Powerful perspectives suddenly gathered into the magnified realm of her consciousness. There was no denying the attractive, tugging force behind he whom she observed. In a telescopic instant, she went from being transfixed to transformed.
‘I want to do everything I can to perform an act of fellatio on him,’ she said, almost haughtily, and as if she actually could.
Maybe she actually could.
‘First, though, I have to finish my ‘Hendrik the Seventh’.’
‘As well you might,’ said Erebus, who heard her utterance plainly but was trying not to be too distracted from the procession.
‘The Royal Shakespeare Company in Stratford is waiting. And I like your attitude towards this arrogant satrap down there, amidst the mob. Servile and arrogant, simultaneously!’
‘Do you think he is your type, my dear?’ asked Berengaria.
‘I don’t know yet,’ answered Saskia, almost under her breath. ‘But he conducts himself like a king, and in the absence of any such ruling gender in my home country, as well as in my current residence, I must seek out my own.’
Her formidably nasty and thoroughly British sexiness was a bit scary at times such as these. Beneath the ultra-smooth exterior was suspended untold inventive perversity, and to those who hadn’t a clue (which was practically everybody), by one look only, they might guess her capabilities in vixenism were more preeminent than the sheer sensuality she vastly preferred.
‘As well you might,’ repeated Erebus. Then, speaking in a lower tone to Berengaria, he continued. ‘Why is it that the women with the best bodies and the most attractive personas feel they have to save themselves for some enticing but impossible dream? Hmm?’
‘Because, my dear,’ answered the Lady Berengaria, ‘privately, we have rather high opinions of ourselves, particularly when we do have the best bodies and most attractive personas. And, I might add as a footnote, you tend to be just short of worthy, as far as such august earnings are concerned.’
In a series of sidelong glances only Ray Milland could perform more adeptly, Erebus managed to see Saskia rubbing her mons on the balustrade, her fashionably puffy lips parted, allowing for quick pants to enter and exit her prepared mouth. Brunette bangs hiding upthrust eyebrows, no one who might have spied her now would guess that her breasts stuck out at attention and literally vibrated with anticipation. Naturally, her pretty bottom obeyed its instinctual commands, and suddenly it trembled in what was obviously a discreet orgasm. And one black lace-up boot was in the air.
‘Something tells me,’ the scribe whispered to his wife, ‘that the three of us are going to write a script as a Butterbugs vehicle. And I’m not talking about that damned camera crane trundling him along, right now.’
Berengaria smiled wryly.
‘Funny, I had the same feeling.’
Then she added, with as much amusement as resignation, ‘Come on, loved one. Let’s go back to the office and hop on the casting couch. For Butterbugs!’
She gestured to the charismatic figure down there in the hubbub, becoming lost in the glorious tumult and haze of the western sky.
‘Though my tastes suggest inadequacy, My Lady, am I, uh, sufficient for your own, then?’ He almost snickered.
‘More than,’ she replied with all the sexy pixiness that kept this writing couple amongst the happiest-married people in the film colony.
Saskia tarried long on the scene, lost in thought, as she gazed into the epic sunset. Her distractions would naturally take the stratospheric high-road, now that she faced, head-on, the self-intellectualization of the down-on-her-knees, butt-in-the-air, holy slavering intimacy/lust for this gorgeous hunk of high-impact male flesh (and more flesh than even she imagined), that was suddenly sticking through her heart. So, what else was her intimate self to do, but ache and moan for…
She needed what she must have. What she’d been waiting for in these long Californian months of dreaming.
For the first time, her delicacy of feeling precluded any sort of raunchiness. She craved the quiet sharing of flesh-folded intimacy, the sexy bouquet of one body truly united with another, under the almost sacred alliance of love and acceptance. She thought of the poets of longing, such as Richard Dehmel and Nietzsche, and the tone poets of naked admittance, like Delius and Peter Warlock. And those ultra-romantics that stood beyond them. Thus was the green light endorsement of a pedigreed reasoning for her raw response to his meaty presence, discussed, debated, and accorded in her very driven mind. She knew she was a prize, but did anyone else really know, beyond the frontage? Amidst her privacy of arcane knowledge was the conflict of communicating such facts, and perhaps, just maybe, she could resort to iambic pentameter in the form of a photoplay script, by which to communicate her heart’s desire.
Idea!
Then again, there was the brandy-fired terminology that she could always aim at Woolfe and Smith, to convey her moods of the heart, and perchance they would be able to synthesize them in the form of dramatic utterances, which, when spoken by her true love, could not help but return everything and everybody to the scene of their origins.
And they, star and scriptor, would join in conjugal and cosmic love, and she would steal him away to London, to her flat where Lytton Strachey had lived, and she would have him all to herself, under the sky-windows of overcast half-light, and she would love him and love him and love him some more. And then they would run away, like raggle-taggle gypsies, to live by their wits and their ability to sing for their supper. And they would dwell in wooded dells near Fiddlers’ Island on the Isis, hard by Oxford town – just near enough to hear the mediæval chimes of Merton College’s tower. She’d wear hippie-chick rags, showing off her sculpted midriff, and she’d make sure he looked like a poet, with no cloying allowed. And the summer sunsets would be sweet, with nothing in their possession but their own hands, and perhaps a pattern-covered Penguin volume of verse, to recite as the late bell of the nearest manor house would sound, bringing all those who worked for goodness homewards. Yet, they would turn in their own direction, perchance to the waiting longboat on the canal, to live their simple life of sense and sensuality, as the summer waned into fall and the colored leaves caused the quiet water to reflect upon itself, and, by winter, to hear the distant choristers from Wuggins chapel singing motets by Vaughn Williams as the beer engines pulled the bitter brew from basement kegs amongst the nitre, with Peter Greenaway beetling in for a pint, chatting about how the camera itself must be eliminated from the cinema, then reaming the latest Hollywood blockbuster and its contemptible qualities. And the temptation of Hollywood itself would rear up, in which Miss Saskia’s ambition would by needs hop onto the stallion of defiance and, in order to prove that she can do as well as the Blockbuster Bozos, would write, yet again, a literate and savvy script, that even Hyman Goth would receive with open, grasping arms, to produce, and in turn snag Saskia, the Other and Inaccessible Brit, into the rat cages of Culver City. And thus, with this combustible scenario so clearly conceived, was the possibility that the cycle would be repeated and enhanced.
But, well now. Was this new hero the one to deliver her, and enable her to return to idyllic alternative life on the happy canal?
If only just! Not anyone but a sympathetic ’40s film scorer would understand her true desires! This ambition to escape to a narrow chance at happiness was the single reason she was dissolved in tears when she returned to her office. How simple the escape, or the promise of escape. Because, she knew that the destination was that which poets and artists had striven for in the lonely and sometimes tragic realm of longing and desire. Could this be the time when the elusive ideal would be seized and secured? Could this obvious figure of great presence be the only possible car to hitch her own poor caravan onto?
There was nothing else for it but to get to work. She sat down under the old reliable Sight Light and, fingers shaking, began to punch, with too-long fingernails, at the ‘tucka-tucka’ response of her keyboard. And by that she centered her thoughts, h
er dreams, and her aspirations upon this one goal.
So the Muse sang to her. Gaily she frolicked through. How many days and nights she knew not, through gardens of sunlit splendor, then byways of gloom, for they provided the requisite conflict. But mainly she yearned for a story that would catapult her into the sky of promise. Not for her own glory, of course, but for the life of joined rapture. And for that reason, she chose (not without a little experience with the geography, the inhabitants, and their wine) that corner of France known for its dramatic religious upheaval in the hoary centuries past. A perfect vehicle for someone who could enact grandeur with both intimacy and brilliance! Perfect vehicle to facilitate her climb into the clouds of Bliss!
And it was then that the rat cages at Selznick Studios became as a scholar’s study in the name of researching that certain esoteric cult, from the time and epoch of that which she would fashion her chariot to happiness: the Albigenses!
To Maturin of the 1820s she looked for guidance, and, happening upon a $3.95 edition of the full four volumes of that massive work (e.g. Charles Robert Maturin’s ‘The Albigenses’), found in one of those competent but ignored bookshops out on the plains south of Fountain, she settled in to forge a treatment to which only Erebus and Berengaria would be able to unlock the keys. Her passion bordered on the expiatory, for there was almost a Catholic devotion in her to the dogma so intertwined with the story.
Yet, the inborn and sensible, even Rousseauean, urge to rebel against it drove her onwards, always onwards. And these opposing energies assured that the treatment would be good, if not great. She worked in a fire, an enclosed chamber of fire, in which the crystalline words of escape were forged. And by their declaration, she earned her way out by their chronicle.
Pulling back, her scenes filled with mullioned windows, mysterious monasteries, sunny but suspect courtyards, sickly tapers, pipes of Bordeaux, and secret discussions between hooded figures. And a lead character named Alphonse. A fantastic role, chiefly designed for –
What was this actor person’s name, anyway?
She had indeed been sequestered.
‘Ereebie?’ She rang in the middle of the night. ‘What was the name of that processional fellow we saw at the studio that day? The one they were pushing along. Carrying along. Towards what, I wonder? Perhaps all the way out of the studio…? To where? What do they call him?’
‘Butterbugs’ was all that Erebus could mumble in the midst of sleep, for all writers in Hollywood were dreaming of him.
‘Butterbugs,’ she whispered, and rang off.
‘Butterbugs… A name of kings…’
So it was, that on a dry, dead Culver City day of no significance, she delivered her manuscript to the upper echelon writing team of Erebus and Berengaria, who were duly humbled, impressed, and utterly wowed at Saskia’s primal achievement.
‘How can,’ whispered Berengaria, ‘we… we even approach this work, in order to fashion it for the screen?’
Erebus took a brief look at Saskia, and saw the passion, the devotion, as well as the access to the corridor of greatness, and, like they who recognized Werfel’s ‘The Song of Bernadette’ to be valid at an early stage, he literally bowed down to her, and, after a respectful period, wracked his mind with where, on this whole studio lot, a laurel leaf crown might be procured.
Gone was all cynicism, all carnal distraction, all hasty judgment, to be replaced by a championing of a script that cried, like a symphonic chorus in the wilderness, to be filmed, and with the ultra-best means, so that they who labored in the lands of toil to tell the tale, might at the very least achieve some seminal rest, if not perpetual bliss, for their efforts.
‘Hey Mart!’ rasped Erebus to the rat cages-courier on the lot. ‘Get this text down to Scripting for multiple copying, pronto! And with thy very life shall you guard it!’
The burden lifted, Saskia stretched out on the casting couch in Woolfe and Smith’s office.
‘Now I am relieved. It’s not picking at me anymore. Both of you now, take note, for ’tis love I have to give. For all. Come and get me!’
44.
The Power Of The New
‘The Albigenses’ was rushed into production, but with the greatest care. Its creators were mad keen on first things first. An emergency conference with Sonny was fought for and won, in order to attempt the securing of Butterbugs. It was the first time Big Money was mentioned. Woolfie and Smith, who would also produce, wanted the best deal, but were prepared to go far overboard, convinced by Saskia’s missionary zeal in realizing the project any way possible, for Selznick International release. The Front Office gave it an emerald-green light of almost piercing intensity.
With the script duly executed, publicity was already being pumped into the media’s mainstream, promoting Butterbugs as the messianic/folk hero of the saga. Saskia Pingles wanted far more sex in the picture than was essentially permissible, but the project flew forward, and ‘The Albigenses’ was certain to become one of the great films of all time, here and now, in the 2000s.
Butterbugs may have been entranced by Perry Flask’s Drygardens, but because of increased revenues and increased standing, he had recently decamped from the pleasant but now outmoded ‘pensione del caballero’ that had witnessed Sonny Projector’s allegorical stripping.
The rising star had been happy there, but it was now prudent to become more protectively insulated, or removed, from the hurly-burly of LA reality and its potential for bozo infiltration. From the low-key Viceroyalty of New Granada ambience, he ascended to something with a bit more l’olivierade in its personality as conditions changed, or rather, improved. He of course made this move under advisement this time, from within the structure of the new Butterbugs Unit itself. Sonny had long ago wised up to the needs of those within his ‘non-stable’ stable, and there would be no more buzzing off into the depleted ozone just because a few routine tantrums were afoot.
‘You see, Butterbugs,’ he’d told the young actor-becoming-a-star, ‘There’s no doubt about it. You helped bring me to my senses. Permanently.’
‘I’m glad to know that, Sonny. Uh, I mean, you know, that I’ve been of some service, and all.’
Sometimes the downright innocence of Butterbugs’ responses, which his agent knew to be utterly sincere, tried his patience just a bit, due to their over-obviousness. Yet he never got sarcastic or sneering in his own responses. The actor was no Holy Fool, but his genuineness was not to be tampered with, only managed.
There was also hardheaded reasoning behind Sonny’s new sensibility. The sensation caused by Butterbugs, not only with the public, but also within the working Industry (e.g. his recent and very successful populist ‘uprising’ at the studio) alerted the super-agent as to his client’s clout potential, as well as his latent-but-fast-becoming-recognized charisma. Plus, his rather conspicuous displays of intelligence and non-scripted thoughts.
So, a retreat was needed for a protection of ‘assets’, as well as a haven for nurturing, and instruction as to the ways of stardom. Monastic-style script-reading, memorizing and rehearsal were all high priorities, too. No matter how macho or crude or dissipated, the actor/star must also be a dutiful student, with quite a bit of study-hall time set aside.
After a miracle-find by the invaluable Josie Sugartorch, Butterbugs willingly decamped into his new carefully-chosen station, the first time in his life that he didn’t have to physically do it himself.
Despite a progressive mode that couldn’t allow much leeway for retrospective reflection, he was indeed reminded of Vonda’s lifestyle behind the bars and programmed gates of separation. Significantly though, Butterbugs hadn’t had a single episode of confrontation, either from drooling fans, skanky groupies, or dubious oafs. Therefore, the mellow, creeper-entwined pilasters that marked the low-key entrance to his own version of privacy hardly communicated security as much as they did comfort and quietude. In fact, it was duly christened The Retreat by Penny Projector, son of Sonny, who worked with Butterbugs on lightwe
ight issues.
It was up DeLorca Drive, one of those three-quarter-laned routes up the slopes of Wine Canyon and its blissful attributes. Past the Mid-Levels, access to residences tended to slant down, right off the Drive. Native gnarly oaks lined the course, along with much complicated interaction between plantings and protective walls. These places had been here long enough to present some venerable qualities to the observer. Like cork groves in Portugal seen from an innocuous roadway, there was an impersonal feel to the stretch where Butterbugs was headquartered, for that was the main point of his new location. As in any old Extremadura-type region, the passer-by might also note that the barriers and their shrubbery exuded a mighty fine intrigue, as if they concealed a treasury of magical old Californian seats of the first water. They would certainly be correct in any such assumption. The odd olive and lemon tree shared in the lyricism of the slopes, making this charming zone a wonder of bucolic timelessness rather than one big bedroom for showbiz underachievers.
If one knew where to turn, and the proper code to punch into the car-friendly access box, then one’s motor would drop steeply down an extremely private driveway, paved with tiles from old Pavia, and the prospect of a Tuscan villa, not too grand, but low and solid, would soon open up. Once past the sagey spider-chair and grey-blue husk-sheaf bushes, the wide eaves of two modest towers, a dummy campanile (sans carillon), Pitti-arched windows, and a bit of Boboli-worthy planting presented a truly felicitous prospect to the visitor.
There was nothing but sweet ripeness all about. The qualities of character were positively palpable, like a cask of nicely aged Vunnaterio, its tap next an inviting candle, with waiting crystal cup, a grab of Böullhuèrdoeuz fromage, Biemviep capers, Corporal Irving’s chutney, and peeled pipe-apple as board-food. These things were no mere notions hereabouts. Indeed, they were part and parcel of an ambience that was just as genuine as those found in the palazzi of Chiantishire.
Forward to Glory Page 48