“Stop thinking about it,” Dick said.
“You think I’m going nuts?”
“No. You’re just working too hard. Success can lead to exhaustion. It happens to sensitive people like you. Come on. Let’s go eat at Spago’s. It’ll make you feel better.”
Then, a few days after the mysterious apparition of the redheaded woman, the demonstrators in front of It’s All Comedy! grew in numbers and aggression. They were different from the passive, innocuous people who’d been there for two years now, with their faces that had become familiar, their signs and the pamphlets they distributed to passersby on La Brea when they weren’t talking with one another, sitting on iceboxes or folding chairs. We had gotten used to them, didn’t see them anymore, sometimes even waved at them when we passed. Dick and Matt no longer insulted them as they walked by, and hadn’t in a while. But these new demonstrators were of a different breed. Younger, more aggressive. Pro-life activists — what a ridiculous title they gave themselves, as if they were for life and others were against it — carrying horrifying signs with pictures of dismembered babies, bodies without heads. The same sort of people you find standing in front of abortion clinics across the country, shouting, intimidating medical staff and patients, finding out where doctors live in order to harass them, or, in some cases, kill them. In Florida, Massachusetts, New York State, and, most recently, Houston, Texas, doctors had actually been murdered. In Texas, the killer shot and killed a doctor through the window of his home, in front of the man’s seven-year-old daughter. When it was reported in the news, I couldn’t help thinking of Melody. Wasn’t she an activist for a pro-life group? Had she been disgusted by the murder? Or did she believe, like some activists interviewed on television, that the Houston doctor, “murderer of thousands of babies,” had reaped what he’d sown?
And what did Len think of all of this?
All day, in front of the La Brea studio, there were a dozen men and women taking shifts under an intense sun, their signs enough to send a shiver down your spine: ABORTION IS MURDER! IN GAD WE TRUST IS INCITEMENT TO MURDER! We walked through the thicket with our eyes down, as they stared at us, faces contorted with hate.
“Bums,” Dick said, indignant. “Nothing else to do but bother honest people trying to work for a living.”
We were wrong to think they were harmless. The white stucco building gave us a false sense of security — we called it The Bunker, after all. At one point a group of lunatics managed to break into the building and find the stage where we filmed the scenes that took place in Gad’s ministry. The altar, the pistol in its Plexiglas box. No one was there at the time, except for a janitor who alerted security guards and the police. Five people, two men and three women, were arrested.
Then they went after Avril Page, the young woman who played Chastity. Poor Avril. A talented young woman, soft-spoken, completely transformed in front of the camera. It was strange to see her play the insolent, arrogant Chastity with such ease when we knew that in “real life” she was a timid girl, constantly afraid she was bothering other people, a rare quality in an actress. We attributed her lack of self-assurance to her youth, and worked to help her gain confidence. “Impostor’s syndrome,” Ann diagnosed. Indeed, her parents told us that a lot of students were jealous of her at school and Avril, who hated confrontation, usually reacted by belittling what she did.
And now she played the most controversial and thankless role in the show, the one that led to the most complaints, some bad enough to send a shiver down your spine. There was even talk of putting us under police protection.
She wished she could give a piece of her mind to these lunatics, but she simply couldn’t. She was paralyzed by the fear of offending them.
In the darkness, they lay in wait for her in the parking lot. Avril had left by the back door, like we all did now since the demonstrators had set up camp on the sidewalk. We couldn’t move them; they were protected by the First Amendment. Since the incident in which a handful had breached the building, It’s All Comedy! had hired additional security guards, there twenty-four hours a day, but where were they that night? Where were they?
Avril had finished her scenes for the day, but we still had one to shoot without her, so she was the first to leave. “You’ll be okay, Avril?” Ann asked. “Sure, sure. Don’t worry on my account. See you tomorrow!” She gave us a radiant smile, despite having worked for ten hours straight. She grabbed her white Ralph Lauren bag and left.
Two women and a man were waiting for her. They appeared out of nowhere, Avril would later tell the police. A woman of about forty and another, younger woman, more aggressive. They were accompanied by a wild-eyed man, clearly of limited intelligence, who kept repeating, non-stop, “Abortion is murder.… Because of you, America will feel the wrath of God’s judgment.…”
“Leave me alone,” Avril replied.
But they followed her. When she stepped up her pace, they stepped up theirs. “Please, I’m only an actress. Leave me alone.” They continued their pursuit anyway, and the incantations of the young man became more feverish. She was about to run, but fear paralyzed her. She thought of calling us on her cell phone, but didn’t dare. She didn’t want to offend them. “Offend them?” I would later say, furious. She continued to walk quickly towards her car, trembling like a leaf. The three lunatics followed her closely, threatening, and the inhuman voice of the simpleton became a desperate moan that covered her in a cold sweat. “Because of you, America will feel the wrath of God’s judgment.…”
Her hands shaking, she opened the door of her Honda Civic and found refuge inside. The two women began slamming their palms against the windows, insulting her. Terrorized, she felt a scream bubble up inside her. She thought of calling the security guards. That’s when she noticed something on her hood, something strange and shapeless, something wet, sticky … Blood? Something that looked like … a baby? Like those pictures on their signs. An aborted baby?
11
There were about a hundred people that evening in front of the Beverly Hilton, where the amfAR gala was taking place. A worthwhile gala, despite the price tag — twenty-five thousand dollars a table. I could still remember how offended Melody had been months earlier. AIDS isn’t an accident or one of life’s trials. It’s God’s just punishment. The revolting things Melody had said repeated here by dozens of lunatics, loudly and furiously invoking the wrath of God, “AIDS is the punishment! Repent and you will be saved!”
Along Wilshire Boulevard, policemen were waiting in their cars to intervene if needed. Meanwhile, amfAR’s guests in their evening wear hurried into the hotel, heads held high, pretending that God’s troublemakers didn’t exist.
“Come on!” Ann said, pulling on my arm. “They’re waiting for us in there.”
I couldn’t stop staring at the crowd of lunatics, perhaps unconsciously looking for Melody and … Len? (Would Len participate in such a demonstration? To make Melody happy? The idea sent a shiver down my spine.) I also thought of Avril, whom the security guards, back from a break at a nearby Taco Bell, had to rescue in the poorly lit parking lot. They were only gone five minutes, ten at most. “You were shooting a scene,” the two imbeciles pleaded. “We couldn’t know the girl would leave.” They found Avril in her Honda Civic, in tears, almost hysterical, and hadn’t been quick enough to arrest her three tormentors who fled on foot. They were fired on the spot and replaced the very next day by ex-Marines who had fought in the Gulf. “They’ve got blood on their hands, those guys.” Dick had said. “It should reassure us.”
Reassure us?
Then, a familiar silhouette dragged me brutally out of my thoughts. There, in front of the Beverly Hilton, in the middle of the crowd.
“Romain, what is it?”
Before Ann could stop me, I ran, blood rushing to my temples. Who is she? What is she doing here? The same white dress with the kimono sleeves. The same red hair, gleaming like a helmet. The same fac
e hidden behind black glasses. The same round belly, stained with blood? “Romain!” Ann howled. Alerted, the redheaded woman ran down Wilshire Boulevard. I thought only a man could run that fast. A black car with tinted windows was waiting for her, she jumped inside, and the driver sped off.
“Romain, what are you doing?”
“The woman, Ann … The woman I spoke to you about.…”
“What woman?”
Ann was losing her cool. I felt shaken to the core. Who was this grotesque character? And what did she want of me? Suddenly, a group of demonstrators surrounded us, brandishing horrible signs showing monstrous fetuses, their shouts amplified by a megaphone, “Murderers! Murderers! Let him who sheds innocent blood for gain be damned!” I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Hey, don’t just stand around here.” It was Dick. “I don’t think you want to speak with them.…” He gestured towards a handful of photographers and cameramen not too far away from us. “And you don’t want to be on the news for this. Getting shouted out while you stand around in a tuxedo. So please, come with me.”
That night, at the Beverly Hilton, while everyone was having a good time, while movie stars were hobnobbing with rich donors, while Liz Taylor, a tireless sponsor of amfAR, outrageously made up and covered in jewels, spoke in front of a crowded room, I simply wasn’t there anymore, wasn’t listening.
I’d been so happy to buy the expensive tickets for my friends. We were supposed to spend a nice evening together, Ann, Dick, my friend Bobby from San Francisco and his friend Dwayne, as well as Josh, Adriana, Matt and his wife, and Ab Chertoff.
From time to time, Ann, sensing my distraction, would glance at me questioningly, What’s wrong? Ann had been in a great mood for the past few weeks, loving, full of desire for me, but I was so preoccupied with the demonstrators, I was barely receptive to her at all. Ann was radiant, serene. And she had a curious attitude recently, as if she wanted to tell me something, but couldn’t quite find the words. “Romain?” “Yes?” A moment’s pause, “Oh, forget it,” with an enigmatic half-moon smile, as if she had a surprise in store for me.
Her eyes, that night! And that black dress with an open back that fit her marvelously, fit her beautiful hips and that small, sexy midriff of hers, which seemed slightly swollen that evening, though it didn’t seem to bother her. She spent so much time at the gym to keep it flat! The small suggestive roundness charmed me, enhanced by her shimmering dress bought just for the occasion. Men looked at her, devoured her with their eyes. Ann Heller. My woman. The woman I loved. Why weren’t we married? It had never seemed important, but perhaps we’d been wrong never to discuss it. “Romain?” She said. “What’s wrong? Smile a little. It’s a nice evening.” I smiled at her. Bobby and Dwayne were talking about the house they had just bought in Russian Hill in San Francisco, showing off pictures, while Dick mined his abundant repertoire of old bachelor’s jokes, “My wife? She’s at home. Someone’s got to wash the floors, right?”
I was probably overreacting. This wasn’t the first time someone was tarred and feathered publicly for a work of art. What about Martin Scorsese and Universal, or Salman Rushdie, condemned to live in hiding for fear of being assassinated? I shivered. We live in a civilized country. It isn’t the same thing. Though was that really the case? Who was the redheaded woman? A man in a dress? A madman after me? Someone who could go after Avril?
“Romain? Make an effort, you look bored.”
“Sorry, Ann.”
I forced a smile and turned towards my friends to suggest a toast, but … to what? “To freedom of speech!” Dick offered. And everyone together, “To freedom of speech!”
I let Ann drive home. “Too tired,” I said. She looked at me without speaking for a moment, worry on her face. “Romain, you’re letting yourself be affected by these people. Don’t give them importance they don’t deserve.”
She started up my new Audi with an exasperated look. Next to us, Dick waved from his Mercedes. Bobby and Dwayne had gone up to their room.
Wilshire Boulevard, Santa Monica Boulevard … in the rear-view mirror I watched headlights trailing us. And what if we were followed? What did I think I would see? Actually, what was I afraid to see? The black car the redheaded woman had jumped in? It was far too dark to see anything, anyway.
“Romain?” Ann said. “Yes?” I answered, my thoughts elsewhere, my eyes on the rear-view mirror. Once again, she repeated, “Oh, never mind,” this time with a note of anxiety in her voice.
I said, “What? What do you want to tell me Ann?”
She hesitated for a moment before saying, “Oh, nothing. I just wanted to say that Bobby and Dwayne seem to have a beautiful home. It would be nice to visit them in San Francisco, right? It would do us good to get out of town.”
Is that really what she wanted to tell me? I answered noncommittally, “Yes, sure … it’s a good idea.…”
She turned left on La Cienega Boulevard before taking Sunset Boulevard, and, to my great relief, the car that had been following us continued along Santa Monica Boulevard. I tried to laugh about it, telling myself, What’s going on, old man? Get a grip! Ann looked worried now.
Why didn’t you tell me, Ann? Why did you wait until it was too late?
Yes, we need to fight for what we believe in. But what happens when it isn’t you who suffers, but those you love?
At the gala at the Hilton, I began making modifications to the next episodes of In Gad in my mind. Whatever Josh and the others might think, I would make changes to Chastity’s character, put an end to her repeated pregnancies and abortions. She’d become an advocate for abstinence. Yes, Chastity Paradise, missionary for chastity, going around to schools to preach the good news. Avril and her parents would be reassured, the public and the critics would say it was a stroke of genius — Roman Carr denouncing the sexual counter-revolution in American schools. Yes, that’s what I would do.
At the house, all the way up Appian Way, Ann turned pale when she realized the alarm system hadn’t been activated.
“Did you forget, Romain?”
“No, I don’t think so.… Listen I can’t remember … I probably thought I put it on and then forgot.”
“Forgot, that would be a first.”
I was convinced I had set it. “I forgot,” I lied. “I remember now.”
In truth, I had no idea.
“I don’t like this, Romain.…”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Ann.”
We walked into the house, hesitant. I went first, to reassure Ann. Looked through every room and closet, discreetly, so as not to scare her. Thinking of the redheaded woman and the lunatics that had begun gravitating to me.
That night, it took me a long time to fall asleep.
That night, my mind wasn’t easy at all.
12
“What a feast!”
The next evening, we invited Bobby, Dwayne, and Dick for supper, and I promised myself I’d be in a good mood. Ann had worked hard to prepare a fantastic meal.
“I want it to be a celebration, Romain!”
“Why? It’s nobody’s birthday.”
“And why not? And anyway we almost never see Bobby.”
It would have been hard to not be in a good mood surrounded by Dick and Bobby, jokingly chatting about the Lewinsky affair. Far away in the valley, the smog that covered L.A. had been set alight by the setting sun, about to dip into the Pacific.
“Monica Lewinsky. Paula Jones. The uglier they are,” Dick said, “the more that idiot Clinton goes after them!”
“Ugly?” Bobby said. “He doesn’t care. He just closes his eyes. We men have a great talent for abstraction when it comes to sex.”
Next to Bobby, Dwayne pretended to be offended. Bobby went on, “Kenneth Starr and his gang of inquisitors believe they’ll have Clinton’s head. I think it’ll just turn against the damn Republicans.”
“Republicans!” Dwayne rolled his eyes. “Why is no one making a racket about Newt Gingrich’s infidelities?”
“Because he isn’t the President of the United States of America,” I said.
Dick continued, excited, “Jack Kennedy did far worse. Sam Giancana got his women for him. Everyone knew it, the reporters knew it, but it wasn’t judged to be of public interest, and I agree.”
“But it is of public interest!” Ann countered. “If the President uses his penis before his brain, anyone can blackmail him. Our enemies across the globe have certainly learned a lot thanks to this pathetic story.”
Dick shook his head. “Reason will prevail in this beautiful country of ours. The goddamn vultures will never successfully excommunicate Clinton. Americans are happy about what he’s done for the economy. Our country has never known such prosperity, not since the Second World War. I raise my glass to Bill Clinton.”
And we all raised our glasses to Bill Clinton.
“Come on,” Ann whispered in my ear.
I followed Ann, particularly radiant that evening, into the kitchen, smelling her perfume in her wake, looking at her back with desire, the nape of her neck exposed by the bun she made with her hair. I wanted to kiss her. There was something flamboyant in her eyes, in her smile, like a warm afternoon sun. “I love you,” I said. She turned and giggled with pleasure. In the kitchen, where she had spent the day working, the makings of a feast were revealed — foie gras, oysters, prime rib, and almond chocolate cake she had just taken out of the oven. I was extremely hungry all of a sudden. “Romain?” This time she didn’t say “never mind.” No, this time she said in a small, uncertain voice, “I’ve got something to tell you, but not now. Tonight, when everyone’s gone.” Worried, I asked, “Nothing serious, I hope?” She smiled. “No, you’ll see. It can wait.”
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