At the Café de la Paiks, Len’s laughter resonated through the restaurant.
“That’s Dick,” I told Len. “He can be sold on the best ideas, as long as he thinks they came from him.”
The second bottle of red was gone. Len ordered two cognacs. I protested vigorously, but he insisted. He was buying.
“And then?” Len asked. “I want to know what happened next.”
“Well, Dick was right. Hollywood is a jungle. None of my scripts got sold. Dick reviewed them and demolished them. Then, one day, he told me, ‘Why don’t you try television?’ ‘Television? Dick, be serious. I write for the movies, not for…’ He cut me off, ‘Right! Art !’ Still with that disgust in his voice. And so he introduced me to Aaron Spelling.”
“No! The real Aaron Spelling?”
“In the flesh.”
Len was like a little boy now, elbows on the table, his eyes filled with wonder. I said, “He’s a nice guy, Aaron. Always willing to give an opportunity to someone who’s willing to work. He agreed to try me out on Chopper One, a show about police helicopters that protect Los Angeles from bad guys. It lasted a season. It wasn’t very good, and it wasn’t the contract of the century; we were a handful of writers on it. My name wasn’t even in the credits. But it was a first, important step. After that, Aaron Spelling trusted me. Not long after, he hired me for S.W.A.T., then Fantasy Island and The Love Boat.”
“Oh!” Len exclaimed, “The shows from my childhood. If I’d known there was a bit of my father in them.…”
I thought he was going to start crying. We’d both become emotional, what with all the alcohol.
“Then he got interested in In Gad.”
“How did that happen?”
I told him about the summer of 1988, The Last Temptation of Christ, how I came to know Ann, and the way I convinced Dick to invest in the project.
“Dick? How did he react?”
Michèle appeared, all smiles, and offered us dessert. Len scanned the menu, his brown eyes vaguely reminiscent of Robert Egan’s. He took time to scrutinize mine as well, darker than his. He asked questions about the greyish scar I still had on my right eye since the accident in 1968. I spoke to him about the effects of it — my vision deformed depending on the angle, hypersensitivity to light — but very little about the accident itself and nothing about Dana. It was still too early for that.
He ordered tiramisu and seemed disappointed that I didn’t join him. “Nothing for you?”
“No, thanks.”
“You’re watching your weight?”
Yes, but since I didn’t want to insult him I simply said, “I’m going to burst if I eat anything else.” It had the merit of being true.
He said, embarrassed, “I’ll have to take care of my weight one day. Now that I have a model to follow, at least. I’ve got someone to measure up to.”
I smiled lamely, though emotion welled up in me. He got up and said, as if he was afraid I’d escape, “Wait for me a couple minutes. I need to take a piss. I want to know how he reacted, your friend. I like this Dick. He has personality.”
Only a few tables were still occupied at Café de la Paix. A Thursday evening, a snowstorm, the streets almost empty, the yellow warning lights of ploughs splashing through snow banks in hypnotic, revolving colour. I was thinking of In Gad, Chastity’s abortions, and what Len had told me with a sort of detached amusement — Gail and Doctor Ziegler, her parents wanting her to have an abortion, her desire to keep the baby, to keep Len. I was surprised to realize that I had, until now, seen the right to abortion as something theoretical, enshrined in law and needing to be protected. And here was Len, my son, a counter-fact to that idea.
“And so, Dick?”
Len was back. He’d splashed water in his face. Impossible not to be charmed by this smart young man with his contagious enthusiasm.
I talked about the plan I conjured up to convince Dick, despite the fact that my friend hated surprises. I picked him up at his place in Beverly Hills on a Sunday morning during the Fourth of July weekend. I drove a used Mazda at the time — I’d never been the type to go into debt for a car. Dick was nervous, his mood sour, “Where are you bringing me? Not to church I hope!”
“Maybe.”
“Very funny. Seriously, tell me where we’re going.”
“You guessed it, church.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“No, I’m serious.”
“Stop the car right now! I’ve never set foot in a church, and I won’t start today.”
“It’ll be an experience, Dick.”
“An experience! Stop the car or I’m throwing myself out.”
“Calm down. I want to show you something.”
He had cursed me out when I’d refused to take his Mercedes, “No way. I know you, Dick. You’ll be yelling at me the whole way and end up driving yourself.”
He had grumbled, “If you’d listened to me from the start, you’d be rich today. And you’d be driving something less pathetic.”
In the end, he had climbed into my Mazda, grimacing in distaste. And like every time he was annoyed, he lit a cigar. Without asking whether I was okay with it.
We exited the Hollywood Freeway and got on the I-5 going south, always south. The more we drove, the more Dick groused, his eyes fixed on the endless display of billboards beside the highway, advertisements from the benign to the refined to the gaudy, promising to serve you as if you were a celebrity. Welcome to Los Angeles! Dick found his smile when I drove down Disney Way — “Ah, now you’re talking!” — but immediately lost it when I turned towards Garden Grove.
“Patience, Dick. Patience.”
Len was listening, rapt. His tiramisu finished, he attacked the glass of cognac I’d given up on. “You’re sure you don’t want any more?”
“No! Or you’ll have to carry me back to the hotel.” Once again, his tumbling laughter resounded in the restaurant.
In Garden Grove we drove down Anaheim Boulevard and then Haster Street. Large nondescript streets, lined with ordinary houses, small shopping centres. I turned left onto Chapman Avenue, a faithful replica of the mediocrity that had preceded it. Suddenly, on our right, a surprising, shining edifice, glittering from a thousand reflections, hard to look at, like staring straight up on a cloudless noon.
“What the fuck is that?”
I was speechless myself.
“Can you tell me what the hell this is?” Dick repeated.
“Robert H. Schuller’s Crystal Cathedral.”
“Whose what’s what?”
I parked the Mazda in the huge parking lot, filled to one-third capacity. Dozens of people were converging towards the astonishing glass building, a hundred and thirty feet high. Others were welcoming them by the entrance, smiling warmly. I caught Dick by the coat and pulled him inside; we were both struck with vertigo, sucked upwards by the immensity of the cathedral in the shape a four-pointed star, made of ten thousand panes of tinted glass, held together miraculously by a fascinating set of steel beams. It defied all earthly laws, could withstand earthquakes, or even divine punishment. A cathedral bathed in light, its vault California’s blue sky. A pool of water, fountains, and behind the altar a majestic organ like a great ship in an ocean of glass. The televangelist Robert H. Schuller had bought himself quite the cathedral, for seventeen million dollars.
“Okay, so it’s impressive,” Dick said. “But we’re not going to attend the service.”
“Why not?”
“No way! I’ll wait for you outside.”
“Make an effort for me, Dick.”
We sat apart from the crowd. The organ, the gift of a rich patron, began playing “Ode to Joy” accompanied by a choir of twenty? thirty? fifty people? The music reverberated in the space and in our bodies and hearts, and we felt we could almost fly in the palace of glass around which
palm trees danced, cradled by the wind. Suddenly Dick began sniffling, and furtively wiping his eyes with his hands. Embarrassed, he hid behind the Ray-Bans he pulled out of his vest pocket. I smiled. Dick, emotional! Before us, a camera was sweeping the room. Dick didn’t notice it. We were live on Hour of Power, and he didn’t know it.
Tears began streaming down his face when young men and women began arriving from the four branches of the star carrying flags, a forest of red, white, and blue flags floating in the immense, celestial luminosity of the cathedral. Then Doctor Schuller in his academician’s robe, silver hair, and golden-rimmed glasses came out, welcoming the flock. Apostle of positivism, more motivator than pastor. (“Look at this wonderful church, we did it! Tell yourself that all of you, here, you can all do it! Yes! You can succeed too!”) His theatrical sermon exuded patriotism. It was written for the Fourth of July and given on Independence Day weekend every year. I Am the American Flag, it was called. He personified the American flag, embodying it using the “I” with excessive affect, punctuating his speech with orotund exclamations, painting a picture of America since its foundation.… “I have known forty Presidents.…”, “I have earned the right to be heard.…”, “I have earned the right to speak.…” Extolling the greatness of America and its exceptional generosity towards other nations. Referring to its sins with a contrite air, its mistakes.… “Show me any other country that is stainless, shameless, spotless, or sinless over whose people I could fly with greater honour.…” “I am proud to fly over my imperfect America.…”
Hidden behind his dark glasses, Dick stifled a sob while a giant American flag was raised to the ceiling, the symbol of God and country in the church. Spellbound believers shouted spontaneous “Ohs!” America casting a shadow over God. America looking at God, haughty.
Driving back towards Los Angeles, Dick, who usually could only describe emotions in derisive terms, was shaken up, “I’d follow Doctor Schuller anywhere.”
At the wheel of the Mazda, I turned my head, looked him straight in the eyes, “I finally have my idea for a TV show, and this time it’s the right one.”
He furrowed his brow, “What do you want to do? Tell Doctor Schuller’s life story?”
“No, it’ll be a dark comedy about God and America. And you’ll like it, I’m sure.”
“A comedy? I don’t see anything funny in what we saw. It commands respect. R-e-s-p-e-c-t, in the words of Aretha.”
“Trust me, Dick.”
“You say that every time! I can’t imagine what you could do with Doctor Schuller’s life story in a comedy, except mock him.”
“You saw the palace he built with money from his flock?”
“You Catholics built your sumptuous cathedrals the same way, no?”
“Dick, look at yourself! Schuller’s got you good. I bet you’ll send him a cheque.”
“And why not? There’s nothing wrong with it. As far as I know, no one put a gun to my head and forced me to give.” He took another cigar out of his pocket and lit it. “Doctor Schuller brings the Good News, the one of American success. You can’t be against that. Imagine if everyone followed his advice. Imagine how rich society would be. No more crime, no more poverty, no more dirty commies. I think it’s far more inspiring than hearing someone like.…”
“Like?”
“Like all these goddamned idiots who criticize the way we Americans live.”
I didn’t react to his insult. “Okay,” I said. “Doctor Schuller isn’t a fundamentalist. It looks like he’s got no skeletons in his closet. Perhaps he even does good, all things considered.…”
“The man has my complete admiration.”
“But what about con men like Jim Bakker? Or that pitiful moralizer Jimmy Swaggart who pays for whores in seedy motels and confesses in tears on his show because he knows his sexual obsessions will lead to his downfall? ‘I’ve sinned against You, my Lord!’ Hypocrites, all of them!”
Dick shrugged. “So they’re clowns. Pathetic clowns.”
“These clowns have the politicians’ ears in Washington. The clowns and charlatans of faith who haven’t yet fallen from grace have powerful networks. They can bring down a president. You saw how Reagan was willing to kowtow to them. Remember how he began praying publicly all of a sudden? He did it to mollify them. To have them on his side. You know what they’re looking for, besides screwing over the little guy? They want to bring us back to the right path so Jesus will come again and walk the earth. That’s what they say, Dick! But it’ll only happen when humanity has washed itself of its sins. Meanwhile, they’ve taken on the mission of cleansing the planet of everyone they hate — liberals, atheists, feminists, gays. Everyone who isn’t like them and doesn’t think like them. They invest in power, the courts, schools — they reintroduce prayer in classrooms, make Darwin’s theory heresy, eradicate homosexuality, take away a woman’s right to choose. These people, Dick, want to bring us back twenty years, destroy the rights we fought for in the sixties, the years you might hate but that made the world a better place. Shit, Dick, you see them everywhere in Los Angeles, ready to lynch Martin Scorsese and the bosses at Universal! They want to dictate their vision to Hollywood!”
In my rusted Mazda heading for Los Angeles, I was angry, indignation in my throat. Dick was chuckling, smoking his goddamned cigar.
“Aren’t you worried?” I said, insulted by his attitude. “I am!”
“Of course you’re worried: you’re Canadian. Feminists, homosexuals, socialists, peaceniks, and abortion doctors are normal for you. Meanwhile, good and honest Christians who work in their communities for the good of all, and practise their own faith, for you guys, they’re all idiots.”
“You’re an asshole, Dick.”
It was past midnight, and the Café de la Paix was empty except for us. Politely, Michèle made it clear it was time to close up shop by placing the bill on our table. I grabbed it before Len could. It was our agreement — the father was taking his son out, like any father would. Grateful, his eyes wet, Len thanked me. I got up unsteadily, “I’m sorry. I feel like I’m the only one who got in a word.”
“Don’t be sorry! It’s fascinating! You can’t imagine how proud it makes me.”
I smiled. Michèle brought us our coats, helped me put on mine. My God, so much alcohol! As we got to the door, I told Len, a hand on his shoulder, “As soon as you’ve got a couple of free days, come visit us in Los Angeles. Bring Lynn and the kids. Ann would love to meet you. I’ll show you around the studio, and you can meet the actors if you want.”
“That would be wonderful.”
Before leaving the restaurant — and facing the snow that was still falling — Len took a blue envelope out of his pocket.
“It’s from Gail. She asked me to give it to you.”
I staggered. “Gail? An envelope? Why?”
Len shrugged, embarrassed, “I don’t know.”
I took it, tucked it in my anorak. We shook hands like businessmen, then judging it wasn’t quite the way a father-son relationship should go, I opened my arms and Len opened his, and we hugged. Tears in our eyes, we said goodbye. I jumped into the taxi that Michèle had called for me and headed for my hotel.
In my room at the Westin, I quickly undressed and got into the hotel’s cotton bathrobe. I was dizzy enough to be slightly nauseous. Still, after a moment’s guilty hesitation, I poured myself a St. Leger from the minibar. It was one of those nights.
I sat on the bed and took a deep breath. The envelope. What could it contain? Its blue paper was like silk, so thin it might have been empty. Another sip of St. Leger, and I opened it.
It was a picture of the two of us. In Métis Beach, in the Egans’ garden. “August 1962,” Gail had written on the back. A few days before the events. Our tense smiles, our eyes squinting into the sun. Gail wore a white tennis dress, and I had a pair of awful brown pants, too short for me, and a matching rayon s
hirt. My mother sold clothes, yet I looked like I was dressed from the Salvation Army. I didn’t know whether I should feel pity for myself or laugh. Why would such a pretty girl, with the face of a princess who reminded you of Grace Kelly, be interested in me? Timid, almost frightened, I looked at the camera Françoise was impatiently holding; it was that time Gail had made her take a picture of us, an obsession that had gotten her overexcited, It’ll be a small victory, Romain. A small victory for my independence. Do you understand? She wanted the picture to look at in the moments of boredom once she was married to Don Drysdale. She would hide it from him so he could never find it. Do you understand? The same picture that had pushed Françoise into telling on us out of revenge. She gave the signal that sent Robert Egan on the warpath, armed with a golf club, in the messy garage my father and I had repaired years earlier.
I finished the St. Leger and put the picture back in the envelope, unable to understand what Gail had hoped for by giving it to me.
4
While Christie Brenan’s article in the Los Angeles Times was positive, it didn’t have an effect on the number of complaints we received; on the contrary, they were growing, but so were the ratings. Enough to delight the team, Josh, and the It’s All Comedy! investors.
A second season, new viewers each week, the sales and advertising division going wild over their loyalty. “Money is telling us we’re on the right track,” Dick said. “Not the handful of bigots with their threats and insults.” We started believing we were heading towards a record audience for a cable show with almost five million viewers for an episode in late February 1996. The team was ecstatic; we celebrated at Josh’s place, a large house in the Bauhaus style on Wild Oak Drive — garden, pool, open bar. I was happy, savouring the moment. Years of work finally rewarded.
“To Roman! To Ann!” Then, “To the team! To the actors!” A night of self-congratulation, a time for celebration. The contagious gaiety of the actors that night — Avril Page (Chastity), Bill Doran (Gad Paradise), Kathleen Hart (Martha Paradise), and Trevor Wheeler (Dylan) — whose careers were now launched thanks to In Gad. After the six seasons we were planning to shoot, they would be able to choose their projects, offers would abound, perhaps even in the movies. All four hoped one day to make it into the movies. I was certainly proud of their accomplishment. To have given an opportunity to Avril and Trevor, two young, talented actors, and to have helped Bill and Kathleen, both in their forties, whose roller-coaster careers had long forced them to pick poorly paid side jobs, felt great. They could relax now — if everything continued to go well, of course.
Métis Beach Page 32