get out of here,” she said, pulling her father by the elbow.
Irene Botha glanced over her shoulders anxiously. “That's fine with me. Pleasure meeting you both.” She grasped her handbag, turned, and disappeared into the crowd.
Detlef threw his issue of Premiere magazine into a nearby trashcan and lifted the crate holding Twenty-Twelve. “This way,” he said, directing them to the closest exit.
“No,” Mina said. “Not past the scaffolding.”
He ignored her and kept walking.
“Dammit, Dad, you've got to listen to me for once.”
Detlef threw up his arms. “Fine. Which way?”
Mina pointed in the opposite direction, back past the information counter where she'd found him waiting for Irene Botha. Detlef shrugged and gave in. They walked so fast they were practically running. Mina stayed behind her father. She clandestinely flipped open her phone and speed-dialed Schnark's number. They had the movie. They had Twenty-Twelve. She couldn't believe it. But Schnark wasn't picking up. Instead, she got a generic robot voice repeating the number she had dialed.
The moment they turned the corner into the main hall, a rumbling welled up behind them, a terrible roaring, screaming, crashing noise that echoed around the building's vaulted ceilings. People stopped and turned. Detlef gave Mina a quizzical look, but she kept pulling him on toward the exit.
“Just keep going, Dad.”
The convertible's trunk wouldn't fit the crate with the movie cans, and Detlef crammed it into back seat next to his carry-on. He tapped on the dashboard while Mina hit redial one more time. Where was Schnark? Why didn't anybody ever pick up?
“Come on, Mina, we've got another appointment.”
Mina put the phone away and turned around in the driver's seat to inspect the cans. “Just a minute.”
“Mina, leave that old junk. We're in a hurry. You can look at it later. Right now, you want to get back on 101 and head north.” He checked his watch, dialed a number on his phone, and confirmed a two o'clock appointment with a Mr. Katz.
“You're kidding me,” Mina said. “We're going to see Katz? At Paramount? That's the guy who ruined Opa's movie.”
“His nephew, actually.”
“We just found the answer print of Twenty-Twelve, and we're taking it to Paramount?”
“We're just having a little chat to see what they can offer.”
“‘What they can offer?’“
Mina's father lowered his voice, a register he reserved for real anger. “You think I want this junk? I'm his son, this is my property, and we're selling it. Now drive.” He flipped on the radio and scanned thr
ough the static until he found Frank Sinatra, doing “Coming In on a Wing and a Prayer.” Mina got on the freeway. Next exit, Hollywood.
Mina felt dizzy. “No,” she said. “No, no, no. This is what you came for? To pick this up and hock it? You didn't come for me or your mother, you came just to get rid of this movie? You're here to make a deal?” She spit the last word like a curse.
He shrugged. “I am a man who makes deals, yes.”
“Don't you even want to see the movie?”
“Why would I want to do that? There was a mention of low six figures. That's a lot of money for doing nothing.”
“It's not for nothing. It's for a lifetime of work and you're hocking it like so much crap.”
“It is crap, crap that will pay for the new kitchen your mother has been wanting for a long time now. What do you know about the value of anything? You never learned anything useful in your life. If you play your cards right, you'll get a share of the money. You can pay off your loans and keep playing Bohemian without driving your husband into bankruptcy. How would you like that?”
A truck honked when Mina tried to change lanes. She had the sinking feeling that events were getting away from her for good. Schnark had been right about the film, but he had underestimated her father's brutal efficiency. There wouldn't be time to exchange the cans; the studio couldn't be far now. Mina would have to save Twenty-Twelve from the vaults. Without it, she'd never know if any of the things they were saying about Kino were true. Without it, Sam would never understand why she had to go to Berlin, to California.
Mina didn't expect Twenty-Twelve to change the world, but maybe it could save her marriage. Sam had left the hospital, defying doctor's orders. Why the hell would he leave the hospital? Was this how it all ended? Had her grandfather's work blipped back into brief existence on her doorstep and some random attic just to be swallowed up again by an entertainment conglomerate, or worse, some secret government program run by Dick Cheney? Where was Dr. Hanno now? Where was Inspector Schnark?
“We need gas,” Mina said, tapping at the gauge. There was still a quarter tank left, but she knew her father never let it get to the red. Anything to gain a little time.
They got off the freeway and stopped at a gas station. While her father filled the tank, Mina tried to call Schnark one more time, but it just kept ringing. They drove on. Detlef was done talking, and Mina had nothing left to say. She felt defeated. She went down Melrose Avenue much slower than she needed to, and then her father told her to turn right on a street that led up to the Paramount gate. Mina had seen it before, in the movies. It looked taller to her than the Brandenburg Gate. A uniformed guard was waiting by the booth. Her father had led her straight to the people who had been chasing her all week.
This was it. Mina had run out of time, run out of options. She knew that without the film, the world would seem diminished. If she delivered Twenty-Twelve to Katz, one avenue of possibility, some unnamed potential, would be gone forever. She drove past the turnoff.
“Hey!” Detlef snapped. “Damn it, Mina. How could you miss that?”
“We're not going.”
“What do you mean, we're not going? Turn around.”
“No,” she said and pulled the car over onto the shoulder. She had no idea what she was doing. She hoped something would come to her, anything to save Twenty-Twelve. An SUV sped by, leaning on the horn. The California sun was burning down on them in full force now. Mina felt a wet spot on her back where she had sweated through Marty's shirt. Her throat was dry. She turned off the car.
“Mina,” her father commanded. “Stop playing around. We're late for Katz. Take us to the studio. This is not the time to throw a childish fit.” He got out of the car, opened Mina's door, and told her to get out. He pulled on her arm. “For god's sake, Mina, get a grip on yourself. It's only a movie!”
“That's where you're wrong, Dad.”
Mina leaned over and opened the glove compartment. Next to the rental car papers and some chewing gum a previous customer must have left was Inspector Schnark's stub-nosed revolver. Its weight felt good in Mina's hand. Had Schnark fired five or six shots? She couldn't be sure that there were any bullets left, but that didn't matter now.
She leveled the gun at her father.
“It's more than just a movie,” she said.
Chapter 16
From: [email protected]
Date: Wednesday, May 14, 2003
To: [email protected]
Subject: I Feel Like a Huge Asshole
Sam, where the fuck are you? Why aren't you answering your phone? Maybe you'll check your email at least. You always check your email.
Listen, baby. I feel wretched about everything. I don't even understand what happened, and I don't understand where you could have gone. They told me you checked out of the hospital. Why would you do that? You're still sick, and they said it could lead to permanent brain damage. Are you ok? For all I know, you're lying on the street somewhere in your hospital gown, without identification, hallucinating. Please call me. Why haven't you called?
I know this whole thing has been a fucking joke, but I had to do it–try and find out about my grandfather's movies. If you'd just call me, I could explain it to you, and then you can forgive me and we can have our life back, ok? Why won't you call? I know you were angry at me for going to Germany, for coming to California, but I needed to do this. We're married, Sam. You can't just run away like that and disappear.
I don't think I've ever felt like such a failure. I've had my hands on two of Kino's movies, I watched one of them, and now they're both gone. My grandmother is in a coma, that guy Schnark disappeared, and I pulled a gun on my father. He was about to sell Kino's last movie to Paramount, and I tried to stop him.
But I couldn't shoot my father. He knew it and I knew it. He took the gun out of my hand, slapped me across the face, and carried the film through the studio gate on foot, by himself, while I waited in the sun, holding my cheek and weeping. Dad sold everything. Not just the stuff he'd gotten from Botha's daughter, but all of grandfather's work in perpetuity, along with all related materials, storyboards, screenplay drafts, costume sketches, all filmed stock, negatives, and prints of previous rough cuts. All of Kino's ideas, everything he'd ever made, he signed over to them, and then he gave them Twenty-Twelve. Before anyone could watch it. Gone, deep into some fucking studio vault. We buried him twice, Sam.
Oh, and get this: the German police busted Dr. Hanno with Tulpendiebe. They found him and that weasely projectionist at the film museum in the middle of the night, digitizing the film and burning DVDs. It was Dr. Hanno who robbed me after all. That lying sniveling German piece of shit! Now that print, wherever it came from, is being sent back to Paramount, too. I almost wish he hadn't been caught. I still don't know who left the movie in our apartment in the first place. Or why.
If I could take it all back, I would. We were supposed to be on our honeymoon, still. It's not my fault you got the dengue fever. I love you. It might not seem that way to you, but I do. I know what I'm supposed to do now. I'm supposed to come home and be your good wife and wait until you reappear.
But Sam, here's the thing... the thought of our apartment kills me. All those unopened wedding gifts, all of your things. Our bed. I don't think I can take it, being there by myself. As long as Oma Penny's in a coma, until I know you're back and I know that you forgive me, I'm going to stay here in California. Please call me already, baby. I'm worried sick about you.
M.
Chapter 17
Mina visited her grandmother every day, alternating shifts with Chester. She sat in the chair by the door and watched Penny's chest rise and fall, listening to the ping of the life support machines and the soothing chatter of the nurses in the hall. Penny looked surprisingly peaceful. In a coma, she was much easier to like, to love, even.
For the first week or two, Mina found it comforting to write long emails to Sam. She detailed every little thing that she had done–what she ate
for dinner, what Penny's doctor said, the new clothes she had bought–hoping that he might be checking his email, wherever he was.
She also wrote to Sam's parents, but their response was cryptic and to the point: “We are sure Sam will get in touch with you in due time.” Did that mean they knew where he was? Did it mean they weren't worried? Clearly, they were angry with her. Mina tried calling, but they wouldn't pick up and didn't return her calls. She called Eclectic Arts and found out that Sam had gone on indefinite leave, “to travel.” She asked where he'd gone and when they expected him back, but they didn't have an answer for her.
“He's just fucking with me,” Mina told her unconscious grandmother, to see if she could believe the words if she heard them spoken out loud. “He's hiding somewhere, trying to show me what it feels like. He'll be back.” Sam adored her. He had courted her.
He'd also sounded so disappointed with her the last time they talked. He'd said, “I just don't know anymore.” That's what he'd said. Had that been an ultimatum? She'd rushed right past it, so eager to see Penny. Didn't she deserve another chance?
She saw him in her dreams, in strange places she didn't recognize, sometimes happy, sometimes furious, spitting anger so harsh that it woke her up and left her wondering for minutes where she was. She had dreams about Twenty-Twelve, about the tulip notary, about the sauna and the train station, Penny and her drug dealer, the murky pool, water rushing up her nostrils. In the mornings, she tried to remember every detail, hoping, perhaps, for a hint of where Sam might have gone.
Her father had presented her with an exhaustive, self-righteous list of failures: she was a disappointment as daughter, student, and wife. He'd made Mina feel awful, but he also didn't seem to mind that she was staying in Oma's house. It made it easier for him to leave if Mina kept an eye on his mother's condition. It was a relief for Mina when he flew back to New York and she hadn't spoken to him since.