by Dixie Lyle
“I was in the graveyard,” said Yemane Fikru. “It’s an amazing place.” He looked directly at me when he said this, and I had the distinct impression he wanted to say more.
“I was in the gardens,” I said, which was almost true. “Running from one errand to another, as usual.”
“I was in makeup,” said ZZ. “About to have my artificial gore removed. I’m just thankful it wasn’t replaced by the real thing.”
We all fell silent for a moment, picking at our salads. Many of us, I was sure, were thinking the same thing: Where had Maurice Rolvink been, and in what condition? And where was he right now?
“Keene claims to have been asleep,” said Oscar. “Which is entirely possible, considering how late he was up last night.”
“Oh?” I said. “You were up with him?”
Oscar shook his head. “Not as such. We parted company around midnight, when I decided our friendly croquet tournament was verging on the obsessive. But I’ve heard reports from the film crew he was hard at work at five AM, and I suspect during the entire interval between.”
“Hard at work?” said Fikru. “At what?”
“I thought you’d know,” said Oscar. “He’s your compatriot, is he not? I can’t make head or tails out of what he built.”
“You mean that thing out on the lawn?” Fikru asked. “Keene did that?”
“You sound surprised,” said ZZ.
“I’m not sure what to think,” said Fikru. “I mean, I know what he’s like—but I also know he’s trying to follow a more spiritual path.”
“Keene?” said Oscar. He sounded like a man who was just confronted by a tiny green alien in his martini where he expected an olive. “Forgive me, but the only spirits he believes in are the same ones I do. Chin chin.” He held up his glass to demonstrate, and took a drink to punctuate the remark.
“Well, spirituality can take many forms,” ZZ said. “Keene’s a very creative person, and not exactly conservative. It makes perfect sense to me that any awakening of his higher consciousness would take an unorthodox shape.”
“I tend to agree,” said Tervo. “It’s not about following set rituals, it’s about a connection to the divine. You can find that in the most unexpected places.”
“Very true,” Fikru acknowledged. “You sound as if you’re speaking from personal experience.”
At many dinner parties, bringing up the subject of personal belief systems would be frowned upon; ZZ’s parties were different. She encouraged discussion of just about anything, and never shied away from controversy.
Tervo glanced around, but nobody looked uncomfortable. “I suppose I am,” Tervo said. “I had a most strange experience several years ago. I was undergoing difficulties in my relationship, for a variety of reasons. Foremost among these was the amount of money my occupation was bringing in, which wasn’t much. After much acrimony on both sides, I had decided to end things. This was rather difficult, as we had been together for a number of years and in fact I’d hoped to marry her.”
“Always a tough situation,” ZZ said.
Tervo nodded. “Yes, but that’s only tangential. What happened was that I decided to tell her the next day, but we’d been invited to a party that night. It was to be the last social event we ever attended together, though neither of us knew that at the time. Due to the stress, I drank more than I should, and spent most of the event avoiding her. She left early, clearly angry and confused. I can’t say I blame her.
“All this is merely preamble, however. I couldn’t face going home to her, and so I stayed and continued to drink. In my emotional and drunken state, I even confided to several other partygoers that I was leaving her the next day, as if seeking some sort of approval. Perhaps I even received it; I don’t recall.
“The party was within walking—or should I say stumbling—distance from our home. Eventually, I left and made my way in that direction. I was overflowing with emotion, deeply sad and yet relieved; as hard as the journey had been, I felt as if it was almost over. I’d come to a crossroads in my life, and I had made my choice.”
Tervo fell silent for a moment.
“You chose your art,” Jaxon said.
Tervo’s smile was sad. “Yes. There was more to it, of course—there always is—but that was the crux. She’d made it clear I had to start bringing in some money, and I can’t blame her for that. Art demands a certain selfishness, and always exacts its price. It would be easy to portray her as the selfish one, the hardhearted pragmatist who couldn’t recognize the value in what I did—but that was not the case.”
He looked around the table, at each one of us in turn. “She was an artist, too, you see. She was simply better at it—or at least, better at keeping the money coming in. I suppose that’s what hurt the most.”
He shook his head, as if to clear it. “I apologize if this is dragging on. But it’s important to set the stage, as it were, for what happened next.
“It was a warm summer night. The street I walked along was dark and deserted, only the streetlights providing any illumination. As I walked, my mood lightened; the world seemed full of potential, the darkness an empty slate waiting for me to write on it. The only sound was the distant noise of traffic …
“And then I heard the clicking.”
Tervo raised his water glass and took a small sip. “It came from the other side of the street, quick and steady. Click click click. I stopped, looking for the source, and after a moment spotted it: a dog on the sidewalk across the road, perhaps fifty feet ahead of me. The noise was its claws on concrete as it trotted along.”
“What sort of dog?” I asked.
“A stray, I thought at first. Lean, gray, sharp-eared—and in fact, not a dog at all.”
“A coyote!” ZZ said with delight.
Tervo smiled back. “Yes. Shy and secretive creatures, almost never seen during the day and rarely even at night. I expected this one to bolt as soon as it noticed me.
“But it did not.”
Tervo stopped to take another drink of water. He was, I realized, a natural storyteller.
“Well, what did it do?” Lucky asked.
“It crossed the street to my side,” said Tervo. He put the water glass down on the table and studied it for a second, as if he thought it might suddenly do something unexpected. “Most unusual behavior for a coyote. It stopped, still fifty feet away, and we regarded each other for a second.
“Then it sat down.”
“How intriguing,” Oscar murmured.
“Indeed. It plainly had no fear of me, and seemed to be waiting for something. It was at that moment I had my … I want to say epiphany, but that doesn’t seem accurate. It wasn’t so much a realization as a recognition, combined with a burst of alcohol-fueled inspiration. I knew a bit about the Native American myth of Coyote, the trickster god, and in that moment of recognition it seemed to me that we were kindred spirits, he and I; that we both dealt in the creation of illusion, and that we did so as much for our own enjoyment as the enjoyment of others. Storytellers, in other words. And—one storyteller to another—I felt compelled to acknowledge that mutual bond with a suitable offering.”
“You performed for it?” ZZ asked.
“I composed an ode, a brief poem, on the spot and recited it. I wish I could remember what I said, but it seems the coyote took those words with him when he left. I remember the tone of it, more than anything; respectful but wry, neither solemn nor serious. I bowed my head when I was done, and when I raised it he was gone.”
“What do you think it meant?” Fikru asked.
“I took it as a sign that I had made the right decision. The next day I ended my relationship, and less than a week later I landed the biggest role of my career.”
Lucky Trentini grinned and raised his glass. “To storytellers,” he said.
“To storytellers,” we all agreed, and joined him.
After we drank, Lucky said, “Not to diminish your wonderful, magical story with grubby facts, but more and more
animals are becoming part of urban life. Coyotes are a lot more common than people think.”
“It’s true,” ZZ said. “Anyone care to hazard a guess at how many of them live in a big American city like Chicago?”
“Dozens,” Jaxon said.
“I’ll go as high as a hundred,” Lucky added.
“I’ll see your hundred,” said Oscar, “and raise you the same amount. Two hundred.”
“Okay, I’ll play along,” said Fikru. “Nature is always more abundant and adaptable than we give her credit for. I’m going to go all out and say five hundred. Chicago’s a big place.”
I actually knew the answer, but I didn’t want to steal my boss’s thunder. “No idea,” I said. “Um … forty-two.”
ZZ gave me a little smile that told me she knew I was lying through my teeth. “Two thousand,” she said quietly.
“Really?” Jaxon asked.
“Amazing,” said Fikru.
“That would explain the dearth of roadrunners,” said Oscar.
ZZ has three large flatscreens in elaborate frames on the walls of the dining room, and now she used the remote in her hand to switch them from the Monets they were currently showing to a website about urban wildlife. “They’re the only predator that’s doubled their range in North America despite being widely hunted. They started out in the suburbs, but in Chicago they did so well there wasn’t room for all of them. Coyotes are highly territorial, so new generations were forced into the only available real estate: the city itself.”
“You’re still talking about mainly residential areas, though, right?” Lucky asked. “Not downtown.”
“No,” said ZZ, “I’m talking about the entire city, downtown included. They’re very, very good at keeping themselves hidden. In their natural habitat, they come out during the day and at night; in the city core, they’re strictly nocturnal. They navigate high-traffic streets and rarely get hit by vehicles. They used to call them ghosts of the plains, but now—”
“Ghosts of the cities,” Tervo said. “Yes. That seems appropriate.”
“Hmmm,” said Lucky. “That’d make a pretty good documentary. Depending on who did it, of course.”
“Well,” said ZZ, “National Geographic has already done some pretty amazing work on the subject. They even captured a few Chicago coyotes and put cameras on them. I’ll see if I can find some of the footage…”
While she fiddled with the remote, Consuela served the soup course. “There we go,” ZZ said at last. We enjoyed an excellent clam chowder while watching a coyote’s-eye view of late-night streets bounce and jerk past—a combination that wasn’t all that popular after a minute or two.
“Okay, enough of that,” ZZ announced, returning to the non-mobile Monets. “Inducing motion sickness in my guests during dinner is the last thing I want.”
“Thank you,” Fikru said. “I have to admit, it was starting to get to me. At least all the shots were low to the ground—if those cameras had been attached to eagles, I’d have to leave the room.”
“Acrophobia?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” Fikru said. “I stay on the ground floor whenever I can. Been that way since I was a kid.”
“Not me,” said Lucky. “You have to be fearless to direct movies. Know who my idol is? Werner Herzog. Any director whose advice includes always carry bolt cutters with you and there’s nothing wrong with spending a night in jail if it gets you the shot will always be my personal hero.”
“Everybody has fears,” Tervo said mildly.
“Sure,” Jaxon said. I noticed he’d been doing more drinking than talking for a while. “Actors, especially. We just know how to use that fear.”
“Exactly,” said Tervo. “Any strong emotion you can—”
Jaxon interrupted him. “Insecurity is the worst, though. Right? Right. I mean, if you’re afraid of heights you can just not go anywhere high. But some things you can’t get away from.”
Oscar raised his glass. “In my experience it depends on how fast they can chase you, and the manner of transport with which you make your escape.”
“Especially with eighty-proof fuel in the engine,” ZZ said with a disapproving glance. She had nothing against drinking, but I know she wished Oscar did a little less of it.
“My point,” said Jaxon, “is that actors are some of the most insecure people alive. About our talent, about what people think of us, and most of all about our careers. Know what I say when aspiring astors ack me—sorry—aspiring actors ask me, for advice? Water wings. Buy some good-quality water wings, ’cause you’re gonna be treading water for the rest of your life.”
“Quite true,” said Tervo. “Though some of us are better swimmers than others.”
I was pretty sure Tervo meant that as a compliment, but I could be wrong; in any case, Jaxon took it as a slight. He didn’t get angry, not visibly, but he turned to Tervo with an even bigger smile and said, “And some of us are terrified of drowning. ’Specially when you’ve been in the pool for a while, right? Somebody tosses you a life preserver, you grab that sucker, no matter who threw it. Or what it’s attached to.”
“Maybe we should change the subject,” Lucky said. Directors need many skills, but defusing conflicts between clashing egos is high on the list.
“No, no,” Jaxon insisted. “There’s this line you have to walk when you’re an actor, between taking risks and chickening out. I just wanted to make it clear which side of the line Mr. Tervo is on.”
“Are we dropping the swimming metaphor, then?” Oscar asked. “We seem to have moved on to line-walking and poultry.”
Jaxon ignored him. “I’ve seen your contract, Tervo. Two sequels? Really? Why don’t you just wear a collar with your name on it?”
Tervo met Jaxon’s eyes, but neither smiled nor got angry. “I don’t have the luxury of youth, Mr. Nesbitt. I have a family and bills to pay. If you’re fortunate, one day you’ll understand that.”
“Oh, I understand it just fine, Mr. Tervo,” Jaxon said. “What I don’t understand is why you agreed to do two sequels for no money.”
Tervo didn’t reply for a long moment. Nobody else at the table said a word. Finally, Tervo dropped his eyes and said, “You may have seen the contract, but you obviously didn’t read it. I am being paid for all three films—in fact, I’m being paid in advance. One lump sum as opposed to staggered payments.”
“Really?” Lucky said. “I had no idea—Maurice wouldn’t tell me a thing.”
Jaxon was looking smug, Tervo was looking defensive, Lucky was looking curious but concerned.
“I’ve had some … financial difficulties,” Tervo said. “I confided in Mr. Rolvink and he proposed this arrangement.”
“Awfully generous of him,” Fikru said.
“Generous?” said Tervo. “Hardly. I’m locked in to a three-picture deal for barely more than the salary for one. If I didn’t need the money so badly, I would have thrown the contract in his face. As it is, I can only hope all three are made quickly enough that I don’t starve to death in the meantime. Excuse me.” He abruptly stood, turned, and strode out of the room.
“For a chap afraid of starving to death,” Oscar said, “he certainly left at a bad time. Here comes the main course.”
Everyone turned their concentration onto their food, easing the tension and providing an excuse to change the subject. Fikru started talking about a South American drug called Yopo that tribes shot up their noses using the equivalent of blowguns, and pretty soon the conversation had wandered so far from the subject of actors’ paychecks nobody even tried to drag it back.
But it made me wonder: Exactly how serious were Maxwell Tervo’s financial troubles—and what would happen if the producer of those movies suddenly turned up dead?
7.
After dinner I popped back in to my office to finish up a few things before I headed home. Whiskey sat in front of my desk and waited, while Tango sprawled bonelessly on the couch.
[As
I’m tired of explaining, Lassie was a fictional character. This was simply one of the dogs who played Lassie in the television show. His name is Pal.]
[Acting. A skill you wouldn’t understand.]
Whiskey snorted. [Please. The essence of acting is to see the world through someone else’s eyes. Cats are simply too self-centered to even attempt this.]
[That’s not what I meant by acting.]
“I don’t think that’s how it works, kitty.”
[That’s not acting. This is acting.]
Whiskey can shape-change really fast when he wants to. He went from being a bright-eyed blue heeler to a squat, pudgy bulldog in an instant. The voice inside my head that accompanied this was thick and even more British than usual. [We shall fight them on the streets, we shall fight them in the parks, we shall fight them in the pet shops. And we shall never surrender.]
Tango’s sniff was the epitome of dismissal.
Whiskey shifted into a German shepherd. [Vell, you haff plenty of zat, fraulein. Such a shame you don’t haff ze skill to go vith it, jah?]