My Soul to Keep

by Davis Bunn

For once, Lizu Khan’s legendary aplomb was lost to her. “Oh my.”

  “When I got here the first day, the room was empty. Emily explained I could decorate the office however I wanted, long as I used things from the studio warehouse. I asked, they delivered.” Shari swept an arm around. “Simple as that.”

  “Well, not quite, my dearie. Oh my, no.” Kitty stood just outside the doorway and explained, “Your granddaughter took it upon herself to charm the studio’s chief archivist out of her ample stores, which was no mean feat, I don’t mind telling you. The lady and Shari here spent the better part of a day searching dusty boxes until they found the items. Which is amazing if you happened to know this lady, which to my great sorrow I do, all too well, for it’s from this dire fate your granddaughter rescued me and lofted me up into these far reaches of heaven.” Kitty smiled sweetly. “There now, I believe that’s enough blarney for the moment. I’ll just leave you two to have a wee chat.”

  Lizu probably did not hear her, as her attention had been captured by the sofa. Or rather, the sofa and the signed black-andwhite photo that hung above it. And the movie poster that was beside that. All of which were from the palace set of Istanbul Affairs, one of the biggest hits of the forties. The film garnered nine Oscars, reignited the fading career of one of Galaxy’s leading men, and introduced him to a twenty-year-old vixen with bedroom eyes and pouting lips who, in both the photo and the poster, turned the sofa into a sultry playground. The on-location romance made headlines around the world. The two stars subsequently married and made history by staying married, despite the thirty-three-year difference in their ages.

  All this was of relative unimportance when compared to the fact that Istanbul Affairs was her grandmother’s all-time favorite film.

  “Everything except my office chair came from the sets,” Shari said. “The desk was from the sultan’s palace, remember, Grandma? And the coffee table and the other chairs were all packed into the same box as the sofa, so I thought, why not?”

  Lizu glanced over, nodded, then returned her attention to the striped-silk divan. “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  She settled herself down, spine straight, poised even when living an unexpected dream. “You shouldn’t have done this for me, my dear.”

  “I didn’t. Well, not entirely.” Shari could not stop smiling. “Hey. A girl’s got to have a desk, right?”

  Lizu Khan ran a hand over the silk damask, then patted the seat beside her. “Join me.”

  “Sure.” But her progress around the coffee table was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Sorry to interrupt, ladies,” Kitty said. “But a certain Mr. Garrone would like to have a word.”

  “Garrone,” Lizu Khan said. “Isn’t that your young gentleman?”

  “He’s not my anything,” Shari said, wishing she could hide the sudden blush.

  Kitty lowered her voice. “I could think of several anythings I’d love to make of this one. Though my dear sweet husband, whose name I’m certain to remember before too long, might have a thing to say about it. Shall I show the gentleman in?”

  “Okay. Sure. Have him join us.”

  Jason Garrone is just an agent. Just an agent … But even as Shari fed herself the mental line, her heart sang a different tune. Their lunch at The Grill with Moore Madden had been followed by a private dinner at Spago. He had called her twice. Supposedly about business. But each time there was the off comment, the sly referral, the witty aside that had her laughing long after she hung up. He did not push. He did not make the constant error of most Hollywood males, which was to expect. Especially the handsome ones and those with power, who treated a conference call with any woman as all the foreplay she ought to require.

  But not Shari Khan. Which was why she spent so many nights alone.

  Which apparently was something Jason Garrone had picked up on without her having said a thing. Maybe it was osmosis. Maybe it was his very own mating dance. Whatever the reason, her entire body hummed. She wished she knew what to do with her hands. She felt like a teenager waiting for the prom king.

  “Shari, how nice of you to make time …” Jason stopped a pace beyond the doorway. “I am so very sorry. I am interrupting.”

  “Jason, may I introduce my grandmother, Lizu Khan. This is Jason Garrone.”

  “Mrs. Khan, what an honor.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Garrone.” Her grandmother permitted the young man to take her hand. Jason did not give it the standard American shake. Instead, he did a slight half bow, holding only the fingertips. A very European act. “Won’t you join us?”

  “Are you certain I’m not disturbing, Shari?”

  Lizu said, “My granddaughter was simply indulging me, Mr. Garrone. Are you an agent?”

  “The proper term is manager, Mrs. Khan, but in many respects, yes, I serve many of my clients as an agent would. Some, like Colin Chapman, have done away with his agent entirely.”

  Lizu Khan clearly liked how he did not denigrate the moment with condescension. “What is the difference?”

  “Legally, an agent is not permitted to package a project. Managers can. A packager brings together screenwriter and stars and director, and shops the entire product to a studio. In these cases, we serve as coproducer with the studio’s in-house people. Snowbound is different. That is the project Shari and I are discussing.”

  “I thought Shari was working on Iron Feather.”

  “That is the studio’s current project, yes, ma’am. But people in our trade work two and sometimes three or four films in advance.”

  Shari said, “We’re planning to go over to the commissary for lunch.”

  “Excellent. I remember my first time in the Galaxy executive chamber. I had John Boyfield at one table and Lionel Strangemore at the other. I grew up wanting to be one or the other, depending on what was playing that weekend at the local cinema.” Jason started to seat himself, then froze. “I know that photograph.”

  He rose back to his feet. Shari watched closely. She was becoming adept at reading Hollywood hype. And what Jason showed seemed to be utterly genuine.

  He almost whispered his question. “Is this for real?”

  “Not just the sofa,” Shari said. “Every stick of furniture in the whole room, except my chair. Can’t do without my ergonomic support.”

  Jason stepped around the coffee table and asked Lizu Khan, “May I?”

  “By all means.”

  He seated himself on the sofa, his gaze never leaving the photograph. “I was fourteen the first time I saw that film on TV. I spent the entire next year dreaming I was the one sharing this sofa with that lady.” He rubbed his hand over the damask, the same place Lizu had. “She might have married him, but I knew it was only because we didn’t meet in time. Her heart was always mine to claim.”

  Lizu actually smiled. “You were too young to appreciate her.”

  “That’s the joy of movies, Mrs. Khan. They never grow old. They never let you down.” His gaze kept wandering back to the photograph. “I worshipped her.”

  “I am sure my granddaughter would be delighted if you joined us for lunch, Mr. Garrone.”

  He treated that as the boon it was. “I am honored you would think to invite me. Unfortunately, I am due across town in less than an hour. I just stopped by to tell your granddaughter something, if you don’t mind my mentioning a little business in your company?”

  Lizu Khan gave a regal wave. “My husband, may he rest in peace, never saw the logic in separating business from the rest of life.”

  “Thank you.” He said to Shari. “I’ve just gotten off the phone with Colin. The last sticking points in what Derek offered have been cleared up.”

  “The points?” Shari asked. Points were the share of profits to be granted the actor.

  “All worked out.” Jason smiled. “I had to meet with Sam about something else this morning. He has signed off on the film. Snowbound is a go, Shari. And it’s all your doing. I asked Sam if I could be the one to t
ell you.”

  “Congratulations,” Lizu said. “I’m so pleased for you both.”

  “Shari Khan,” Jason said. “Executive producer of the new Galaxy megahit starring Colin Chapman, directed by Moore Madden. The PR feed goes out tomorrow. Will you take a bit of advice?”

  “Of course.”

  “They will hit you with several other producers. Colin has a woman he uses; the lady lead will have another. Don’t make a fuss. Just make sure your own name goes up alone on the screen. Don’t insist on position, before or after this name or that—you’re not seasoned enough. Just so long as your name appears on its own. The world will remember that.”

  “You mean, the powers in Hollywood.”

  Jason smiled, and instantly the seriousness vanished. “What other world is there?”

  “None,” she said, glad for a reason to smile with him. “None at all.”

  He rose to his feet, straightened his tie, rebuttoned his jacket, then turned and bowed a second time over Lizu Khan. “If you would please excuse me for saying, Mrs. Khan, I have always admired your granddaughter’s Modigliani eyes. You know, the artist.”

  “I know Modigliani, sir.”

  “Of course. What I meant was, Shari has eyes as unique as his models. And now I see why.”

  Shari could not stop smiling. “I’ll show you out.”

  When Jason passed Kitty Sheen’s desk, the secretary used the FedEx envelope she was opening to fan herself. Shari took hold of his arm to keep him from glancing back and said, “My grandmother likes you.”

  “She is an amazing woman.”

  “Yes. She is.”

  “Can I speak to you about a bit more business?”

  She knew the jump back and forth between business and personal was typical Hollywood. And with anyone else it might not be so extremely difficult. “Sure.”

  “Have you given a thought to who would costar with Colin in Snowbound?”

  “To be honest, I’m so green I didn’t even know this was part of the gig.” She actually shivered. “I can’t believe this is happening, much less I’m supposed to talk about stars.”

  “That’s Hollywood. They light the rocket and your job is to hang on.” His smile was the best part about him, and the rest of the package wasn’t bad. Not at all. “Would you like some advice?”

  “Are you kidding? It’s the only way I’ll survive.”

  “Hearing you admit that makes me fairly certain you’re going to be around for a very long time, Shari.”

  She shivered again. “So give.”

  “I have several people in mind. Some are our clients, others not. What I’d suggest is you and I get together for dinner. I will lay them out and describe the role and what I see them doing with it. I won’t tell you which ones are our clients, and I won’t push them over the others. I’ll just give you my input on casting that will take the film to a whole new level.”

  “You should be the producer, not me.”

  “I wasn’t the one who brought Madden to his senses. And I’m not the one Sam Menzes listens to.”

  “I would be honored to dine with you, Mr. Garrone.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Khan. I’ll have my people phone your people.” He pushed the elevator button. And turned serious again. “I’m going to trust you with something. But you can’t ever tell anyone this came from me. Not even Menzes.”

  The intimacy drained away. “I understand.”

  “Yes. I believe you. Which is why I’m going to do what I said I wouldn’t.” He glanced around, then slipped his hand into his pocket and handed over a sealed envelope. “This is an article that will be appearing in tomorrow’s Hollywood Reporter.”

  “It’s bad, isn’t it. I’ve goofed and I don’t even know enough to know what I’ve done wrong.”

  “No, Shari. If it were murder and mayhem, you’d see the vultures circling.” He tapped the sheet. “But you need to be aware, and you need to prepare.”

  The doors slipped open. “I owe you, Jason. A lot.”

  He gave her the deepest look he had shown yet. And whispered to the sound of the closing doors, “Good.”

  When Shari returned to her office, the first thing her grandmother said was, “He is right about Modigliani’s models.”

  “I take it you like him.”

  “Like is not a proper term for a prince of Hollywood.”

  “Hollywood doesn’t have princes anymore,” Shari said, pretending at a light tone. “They’re aristocrats now.”

  Her grandmother sniffed. “The flakes in this town may think they can move the world by using a different term. But fact is fact. Your young man reminds me of a Florentine courtier. All of a package. He is not merely handsome. He is intelligent. He has learned to use the rapier. Your grandfather would have said he murders with skill.”

  The remarks suffused Shari with such a conflict of emotions she could not be certain whether she wanted to hear more. It was rare that her grandmother would be so effusive. But lurking within the silk was the Persian dagger, the one with the poisoned blade. Shari knew that if she asked her grandmother what she meant, she might not like the answer. “I’m not sure I agree with you.”

  Her grandmother sniffed. “Shall we go have lunch?”

  “Sure.” Shari hesitated, then slipped the envelope from Jason into her purse unopened. It could wait a half hour. It had to. Her grandmother’s observations disturbed her too much to permit anything else just then.

  The Galaxy commissary was divided into two distinct segments. The general-staff side had cafeteria-style service and open seating. By unspoken rule, the large circular tables by the front window were reserved for wannabes, who clustered and lusted as the more senior staff headed for the second room. The executive chamber was much smaller and had no name. There was no sign on the door. But the waiters knew who was welcome and who they had to politely turn around.

  Shari was still uncomfortable passing the window between her and the tables where, until so very recently, she had been imprisoned with her tofu and sprouts. She felt the eyes, but a little less with each passing day. Her grandmother strolled along the glass wall with the demure elegance of one whose birthright was never to consider eating anywhere but in the exclusive room. It was another reason why Shari had not invited her grandmother to the studio lot until now, when she could push through the padded leather doors and enter the chamber with its six Isfahan carpets over light-oak flooring. With the three power tables in the darker corners. And the elegant buffet line, and the leatherbacked menus for those with enough time to order, and the chef ready to make whatever else the diner might care to have, from lobster bisque to milk-fed New Zealand lamb.

  After they ordered their salads and wild tilapia flown in that morning from the Louisiana gulf, her grandmother said, “It bothered you, what I said about your gentleman.”

  “I don’t like violence.”

  “Most civilized.” Lizu Khan did not scorn. But she also did not back off. “Answer me this, my dear one. How does a young man … How old is he, thirty? Thirty-one?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “Extremely young, wouldn’t you say, for someone with so much power?”

  “It’s a young person’s game.”

  “Perhaps. Yes. It is a young person’s world, the speed and the changing words and the flash of emotions on the screen, there and gone in an instant. Yes, I agree with you. But still. He is a prince in the realm of light and shadow, yes? So tell me. How does a man rise so far, so fast? Charm?”

  “He says it was a series of lucky breaks, a lot like mine. He helped Colin Chapman when Chapman’s former agent was stiffing him on a deal. He did not ask for anything in return, and got the world.”

  “Modest and charming. Very good. But I think if you were to look more deeply you would find there are a number of people in this realm of yours who bear scars from this young man’s rapier.” She smiled as the waiter delivered their beverages. When they were alone, she added, “I am fairly certain he is Jewi
sh.”

  “With a name like Garrone? Get out.”

  “Ask him. My guess is, Sephardi. I knew many like him in Tehran. They have been through twenty centuries of living under masters who tolerated them because they were the finest at their craft. Only the paramount survive. So intelligent, so polished, so intimate with power. They learn this young and well, the Sephardim.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Why should I mind? He is what he is.” She tolerated the arrival of their food, ignoring the waiter and commanding Shari’s complete attention. “Do you recall what I said the day you started in this work?”

  “I remember everything you tell me.”

  “My dear child. You do my heart such good, honoring the opinions of a crone in an era and a land where the old are tossed aside like refuse.” She reached across and took Shari’s hand. “Remind me of my advice.”

  “Stay aware of what I’m getting into.” Shari stared at the hand holding her own. The diamond and emerald ring and the matching bracelet, the age spots, the finely lacquered nails, the strength. “Know the price.”

  “The price, yes. The price.” She did not smile. In fact, it was hard to see just precisely how it was her face changed as much as it did. But suddenly Lizu Khan was fully and utterly Asian. The eyes that would glitter as they sentenced another to torment and death. The gaze that had seen everything and tasted more than Shari could ever fathom. “Loving such a man as Jason Garrone will require a price. This is not Cinderella land. He will rise to become a master in this realm. He will accept you only if you too are willing to fit the role of queen.”

  Shari wanted to cling to the words that meant the most. Loving the man. But her grandmother’s eyes had tilted somehow, as though redrawn by an unseen hand, one that could stretch the skin out until they angled as sharp as the rapier blade she claimed this man carried unseen. Dark eyes, shimmering with the world’s knowledge.

  Shari realized then why her mother detested her grandmother. Her mother had never said as much. Her mother loved her father, and her father honored Lizu Khan in the manner of one born to the Orient and the respect of one’s forbearers. But Shari knew her mother well enough to understand what her father had chosen to ignore, that her mother loathed her grandmother, and this was one reason her mother was so eager for Shari, her only child, to leave Los Angeles forever—the fear that her mother-in-law would reshape Shari in her own image.