As soon as Ginger appeared, Twinkie waved an eight-by-ten black-and-white glossy. “Why isn’t there a name on this headshot?”
“Sorry, Twink. But … everyone knows who she is,” Ginger ventured.
“Maybe some people here don’t know who she is. Where’s her fuckin’ bio!”
“Coming right up,” Ginger said, rushing back out to her desk. She returned with a thick manila folder and ran back to Twinkie. The name Francine Papillon was written in bold black felt pen.
Twinkie turned angrily to Kelley Karlton. “She’s the first one who came to meet you and talk about the project. You asked her to read for you. Do you know how embarrassing that was? Don’t you know who she is?” the casting director said, slamming the actress’s picture on top of a new small pile.
“I know who she is,” Noora said, remembering the first time she met her, with overinflated lips and breasts, an arm hooked around Kennilworth’s, at the Beverly Regent Hotel, when she and Ian Cohen were having dinner with the Japanese family.
“How do you know? You acted rather clueless.”
“We’ve met before.”
“Not in person.”
“Yes. We’ve met.”
“Where, at the UNICEF party last week?”
“No.”
“Yeah, okay, Ice’s house, I’m sure.”
“No.”
“You know, I had to butter up her agent’s ass just so she could take time off to come and see you. And she went for it. I’d say that was pretty white of her.”
Noora had heard enough. She rose to leave.
“What’re you doing? We’re not finished.”
“Yes, we are.”
“No, we’re not.”
“I believe we are.”
“Great. I’ll call her agent.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?!”
“No one got the part,” Noora said, walking to the door.
“Excuuuse me, hell-low?!” Twinkie shrieked. “This is not the way we do business here.”
“I agree.”
“I don’t think you get the point, Missy. If you want star quality, she’s got it. If you want bigger-name celebs, they’ll laugh at your face. We don’t have that kind of budget.”
Noora stopped and turned to Twinkie. “Who is we?”
“Who’s weee?! After all I’ve done for you? We’ve worked our asses off, putting ourselves on the line for your bullshit!”
Noora sighed. She had to turn away. Those words were like icicles hitting straight to her chest.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?!”
“Nobody,” Noora replied.
“Exactly. I gave you lots of extra time just because Mr. Cohen and you …”
Noora turned and faced Twinkie. “Mr. Cohen and I what?!”
Twinkie stared at Noora defiantly, pressing her lips tight. She turned and stomped furiously back to her office.
Noora walked outside. She needed to breathe. It was a smoggy day in the San Fernando Valley, yet the air felt fresher than the air-conditioned casting office.
An old beige Chevrolet driven by a young woman pulled into the parking lot as Noora walked to her car. The smoke from the carburetor made her cough. The young woman parked her smoking car a slot away from Noora’s. A boy, about nine, was sitting in the passenger seat, looking unhappy. The young woman got out of her car, rushed around to open the passenger door, and sat at the edge of the seat, apparently trying to appease the troubled boy.
“I don’t care anymore!” the boy shouted.
Noora looked around the parking lot. Somehow, the boy’s behavior made her uneasy. Whatever was going on was none of her business, she thought, unlocking her car. As long as the boy was not being abused. At least the smoke from that woman’s car had dissipated, Noora thought, glancing over her shoulder. The young woman was hugging the boy, who was crying.
Once behind the wheel of her leased Mercedes, Noora rolled down her window. “I’m sorry!” she heard the young mother say; she then retrieved a black portfolio from the back seat of her car and rushed toward the office building Noora had just left.
The boy ran after her. “Mom! I’m sorry too.”
The woman turned and ran back to him. “It’s the last time. I promise.”
“That’s what you always say. Why can’t I go with you?”
“They don’t want kids. Keep your whistle handy.”
The boy pulled out a large silver whistle hanging from a string around his neck.
“Stay in the car! Read your book.”
“You’re wasting your time!” he shouted over his shoulder. Pouting, he returned to the car and slammed the door shut.
Through the rearview mirror, Noora tracked the woman as she ran to the building. She was thin, and not very tall, had to weigh less than a hundred pounds. Her stringy, pale blonde hair fell to her shoulders.
The young woman returned to the car, shouting. “Where’s my lipstick! Oh God,” she said, frantically searching in her purse.
The boy climbed out of the car and pulled out a lipstick and a compact case from his pockets and handed them to her.
“Don’t do this, please! It’s not funny,” she said, taking her makeup. “It’s hard enough! I’ll lose this chance if I can’t try this audition one last time. Please. And stay in the car!”
“Why can’t you get a real job?!”
The young woman’s face dropped. She turned away, shoulders slumped, and disappeared around the bend to the casting building. Standing alone, the boy kicked a few imaginary rocks and walked back to the old Chevrolet.
Noora started the engine and switched it into reverse. She started to pull away but stopped and pulled back into her parking spot.
She watched the boy. Sitting in the car, he was juggling two oranges. His mother certainly didn’t have “star quality.” She was probably going to the second floor, where she knew they were casting for a new diet drink commercial. She looked like a washed-out blonde who could come to life if she wore the right makeup … No wonder she was begging for lipstick. She was so pale, so blonde … So … AHNA!
“Her name is Shoshanna Teresa Kahn,” Noora said, placing an eight-by-ten, black-and-white glossy headshot on Ian’s desk. “Setchka for short.”
“Setch-what? What kind of a name is that?” Ian asked, studying the young woman’s headshot.
“A name we’ll need to get used to.”
CHAPTER 65
A DIRECTOR FOR AHNA
Where did I get the crazy notion that Ian Cohen would want to make a movie based on Ahna’s life? Noora remembered when she had first met him, he had said, “I don’t do Sophie’s Choice,” which she later realized he was talking about the World War II movie. No, he did not do movies that dealt with the Holocaust or anything close to that.
What was really behind it all? Was it because she wanted to escape France altogether? Because she feared Moustafa was still out there, in Paris? Of course not; one had nothing to do with the other! But she did still feel unsure and needed to get out of France. The newspapers said an unidentified man had drowned in the Seine—it could have been anyone. If he didn’t drown, then he could have followed her. But the prowlers at Annette’s house had been caught, she reminded herself for at least the hundredth time—eighteen-year-old delinquents. Nothing to do with Moustafa—or any of those dreadful fundamentalists.
Still, Noora was not convinced. And all she could do now was toss and turn with a pounding heart and a tormented mind.
The bright green numbers of her alarm clock displayed one o’clock. She had an early-morning appointment with yet another possible director. This time, the meeting would be held at Ian’s office. Hopefully, whomever they were interviewing would take Noora more seriously, but she wasn’t going to get her hopes up.
For some reason, and especially at night (since returning to California), thoughts of Michel seemed to be returning more often. What are you doing right now, and where are you? And, dare I ask … with whom
? She tried to push the thought away. I MISS YOU SO MUCH! She punched her pillow and sank her head into it.
The land line on her bedside table rang, startling her. Who could that be at this hour? Hoping Ian was not calling to say he was ill, she lifted the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hello … uh …” a male voice she did not recognize said on the phone.
She hoped it was not a prank call.
“May I speak to … Kelley Karlton?”
“Who’s calling, please?” She pushed the covers away and sat up in bed.
“My agent, Riley Basser was contacted by a producer, Ian Cohen … He asked me to call someone by the name of Kelley Karlton,” the voice on the phone said. “Is Kelley a man or a woman?”
Noora was ready to hang up, run straight to Ian’s room, knock on his door, and ask how he could possibly give out her personal phone number instead of the regular one at Roz’s office!
“I’m sorry,” the man on the phone said. “I … I wasn’t informed who … Oh, I’m sorry, I just realized … you’re now three hours ahead. We don’t do that daylight saving stuff here. My name is Jaqui Amstern. I live in Hawaii … Kauai. I’m a retired film director.”
“This is Kelley Karlton speaking. A woman.”
“I’m so sorry …”
“Did you say Mr. Ian Cohen gave you this number?”
“Yes. I apologize because … I realize it’s late there … But they wanted me to contact …”
“Perhaps you’d like to call back in the morning, during business hours,” she hinted. “Do you plan to be in Los Angeles in the near future?”
“Well, no … I have an art gallery here in Hanalei, and I don’t travel to L.A. much … But I received quite a few messages on my answering machine from my exagent, and from Mr. Cohen himself. Something about a film in development and that they wanted to talk to me …”
Noora wondered if he wasn’t drunk. Or … stoned?
“Fact is, I’m really retired now,” the man on the phone repeated. “I don’t work in Hollywood anymore … but I understand there was an original … an original manuscript?”
“Yes.”
“Written by a woman … A woman by the name of … Ahna Morgenbesser?”
Noora thought his slight accent was German. He said “Morgenbesser” the way Ahna pronounced her name. “Perhaps we can send your agent the screenplay adaptation. Tomorrow morning. During business hours,” Noora said, pressing on the last two words.
“I would prefer to read a copy of the original manuscript.”
Noora bounced up, paced for a moment, and sat back at the edge of her bed. “It’s a diary over 500 pages, handwritten, mostly in German. And French.” She flicked on her bedside lamp in search for a pen. What was his name again?
There was a long pause at the other end of the line, then finally he said, “I can read German. Can you send me a copy of the original diary?”
“The original diary?”
“Yes, you said there’s an original diary?”
“Yes.”
“And … You said there’s a copy translated to English?”
“Yes, there is.”
“Okay. I’d prefer to read them all myself …”
“You’re kidding.”
“Pardon?”
“Oh … I mean … If you would give me your name again, and address, I’ll have Mr. Cohen’s office overnight the copies to you tomorrow.”
“Overnight to Hawaii takes two days. Mr. Cohen said there’s a script adaptation?”
“Well, there is … but … actually, a rough draft.”
“I would like to read that too.”
Noora was speechless.
CHAPTER 66
LIMOUSINE LUST
Where had the time gone? Summer had rolled in, then came September. Since her new diversion, it had been easier for Zaffeera to remain in Al-Balladi rather than Los Angeles, where Michel remained, designing that complicated house she had loathed and cursed every day. But she wasn’t too upset about that anymore.
Zaffeera had started the seduction of her young chauffeur. Not that she had expected her fantasy to materialize. She was just having a little fun. Every time he drove her to the new shopping mall, she kept her legs apart a little more. Sometimes she asked her driver to take the “long way,” around the city, through the desert road. And so, two lonely, sex-starved souls found each other.
On a few occasions, she had caught his glance over the rearview mirror, but he never said anything. Finally, one afternoon, from that mirror, she had spotted beads of sweat on his forehead. It wasn’t hot in the car with the air conditioner blasting, but he removed his cap and wiped his brow and the back of his neck with a handkerchief before putting his cap back on. That day, she had shaved her pubic hair and felt tingly clean like a young virgin bride. And that day, he took a different turn along the desert road. That was also the day she wore no underpants. She had casually kept her legs wider apart, bringing her skirt a bit higher than her knees.
He stopped the limousine at the edge of a hill, in the shade of a huge, droopy mango tree. There, he killed the engine, climbed out of the limousine, and opened the left passenger door, opposite from Zaffeera’s usual seat. She wondered what he was doing, excited at the prospect that he might rape her.
For an endless moment, he stared at her very seriously. He was breathing hard as if he had just jogged a few kilometers. Finally, he parted his lips.
“Oh … ah, hm … listen, Mrs. Amir, I can’t take it anymore,” he huffed breathlessly. “I am only human and you are beautiful.”
“Beautiful?” she asked, trying to control her own breathing.
“Yes. Beautiful.”
Well, that was all she needed to hear. Those words were enough to shatter any rules or religious beliefs. Michel had never spoken to her with such hunger, lust, or desire. That man wanted her. Was he actually shaking with desire? Yes! He needed her … He said she was beautiful. He said it twice. How could she resist such a man?
“Please, do with me as you wish,” she murmured, closing her eyes, wetting her lips.
“But Madame … that is not possible,” he said.
Zaffeera’s eyes popped open. How could he turn cold at such a heated moment? She could have slapped him. “You have my permission!” she ordered and locked all the doors.
He pulled her to him, stared at her glossy cherry lips, for what seemed like a never-ending minute.
“Do me. Now!” she commanded.
He kissed her like she had never been kissed before, thrusting his tongue deep into her throat. On the stretch limousine floor, where the sheepskin carpet was thick and soft, her handsome chauffeur made love to her, kissing every part of her body, and fulfilling every fantasy a woman could imagine enjoying with a young man who could easily pass for a movie star. With every thrust, she screamed with pleasure, and never did she expect him to last so deliciously long.
CHAPTER 67
MAKING A MOVIE
The first day on the set, Noora stared at the grim world Jaqui had created.
“Good morning,” he said and gave Noora a kiss on the cheek.
“Good morning,” Noora replied, trying to conceal her shivering. Who would have expected it to be so cold in Poland in the middle of June? She should have brought warmer clothes.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“It’s … just that … it’s very realistic.”
“Good,” he said and rushed back toward the main camera, which had been positioned and ready to roll. On his way, he stopped for a brief moment and patted the art director on the back. “Good job, Albert,” she heard him say. “Very realistic.”
Noora understood why the director chose to shoot in a European locale like Poland, but for Noora, such a dreadful scene was just too real. A low, stark building façade on bare, muddy grounds outlined against a gray sky: a pathetic crowd of children, their faces smeared with dirt, clad in rags, gathered two by two, facing several uniformed G
erman guards—a landscape of horror.
In adapting the story, Noora had focused on Ahna’s courage and cleverness in saving the children—not on the concentration camp and the experience of the children themselves.
A smoke machine behind the realistic camp façade the art director had designed was now blowing with full force, which gave the idea of bodies burning. Noora’s chest tightened, and she was experiencing difficulty breathing. She was starting to feel unsteady and slightly ill.
She had to remain calm and remind herself that no one was about to be carried away, no one was about to be beaten and killed—not herself, not these children, not now … Not at all!
But … where did all these children come from? There were so many. If Ian Cohen were present, he’d be screaming, “Too many extras! I’m not paying for all this!”
Realizing she was standing too close to the set and probably in the film crew’s way, Noora stepped back. The crewmembers all seemed to know who she was. She had been introduced as the associate producer who had brought the property to Ice (as everyone seemed to call him). She was really an imposter lucky enough to have found Ahna’s manuscript.
“Quiet on the set!” she heard the assistant director shout.
The children were crying on cue, it seemed. She heard Jaqui’s voice: “Let them cry while we’re rolling!”
“Speed!” came the shout from another angle.
“ACTION!”
Her stomach became queasier while she watched, all the while trying not to watch, as the camera rolled.
Children were crying louder now. German guards were yelling. There was a gunshot, followed by another. More yelling, more cries. Enough!
She turned and walked away, careful not to step on the sea of electrical cords. Once clear of the movie set, Noora made her way to the long craft services tables laden with coffees, teas, and an array of snacks. She picked up a Styrofoam cup. Maybe she should make herself some tea. She studied the variety of little tea packets, trying not to pay attention to what was happening on the set. Quietly, she filled her cup with hot water, but she felt queasier. Chamomile tea might help, she thought. She started searching for honey.
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