And it was to the great cameraman’s credit that he was able to rig a special effect, never to be revealed but really limited to rope only, in which a camera, switched-on, was able to travel down as a companion to the chair in its flight, for some nine hundred feet, until, arrested by grips of Hollywood-royal lineage, the gloved brakes were applied, and coverage could proceed no further, leaving the chair to meet its crash unaccompanied and without comfort, upon a pile of concrete sewer-line dust chips, way below…
As a film, audiences would find adequate fulfillment in a fade-out before impact.
Back on top, at the crag where the hated remnants were expunged, the wail that Butterbugs emitted in signal reference to not only his own soul-fed response to the disaster, but in honor of those he knew, and on those he would never know’s behalf, ended with the distant sound of a falling object reaching its terminus in geologic finality. And when both sounds faded, he hung his head at dusk.
And then, he tripped. It was his turn.
It is tempting to use Milton’s phrase, he ‘fell five miles’, as an epic swan dive, but in point of fact, it was only a few decameters.
The rubble was freshly strewn hereabouts, so the surficial irregularities were just as hazardous, but there was no drop-off as a threat. Nevertheless, the actor was injured, with impact to his right leg, chest, and upper right arm most notable.
In the months to come, much controversy would rage over the prospects of a biopic for Isaac Davis. If any pic ever resulted, it would have to be a huge indictment of IDHII/Merrette plc if not the entire corporate world. Release would certainly be blocked for a time, but surely it could later be set free. One thing was settled: only one actor could play the role – Butterbugs. That is, if he were fit and able.
In the middle of the night, a jumbo jet rose from LAX, the last one out, due to a sky that was finally becoming too full of what smoke and dust had escaped the Thrill Shaft’s awesome suction, still rising from the late Davisian disaster’s blowhole. Aboard was a med unit, specially coordinated for the occasion. In it was a VIP of secret identity.
Butterbugs was alive, but injured, and he was in the air.
63.
The Assembly Line
He was injured, all right.
The doctor team had him in surgery as the jetliner rose into apocalyptic skies which, upon reaching 20,000 feet, returned to the bassinet-blue of the babyhood of the world: as fresh as the Earth’s first milking.
He was headed for Paris, of course.
Where else could he have gone? Paris, of course. The nouveau Parnassus for anyone requiring a rewiring in order to revise or to even start over in this world. The only bastion of civilization repeatedly untouched by the Hollywoodian mandate.
DFZ still had a thing for Juliette Greco, and Sartre was making a comeback. No thinking or soul-boiling was necessary to figure any of this out.
Doctor Slammer, Chief Surgical Pack Leader, made an official announcement upon the airship’s arrival at Chuck de Gaulle’s wonderfully Corbusian roundabout:
‘Messieurs et Mesdames, we have mended Butterbugs in toto. Now he must recuperate in strict privacy. I know you will understand. Merci.’
It was a rainy night.
Under the supervision of Saskia and Justy, who had miraculously appeared and happily accompanied him on the flight, they held his hands, and nurtured him like no others, and a strategy was laid out. They couldn’t go to Maison de Péreire-Levallois, the party’s not-very-private but preferred hangout when in town. They couldn’t go to 1, Avenue du President John Fitzgerald Kennedy, less grand digs, but with doors not wide enough to accommodate Butterbugs’ special bathchair. They couldn’t go to Jean Paul et Simone’s always-welcoming environs in the Raspail, as there were too many stairs.
No, they would have to move on. Only one place was possible right now. Le Château de la Vicomté at/or near Chouzy-sur-Cisse.
Saskia’s full-to-the-brim lips spoke breathily into Butterbugs’ ear.
‘We leave by midnight train from Montparnasse. The Iron Way stands clear. Ahead: recovery. And peace, Butterbugs.’
Justy kissed him and put his free hand on her right breast. His other was pre-occupied between Saskia’s thighs.
How much comfort might one be allowed in this, our life? What right do we have to secure true caring, sincerity, and goodness? When does the creeping voice that would deny such gifts enter to make its declarations?
Never! Not with two such female myrmidons at the ready, with broadswords drawn and searing, perceptive vigilance as protection.
And all through the laborious process of transporting the occult personality all the way into the depths of the pays below Blois, there was never any lack of perfect attention to both microscopic and macroscopic details, needs, and mandates, even down to the temporary customization of the stately old Delahaye berline motor that accommodated the actor’s equipment on the route from Blois station to the château, all in maximum comfort and safety.
They could have disembarked at Chouzy, but Butterbugs wanted his glimpse of the Loire at dawn to be a lengthy one, and that desire was fulfilled to a ‘T’, as a result of chauffeur Cedex’s expert and elegant piloting.
There was the river, gentle and genteel as always, and because Cedex had had the dampeners on the car adjusted to make the slushy suspension yet slushier, Butterbugs felt as if he were floating along in a françois premier barge, right out on those fabled waters.
To ensure total privacy and discretion, the Vicomté and his family had cheerfully decamped to their farm near Rodez, leaving the château vacant and inviting. There was no one there. Staff were standing by in adjacent half-timbered quarters.
The estate was one of serenity and simplicity. The pilasters of the gate were topped by plain, chamfered caps. The vines and underbrush were not excessive, the trees were neither grand nor exemplary. Few ornaments lay about the grounds aside from the odd cast iron urn. Charolais cattle, known for their naughtiness, nevertheless grazed peacefully in the pasture beyond the road. The terrace, greeted by the driveway, was shaded with a monumental Lebanese cedar. The château itself was unostentatious. Its gentle façade was highlighted by two pencil-like towers that bespoke a possible obscure Danish influence, but the general effect was one of bona fide Loireois pedigree, albeit on the modest side of things.
Recuperation, recovery, rediscovery, regeneration and recapturement got underway immediately. To be followed by recreation.
‘He Has Retired To Fraawns!’ bellowed a headline in ‘The Sun’ of London.
‘UK Snubbed!’ howled the ‘Daily Mirror’.
‘Why Do We Mock Him, Then?’ queried an editorial in ‘The Times’, after many a quizzical phrase poured out of Fleet Street.
‘It is not as if we don’t want him,’ continued the impassioned editorial, ‘We want him! Yes. We want him. Surely, he must know it in his heart!’
Meanwhile the country hosting him merely stated the obvious with grace: (tr.)
‘French Hospitality Is Now In Play’ (‘LeMonde’).
‘Our Traditions Are Intact; He Resides Somewhere Within Our Borders’ (‘Le Figaro’).
Butterbugs’ name was not even mentioned, except for the random ‘Bb’. Everyone knew who was being discussed. Such shorthand understanding in the public eye showed the magnitude of what Butterbugs had become. ‘Bb’ as an epigram and acronym tended to trump such efforts as a six-hour documentary (one of several now appearing) in the minds of audiences, although the more the actor was fleshed out, the more the appreciation increased.
To the world, Butterbugs was more a hero than ever. But now, altered and disillusioned by his career choices of late, while in retreat as the Vicomté’s guest, some issues required attendance in his returning mind.
His corporate/executive existence fried by the horror of realities revealed, Butterbugs positioned his bathchair in front of a mirror and took a bad, long look at himself. If he could not make a difference to the world from a position of cor
porate power, what could be left? Such other performance-based fields, like the politics industry, carried no weight with him.
Where would he go from here; oh, where would he go from here?
Now was Butterbugs’ soul tempted once again by trouble. After four monster hits (‘Brabb’ (Continental), ‘Now I Will Come To The Place of My Heritage’ (20th-Fox), Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s ‘The Cup’ (20th-Fox) and ‘Schneezunbommenbürger’ (De Laurentiis), he began to have overwhelming thoughts on the pointlessness of it all. It was a train of thought that he could not share with anyone. Especially not with peers like TABP or goofballs like (the late) Moby Kenderson, either. Or any of those who were with him before and during his rise. He was supposed to be perfect now, and, thus, was incapable of maintaining a heartfelt relationship with those who had gone before.
His COO period had allowed him to take a bit of stock as far as Hollywood product was concerned. ‘Paycheque’ (Wubb Photoplays) and its type were final proof to him that the assembly line, in an upgraded and synthesized version of everything that had come previously, was fully institutionalized within the mechanism of Hollywood.
And Bollywood, for that matter.
NightmareWorks, Jarry Brukhymyr, Mozes Plothbag and Shimmie Kraxczpyug, the ‘architects’ of this sausage grinder system, under the brooder of incubation these long years, ever since Francis Ford Coppola had delivered his famous ‘I Screw You!’ sendoff to Tinseltown, were not going to yield any ground whatsoever in their domination of the Industry.
So here was Butterbugs, the epitome (although really the antithesis) of the New People, the rising alternative, who nevertheless was undergoing a crisis of direction, of responsibility, and of vision. Moved by his feelings on this issue, he but stopped short of starting his own studio (despite offers from DFZ, Skouras, and Kroger Babb, not to mention the implorings of many others). Indeed, he had refused the ‘crown’ three times before decamping from his Shutter Avenue apartments (his ‘working quarters’ in Hollywood proper, geographically equidistant to more studios than any other locality in the region).
In this new emergency of his mind, he had desperately needed a sabbatical. It wasn’t just flattery that had sent him into the arms of Davis’ renegade Board (most of whom, incidentally, were either dead or immersed in terminally debilitating lawsuits regarding the implosion of the IDHII Building and divers other swindlements and hi-fi[nance] shenanigans). It was a crisis of evolution.
The silence of the chateau, except for the jame-bug and the bugpipe, was there, all around, for him to utilize.
A hen from famille Pathé pecked near the entrance gate’s pilasters. Everywhere was evidence of the Sane Life. The goodness of the noontime dinner horn. The Cartesian sensibility of the wooden floors and how they fit together. The intellectual labeling on the local wine bottles. The respect for history. The sensuality of a chair that no one would ever sit in, gracing a side entrance’s contemplative spaces. All these things, and more, had the power to heal.
And he was healed.
Butterbugs fully recovered in his bathchair, in which he spent several delightful weeks. One day, bound for Chouzy nearby, he crossed over the Cisse, enjoying the trundle immensely. Perhaps he wasn’t so dizzied-up after all. He encountered a motorist in a Merc SLR, with Fauchon Le Trésor supplies up the ying-yang; all dressed up and nowhere to go. He tried to pick up on Butterbugs. If for no other reason than to have a companion for his pre-packaged picnic-ah, but it was all wrong. Where were the femmes?
In fact, after it was no longer necessary, he continued to use the chaise as his vehicle of choice around the grounds. Thereafter he took a shine to the estate’s little battered Citroën 2CV Roublot utility rig, with its rakes and shovels attached to the corrugated canopy. He enjoyed wheezing around the back lanes, chasing geese, and running errands to the local tabac.
Indeed, where were les girls?
‘I walk into the Café Zinc, and who do I discover? …Faun!’
‘We thought you’d like her,’ said Justy. ‘We know we did.’
‘You mean you three formed your own ménage –?’
‘Of course not, dear Bb, but she had to pass inspection! That’s all.’
She was presented to him in the Salle le Roi Soleil, on the second floor. Hung with dark drapes, and busts on pedestals further preventing light from entering this comfortable but not so sunny bedroom, it was the perfect venue for introductory seduction – or getting-to-know-you. Only the frames of dim Empire portraits, hung between the windows, were to be seen with their dull golden glow if the light hit them just right. There were other features of interest and value throughout the room, but it was primarily a place of sensual practice. Plain French lovemaking, Vicomté-style.
Faun! Fresh in mode and ready to receive, she handed him the menu du jour with all the verve of someone immune from the weight of the world.
‘I am a gift,’ said Faun, drawing closer. ‘And the menu I present to you is a short resume of what I can offer.’
Her English reminded him of Isabelle Adjani, whom he had been allowed to kiss several pictures back.
However, Faun’s kissing was all her own.
‘Are you an actress?’ he inquired in his best élocution.
‘An impossibility,’ she replied, and he was blissful.
The Cardinal-au-Amboise beverage made him think of purple upholstery. They drank a dram together. Faun was as an auburn-haired confection, 1890s-styled, a sophisticate, certainly a connoisseur in bed. Somewhat demure, with those wispy curls on her pale neck, long fingers gently clasped, and enough poise for any old Ordre national du Mérite event. The cameo at her throat – like a padlock on all that came below, from dewy underarm hairs, down to the kegel talent to fling whatever he had to offer back up into a new Tantric chamber of his brain. She graciously offered him the keys.
An intimate salon adjoining more intimate quarters had a perfect pause-and-refresh station set up for the occasion. She was ready for the kir of her choice. Or was it Lillet or prune or Poire Williams? Perhaps something stronger, more… earthy?
‘Poire Williams, si vous plait.’
Those bee-stung, puffy lips barely covered her wide teeth-and-gum-baring smile. He was a little bashful when pouring the viscous fluide into the waiting thimble. Then, the trembling. Truthfully, he splattered the drink all over her lap.
‘Accident, mon Faunette!’
She knew what to do.
‘Lécher, monsieur.’
Butterbugs immediately complied. Not an act of submission so much as one of devotion – he hoped. He wasn’t exactly sure if her particular brand of French passion would be haughty or friendly – or sexy. Devoir soon was replaced by plaisir. Despite the fruity nature of the high caliber drink, he got wafts of her ready scent from la bas, even after filtering by her gossamer lingerie.
NAPOLEON: Josephine! Je reviens en trois jours, ne te laves pas! (Hey Jo! I’m coming home in three days. Do not bathe!)
Then everything went all jewel-like and caparisoned here, and fudge-encrusted and escargot-coated there. The sauces of sex were spilt and canard schmaltz mingled with hollandaise. Dog-tongues licking, fingertips within folds. Palms swooping from dual shoulder blades all the way down to dual derriere summits. Puffy nipples encircled, pumpkin-colored pubic hair assessed. A pâté of her slobber in the concave of her navel awaited his lapping. Appetizers achieved, properly-fueled response took over. That is, hard-hitting power-fucking, somewhere amongst the body musk and grasped flesh. That choker with the Adele H. cameo survived the session still in place, and it was a focal point of thematic style for him; an emblem of this… this… new kind of le sex hot.
He was left gasping for long moments before he was even able to smile again, while she knelt over him, puffball cocked slightly forward, upper & lower lips smiling, titties pooched out, before getting up for a Galloises and sashaying so that her butt brought him back to the gasping stage again.
Putting only her boots back on, she took a long drag
from her cig.
‘You are such a passionate boy! So caring! La ciel! Le ciel!’
And she gazed at him for a long time, with total admiration.
Scootings up to Paris and back for the day or the weekend became common. He saw to it that he hung out with Oz Clarke, Johnny Hallyday, Jane Birkin, Jane’s daughter Lou Doillon, plus Leslie Caron, and Mazarin Mitterrand. He charmed France Gall into singing ‘Baby pop’ for him. When passing by a sidewalk cafe and spotting Butterbugs taking Ricard, Françiose Hardy came over and sat on his lap without even asking. There were wine-tasting sessions with Cardinal LePoncey at his palais in Rue Cazire. The Card made an elegant but token pass at him, just for fun. They clucked over rose rearing and pruning. He managed to find several obscure prints by Manet, Séon, Rops, and Yeutex, for a few sou apiece.
To soothe the aching paparazzi, Butterbugs agreed to stage a press conference at Chenonceaux. Everybody was there, and, pleased with the venue. All were on best behavior. The actor looked hale in his beret and bateau-mouche shirt. He’d motored over in the old rattly Roublot. Everything was very relaxed and full of charm. Chattiness was the order of the day.
‘To paraphrase Ted Kryza, actually, I don’t see much hope for American society. As it is going today, that is,’ the actor proclaimed.
He puffed on a Maigret pipe.
News of the junket stunned the film world. Back in the late-night States, Jimmy Fallon, Dennis Miller, Moak D’Touk, Jonesy Pallisade, Colbert, Chris Rock, Seth Myers, Bill Maher, and Tella-Mabel Khuroffshend parodied the event in not quite brilliant terms, but they and others were merciless in pinching the Gallic nipple, so to speak. Nevertheless, such gestures began to lose steam in the light of Butterbugs’ real message, which, for some mystical reason, did indeed spark a resounding change in the eyes of intercontinental beholders. By way of this notion, a step up in societal maturity could at last be embraced, the kind of elective transformation graspable to most everyone. Thus, it was hailed as a revelation.
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