‘Not a problem. You say you have something for Butterbugs?’
‘Oh, I was here to deliver my latest original script, ‘The Lamp at Banbury Cross’, which I just finished this very morning.’
Reciting the script’s title would certainly add legitimacy to her mission here.
‘Well, please come in. There’s nothing better than hand-delivery.’
‘You make an inarguable point. My grateful thanks.’
‘Please, this way.’
Both their high-stepping heels clacked on the Florentine pavers with verve.
Having worked with Butterbugs and Woolfie/Smith solely within studio environs, Saskia had never been here before. She looked about with approval.
And Justina looked her over.
‘That’s a beautiful Skiffer skirt,’ she commented.
‘Oh, thank you. I meant it to impress Butterbugs. He seems to appreciate them in abbreviated versions.’
‘It impresses me, as well,’ answered Justina. ‘Nice bag, too.’
‘It’s a Mendel. Got it yesterday. Isn’t it cute?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Your… top. Is it handloom?’
‘Mm-hmm. Dakar.’
‘Oh, that’s so smooth. Your pendant – Namibian?’
‘Yes it is. You’re so observant!’
‘Well, it’s such a showpiece. Is it special?’
‘Certainly, to me.’
‘Did Butterbugs give it to you?’
‘No, no. I got it myself, for myself, in Windhœk, quite a while ago.’
Led by the hostess, they breezed onto the terrace, finally reached via the entire length of the house. The afternoon was so savory, Justina could not conceive of carrying on even the briefest conversation anywhere but the best place on the property at this moment.
Justina swiveled on the balls of her high heels, with the spectacular wooded canyon as background.
‘So. You’re delivering a script. You wrote it?’
‘Yeah,’ Saskia replied, lips parted, calmly eager.
‘Butterbugs hasn’t mentioned anything…’
‘It’s a surprise. He doesn’t know. I wrote it for… him. Oh, dear…’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘Well, I think I’ve been inappropriate. I’m implying intimacy… A personalized script, private, a gift…’
‘Girl, you are so uptight and proper. OK, slightly, slightly.’
‘Yes, well, I guess I am. No, not really. Right at this moment, perhaps, but I’m not at all, really.’
‘Then do not worry.’
‘All right.’
‘You, Saskia, you’re not in a hurry?’
‘No. No, I… set aside the afternoon in case Butterbugs wanted to review and question the script. I’m really not… No, I’m not – in a hurry.’
‘OK then…’
‘I’m sorry again. This is all unscheduled. I should have rung first. Heaven knows, we’re plugged in all the time. I just thought that, maybe on the outside chance, there might be an element of old fashioned serendipity I might follow. On a dare with myself, really. You see, I perceive Butterbugs as a fast-rising star, with plenty of rising possibilities. Not that I’m an influence or anything, but to my mind, I think he should, sort of, avoid clichés. He shouldn’t fall into conventional life-traps and stereotypes. Oh, hell. I’ve shot my mouth off… all to hell.’
Justina laughed warmly. ‘Oh, you’re still too uptight. But I must say, not too proper. You’ve got ideas, that’s for sure.’
‘Dear girl, I’m a writer, you see?’
‘So you are. And I am in ultra-awe of your efforts. I read ‘The Albigenses’ before it was filmed. Your script was breathtaking. So was the picture.’
‘You are most generous. Let me tell you, Butterbugs made that picture.’
‘So did an intelligent script, girl.’
‘Thank you, Justina. Henry King was stellar, too.’
‘Yes he was. Butterbugs adores him.’
‘That sequence in the cloisters, then the old orchard – like right out of a classic silent picture. Beautiful! And so poignant.’
‘Henry used the same techniques in ‘Romola’ (MGM, 1924) and ‘The Song of Bernadette’ (20th, 1943).’
‘So admirable. The sort of moods I dream about!’ Justina closed her eyes in bliss for a moment.
‘Oh, and in ‘Ramona’ (20th, 1936), too. The beautiful lyricism! In the same 3-strip color thingie, like old paintings,’ Saskia dutifully added.
‘Dreamy… Perfect!’
‘Everything was right. In all departments.’
‘The ingredients of a great picture.’
‘Well, audiences and critics will end up saying whether it is great or not. We creators have done our work.’
‘Oh, but what a picture. That’s what it takes. Talent everywhere.’
Justina smiled, sensing that Saskia knew her own skills, but felt more comfortable in the moment with modesty. She noticed her own knees coming together every time she complimented her visitor.
‘And we will have another – I hope!’ Saskia said, in order to relieve the complimentary tension.
‘So we will. Your script! You have it with you.’
‘I do.’
She produced it from a larger sling-bag she had (by Mandell), intermixed with a Benares shawl.
Justina took the thick and heavy packet, weighed it with her palm, gave an expression of consideration, and placed it on a rusticated outdoor sideboard.
‘Girl, you have been slaving. You need a break.’
‘Oh, Justina, I…’
‘Would you take wine?’
‘Oooo! Why, why yes. At your convenience.’
‘I’m already convenient! Will a Ploobia 1959 suffice?’
‘More than!’ replied Saskia, well pleased at the unexpected quality of the impromptu hospitality.
‘Well then…’
‘That’s a rare bird.’
‘Wilfred Thesiger donated ten cases entire for auction benefiting my Great Rift Nomad Initiative. We saved one half bottle for ourselves.’
‘One half?’
‘Well, Wilfred had to give us a qualifying taste!’
‘A noble gesture indeed!’
‘He’s a dear.’
They sat down on the Cardbear furnitures. Justina poured beakers from a carafe that caught the angled sun and spread a triangle of purply splendor right onto Saskia’s hand.
‘You wear a ring,’ Justina commented, able to differentiate a high-carat amethyst from the surrounding Ploobian tint. ‘A gift from Butterbugs?’
‘Why…’
‘Perhaps on the completion of ‘The Albigenses’?’
‘Why no. It was from… another. In the past.’
‘I see. Yes. It’s most exceptional.’
‘Thank you. It’s one of my most cherished pieces.’
They sat in the golden light and touched glasses in a Justina-initiated toast.
‘To great pictures!’ she said. And just before they came together again with a clink, she added, ‘And to the relief of troubled peoples on my continent.’
Saskia changed from self-satisfaction to sudden concern.
‘Yes. Yes, indeed. To both. More the latter than the former.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Justina smiled.
‘I’ve heard of your efforts,’ Saskia said before sipping. ‘I hold them most highly.’
‘I appreciate it. And your support.’
‘How did you know?’
Justina grinned. ‘Your ring, girl. No one sells cuts like that except Amedeo d’Flurz, through his agency in Brazzaville. His efforts benefit my Conga-CentraAfriRep-Chadian Foundation.’
‘Oh my God, I knew Amedeo. In London. We dated for some time.’
‘Then we have a coincidence, no?’
‘Indeed!’
‘Not wedding-related?’
‘Crikey, no. I may be second cousin to Lord Dorcke, but I would never sufficient
ly qualify as an aristocratically high enough caliber for such a union.’
‘Spoken like a British writer. Of privilege.’
‘My dear Justina, do not pre-judge me. Please.’
‘You are too beautiful for adversity.’
‘And you are not? I have heard of your travails, and of your triumph. Have you heard of mine?’
‘Admittedly, no.’
Saskia gazed over the canyon’s sweet-lighted vista. ‘I don’t think it’s my place to narrate my background to you at this time and at this location, although I could, anytime you wish. Suffice it to say, sitting here, right now, with you, is, without a doubt, the highest plane I have yet achieved in this world. It’s an easy thing to say. I’m a progressive. Everything gets better.’
‘I apologize if I presumed…’
‘Oh, not at all, Justina. Please, let’s… Say, let’s toast old Amedeo. Charitable fellow that he is.’
‘Yes! That’s worth doing.’
They clinked again, and sat back to enjoy the moment.
‘Travails and triumph,’ Justina reflected, ‘I guess we’ve both had… both, then.’
‘Please tell.’
‘Oh, if I could but abbreviate, as I agree with your hesitation.’
‘I am a writer, but heavens, not a transcriber – or a stealer of souls!’
Justina gazed at her softly. ‘That’s nice, screenwriter.’
‘And?’
‘Well, I emerged from the Rwanda debacle, strangely intact. Physically, that is. For in my life up until then, it was indeed strange to be intact.’
‘Getting away alive?’
‘Indeed. As a climax. But not just that. Previously, in the realms of what they now call female genital mutilation, a natural intactness. Unlike so many, that was a terror I happen to have evaded, thanks to an enlightened mother and all.’
‘Ohhh…!’ Saskia was taken aback. ‘Oh, Justina, I’m so happy to hear that! Er, I mean, I’m so sorry that – That wasn’t…’
‘Yes, an unwanted subject, but a worthy cause, I think, for all my sisters who remained and remain. All the women and girls who face the terror I never had to endure. It’s one of my fights. A big one.’
‘Yes! Yes! Indeed! Oh, please, please give me all the particulars, so that I too might help!’
‘I will surely do so, and I thank you.’
Saskia regarded Justy soulfully. Justina reciprocated, both with filling eyes.
There followed a bit of mutual, respectful silence, in which the late-lit landscape was observed and appreciated. The carafe was easily emptied, and then replaced by a jar of Splerrie 1967.
‘Oh, Justina, that was excellent. And now this!’
‘Maybe you will like this just as much. I don’t know if I do. And call me Justy!’
‘So… wonderful to finally meet you Justy. I’m just…’
Her voice trailed off. Justy closed her eyes and smiled.
Several sips later, Saskia decided that the two had had enough un-bespoke communication.
‘Tell me – Justy – a bit of ‘business’, I suppose… But, do you… mind… my working relationship with Butterbugs? And what they’ve said about us in the media; the premiere, the stories, the gossip? I know that all of this must be a concern.’
‘I am not troubled. Not at all. This I know: my eyes have traveled from your ring, up to your face. Your hair looks very lovely in this light. Lovely. I can think of nothing else.’
‘You like it so?’
‘Oh yes, and the rest…’
‘You pay the nicest compliments.’
‘There are many to be made.’
Justina’s toe caught the calf of Saskia’s unwaxed but perfectly-surfaced left leg.
Saskia almost giggled. ‘I think you fancy me…?’
Justina did a mock-serious, ‘I fancy life!’
Then they both burst out in slightly tipsy laughter.
‘If this isn’t life, I don’t know what is!’ added Saskia.
Justy filled her up again.
‘Oh, please, not that much more! Driving…’
‘Not to worry, we have spacious and empty bedrooms available at all hours of the day.’
‘This day! Look, over on the edge of the hill. That’s a denon-bird, isn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not much for birding, girl. But you should see what takes wing in the Mountains of the Moon. Very National Geographic.’
‘Sounds properly exotic. Oh, sorry, exotic’s a colonial expression. Rather… imperialist.’
‘I quite agree. To me, you are exotic, but not in your usage.’
‘Perhaps romantic is a better term to apply to anywhere named after the moon.’
‘You could write a historical picture, with that as the setting.’
‘An idea! Starring Butterbugs?’
‘Just so. And you, girl, could co-star.’
‘Oh, Justy! Such flattery.’
‘Not so. I like the way you talk. I like the way you look.’
‘Not me. Not an actress. I give them words to say. Not mention motivation! That doesn’t mean I want to do it myself.’
‘Well, all right then.’
Saskia stretched in feline relaxation.
‘It’s fun to be grape-potted! Haven’t been for such a long time. You’re right, Justy, I have been slaving. Every day. Every night.’
Justy’s swimmer’s body slumped down a bit in her chair. She held up her beaker to observe the maroon glow against the slanting sun.
‘You need some tender loving care. You’ll stay for dinner, of course.’
‘I guess I have to, now. And what’s more, I’m delighted to be, uh, ‘grounded’ here.’
It was good for them to move around. They brightened, Justy showed off the house, and talked Saskia into slipping on something more comfortable. In a few minutes, after each changed in private, they met in the kitchen, wearing contrasting happi coats.
Cookery procedures were inaugurated.
The phone rang. It was Butterbugs. Polanski (willing to Hollywoodize at last) was shooting late. ‘Beer Bottles and Deer Trails’ (Ziggurat) was more complex than anyone had thought at the outset. He would be needed for the weekend, so he was staying at the bungalow on the studio lot, if that was all right.
‘No problem babe. Saskia’s here.’
‘Oh. You… met?’
‘For the first time.’
‘She’s a find, isn’t she?’
‘You can say that again.’
‘Well, you two have fun. Make a weekend out of it. I’m doing my own version, here.’
‘So, how’s the picture coming?’
‘It’s hard to describe. All I can say is that I think we’re doing important things here. Really.’
‘That’s so cool, babe. Saskia’s brought her script. Her new script.’
‘Really? Can’t wait to read it. I think it’s already green-lighted. You’d have to ask Penny.’
‘Oh man, no more business this week!’
‘I hear you. Well, for me the new week starts in about fifteen minutes. I’m pumped. Oh-so-pumped.’
‘Don’t drink too much beer on them deer trails!’
‘Did you tell Saskia – about yourself? All your projects?’
‘We’re… getting to know each other.’
‘How is she?’
‘You wanna talk to her? She’s checking out the library. I can run get her.’
‘No no, that’s OK. Gotta go into the next setup. Right about… One minute? Thanks Hal! One minute to Polanskian amazing bizarreness! YEAHHHH!’
‘Us? We’re winding down,’ said Justy
‘Wind, baby, wind! Down, down, down!’
‘Later, Bee-line-lover-bugs!’
‘Nightie-night-night, Justus-in-love!’
She hung up and returned to the main part of the kitchen, where Saskia was starting to boil pasta.
‘Like the library?’
‘Atmospheric!’
‘That
was the man himself. A working vacation.’
‘On the Polanski picture?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I wonder… Say, did he say anything about my picture, ‘The Lamp at –’?’
‘No.’
‘Oh. Because, I sort of… Well, I had thought that…’
‘Girl, you haven’t chopped the garlic yet!’
‘You’re quite right. Now, where did I leave that knife? This is a splendid kitchen, Justy.’
‘You like it, don’t you?’
Saskia took a long, velvety sip of her Merraplerra Oona 1972.
‘Mmm-hmmmm!’
Justy spread out her arms on the counter and lowered her chin onto it. Never had she looked so fetching. Her cheekbones did more talking than her sensual mouth, and her eyebrows emoted almost as much as her wide eyes. Below the counter, her supple body rocked quietly to and fro.
‘I can see why Butterbugs takes you out on dates. Business dates.’
‘Butterbugs! He’s on both our minds, isn’t he?’ Saskia sautéed the garlic in a little oil. ‘We both love him, don’t we?’
Justy was still regarding Saskia with the same gaze.
‘Oh yes. We love him. And there is enough of him for both of us to love, you know? I know. I have felt him many times. His fullness, and his greatness. It’s there. And I know that. What I also know, is that you are here right now, and you are added to my thoughts.’
‘Oh, that’s so sweet.’
‘Here, let me help.’
‘Set the table?’
‘Ordering me about in my own kitchen!’
‘Oh, Justy! I’m so sorry! It’s just that I, I sort of, I don’t know, I feel so at home! What am I doing giving orders, though??’
‘No, don’t stop!’
It was time to give Saskia a playful nip on the cheek.
‘You sweetheart…’ Saskia blushed.
‘I deserved that.’
‘What, giving the kiss?’
‘Needing orders.’
Saskia took a pasta strainer from its rack and mock-knighted Justy, who went down on one knee.
‘I pardon you.’
‘You what?’
‘I pardon you!’
Saskia leaned down, following the strainer in its task. It rested on Justy’s hair. After years of a short Afro, Justy had recently switched to a pleasant waterfall style that brought out her sculptured facial lines more. Saskia drew close and was intoxicated by her differences and her scents.
There followed a sort of voluntary surrender on Saskia’s part, in which she dropped the strainer, and both her hands traveled down on either side of Justy’s head, brushing her hair slightly. They came to rest on her shoulders while the rest of her body descended to Justy’s level, almost losing her balance in the process. Justy reached out to steady her, and a sort of uneasy equilibrium was reached – along with more substantial bodily contact.
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